Chapter 1
The one opened the door with a latch-key and went in, followed by a young fellow who awkwardly removed his cap. He wore rough clothes that smacked of the sea, and he was manifestly out of place in the spacious hall in which he found himself. He did not know what to do with his cap, and was stuffing it into his coat pocket when the other took it from him. The act was done quietly and naturally, and the awkward young fellow appreciated it. "He understands," was his thought. "He'll see me through all right."
He walked at the other's heels with a swing to his shoulders, and his legs spread unwittingly, as if the level floors were tilting up and sinking down to the heave and lunge of the sea. The wide rooms seemed too narrow for his rolling gait, and to himself he was in terror lest his broad shoulders should collide with the doorways or sweep the bric-a-brac from the low mantel. He recoiled from side to side between the various objects and multiplied the hazards that in reality lodged only in his mind. Between a grand piano and a centre-table piled high with books was space for a half a dozen to walk abreast, yet he essayed it with trepidation. His heavy arms hung loosely at his sides. He did not know what to do with those arms and hands, and when, to his excited vision, one arm seemed liable to brush against the books on the table, he lurched away like a frightened horse, barely missing the piano stool. He watched the easy walk of the other in front of him, and for the first time realized that his walk was different from that of other men. He experienced a momentary pang of shame that he should walk so uncouthly. The sweat burst through the skin of his forehead in tiny beads, and he paused and mopped his bronzed face with his handkerchief.
"Hold on, Arthur, my boy," he said, attempting to mask his anxiety with facetious utterance. "This is too much all at once for yours truly. Give me a chance to get my nerve. You know I didn't want to come, an' I guess your fam'ly ain't hankerin' to see me neither."
"That's all right," was the reassuring answer. "You mustn't be frightened at us. We're just homely people - Hello, there's a letter for me."
He stepped back to the table, tore open the envelope, and began to read, giving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. And the stranger understood and appreciated. His was the gift of sympathy, understanding; and beneath his alarmed exterior that sympathetic process went on. He mopped his forehead dry and glanced about him with a controlled face, though in the eyes there was an expression such as wild animals betray when they fear the trap. He was surrounded by the unknown, apprehensive of what might happen, ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked and bore himself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power of him was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelessly self-conscious, and the amused glance that the other stole privily at him over the top of the letter burned into him like a dagger- thrust. He saw the glance, but he gave no sign, for among the things he had learned was discipline. Also, that dagger-thrust went to his pride. He cursed himself for having come, and at the same time resolved that, happen what would, having come, he would carry it through. The lines of his face hardened, and into his eyes came a fighting light. He looked about more unconcernedly, sharply observant, every detail of the pretty interior registering itself on his brain. His eyes were wide apart; nothing in their field of vision escaped; and as they drank in the beauty before them the fighting light died out and a warm glow took its place. He was responsive to beauty, and here was cause to respond.
An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy surf thundered and burst over an outjutting rock; lowering storm-clouds covered the sky; and, outside the line of surf, a pilot-schooner, close-hauled, heeled over till every detail of her deck was visible, was surging along against a stormy sunset sky. There was beauty, and it drew him irresistibly. He forgot his awkward walk and came closer to the painting, very close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. His face expressed his bepuzzlement. He stared at what seemed a careless daub of paint, then stepped away. Immediately all the beauty flashed back into the canvas. "A trick picture," was his thought, as he dismissed it, though in the midst of the multitudinous impressions he was receiving he found time to feel a prod of indignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed to make a trick. He did not know painting. He had been brought up on chromos and lithographs that were always definite and sharp, near or far. He had seen oil paintings, it was true, in the show windows of shops, but the glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyes from approaching too near.
He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and saw the books on the table. Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into the eyes of a starving man at sight of food. An impulsive stride, with one lurch to right and left of the shoulders, brought him to the table, where he began affectionately handling the books. He glanced at the titles and the authors' names, read fragments of text, caressing the volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once, recognized a book he had read. For the rest, they were strange books and strange authors. He chanced upon a volume of Swinburne and began reading steadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing. Twice he closed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of the author. Swinburne! he would remember that name. That fellow had eyes, and he had certainly seen color and flashing light. But who was Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of the poets? Or was he alive still, and writing? He turned to the title-page . . . yes, he had written other books; well, he would go to the free library the first thing in the morning and try to get hold of some of Swinburne's stuff. He went back to the text and lost himself. He did not notice that a young woman had entered the room. The first he knew was when he heard Arthur's voice saying:-
"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden."
The book was closed on his forefinger, and before he turned he was thrilling to the first new impression, which was not of the girl, but of her brother's words. Under that muscled body of his he was a mass of quivering sensibilities. At the slightest impact of the outside world upon his consciousness, his thoughts, sympathies, and emotions leapt and played like lambent flame. He was extraordinarily receptive and responsive, while his imagination, pitched high, was ever at work establishing relations of likeness and difference. "Mr. Eden," was what he had thrilled to - he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or just "Martin," all his life. And "MISTER!" It was certainly going some, was his internal comment. His mind seemed to turn, on the instant, into a vast camera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his consciousness endless pictures from his life, of stoke-holes and forecastles, camps and beaches, jails and boozing-kens, fever-hospitals and slum streets, wherein the thread of association was the fashion in which he had been addressed in those various situations.
And then he turned and saw the girl. The phantasmagoria of his brain vanished at sight of her. She was a pale, ethereal creature, with wide, spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He did not know how she was dressed, except that the dress was as wonderful as she. He likened her to a pale gold flower upon a slender stem. No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess; such sublimated beauty was not of the earth. Or perhaps the books were right, and there were many such as she in the upper walks of life. She might well be sung by that chap, Swinburne. Perhaps he had had somebody like her in mind when he painted that girl, Iseult, in the book there on the table. All this plethora of sight, and feeling, and thought occurred on the instant. There was no pause of the realities wherein he moved. He saw her hand coming out to his, and she looked him straight in the eyes as she shook hands, frankly, like a man. The women he had known did not shake hands that way. For that matter, most of them did not shake hands at all. A flood of associations, visions of various ways he had made the acquaintance of women, rushed into his mind and threatened to swamp it. But he shook them aside and looked at her. Never had he seen such a woman. The women he had known! Immediately, beside her, on either hand, ranged the women he had known. For an eternal second he stood in the midst of a portrait gallery, wherein she occupied the central place, while about her were limned many women, all to be weighed and measured by a fleeting glance, herself the unit of weight and measure. He saw the weak and sickly faces of the girls of the factories, and the simpering, boisterous girls from the south of Market. There were women of the cattle camps, and swarthy cigarette-smoking women of Old Mexico. These, in turn, were crowded out by Japanese women, doll-like, stepping mincingly on wooden clogs; by Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped with degeneracy; by full-bodied South-Sea-Island women, flower-crowned and brown-skinned. All these were blotted out by a grotesque and terrible nightmare brood - frowsy, shuffling creatures from the pavements of Whitechapel, gin-bloated hags of the stews, and all the vast hell's following of harpies, vile-mouthed and filthy, that under the guise of monstrous female form prey upon sailors, the scrapings of the ports, the scum and slime of the human pit.
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying. "I have been looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us. It was brave of you - "
He waved his hand deprecatingly and muttered that it was nothing at all, what he had done, and that any fellow would have done it. She noticed that the hand he waved was covered with fresh abrasions, in the process of healing, and a glance at the other loose-hanging hand showed it to be in the same condition. Also, with quick, critical eye, she noted a scar on his cheek, another that peeped out from under the hair of the forehead, and a third that ran down and disappeared under the starched collar. She repressed a smile at sight of the red line that marked the chafe of the collar against the bronzed neck. He was evidently unused to stiff collars. Likewise her feminine eye took in the clothes he wore, the cheap and unaesthetic cut, the wrinkling of the coat across the shoulders, and the series of wrinkles in the sleeves that advertised bulging biceps muscles.
While he waved his hand and muttered that he had done nothing at all, he was obeying her behest by trying to get into a chair. He found time to admire the ease with which she sat down, then lurched toward a chair facing her, overwhelmed with consciousness of the awkward figure he was cutting. This was a new experience for him. All his life, up to then, he had been unaware of being either graceful or awkward. Such thoughts of self had never entered his mind. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, greatly worried by his hands. They were in the way wherever he put them. Arthur was leaving the room, and Martin Eden followed his exit with longing eyes. He felt lost, alone there in the room with that pale spirit of a woman. There was no bar-keeper upon whom to call for drinks, no small boy to send around the corner for a can of beer and by means of that social fluid start the amenities of friendship flowing.
"You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden," the girl was saying. "How did it happen? I am sure it must have been some adventure."
"A Mexican with a knife, miss," he answered, moistening his parched lips and clearing hip throat. "It was just a fight. After I got the knife away, he tried to bite off my nose."
Baldly as he had stated it, in his eyes was a rich vision of that hot, starry night at Salina Cruz, the white strip of beach, the lights of the sugar steamers in the harbor, the voices of the drunken sailors in the distance, the jostling stevedores, the flaming passion in the Mexican's face, the glint of the beast-eyes in the starlight, the sting of the steel in his neck, and the rush of blood, the crowd and the cries, the two bodies, his and the Mexican's, locked together, rolling over and over and tearing up the sand, and from away off somewhere the mellow tinkling of a guitar. Such was the picture, and he thrilled to the memory of it, wondering if the man could paint it who had painted the pilot- schooner on the wall. The white beach, the stars, and the lights of the sugar steamers would look great, he thought, and midway on the sand the dark group of figures that surrounded the fighters. The knife occupied a place in the picture, he decided, and would show well, with a sort of gleam, in the light of the stars. But of all this no hint had crept into his speech. "He tried to bite off my nose," he concluded.
"Oh," the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed the shock in her sensitive face.
He felt a shock himself, and a blush of embarrassment shone faintly on his sunburned cheeks, though to him it burned as hotly as when his cheeks had been exposed to the open furnace-door in the fire- room. Such sordid things as stabbing affrays were evidently not fit subjects for conversation with a lady. People in the books, in her walk of life, did not talk about such things - perhaps they did not know about them, either.
There was a brief pause in the conversation they were trying to get started. Then she asked tentatively about the scar on his cheek. Even as she asked, he realized that she was making an effort to talk his talk, and he resolved to get away from it and talk hers.
"It was just an accident," he said, putting his hand to his cheek. "One night, in a calm, with a heavy sea running, the main-boom-lift carried away, an' next the tackle. The lift was wire, an' it was threshin' around like a snake. The whole watch was tryin' to grab it, an' I rushed in an' got swatted."
"Oh," she said, this time with an accent of comprehension, though secretly his speech had been so much Greek to her and she was wondering what a LIFT was and what SWATTED meant.
"This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan into execution and pronouncing the I long.
"Who?"
"Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The poet."
"Swinburne," she corrected.
"Yes, that's the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long since he died?"
"Why, I haven't heard that he was dead." She looked at him curiously. "Where did you make his acquaintance?"
"I never clapped eyes on him," was the reply. "But I read some of his poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How do you like his poetry?"
And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject he had suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly from the edge of the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands, as if it might get away from him and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in making her talk her talk, and while she rattled on, he strove to follow her, marvelling at all the knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty head of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of her face. Follow her he did, though bothered by unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips and by critical phrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his mind, but that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here was intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and stared at her with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win to, to fight for - ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such women in the world. She was one of them. She lent wings to his imagination, and great, luminous canvases spread themselves before him whereon loomed vague, gigantic figures of love and romance, and of heroic deeds for woman's sake - for a pale woman, a flower of gold. And through the swaying, palpitant vision, as through a fairy mirage, he stared at the real woman, sitting there and talking of literature and art. He listened as well, but he stared, unconscious of the fixity of his gaze or of the fact that all that was essentially masculine in his nature was shining in his eyes. But she, who knew little of the world of men, being a woman, was keenly aware of his burning eyes. She had never had men look at her in such fashion, and it embarrassed her. She stumbled and halted in her utterance. The thread of argument slipped from her. He frightened her, and at the same time it was strangely pleasant to be so looked upon. Her training warned her of peril and of wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while her instincts rang clarion-voiced through her being, impelling her to hurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from another world, to this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a line of raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throat, who, all too evidently, was soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. She was clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she was woman, and she was just beginning to learn the paradox of woman.
"As I was saying - what was I saying?" She broke off abruptly and laughed merrily at her predicament.
"You was saying that this man Swinburne failed bein' a great poet because - an' that was as far as you got, miss," he prompted, while to himself he seemed suddenly hungry, and delicious little thrills crawled up and down his spine at the sound of her laughter. Like silver, he thought to himself, like tinkling silver bells; and on the instant, and for an instant, he was transported to a far land, where under pink cherry blossoms, he smoked a cigarette and listened to the bells of the peaked pagoda calling straw-sandalled devotees to worship.
"Yes, thank you," she said. "Swinburne fails, when all is said, because he is, well, indelicate. There are many of his poems that should never be read. Every line of the really great poets is filled with beautiful truth, and calls to all that is high and noble in the human. Not a line of the great poets can be spared without impoverishing the world by that much."
"I thought it was great," he said hesitatingly, "the little I read. I had no idea he was such a - a scoundrel. I guess that crops out in his other books."
"There are many lines that could be spared from the book you were reading," she said, her voice primly firm and dogmatic.
"I must 'a' missed 'em," he announced. "What I read was the real goods. It was all lighted up an' shining, an' it shun right into me an' lighted me up inside, like the sun or a searchlight. That's the way it landed on me, but I guess I ain't up much on poetry, miss."
He broke off lamely. He was confused, painfully conscious of his inarticulateness. He had felt the bigness and glow of life in what he had read, but his speech was inadequate. He could not express what he felt, and to himself he likened himself to a sailor, in a strange ship, on a dark night, groping about in the unfamiliar running rigging. Well, he decided, it was up to him to get acquainted in this new world. He had never seen anything that he couldn't get the hang of when he wanted to and it was about time for him to want to learn to talk the things that were inside of him so that she could understand. SHE was bulking large on his horizon.
"Now Longfellow - " she was saying.
"Yes, I've read 'm," he broke in impulsively, spurred on to exhibit and make the most of his little store of book knowledge, desirous of showing her that he was not wholly a stupid clod. "'The Psalm of Life,' 'Excelsior,' an' . . . I guess that's all."
She nodded her head and smiled, and he felt, somehow, that her smile was tolerant, pitifully tolerant. He was a fool to attempt to make a pretence that way. That Longfellow chap most likely had written countless books of poetry.
"Excuse me, miss, for buttin' in that way. I guess the real facts is that I don't know nothin' much about such things. It ain't in my class. But I'm goin' to make it in my class."
It sounded like a threat. His voice was determined, his eyes were flashing, the lines of his face had grown harsh. And to her it seemed that the angle of his jaw had changed; its pitch had become unpleasantly aggressive. At the same time a wave of intense virility seemed to surge out from him and impinge upon her.
"I think you could make it in - in your class," she finished with a laugh. "You are very strong."
Her gaze rested for a moment on the muscular neck, heavy corded, almost bull-like, bronzed by the sun, spilling over with rugged health and strength. And though he sat there, blushing and humble, again she felt drawn to him. She was surprised by a wanton thought that rushed into her mind. It seemed to her that if she could lay her two hands upon that neck that all its strength and vigor would flow out to her. She was shocked by this thought. It seemed to reveal to her an undreamed depravity in her nature. Besides, strength to her was a gross and brutish thing. Her ideal of masculine beauty had always been slender gracefulness. Yet the thought still persisted. It bewildered her that she should desire to place her hands on that sunburned neck. In truth, she was far from robust, and the need of her body and mind was for strength. But she did not know it. She knew only that no man had ever affected her before as this one had, who shocked her from moment to moment with his awful grammar.
"Yes, I ain't no invalid," he said. "When it comes down to hard- pan, I can digest scrap-iron. But just now I've got dyspepsia. Most of what you was sayin' I can't digest. Never trained that way, you see. I like books and poetry, and what time I've had I've read 'em, but I've never thought about 'em the way you have. That's why I can't talk about 'em. I'm like a navigator adrift on a strange sea without chart or compass. Now I want to get my bearin's. Mebbe you can put me right. How did you learn all this you've ben talkin'?"
"By going to school, I fancy, and by studying," she answered.
"I went to school when I was a kid," he began to object.
"Yes; but I mean high school, and lectures, and the university."
"You've gone to the university?" he demanded in frank amazement. He felt that she had become remoter from him by at least a million miles.
"I'm going there now. I'm taking special courses in English."
He did not know what "English" meant, but he made a mental note of that item of ignorance and passed on.
"How long would I have to study before I could go to the university?" he asked.
She beamed encouragement upon his desire for knowledge, and said: "That depends upon how much studying you have already done. You have never attended high school? Of course not. But did you finish grammar school?"
"I had two years to run, when I left," he answered. "But I was always honorably promoted at school."
The next moment, angry with himself for the boast, he had gripped the arms of the chair so savagely that every finger-end was stinging. At the same moment he became aware that a woman was entering the room. He saw the girl leave her chair and trip swiftly across the floor to the newcomer. They kissed each other, and, with arms around each other's waists, they advanced toward him. That must be her mother, he thought. She was a tall, blond woman, slender, and stately, and beautiful. Her gown was what he might expect in such a house. His eyes delighted in the graceful lines of it. She and her dress together reminded him of women on the stage. Then he remembered seeing similar grand ladies and gowns entering the London theatres while he stood and watched and the policemen shoved him back into the drizzle beyond the awning. Next his mind leaped to the Grand Hotel at Yokohama, where, too, from the sidewalk, he had seen grand ladies. Then the city and the harbor of Yokohama, in a thousand pictures, began flashing before his eyes. But he swiftly dismissed the kaleidoscope of memory, oppressed by the urgent need of the present. He knew that he must stand up to be introduced, and he struggled painfully to his feet, where he stood with trousers bagging at the knees, his arms loose- hanging and ludicrous, his face set hard for the impending ordeal.
那人用弹簧锁钥匙开门走了进去，后面跟着一个年轻人。年轻人笨拙地脱下了便帽。他穿一身粗布衣服，带着海洋的咸味。来到这宽阔的大汀他显然感到拘束，连帽子也不知道怎么处置。正想塞进外衣口袋，那人却接了过去。接得自然，一声不响，那笨拙的青年心里不禁感激，“他明白我，”他心想，“他会帮我到底的。” 
他摇晃着肩膀跟在那人身后走着，两条腿不自觉地叉开，仿佛平坦的地板在随着波涛左右倾侧，上下颠簸，那宽阔的房间似乎装不下他那晃动的脚步。他心里还暗自紧张，怕他那巨大的肩膀会撞上门框或是把矮架上的小摆设拂到地上。他在家具什物之间东躲西闪，原本只存在他心中的恐惧又成倍地增加了。在屋子正中堆满书籍的桌子和钢琴之间分明有可容六个人并行的空间，可他走过时却仍提心吊胆。他的两条粗壮的胳膊松松地挂在身旁，不知道怎么处置。他正在紧张却发现一条胳膊几乎撞到摞在桌面的书上，便如受惊的马一样往旁边一个趔趄，几乎碰翻了琴凳。他望着前面的人轻松自在的步伐，第一次意识到自己走路和别人不同，步履蹒跚，不禁感到难堪，前额上沁出了豆大的汗珠。他停下脚步用手巾擦着晒成青铜色的脸。
“慢着，亚瑟，老兄，”他想说句俏皮话掩饰心中的紧张，“我这次突然来，你家的人肯定受不了。让我定定神吧！你知道我并不想来，我琢磨着你家的人也未必急于见我。”
“别担心，”亚瑟安慰道，“不要为我家的人紧张。我们都是不讲究的人——嗨，我还有一封信呢！”
他回到桌边，拆开信，看了起来，给了客人机会镇定镇定。那客人心里有数，也很感激。他天生善于同情人、理解人。目前在他那惊煌的外表下仍然体察着对方。他擦干前额，摆出平静的样子向四面看了看。眼里却掩饰不住一种野兽害怕陷阱的神气。他从来没有见过的事物包围了他，他害怕发生什么情况，无法应付。他意识到自己脚步难看、举止笨拙，害怕自己所有的属性和能力也出现类似的缺陷。他极为敏感，有着无可奈何的自我意识。那人偏又越过信纸饶有兴味地偷偷打量着他，那目光像匕首一样戳得他生疼。他看得清清楚楚，却不动声色，因为他经受过自我约束的训练。那“匕首”也伤害了他的自尊。他咒骂自己不该来，却也决心既然来了无论出现什么情况也要挺住。他脸上的线条僵住了，眼里闪出拼搏的光，更加满不在乎地打量着四周的一切。他目光敏锐，这漂亮厅堂里的每一个细节都在他脑子里记录下来。他大睁着双眼，目光所及丝毫不漏。目光既痛饮着那内室之美，眼里拼搏的光便渐渐隐敌，泛出几分温暖。他对美敏感，而这里又多的是让他敏感的东西。
一幅油画抓住了他的注意。怒涛澎湃，拍击着一片横空斜出的峭壁；孕育着风暴的黑云低垂，布满天空；浪涛线外一艘领港船正乘风前进，船身倾斜，甲板上的一切都清晰可辨。背景是一个风暴将至的薄暮的天空。那画很美，它无可抗拒地吸引了他。他忘掉了自己难看的步伐，向画幅走去。逼近画幅时，画上的美却消失了。他一脸迷惑，瞠目望着那一片仿佛是胡涂乱抹的色彩退开了。可面上全部的美又立即闪了回来。“玩噱头，”他转身走开，想道，在纷至沓来的众多印象之中却也有时间感到一种义愤：为什么要拿这么多的美来玩噱头？他不懂得画，他平生见过的只有彩色石印和石版画，远看近看总是轮廓分明线条清晰的。他也见过油画，不错，那是在橱窗里，可橱窗玻璃却不让他那双急于看个明白的眼睛靠得太近。
他瞥了一眼在读信的朋友和桌上的书，眼里立即闪出一种期待和渴望的光，有如饥饿的人看到了食物。他冲动地迈出一大步，双肩左右一晃扑到了桌边，急切地翻起书来。他看书名，看作者名，读了些片断，用眼和手爱抚着书卷，只有一次他认出了一本读过的书，别的书他却全都陌生，作者也陌生。他偶然翻起了一本史文朋，开始连续地读，读得脸上闪光。忘了自已在什么地方。他两欢用食指插着合上书看，作者的名字，史文朋！他要记住这个名字。这家伙很有眼光，他肯定把捉住了色彩和闪光。可史文朋是谁？跟大部分诗人一样，已经去世一两百年了呢，还有活着，还在写诗？他翻到书名页……是的，他还写过别的书。对，明天早上第一件事就是去免费图书馆借点史文朋的东西读。他又读起书来，读得忘了自己，没有注意到有个年青女人已经进了屋子。他首先注意到的是亚瑟的声音在说话：
“露丝，这是伊登先生。”
他又插上食指合上书，还没转过身就为第一个崭新的印象所激动。并非因为那姑娘，而是因为她哥哥的话。在他那肌肉鼓突的身体下面是一堆颤颤巍巍的敏感神经。外部世界对他的意识、思想、感受和情绪的最轻微的刺激也能使它像幽幽的火焰一样闪动起来。他异常善于接纳。反映，他的想像力活跃、总在动作，辨析着事物的同与异。是“伊登先生”这个称呼激动了他——这一辈子他都被人叫做“伊登”，“马丁·伊登”或者是“马丁”。可现在却成了“先生！”太妙了！他心里想。他的心灵仿佛立即化作了一具庞大的幻灯机。他在自己意识里看到了数不清的生活场景：锅炉房、水手舱、野营和海滩、监狱和酒吧、高烧病房和贫民窟街道，在各种环境中别人跟他的关系都表现在对他那些称呼上。
于是他转过身来，看到了那姑娘。一见到她他脑海里的种种幻影便全没有了。她是个轻盈苍白的人，有一对超凡脱俗的蓝眼睛，大大的，还有满头丰密的金发。他不知道她的穿着如何，只觉得那衣服跟人一样美好。他把她比作嫩枝上的一朵淡淡的金花。不，她是一个精灵，一个仙子，一个女神；她那升华过的美不属于人间。说不定书本是对的，在上流社会真有许多像她这样的人。史文朋那家伙大约就善于歌唱她。在桌上那本书里他描述伊素特姑娘的时候也许心里就有像她这样一个人。尽管林林总总的形象、感觉、思想猛然袭来，在现实中他的行动却并未中断。他见她向他伸出手来，握手时像个男人一样坦然地望着他的眼睛。他认识的女人却不这样握手，实际上她们大多数并不跟谁握手。一阵联想的浪潮袭来，他跟妇女们认识的各种方式涌入了他的心里，几乎要淹没了它。可他却摆脱了这些印象，只顾看着她。他从没见过这样的女人。唉！他以前认识的那些女人呀！她们立即在那姑娘两旁排列开来。在那永恒的刹那他已站在以她为中心的一道肖像画廊里。她的周围出现了许多妇女。以她为标准一衡量，那些妇女的分量和尺寸转瞬之间便一清二楚。他看见工厂女工们菜色的衰弱的脸，市场南面的妇女们痴笑的喧嚣的脸，还有游牧营他的妇女，老墨西哥抽烟的黧黑的妇女。这些形象又为穿木展、走碎步、像玩偶一样的日本妇女所代替，为面目姣好却带着堕落痕迹的欧亚混血妇女所代替，为戴花环、褐皮肤的南海诸岛的妇女形象所代替；而她们又被一群噩梦般的奇形怪状的妇女所代替，白教堂大路边慢吞吞臭烘烘的女人，窑子里酗酒的浮肿的妓女，还有一大群从地狱出来的女鬼，她们满嘴粗话，一身肮脏，乔装成妇女模样，掳掠着水手，搜索着海港的垃圾和贫民窟的残渣。
“伊登先生，请坐！”那姑娘说话了，“自从亚瑟告诉我们之后我就一直希望见到你。你很勇敢……”
他不以为然地挥挥手，含糊地说那算不了什么，别人也会那样做的。她注意到他那挥动的手上有还不曾愈合的新伤，再看那只松垂的手也有伤口未愈。再迅速打量了一眼，又见他面颊上有个伤疤，还有一个伤疤则从额前的发际露出，而第三个疤则穿到浆硬的领子里去了。她看到他晒成青铜色的脖子被浆硬的领子磨出的红印时差点笑了出来。他显然不习惯于硬领。同样，她那双女性的眼睛也一眼便看透了他那身衣服，那廉价的缺乏品味的剪裁，外衣肩上的褶皱和袖子上那一连串皱纹，仿佛在为他那鼓突的二头肌做广告。
他一面含混地表示他做的事不值一提，一面也按她的希望打算坐下，也还有时间欣赏她坐下时的优美轻松。等到在她对面的椅子上坐了下来，又意识到自己形象的笨拙，感到狼狈。这一切于他都是全新的经验。他一辈子也没注意过外表的潇洒或笨拙；他心里从没有过这种自我意识。他在椅子边上小心翼翼地坐了下来，却为两只手十分担心，因为它们不论放在什么地方都仿佛碍事。此时亚瑟又离开了屋子，马丁·伊登很不情愿地望着他走了。让他一个人在屋子里跟一个仙女一样的苍白女人坐在一起，他感到不知所措。这地方没有可以吩咐送饮料来的酒吧老板，没有可以打发到街角去买啤酒的小孩，无法用社交的饮料唤起愉快的友谊交流。
“你的脖子上有那样一个疤痕，伊登先生，”姑娘说，“那是怎么来的？我相信那是一次冒险。”
“是个墨西哥佬用刀子扎的，小姐，”他回答，舔了舔焦渴的嘴唇，清了清嗓子，“打了一架。我把他刀子弄掉后他还想咬掉我的鼻子呢。”
话虽说得不好，他眼前却浮现出萨莱纳克鲁兹那个炎热的星夜的丰富景象。狭长的海滩的白影，港口运糖船的灯光，远处喝醉了酒的水手们的哈喝，熙熙攘攘的码头苦力，墨西哥人那满脸的怒气，他的眼睛在星光下闪出野兽一般的凶光，钢铁在自己脖于上的刺痛和热血的流淌。人群，惊呼，他和墨西哥人躯体扭结，滚来滚去，踢起了沙尘。而在辽远的某个地点却有柔美的吉他声珍珍珠综传来。那景象便是如此，至今想起仍令他激动。他不知道画出墙上那幅领港船的画家是否能把那场面画下来。那白色的沙滩、星星、运糖船的灯火，还有在沙滩上围观打斗的黑越越的人群，若是画了出来一定棒极了，他想。刀子在画里要占个地位，他又决定，要是在星星下带点闪光准保好看。可这一切他丝毫不曾用言语透露。“他还想咬掉我的鼻子！”他结束了回答。
“啊，”那姑娘说，声音低而辽远。他在她敏感的脸上看出了震惊的表情。
他自己也震惊了。他那为太阳晒黑的脸上露出了狼狈不安的淡淡红晕，其实他已燥热得仿佛暴露在锅炉间的烈火面前。在小姐面前谈这类打架动刀子的事显然有失体统。在书本里，像她那圈子里的人是绝不会谈这类事的——甚至根本就不知道。
双方努力所引起的话头告一段落。于是她试探着问起他脸上的伤疤。刚一问起他就明白她是在引导他谈他的话题，便决心撇开它，去谈她的话题。
“那不过是一次意外，”他说，用手摸摸面颊，“有天晚上没有一丝风，却遇上了凶险的海流，主吊杠的吊索断了，接着复滑车也坏了。吊索是根钢缆，像蛇一样抽打着。值班水手都想抓住它，我一扑上去就(炎欠)地挨了一鞭。”
“啊！”她说，这次带着理解的口气，虽然心里觉得他说的简直像外国话。她不懂得“吊索”是什么东西，“(炎欠)地”是什么意思。
“这个史崴朋，”他说，试图执行自己的计划，却把史文朋读作了史崴朋。
“谁呀？”
“史崴朋，”他重复道，仍然念错了音，“诗人。”
“史文朋，”她纠正他。
“对，就是那家伙，”他结结巴巴地说，脸又发热了，“他死了多久了？”
“怎么，我没听说他死了，”她莫名其妙地望着他，“你在哪儿知道他的、’
“我没见过他，”他回答，“只是在你进来之前在桌上的书里读到了他的诗。你喜欢他的诗么？”
于是她便就他提起的话题轻松地谈了开来。他感到好过了一点，从椅子边沿往后靠了靠，同时两手紧抓住扶手，仿佛怕它挣脱，把地摔到地上。他要引导她谈她的话题的努力已经成功。她侃侃而谈，他尽力跟上。他为她那美丽的脑袋竟装了那么多知识感到惊讶，同时也饱餐看她那苍白的面庞的秀色。他倒是跟上了她的话，虽然从她唇边漫不经心地滚出的陌生词汇和评论术语和他从不知道的思路都叫他感到吃力。可这也正好刺激了他的思维，使他兴奋。这就叫智力的生活，他想，其中有美，他连做梦也不曾想到过的、温暖人心的、了不起的美。他听得忘了情，只用饥渴的眼睛望着她。这儿有为之而生活、奋斗、争取的东西——是的，为之牺牲生命的东西。书本是对的。世界上确有这样的女人。她只是其中之一。她给他的想像插上了翅膀，巨大而光辉的画幅在他眼前展开，画幅上出现了爱情、浪漫故事和为妇女而创造的英雄业迹的模糊的、巨大的形象——为一个苍白的妇女，一朵黄金的娇花。他穿过那摇晃的搏动的幻景有如穿过仙灵的海市蜃楼望着坐在那儿大谈其文学艺术的现实中的女人。他听着，不知不觉已是目不转睛地采望着她。此时他天性中的阳刚之气在他的目光中情烟闪耀。她对于男性世界虽然所知极少，但作为女人也敏锐地觉察到了他那燃烧的目光。她从没见过男人这样注视自己，不禁感到巩促，说话给巴了，迟疑了，连思路也中断了。他叫她害怕，而同时，他这样的呆望也叫她出奇地愉快。她的教养警告她出现了危险，有了不应有的、微妙的、神秘的诱惑。可她的本能却发出了嘹亮的呐喊，震动了她全身，迫使她超越阶级、地位和得失扑向这个从另一个世界来的旅人，扑向这个手上有伤、喉头叫不习惯的衬衫磨出了红印的粗鲁的年轻人。非常清楚，这人已受到并不高雅的生活的污染，而她却是纯洁的，她的纯洁对他感到抵触。可她却是个女人，一个刚开始觉察到女人的矛盾的女人。
“我刚才说过——我在说什么？”她突然住了嘴，为自己的狼狈处境快活地笑了。
‘你在说史文朋之所以没有成为伟大的诗人是因为——你正说到这儿，小姐，”他提醒她。这时他内心似乎感到一种饥渴。她那笑声在他脊梁上唤起了上下闪动的阵阵酸麻。多么清脆，他默默地想道，像一串叮叮当当的银铃。转瞬之间他已到了另一个辽远的国度，并停留了片刻，他在那儿的樱花树下抽着烟，谛听着有层层飞檐的宝塔上的铃声，铃声召唤穿着芒(革奚)的善男信女去膜拜神道。
“不错，谢谢你，”她说，“归根到底史文朋的失败是由于他不够敏感。他有许多诗都不值一读。真正伟大的诗人的每一行诗都应充满美丽的真理，向人世一切心胸高尚的人发出召唤。伟大诗人的诗一行也不能删掉，每删去一行都是对全人类的一份损失。”
“可我读到的那几段，”他迟疑地说，“我倒觉得棒极了。可没想到他是那么一个——蹩脚货。我估计那是在他别的书里。”
“你读的那本书里也有许多诗行可以删去的，”她说，口气一本正经而且武断。
“我一定是没读到，”他宣布，“我读到的可全是好样的，光辉，闪亮，一直照进我心里，照透了它，像太阳，像探照灯。我对他的感觉就是这样。不过我看我对诗知道得不多，小姐。”
他讪讪地住了嘴，但方寸已乱，因为自己笨嘴拙舌很感到难为情。他在他读到的诗行里感到了伟大和光辉，却辞不达意，表达不出自己的感受。他在心里把自已比作在漆黑的夜里登上一艘陌生船只的水手，在不熟悉的运转着的索具中摸索。好，他作出了判断：要熟悉这个新环境得靠自己的努力。他还从没遇见过他想要找到它的窍门而找不到的东西。现在已是他学会谈谈自己熟悉的东西让她了解的时候了。她在他的地平线上越来越高大了。
“现在，朗费罗……”她说。
“啊，我读过，”他冲动地插嘴说，急于表现自己，炫耀自己那一点书本知识，让她知道他并不完全是个白痴。“《生命礼赞》，《精益求精》，还有……我估计就这些。”
她点头微笑了，他不知怎么觉得那微笑透着宽容，一种出于怜悯的宽容。他像那样假充内行简直是个傻瓜。朗费罗那家伙很可能写了无数本诗集呢。
“请原谅我像那样插嘴，小姐。我看事实是，我对这类东西知道得不多。我不内行。不过我要努力变成内行。”
这话像是威胁。他的口气坚定，目光凌厉，面部的线条僵直。在她眼里他那下腭已棱角毕露，开合时咄咄逼人。同时一股强烈的生命之力似乎从他身上磅礴喷出，向她滚滚扑来。
“我认为你是可以成为——内行的，”她以一笑结束了自己的话，“你很坚强。”
她的目光在那肌肉发达的脖子上停留了片刻，那脖子被太阳晒成了青铜色，筋位突出，洋溢着粗糙的健康与强力，几乎像公牛。他虽只红着脸腼腆地坐在那儿，她却再一次感到了他的吸引力。一个放肆的念头在她心里闪过，叫她吃了一惊。她觉得若是她能用双手接住他的脖子，那力量便会向她流注。这念头令她大为惊讶，似乎向她泄露了她某种连做梦也不曾想到的低劣天性。何况在她心里育力原是粗鲁野蛮的东西，而她理想的男性美一向是修长而潇洒。刚才那念头仍然索绕着她。她竟然渴望用双手去楼那胞成青铜色的脖子，这叫她惶惑。事实是她自己一点也不健壮，她的身体和心灵都需要强力，可她并不知道。她只知道以前从没有男人对她产生过像眼前这人一样的影响，而这人却多次用他那可怕的语法令她震惊。
“是的，我身子骨不坏，”他说，“日子难过的时候我是连碎铁也能消化的。不过我刚才知消化不良，你说的话我大部分没听懂。从没受过那种训练，你看。我喜欢书，喜欢诗，有功夫就读，可从没像你那样掂量过它们。我像个来到陌生的海上却没有海图或罗盘的海员。现在我想找到自己的方向，也许你能给我校准。你谈的这些东西是从哪儿学来的？”
“我看是读书，学习，”她回答。
“我小时候也上过学的，”他开始反驳。
“是的，可我指的是中学，听课，还有大学。”
“你上过大学？”他坦然地表示惊讶，问道。他感到她离他更辽远了，至少有一百万英里。
“我也要上学。我要专门学英文。”
他并不知道“英文”是什么意思，可他心里记下了自己知识上的缺陷，说了下去。
“我要学多少年才能上大学？”他问。
对他求知的渴望她以微笑表示鼓励，同时说：“那得看你已经学过了多少。你从没上过中学吧？当然没上过。但是你小学毕业没有？”
“还差两年毕业就停学了，”他回答，“可我在学校却总是因为成绩优良受到奖励。”
他马上为这吹嘘生起自己的气来，死命地攥紧了扶手，攥得指尖生疼。这时他意识到又一个女人走进了屋子。他看见那姑娘离开椅子向来人轻盈地跑去，两人互相亲吻，然后彼此搂着腰向他走来。那一定是她母亲，他想。那是个高个儿的金发妇女，苗条、庄重、美丽。她的长袍是他估计会在这儿见到的那种，线条优美，他看了感到舒服。她和她的衣着让他想起舞台上的女演员。于是他回忆起曾见过类似的仕女名媛穿着类似的衣服进入伦敦的戏院，而他却站在那儿张望，被警察推到雨篷以外的蒙蒙细雨中去。他的心随即又飞到了横滨的大酒店，在那儿的阶沿上他也见过许多阔人家妇女。于是横滨市和横滨港以其千姿百态在他眼前闪过。可他立即国目前的急需驱走了万花筒一样的回忆。他知道自己得起立接受介绍，便笨拙地站起身子。此时他的裤子膝部鼓了起来，两臂也可笑地松垂，板起了面孔准备迎接即将到来的考验。
 
Chapter 2
The process of getting into the dining room was a nightmare to him. Between halts and stumbles, jerks and lurches, locomotion had at times seemed impossible. But at last he had made it, and was seated alongside of Her. The array of knives and forks frightened him. They bristled with unknown perils, and he gazed at them, fascinated, till their dazzle became a background across which moved a succession of forecastle pictures, wherein he and his mates sat eating salt beef with sheath-knives and fingers, or scooping thick pea-soup out of pannikins by means of battered iron spoons. The stench of bad beef was in his nostrils, while in his ears, to the accompaniment of creaking timbers and groaning bulkheads, echoed the loud mouth-noises of the eaters. He watched them eating, and decided that they ate like pigs. Well, he would be careful here. He would make no noise. He would keep his mind upon it all the time.
He glanced around the table. Opposite him was Arthur, and Arthur's brother, Norman. They were her brothers, he reminded himself, and his heart warmed toward them. How they loved each other, the members of this family! There flashed into his mind the picture of her mother, of the kiss of greeting, and of the pair of them walking toward him with arms entwined. Not in his world were such displays of affection between parents and children made. It was a revelation of the heights of existence that were attained in the world above. It was the finest thing yet that he had seen in this small glimpse of that world. He was moved deeply by appreciation of it, and his heart was melting with sympathetic tenderness. He had starved for love all his life. His nature craved love. It was an organic demand of his being. Yet he had gone without, and hardened himself in the process. He had not known that he needed love. Nor did he know it now. He merely saw it in operation, and thrilled to it, and thought it fine, and high, and splendid.
He was glad that Mr. Morse was not there. It was difficult enough getting acquainted with her, and her mother, and her brother, Norman. Arthur he already knew somewhat. The father would have been too much for him, he felt sure. It seemed to him that he had never worked so hard in his life. The severest toil was child's play compared with this. Tiny nodules of moisture stood out on his forehead, and his shirt was wet with sweat from the exertion of doing so many unaccustomed things at once. He had to eat as he had never eaten before, to handle strange tools, to glance surreptitiously about and learn how to accomplish each new thing, to receive the flood of impressions that was pouring in upon him and being mentally annotated and classified; to be conscious of a yearning for her that perturbed him in the form of a dull, aching restlessness; to feel the prod of desire to win to the walk in life whereon she trod, and to have his mind ever and again straying off in speculation and vague plans of how to reach to her. Also, when his secret glance went across to Norman opposite him, or to any one else, to ascertain just what knife or fork was to be used in any particular occasion, that person's features were seized upon by his mind, which automatically strove to appraise them and to divine what they were - all in relation to her. Then he had to talk, to hear what was said to him and what was said back and forth, and to answer, when it was necessary, with a tongue prone to looseness of speech that required a constant curb. And to add confusion to confusion, there was the servant, an unceasing menace, that appeared noiselessly at his shoulder, a dire Sphinx that propounded puzzles and conundrums demanding instantaneous solution. He was oppressed throughout the meal by the thought of finger-bowls. Irrelevantly, insistently, scores of times, he wondered when they would come on and what they looked like. He had heard of such things, and now, sooner or later, somewhere in the next few minutes, he would see them, sit at table with exalted beings who used them - ay, and he would use them himself. And most important of all, far down and yet always at the surface of his thought, was the problem of how he should comport himself toward these persons. What should his attitude be? He wrestled continually and anxiously with the problem. There were cowardly suggestions that he should make believe, assume a part; and there were still more cowardly suggestions that warned him he would fail in such course, that his nature was not fitted to live up to it, and that he would make a fool of himself.
It was during the first part of the dinner, struggling to decide upon his attitude, that he was very quiet. He did not know that his quietness was giving the lie to Arthur's words of the day before, when that brother of hers had announced that he was going to bring a wild man home to dinner and for them not to be alarmed, because they would find him an interesting wild man. Martin Eden could not have found it in him, just then, to believe that her brother could be guilty of such treachery - especially when he had been the means of getting this particular brother out of an unpleasant row. So he sat at table, perturbed by his own unfitness and at the same time charmed by all that went on about him. For the first time he realized that eating was something more than a utilitarian function. He was unaware of what he ate. It was merely food. He was feasting his love of beauty at this table where eating was an aesthetic function. It was an intellectual function, too. His mind was stirred. He heard words spoken that were meaningless to him, and other words that he had seen only in books and that no man or woman he had known was of large enough mental caliber to pronounce. When he heard such words dropping carelessly from the lips of the members of this marvellous family, her family, he thrilled with delight. The romance, and beauty, and high vigor of the books were coming true. He was in that rare and blissful state wherein a man sees his dreams stalk out from the crannies of fantasy and become fact.
Never had he been at such an altitude of living, and he kept himself in the background, listening, observing, and pleasuring, replying in reticent monosyllables, saying, "Yes, miss," and "No, miss," to her, and "Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," to her mother. He curbed the impulse, arising out of his sea-training, to say "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," to her brothers. He felt that it would be inappropriate and a confession of inferiority on his part - which would never do if he was to win to her. Also, it was a dictate of his pride. "By God!" he cried to himself, once; "I'm just as good as them, and if they do know lots that I don't, I could learn 'm a few myself, all the same!" And the next moment, when she or her mother addressed him as "Mr. Eden," his aggressive pride was forgotten, and he was glowing and warm with delight. He was a civilized man, that was what he was, shoulder to shoulder, at dinner, with people he had read about in books. He was in the books himself, adventuring through the printed pages of bound volumes.
But while he belied Arthur's description, and appeared a gentle lamb rather than a wild man, he was racking his brains for a course of action. He was no gentle lamb, and the part of second fiddle would never do for the high-pitched dominance of his nature. He talked only when he had to, and then his speech was like his walk to the table, filled with jerks and halts as he groped in his polyglot vocabulary for words, debating over words he knew were fit but which he feared he could not pronounce, rejecting other words he knew would not be understood or would be raw and harsh. But all the time he was oppressed by the consciousness that this carefulness of diction was making a booby of him, preventing him from expressing what he had in him. Also, his love of freedom chafed against the restriction in much the same way his neck chafed against the starched fetter of a collar. Besides, he was confident that he could not keep it up. He was by nature powerful of thought and sensibility, and the creative spirit was restive and urgent. He was swiftly mastered by the concept or sensation in him that struggled in birth-throes to receive expression and form, and then he forgot himself and where he was, and the old words - the tools of speech he knew - slipped out.
Once, he declined something from the servant who interrupted and pestered at his shoulder, and he said, shortly and emphatically, "Pew!"
On the instant those at the table were keyed up and expectant, the servant was smugly pleased, and he was wallowing in mortification. But he recovered himself quickly.
"It's the Kanaka for 'finish,'" he explained, "and it just come out naturally. It's spelt p-a-u."
He caught her curious and speculative eyes fixed on his hands, and, being in explanatory mood, he said:-
"I just come down the Coast on one of the Pacific mail steamers. She was behind time, an' around the Puget Sound ports we worked like niggers, storing cargo-mixed freight, if you know what that means. That's how the skin got knocked off."
"Oh, it wasn't that," she hastened to explain, in turn. "Your hands seemed too small for your body."
His cheeks were hot. He took it as an exposure of another of his deficiencies.
"Yes," he said depreciatingly. "They ain't big enough to stand the strain. I can hit like a mule with my arms and shoulders. They are too strong, an' when I smash a man on the jaw the hands get smashed, too."
He was not happy at what he had said. He was filled with disgust at himself. He had loosed the guard upon his tongue and talked about things that were not nice.
"It was brave of you to help Arthur the way you did - and you a stranger," she said tactfully, aware of his discomfiture though not of the reason for it.
He, in turn, realized what she had done, and in the consequent warm surge of gratefulness that overwhelmed him forgot his loose-worded tongue.
"It wasn't nothin' at all," he said. "Any guy 'ud do it for another. That bunch of hoodlums was lookin' for trouble, an' Arthur wasn't botherin' 'em none. They butted in on 'm, an' then I butted in on them an' poked a few. That's where some of the skin off my hands went, along with some of the teeth of the gang. I wouldn't 'a' missed it for anything. When I seen - "
He paused, open-mouthed, on the verge of the pit of his own depravity and utter worthlessness to breathe the same air she did. And while Arthur took up the tale, for the twentieth time, of his adventure with the drunken hoodlums on the ferry-boat and of how Martin Eden had rushed in and rescued him, that individual, with frowning brows, meditated upon the fool he had made of himself, and wrestled more determinedly with the problem of how he should conduct himself toward these people. He certainly had not succeeded so far. He wasn't of their tribe, and he couldn't talk their lingo, was the way he put it to himself. He couldn't fake being their kind. The masquerade would fail, and besides, masquerade was foreign to his nature. There was no room in him for sham or artifice. Whatever happened, he must be real. He couldn't talk their talk just yet, though in time he would. Upon that he was resolved. But in the meantime, talk he must, and it must be his own talk, toned down, of course, so as to be comprehensible to them and so as not to shook them too much. And furthermore, he wouldn't claim, not even by tacit acceptance, to be familiar with anything that was unfamiliar. In pursuance of this decision, when the two brothers, talking university shop, had used "trig" several times, Martin Eden demanded:-
"What is TRIG?"
"Trignometry," Norman said; "a higher form of math."
"And what is math?" was the next question, which, somehow, brought the laugh on Norman.
"Mathematics, arithmetic," was the answer.
Martin Eden nodded. He had caught a glimpse of the apparently illimitable vistas of knowledge. What he saw took on tangibility. His abnormal power of vision made abstractions take on concrete form. In the alchemy of his brain, trigonometry and mathematics and the whole field of knowledge which they betokened were transmuted into so much landscape. The vistas he saw were vistas of green foliage and forest glades, all softly luminous or shot through with flashing lights. In the distance, detail was veiled and blurred by a purple haze, but behind this purple haze, he knew, was the glamour of the unknown, the lure of romance. It was like wine to him. Here was adventure, something to do with head and hand, a world to conquer - and straightway from the back of his consciousness rushed the thought, CONQUERING, TO WIN TO HER, THAT LILY-PALE SPIRIT SITTING BESIDE HIM.
The glimmering vision was rent asunder and dissipated by Arthur, who, all evening, had been trying to draw his wild man out. Martin Eden remembered his decision. For the first time he became himself, consciously and deliberately at first, but soon lost in the joy of creating in making life as he knew it appear before his listeners' eyes. He had been a member of the crew of the smuggling schooner Halcyon when she was captured by a revenue cutter. He saw with wide eyes, and he could tell what he saw. He brought the pulsing sea before them, and the men and the ships upon the sea. He communicated his power of vision, till they saw with his eyes what he had seen. He selected from the vast mass of detail with an artist's touch, drawing pictures of life that glowed and burned with light and color, injecting movement so that his listeners surged along with him on the flood of rough eloquence, enthusiasm, and power. At times he shocked them with the vividness of the narrative and his terms of speech, but beauty always followed fast upon the heels of violence, and tragedy was relieved by humor, by interpretations of the strange twists and quirks of sailors' minds.
And while he talked, the girl looked at him with startled eyes. His fire warmed her. She wondered if she had been cold all her days. She wanted to lean toward this burning, blazing man that was like a volcano spouting forth strength, robustness, and health. She felt that she must lean toward him, and resisted by an effort. Then, too, there was the counter impulse to shrink away from him. She was repelled by those lacerated hands, grimed by toil so that the very dirt of life was ingrained in the flesh itself, by that red chafe of the collar and those bulging muscles. His roughness frightened her; each roughness of speech was an insult to her ear, each rough phase of his life an insult to her soul. And ever and again would come the draw of him, till she thought he must be evil to have such power over her. All that was most firmly established in her mind was rocking. His romance and adventure were battering at the conventions. Before his facile perils and ready laugh, life was no longer an affair of serious effort and restraint, but a toy, to be played with and turned topsy-turvy, carelessly to be lived and pleasured in, and carelessly to be flung aside. "Therefore, play!" was the cry that rang through her. "Lean toward him, if so you will, and place your two hands upon his neck!" She wanted to cry out at the recklessness of the thought, and in vain she appraised her own cleanness and culture and balanced all that she was against what he was not. She glanced about her and saw the others gazing at him with rapt attention; and she would have despaired had not she seen horror in her mother's eyes - fascinated horror, it was true, but none the less horror. This man from outer darkness was evil. Her mother saw it, and her mother was right. She would trust her mother's judgment in this as she had always trusted it in all things. The fire of him was no longer warm, and the fear of him was no longer poignant.
Later, at the piano, she played for him, and at him, aggressively, with the vague intent of emphasizing the impassableness of the gulf that separated them. Her music was a club that she swung brutally upon his head; and though it stunned him and crushed him down, it incited him. He gazed upon her in awe. In his mind, as in her own, the gulf widened; but faster than it widened, towered his ambition to win across it. But he was too complicated a plexus of sensibilities to sit staring at a gulf a whole evening, especially when there was music. He was remarkably susceptible to music. It was like strong drink, firing him to audacities of feeling, - a drug that laid hold of his imagination and went cloud-soaring through the sky. It banished sordid fact, flooded his mind with beauty, loosed romance and to its heels added wings. He did not understand the music she played. It was different from the dance- hall piano-banging and blatant brass bands he had heard. But he had caught hints of such music from the books, and he accepted her playing largely on faith, patiently waiting, at first, for the lifting measures of pronounced and simple rhythm, puzzled because those measures were not long continued. Just as he caught the swing of them and started, his imagination attuned in flight, always they vanished away in a chaotic scramble of sounds that was meaningless to him, and that dropped his imagination, an inert weight, back to earth.
Once, it entered his mind that there was a deliberate rebuff in all this. He caught her spirit of antagonism and strove to divine the message that her hands pronounced upon the keys. Then he dismissed the thought as unworthy and impossible, and yielded himself more freely to the music. The old delightful condition began to be induced. His feet were no longer clay, and his flesh became spirit; before his eyes and behind his eyes shone a great glory; and then the scene before him vanished and he was away, rocking over the world that was to him a very dear world. The known and the unknown were commingled in the dream-pageant that thronged his vision. He entered strange ports of sun-washed lands, and trod market-places among barbaric peoples that no man had ever seen. The scent of the spice islands was in his nostrils as he had known it on warm, breathless nights at sea, or he beat up against the southeast trades through long tropic days, sinking palm-tufted coral islets in the turquoise sea behind and lifting palm-tufted coral islets in the turquoise sea ahead. Swift as thought the pictures came and went. One instant he was astride a broncho and flying through the fairy-colored Painted Desert country; the next instant he was gazing down through shimmering heat into the whited sepulchre of Death Valley, or pulling an oar on a freezing ocean where great ice islands towered and glistened in the sun. He lay on a coral beach where the cocoanuts grew down to the mellow- sounding surf. The hulk of an ancient wreck burned with blue fires, in the light of which danced the HULA dancers to the barbaric love-calls of the singers, who chanted to tinkling UKULELES and rumbling tom-toms. It was a sensuous, tropic night. In the background a volcano crater was silhouetted against the stars. Overhead drifted a pale crescent moon, and the Southern Cross burned low in the sky.
He was a harp; all life that he had known and that was his consciousness was the strings; and the flood of music was a wind that poured against those strings and set them vibrating with memories and dreams. He did not merely feel. Sensation invested itself in form and color and radiance, and what his imagination dared, it objectified in some sublimated and magic way. Past, present, and future mingled; and he went on oscillating across the broad, warm world, through high adventure and noble deeds to Her - ay, and with her, winning her, his arm about her, and carrying her on in flight through the empery of his mind.
And she, glancing at him across her shoulder, saw something of all this in his face. It was a transfigured face, with great shining eyes that gazed beyond the veil of sound and saw behind it the leap and pulse of life and the gigantic phantoms of the spirit. She was startled. The raw, stumbling lout was gone. The ill-fitting clothes, battered hands, and sunburned face remained; but these seemed the prison-bars through which she saw a great soul looking forth, inarticulate and dumb because of those feeble lips that would not give it speech. Only for a flashing moment did she see this, then she saw the lout returned, and she laughed at the whim of her fancy. But the impression of that fleeting glimpse lingered, and when the time came for him to beat a stumbling retreat and go, she lent him the volume of Swinburne, and another of Browning - she was studying Browning in one of her English courses. He seemed such a boy, as he stood blushing and stammering his thanks, that a wave of pity, maternal in its prompting, welled up in her. She did not remember the lout, nor the imprisoned soul, nor the man who had stared at her in all masculineness and delighted and frightened her. She saw before her only a boy, who was shaking her hand with a hand so calloused that it felt like a nutmeg-grater and rasped her skin, and who was saying jerkily:-
"The greatest time of my life. You see, I ain't used to things. . . " He looked about him helplessly. "To people and houses like this. It's all new to me, and I like it."
"I hope you'll call again," she said, as he was saying good night to her brothers.
He pulled on his cap, lurched desperately through the doorway, and was gone.
"Well, what do you think of him?" Arthur demanded.
"He is most interesting, a whiff of ozone," she answered. "How old is he?"
"Twenty - almost twenty-one. I asked him this afternoon. I didn't think he was that young."
And I am three years older, was the thought in her mind as she kissed her brothers goodnight.
进入饭厅对他是一场噩梦。他停顿、碰撞、闪避、退让，有时几乎无法前进，最后总算走到了，而且坐在了她的身边。那刀叉的阵容叫他心惊胆战。它们带着未知的危险耸起了鬃毛。他出神地凝视着它们，直望到它们的光芒形成了一个背景，在这背景上出现了一系列前甲板的场景：他和伙伴们用刀子和手指吃着咸牛肉，拿用瘪了的匙子从盘里舀着浓酽的豌豆汤。他的鼻孔里冒出了变质牛肉的臭味，耳朵里听到了同伴的吧唧吧唧的咀嚼声，伴以木料的吱嘎和船身的呻吟。他望着伙伴们吃着，认为吃得像猪移。那么，他在这儿可得小心，不能吃出声来。千万要时刻注意。 
他往桌上瞥了一眼。他对面是亚瑟和他的哥哥诺尔曼。他提醒自己他们都是她的弟兄，于是对他们油然产生了暖意。这家人彼此是多么相亲相爱呀！露丝的母亲的形象闪入了他的心里：见面时的亲吻，两人手挽手向他走来的情景。在他的世界里父母和子女之间可没有这样的感情流露。这表现了她们的社会所达到的高雅程度。那是地在对那个世界短短的一瞥中所见到的最美好的事物。他欣赏，也感动，他的心因那共鸣的柔情而融化了。他终身为爱而饥渴，他天性渴求爱；爱是他生命的有机的要求，可他从不曾获得过爱，而且逐渐习以为常，僵硬了。他从不知道自己需要爱，至今如此。他只不过看见爱的行为而深受感动，认为它美好、高雅、光彩夺目而已。
莫尔斯先生不在场，他感到高兴。跟那姑娘、她的母亲和哥哥诺尔曼结识已经够他受的了——对亚瑟他倒知道一些。那爸爸准会叫他吃不消的，他肯定。他仿佛觉得一辈子也没有这样累过。跟这一比，最沉重的苦役也好像小孩子的游戏。突然之间要他做那么多不习惯的事，使他感到吃力。他额头上沁出了大颗大颗的汗珠，衬衫也叫汗湿透了。他得用从没用过的方法进餐，要使用陌生的餐具，要偷偷地左顾右盼，看每件新事怎么做；要接受潮水般涌来的印象，在心里品评和分类。对她的渴望在他心里升起，那感觉以一种隐约而痛苦的不安困扰着他。他感到欲望催逼他前进，要他跻身于她的生活圈子，逼得他不断胡思乱想，不断朦胧地思考着如何接近她。而巨，在他偷偷窥视对面的诺尔曼和其他人，要想知道什么时候用什么刀叉时，心中也在研究那人的特点，同时不自觉地衡量着、鉴定着——一切都是因为她。同时他还要谈话，听别人谈话，听别人之间的谈话，必要时作回答，而他的舌头又习惯于信马由疆，常常需要勒住。还有仆人也来给他添乱。仆人是一种永无休止的威胁，总悄悄出现在他肩头旁。全是些可怕的狮身人面兽，老提出些难题、哑谜，要他立即作答。在整个用餐期间一个疑问总压在他心头：洗指钵。他毫无来由地、持续不断地、数十次地想起那东西，猜想着它是什么样子、会在什么时候出现。他听人说过这类东西，而现在他随时都可能看见它。也许马上就能看见。他正跟使用它的高雅人士坐在一起用餐呢——是的，他自己也要用它了。而最重要的是，在他意识的底层，也在他思想的表面存在着一个问题：他在这些人面前应当如何自处，抱什么态度？他不断匆忙地思考着这个问题。他有过怯懦的念头：打算不懂装懂，逢场作戏。还有更怯懦的念头在警告他：这事他准失败，他的天性使他不够资格，只会让自己出洋相。
在晚餐的前半他为确定自己的态度而斗争着，一直沉默无语，却没想到他的沉默却让亚瑟前一天的话落了空。亚瑟前一天曾宣布他要带个野蛮人回家吃饭，叫大家别大惊小怪，因为他们会发现那是个很有趣的野蛮人。马丁·伊登此刻不可能知道她的这位弟弟竟会那样说他的坏话——尤其是他曾帮助他摆脱了那场很不愉快的斗殴。此刻他就这样坐在桌边，一方面为自己的不合时宜而烦恼，一方面又迷恋着周围进行的一切。他第一次意识到吃饭原来还不仅具有实利的功能。他进着餐，却不知道吃的是什么。在这张桌子旁边进餐是一场审美活动，也是一种智力活动。在这里他尽情地满足着对美的爱。他的心灵震动了。他听见了许多他不懂得的词语，听见了许多他只在书本上见过、而他的熟人谁也没有水平读得准的词。在他听见这类词句从露丝那了不起的家庭的成员们嘴边漫不经心地流出时他禁不住欢喜得浑身颤栗。书本上的浪漫故事、美和高智力变成了现实。他进入了一种罕见的幸福境界。在这里，美梦从幻想的角落里堂而皇之地走了出来，变成了现实。
他从不曾过过这样高雅的生活。他在角落里默默地听着，观察着，快活着，只用简短的话回答她，“是，小姐”，“不，小姐”；回答她母亲，“是，夫人”，“不，夫人”；对她的两个哥哥则抑制了海上训练出来的冲动，没有回答“是，长官”，“不，长官”。他觉得那样回答不妥，承认了自己低人一等——他既然要接近露丝，就决不能那样说。他的尊严也这样要求。“天呐！”有一回他对自己说，“我并不比他们差，他们知道讲多我所不知道的东西，可我照样可以学会！”然后，在她或是她母亲称呼他“伊登先生”的时候，他便忘掉了自己傲慢的自尊，高兴得脸上放光，心里发热。他现在是个文明人了，一点不错，跟他在书本上读到的人并肩坐在一起用餐，自己也成了书本上的人，在一卷卷的精装本里过关斩将。
但是，在他使亚瑟的话落空，以温驯的羔羊而不是野蛮人的形象出现时，他却在绞尽脑汁思考着行动的办法。他并非温驯的羔羊，第二提琴手的地位跟他那力求出人头他的天性格格不久。他只在非说话不可时说话，说起话来又像他到餐桌来时那样磕磕绊绊，犹豫停顿。他在他那多国混合词汇中斟酌选择，有的词他知道合运却怕发错了音；有的词又怕别人听不懂，或是太粗野刺耳，只好放弃。他一直感到压力。他明白这样地字斟句酌是在让自己出洋相，难以畅所欲言。何况他那爱自由的天性也受不了这种压抑，跟他那脖子受不了浆硬了的枷锁十分相像。何况他也相信他不能老这样下去。他天生思维犀利，感觉敏锐，创作感强烈得难以驾驭。一种想法或感受从胸中涌出控制了他，经历着产前的阵痛，要找到表现和形式。接着他便忘记了自己，忘记了环境，他的老一套词语——他所熟悉的言语工具——不知不觉地溜了出来。
有一次，他拒绝了一个仆人给他的东西，可那人仍在打岔，纠缠，他便简短地强调说：“爬啊！”
桌边的人立即来了劲，等着听下文，那仆人也得意扬扬，而他却悔恨得无以复加。不过他立即镇定了下来。
“‘爬啊’是夏威夷的卡那加话，是‘行了’的意思，”他解释道，“刚才我是说漏了嘴。这词拼写作p-a－u。”
他看见她盯住他的手，露出好奇与猜测的目光，很愿意作解释，便说——
“我刚从一艘太平洋邮轮来到海湾，那船已经误了期，因此在穿过布格特湾时，我们都像黑鬼一样干着活，堆放着货载——你大约知道，那是混合运载。我手上的皮就是那时刮掉的。”
“啊，我不是那个意思，”这回轮到她忙不迭地作解释了，“你的手跟身子比起来似乎太小。”
他的脸发起烧来，觉得又叫人揭出了一个短处。
“不错，”他不高兴地说，“我的手不够大，受不起折磨。我的胳臂和肩头却又力气太大，打起人来像骡子踢一样。可我揍破别人的下巴骨时，自己的手也被碰破。”
他不满自己说出的话，很厌弃自己。他又没管住自己的舌头，提起了不高雅的话题。
“你那天那样帮助亚瑟真是见义勇为——你跟他并不认识呀，”她策略地说，意识到了他的不满，却不明白原因何在。
他反倒明白了她的意图，不禁心潮乍涌，感激莫名，又管不住他那信口开河的舌头了。
“那算不了什么，”他说，“谁也会打抱不平的。那帮无赖是在找碴儿闹事，亚瑟可没有惹他们。他们找上他，我就找上他们，抡了几拳头。那帮家伙掉了几颗牙，我手上也破了一层皮。我并不在乎，我见到——”
他张着嘴，打住了，在快要落入堕落的深渊时打住了。他完全不配跟她呼吸同一种空气！这时亚瑟第二十次谈起了他在渡船上跟那帮醉醺醺的流氓之间的纠纷；他谈到马丁·伊登如何冲入重围解救了他。这时马丁·伊登却皱紧了眉头在想着自己那副傻相，更坚决地思考着该对他们采取什么态度。到目前为止他肯定并没有成功。他的感觉是：他毕竟是局外人，不会说圈内话，不能冒充圈内人。若是跳假面舞准得露馅。何况跳假面舞也跟他的天性不合，他心里容不下装腔作势。他无论如何也得老实。他目前虽不会说他们那种话，以后还是可以会的。对此他已下了决心。可现在他还得说话，说自己的话。当然，调子要降低，让他们听得懂，也不能叫他们太震惊。还有，对于不熟悉的东西不能假装熟悉，别人误以为他熟悉，也不能默认。为了实行这个决定，在两位弟兄谈起大学行话，几次提到“三角”时，马丁·伊登便问：
“‘三角’是啥？”
“三角课”诺尔曼说，“一种高级数学。”
“什么是‘数学’？”他又提出一个问题。诺尔曼不禁笑了。
“数学，算术，”他回答。
马丁·伊登点了点头。那仿佛无穷无尽的知识远景在他眼前闪现了一下。他见到的东西具体化了——他那异于常人的想像力能使抽象变得具体。这家人所象征的三角、数学和整个知识领域经过他头脑的炼金术一冶炼便变成了美妙的景物。他眼中的远景是绿色的叶丛和林中的空地，或是闪着柔和的光，或为闪亮的光穿透。远处的细节则为一片红通通的雾寓所笼罩，模糊不清。他知道在那红雾的背后是未知事物的魅力和浪漫故事的诱惑。对他，那颇像是美酒。这里有险可探，要用脑子，要用手，这是一个等着被征服的世界——一个念头立即从他的意识背后闪出：征服，博得她的欢心，博得他身边这个百合花一样苍白的仙灵的欢心。
他心中这熠熠闪耀的幻影却被亚瑟撕破了，驱散了。亚瑟整个晚上都在诱导这个野蛮人露出本相。马丁·伊登想起了自己的决定，第一次还原到了自我。起初是自觉的、故意的，但立即沉浸于创造的欢乐之中。他把他所知道的生活呈现到了听众的眼前。走私船翠鸟号被缉私船查获时他是船上的水手。那过程他亲眼目睹，大有可讲的。他把汹涌的大海和海上的船与人呈现到了听众面前。他把他的印象传达给了他们，让他们看到了他所看到的一切。他以艺术家的才能从无数的细节中进行选择，描绘出了五光十色闪亮燃烧的生活场景，并赋予了官行动。他以粗护的雄辩、激清和强力的浪涛席卷了听众，让他们随着他前进。他常以叙述的生动和用词的泼辣使他们震惊。但他在暴力之后总紧跟上一段优美的叙述，在悲剧之后又常用幽默去缓解，用对水手内心的乖戾和怪僻的诠释去缓解。
他讲述时那姑娘望着他，眼里闪烁着惊讶的光。他的火焰温暖着她，使她怀疑自己这一辈子都似乎太冷，因而想向这个熊熊燃烧的人靠近，向这座喷发着精力、雄浑和刚强的火山靠近。她感到必须向他靠近，却也遭到抵抗，有一种反冲动逼使她退缩开去。那双伤破的手今她反感，它们叫劳动弄得很脏，肌理里已嵌满了生活的污秽。他那脖子上的红印和鼓突的肌肉叫她反感。他的粗鲁也叫她害怕；他的每一句粗话都是对她耳朵的侮辱；他生活中的每个粗野的侧面都是对她灵魂的亵读。可他仍不断地吸引着她。她认为他之所以能对她在这种力量是因为他的邪恶。她心中最牢固树立的一切都动摇了。他的传奇和冒险故事粉碎着传统。生命在他那些唾手而得的胜利和随时爆发的哈哈大笑面前再也不是严肃的进取和克制，而成了供他随意摆弄颠倒的玩具，任随他满不在乎地度过、嬉戏，满不在乎地抛弃。‘那就玩下去吧！”这话响彻了她的心里，“既然你想，就偎过去，用双手按住他的脖子吧！”这种想法之鲁莽放肆吓得她几乎叫出声来。她估计着自己的纯洁和教养，用自己所有的一切跟他所缺少的一切作对比，却都没有用。她望望周围，别的人都听得津津有味；若不是见她的母亲眼里有骇异的表情，她几乎要绝望了。不错，母亲的骇异是如醉如痴的骇异，但毕竟是骇异。这个从外界的黑暗中来的人是邪恶的，她母亲看出来了，而母亲是对的。她在一切问题上都相信她母亲，这次也一样。他的火焰再也不温暖了，对他的畏惧再也不痛苦了。
后来她为他弹钢琴，声势煊赫地向他隐约地强调出两人之间那不可逾越的鸿沟。她的音乐是条大棒，狠狠地击在他的头顶，打晕了他，打倒了他，却也激励了他。他肃然竦然地望着她。鸿沟在他心里加宽了，跟在她心里一样。可是他跨越鸿沟的雄心却比鸿沟的加定增长得更快。他这推敏感的神经丛太复杂，不可能整个晚上默视着一条鸿沟无所作为，特别是在听着音乐的时候，他对音乐敏感得出奇。音乐像烈酒一样燃起他大胆的激情。音乐是麻醉剂，抓住他的想像力，把他送到了九霄云外。音乐驱散了肮脏的现实，以美感满溢了他的心灵，解放了他的浪漫精神，给它的脚跟装上了翅膀。他并不懂她弹的是什么。那音乐跟他所听过的砰砰敲打的舞厅钢琴曲和吵闹喧嚣的铜管乐是两回事，可是他从书本上读到过对这类音乐的提示。他主要依靠信心去欣赏她的音乐。起初他耐心地等待着节奏分明的轻快旋律出现，却又因它不久便消失而迷惘。他刚抓住节奏，配合好想像，打算随它翱翔，那轻快的节奏却在一片对他毫无意义的混乱的喧嚣中消失了。于是他的想像便化作惰性物体，摔到了地上。
有一回他忽然感到这一切都含有蓄意拒绝的意思，他把捉住了她的对抗情绪，力图弄明白她击打着琴键所传达给他的信息，却又否定了这种想法，认为她用不着，也不可能那么做，便又更加自由地沉浸于旋律之中。原有的欢乐情绪也随之诱发。他的脚再也不是泥脚，他的肉体变得轻灵飘逸；眼前和内心出现了一片灿烂的光明。随即，他眼前的景象消失了，他自己也悄然远行，到世界各地浪游击了。那世界对他非常可爱。已知的和未知的一切融会为一个辉煌的梦，挤满了他的幻想。他进入了一个阳光普照的国度的陌生的海港，在从没人见过的野蛮民族的市场上漫步。他曾在海上温暖得透不过气来的夜里闻到过的香料岛上的馨香又进入了他的鼻孔。在迎着西南贸易风行驶在赤道上的漫长的日子里，他望着棕相摇曳的珊瑚岛逐渐在身后的碧海里沉没，再望着棕相摇曳的珊瑚岛逐渐从前面的碧海里升起。场景如思想一样倏忽来去。他一时骑着野牛在色彩绚丽、宛如仙境的彩绘沙漠上飞驰；一时又穿过闪着微光的热气俯瞰着死亡谷的晒白了的墓窟。他在快要冻结的海洋上划着桨，海面上巍然高耸的庞大冰山熠耀在阳光里。他躺在珊瑚礁的海滩上，那儿的椰树低垂到涛声轻柔的海面，一艘古船的残骸燃烧着，闪出蓝色的火苗。火光里人们跳着呼啦舞。为他们奏乐的歌手们弹奏着叮叮当当的尤克里里琴，擂着轰隆作响的大鼓，高唱着野蛮的爱情歌曲。那是纵情于声色之乐的赤道之夜。背景是衬着一天星星的火山口轮廓，头顶是一弯苍白的漂浮的月牙儿。天穹的低处燃烧着南十字座的四颗星星。
他是一架竖琴，一生的经历和意识是他的琴弦，音乐之潮是吹拂琴弦使之带着回忆和梦想颤抖的风。他不光是感受。他的感知以形象、颜色和光彩的形式积聚，并以某种升华的神奇的方式实现他大胆的想像。过去。现在和将来交汇融合。他在辽阔而温暖的世界上踟蹰，并通过高尚的冒险和高贵的业绩向她奔去，他要跟她在一起，赢得她、搂着她、带着她飞翔，穿过他心灵的王国。
这一切的迹象她在转过头去时都在他脸上看到了。那是一张起了变化的面孔。他用闪亮的大眼睛穿透了音乐的帷幕看到了生命的跳跃、律动，和精神的巨大幻影。她吃了一惊。那结结巴巴的粗鲁汉子不见了，尽管那不称身的衣服、伤痕累累的手和晒黑了的面孔依然如故。但这只不过宛如监牢的栅门，她通过栅门看到的是一个怀着希望的伟大灵魂。只因他那在弱的嘴唇不善表达，他只能词不达意地说话，或是哑口无言。这一点她只在瞬间看到，转瞬间那粗鲁汉子又回来了。她因自己离奇的幻觉感到好笑。可那瞬息的印象却萦绕在她心里不去。夜深了，他结结巴巴地告了别，打算离开。她把那卷史文朋和一本勃朗于借给了他——她在英文课里就修勃朗宁。他涨红了脸结结巴巴地表示感谢时很像个孩子。一阵母性的怜爱之情从她心里油然涌起。她忘记了那莽汉、那被囚禁的灵魂；忘记了那带着满身阳刚之气盯着她、看得她快乐也害怕的人。她在自己面前只看见一个大孩子在跟自己握手，那手满是老茧，像把豆蔻挫子，挫得她的皮肤生疼。这时那大孩子正在结巴地说：
“这是找平生最美好的一夜。你看，这里的东西我不习惯……”他无可奈何地望望四周，“这样的人，这样的房子，我全都觉得陌生，可我都喜欢。”
“希望你再来看我们，”她趁他跟她的哥哥告别时说。
他拉紧帽子，突然一歪身子死命地跑出门去，不见了。
“喂，你们觉得他怎么样？”亚瑟问。
“非常有趣，是一阵清新的臭氧，”她回答，“他有多大？”
“二十岁——差点二十一。我今天下午问过地。没想到他会那么年青。”
我比他还大三岁呢，她和哥哥们吻别时心还想。
Chapter 3
As Martin Eden went down the steps, his hand dropped into his coat pocket. It came out with a brown rice paper and a pinch of Mexican tobacco, which were deftly rolled together into a cigarette. He drew the first whiff of smoke deep into his lungs and expelled it in a long and lingering exhalation. "By God!" he said aloud, in a voice of awe and wonder. "By God!" he repeated. And yet again he murmured, "By God!" Then his hand went to his collar, which he ripped out of the shirt and stuffed into his pocket. A cold drizzle was falling, but he bared his head to it and unbuttoned his vest, swinging along in splendid unconcern. He was only dimly aware that it was raining. He was in an ecstasy, dreaming dreams and reconstructing the scenes just past.
He had met the woman at last - the woman that he had thought little about, not being given to thinking about women, but whom he had expected, in a remote way, he would sometime meet. He had sat next to her at table. He had felt her hand in his, he had looked into her eyes and caught a vision of a beautiful spirit; - but no more beautiful than the eyes through which it shone, nor than the flesh that gave it expression and form. He did not think of her flesh as flesh, - which was new to him; for of the women he had known that was the only way he thought. Her flesh was somehow different. He did not conceive of her body as a body, subject to the ills and frailties of bodies. Her body was more than the garb of her spirit. It was an emanation of her spirit, a pure and gracious crystallization of her divine essence. This feeling of the divine startled him. It shocked him from his dreams to sober thought. No word, no clew, no hint, of the divine had ever reached him before. He had never believed in the divine. He had always been irreligious, scoffing good-naturedly at the sky-pilots and their immortality of the soul. There was no life beyond, he had contended; it was here and now, then darkness everlasting. But what he had seen in her eyes was soul - immortal soul that could never die. No man he had known, nor any woman, had given him the message of immortality. But she had. She had whispered it to him the first moment she looked at him. Her face shimmered before his eyes as he walked along, - pale and serious, sweet and sensitive, smiling with pity and tenderness as only a spirit could smile, and pure as he had never dreamed purity could be. Her purity smote him like a blow. It startled him. He had known good and bad; but purity, as an attribute of existence, had never entered his mind. And now, in her, he conceived purity to be the superlative of goodness and of cleanness, the sum of which constituted eternal life.
And promptly urged his ambition to grasp at eternal life. He was not fit to carry water for her - he knew that; it was a miracle of luck and a fantastic stroke that had enabled him to see her and be with her and talk with her that night. It was accidental. There was no merit in it. He did not deserve such fortune. His mood was essentially religious. He was humble and meek, filled with self- disparagement and abasement. In such frame of mind sinners come to the penitent form. He was convicted of sin. But as the meek and lowly at the penitent form catch splendid glimpses of their future lordly existence, so did he catch similar glimpses of the state he would gain to by possessing her. But this possession of her was dim and nebulous and totally different from possession as he had known it. Ambition soared on mad wings, and he saw himself climbing the heights with her, sharing thoughts with her, pleasuring in beautiful and noble things with her. It was a soul- possession he dreamed, refined beyond any grossness, a free comradeship of spirit that he could not put into definite thought. He did not think it. For that matter, he did not think at all. Sensation usurped reason, and he was quivering and palpitant with emotions he had never known, drifting deliciously on a sea of sensibility where feeling itself was exalted and spiritualized and carried beyond the summits of life.
He staggered along like a drunken man, murmuring fervently aloud: "By God! By God!"
A policeman on a street corner eyed him suspiciously, then noted his sailor roll.
"Where did you get it?" the policeman demanded.
Martin Eden came back to earth. His was a fluid organism, swiftly adjustable, capable of flowing into and filling all sorts of nooks and crannies. With the policeman's hail he was immediately his ordinary self, grasping the situation clearly.
"It's a beaut, ain't it?" he laughed back. "I didn't know I was talkin' out loud."
"You'll be singing next," was the policeman's diagnosis.
"No, I won't. Gimme a match an' I'll catch the next car home."
He lighted his cigarette, said good night, and went on. "Now wouldn't that rattle you?" he ejaculated under his breath. "That copper thought I was drunk." He smiled to himself and meditated. "I guess I was," he added; "but I didn't think a woman's face'd do it."
He caught a Telegraph Avenue car that was going to Berkeley. It was crowded with youths and young men who were singing songs and ever and again barking out college yells. He studied them curiously. They were university boys. They went to the same university that she did, were in her class socially, could know her, could see her every day if they wanted to. He wondered that they did not want to, that they had been out having a good time instead of being with her that evening, talking with her, sitting around her in a worshipful and adoring circle. His thoughts wandered on. He noticed one with narrow-slitted eyes and a loose- lipped mouth. That fellow was vicious, he decided. On shipboard he would be a sneak, a whiner, a tattler. He, Martin Eden, was a better man than that fellow. The thought cheered him. It seemed to draw him nearer to Her. He began comparing himself with the students. He grew conscious of the muscled mechanism of his body and felt confident that he was physically their master. But their heads were filled with knowledge that enabled them to talk her talk, - the thought depressed him. But what was a brain for? he demanded passionately. What they had done, he could do. They had been studying about life from the books while he had been busy living life. His brain was just as full of knowledge as theirs, though it was a different kind of knowledge. How many of them could tie a lanyard knot, or take a wheel or a lookout? His life spread out before him in a series of pictures of danger and daring, hardship and toil. He remembered his failures and scrapes in the process of learning. He was that much to the good, anyway. Later on they would have to begin living life and going through the mill as he had gone. Very well. While they were busy with that, he could be learning the other side of life from the books.
As the car crossed the zone of scattered dwellings that separated Oakland from Berkeley, he kept a lookout for a familiar, two-story building along the front of which ran the proud sign, HIGGINBOTHAM'S CASH STORE. Martin Eden got off at this corner. He stared up for a moment at the sign. It carried a message to him beyond its mere wording. A personality of smallness and egotism and petty underhandedness seemed to emanate from the letters themselves. Bernard Higginbotham had married his sister, and he knew him well. He let himself in with a latch-key and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Here lived his brother-in-law. The grocery was below. There was a smell of stale vegetables in the air. As he groped his way across the hall he stumbled over a toy- cart, left there by one of his numerous nephews and nieces, and brought up against a door with a resounding bang. "The pincher," was his thought; "too miserly to burn two cents' worth of gas and save his boarders' necks."
He fumbled for the knob and entered a lighted room, where sat his sister and Bernard Higginbotham. She was patching a pair of his trousers, while his lean body was distributed over two chairs, his feet dangling in dilapidated carpet-slippers over the edge of the second chair. He glanced across the top of the paper he was reading, showing a pair of dark, insincere, sharp-staring eyes. Martin Eden never looked at him without experiencing a sense of repulsion. What his sister had seen in the man was beyond him. The other affected him as so much vermin, and always aroused in him an impulse to crush him under his foot. "Some day I'll beat the face off of him," was the way he often consoled himself for enduring the man's existence. The eyes, weasel-like and cruel, were looking at him complainingly.
"Well," Martin demanded. "Out with it."
"I had that door painted only last week," Mr. Higginbotham half whined, half bullied; "and you know what union wages are. You should be more careful."
Martin had intended to reply, but he was struck by the hopelessness of it. He gazed across the monstrous sordidness of soul to a chromo on the wall. It surprised him. He had always liked it, but it seemed that now he was seeing it for the first time. It was cheap, that was what it was, like everything else in this house. His mind went back to the house he had just left, and he saw, first, the paintings, and next, Her, looking at him with melting sweetness as she shook his hand at leaving. He forgot where he was and Bernard Higginbotham's existence, till that gentleman demanded:-
"Seen a ghost?"
Martin came back and looked at the beady eyes, sneering, truculent, cowardly, and there leaped into his vision, as on a screen, the same eyes when their owner was making a sale in the store below - subservient eyes, smug, and oily, and flattering.
"Yes," Martin answered. "I seen a ghost. Good night. Good night, Gertrude."
He started to leave the room, tripping over a loose seam in the slatternly carpet.
"Don't bang the door," Mr. Higginbotham cautioned him.
He felt the blood crawl in his veins, but controlled himself and closed the door softly behind him.
Mr. Higginbotham looked at his wife exultantly.
"He's ben drinkin'," he proclaimed in a hoarse whisper. "I told you he would."
She nodded her head resignedly.
"His eyes was pretty shiny," she confessed; "and he didn't have no collar, though he went away with one. But mebbe he didn't have more'n a couple of glasses."
"He couldn't stand up straight," asserted her husband. "I watched him. He couldn't walk across the floor without stumblin'. You heard 'm yourself almost fall down in the hall."
"I think it was over Alice's cart," she said. "He couldn't see it in the dark."
Mr. Higginbotham's voice and wrath began to rise. All day he effaced himself in the store, reserving for the evening, with his family, the privilege of being himself.
"I tell you that precious brother of yours was drunk."
His voice was cold, sharp, and final, his lips stamping the enunciation of each word like the die of a machine. His wife sighed and remained silent. She was a large, stout woman, always dressed slatternly and always tired from the burdens of her flesh, her work, and her husband.
"He's got it in him, I tell you, from his father," Mr. Higginbotham went on accusingly. "An' he'll croak in the gutter the same way. You know that."
She nodded, sighed, and went on stitching. They were agreed that Martin had come home drunk. They did not have it in their souls to know beauty, or they would have known that those shining eyes and that glowing face betokened youth's first vision of love.
"Settin' a fine example to the children," Mr. Higginbotham snorted, suddenly, in the silence for which his wife was responsible and which he resented. Sometimes he almost wished she would oppose him more. "If he does it again, he's got to get out. Understand! I won't put up with his shinanigan - debotchin' innocent children with his boozing." Mr. Higginbotham liked the word, which was a new one in his vocabulary, recently gleaned from a newspaper column. "That's what it is, debotchin' - there ain't no other name for it."
Still his wife sighed, shook her head sorrowfully, and stitched on. Mr. Higginbotham resumed the newspaper.
"Has he paid last week's board?" he shot across the top of the newspaper.
She nodded, then added, "He still has some money."
"When is he goin' to sea again?"
"When his pay-day's spent, I guess," she answered. "He was over to San Francisco yesterday looking for a ship. But he's got money, yet, an' he's particular about the kind of ship he signs for."
"It's not for a deck-swab like him to put on airs," Mr. Higginbotham snorted. "Particular! Him!"
"He said something about a schooner that's gettin' ready to go off to some outlandish place to look for buried treasure, that he'd sail on her if his money held out."
"If he only wanted to steady down, I'd give him a job drivin' the wagon," her husband said, but with no trace of benevolence in his voice. "Tom's quit."
His wife looked alarm and interrogation.
"Quit to-night. Is goin' to work for Carruthers. They paid 'm more'n I could afford."
"I told you you'd lose 'm," she cried out. "He was worth more'n you was giving him."
"Now look here, old woman," Higginbotham bullied, "for the thousandth time I've told you to keep your nose out of the business. I won't tell you again."
"I don't care," she sniffled. "Tom was a good boy." Her husband glared at her. This was unqualified defiance.
"If that brother of yours was worth his salt, he could take the wagon," he snorted.
"He pays his board, just the same," was the retort. "An' he's my brother, an' so long as he don't owe you money you've got no right to be jumping on him all the time. I've got some feelings, if I have been married to you for seven years."
"Did you tell 'm you'd charge him for gas if he goes on readin' in bed?" he demanded.
Mrs. Higginbotham made no reply. Her revolt faded away, her spirit wilting down into her tired flesh. Her husband was triumphant. He had her. His eyes snapped vindictively, while his ears joyed in the sniffles she emitted. He extracted great happiness from squelching her, and she squelched easily these days, though it had been different in the first years of their married life, before the brood of children and his incessant nagging had sapped her energy.
"Well, you tell 'm to-morrow, that's all," he said. "An' I just want to tell you, before I forget it, that you'd better send for Marian to-morrow to take care of the children. With Tom quit, I'll have to be out on the wagon, an' you can make up your mind to it to be down below waitin' on the counter."
"But to-morrow's wash day," she objected weakly.
"Get up early, then, an' do it first. I won't start out till ten o'clock."
He crinkled the paper viciously and resumed his reading.
马丁下楼时把手伸进外衣口袋，取出了一张褐色的稻单细纸和一撮墨西哥烟丝，灵巧地告成一支香烟。他把第一口烟深深地吸进肺以再慢悠悠地吐了出来。“上帝呀！”他大声地说，声音肃然，带着惊奇。“上帝呀！”他又说。然后再说了声“上帝呀！”于是一把抓住领子从衬衫上扯了下来，塞进口袋。寒雨潇潇地下着，可他却光着头让它淋，而且解开了背心扣子，晃动着身子痛痛快快满不在乎地走着。他只模糊意识到有雨。他处在一种狂欢极乐的境界，做着梦，重新回味着刚才的一个个场面。 
他终于遇见了意中的女人——对于“她”他想得很少（他本不大想女人），但仍模糊地希冀者有一天会碰上她。他跟她一起吃过饭了，用自己的手摸过她的手了，曾经望进她的眼睛，看见了一个美丽的精灵的幻影；——不过那幻影并不比闪现出幻影的那双眼睛更美，不比给予它表现和形象的肉体更美。他没有把她的肉体看作肉体——这于他可是新事，因为他以前对自己认识的女人都是这么看的。可她的肉体不知怎么却有些不同。他并没有把她的身子看作身子，带邪恶的有种种弱点的身子。她的身子不但是她精神的外衣，而且是她精神的光彩，是她神圣的精华的纯净温婉的结晶。这种神圣感令他吃惊，让地从梦幻中恢复了清醒的头脑。以往他从不曾被神圣的话语、启示或讽喻所打动，也不曾相信过神圣的事物。他一向不信宗教，对于引人进入天国的人和他们的灵魂不问一向心平气和地嗤之以鼻。他曾主张死后区没有生命，生命只在此时此地，然后便是永恒的黑暗。可现在他在露丝眼里却看见了灵魂——不朽的永恒的灵魂。他见过的人，无论男女，谁也不曾给他永生的信息，可露丝给了他；她看他第一眼时就悄悄地给了他。他往前走，露丝的面庞在他眼前闪烁——苍白、严肃，甜蜜而敏感，带着同情与温柔微笑着。只有仙灵才会那么笑。她纯洁到了他梦想不到的程度。她的纯洁于他也仿佛是当头律喝，令他震惊。事物的好好坏环地都见过，但作为生命属性的纯洁却从未进入过他的心V。现在地从她身上懂得了纯洁，那是善与净的最高形式，其总体便构成了永生。
她的纯洁也立即唤醒了他的雄心，要他抓住这永恒的生命。他是连给她送水也不配的——他有自知之明。能在那天晚上让他见到露丝、跟她交往、跟她谈话是奇迹般的幸运和梦想不到的福分，是巧合，不是应该，他是配不上这样的福分的。他的心情实质上是宗教性的。他谦卑、恭顺，满怀自我贬斥与压抑。罪人们就是怀着这种心请坐到忏悔的长凳上去的。他被判定有罪。但是正如在忏悔席上的谦卑、恭顺的忏悔人瞥见他们未来的辉煌生活一样，他也从占有露丝瞥见了类似的辉煌生活。但是这种占有德俄暧昧，跟他所知道的占有完全是两回事。雄心展开狂热的翅膀飞翔，他看见自己跟她一起登上了高峰，跟她同心同德，共同享有着美丽高贵的事物。他梦想的是一种灵魂的占有，脱尽凡俗地高雅，是难以用确切的文字界定的一种自由的精神契合。他不曾想过——在这方面他根本不去想。此时感觉已取代了理智。他只是满怀前所未有的激情，战栗着，悸动着，在感觉的海洋上美妙地漂浮。感觉升华了，化作了精神，高蹈于生命的最高峰之外。
他像个醉汉一样跌跌撞撞地走着，嘴里狂热地前南地叫着：“上帝呀！上帝呀！”
街角一个警察怀疑地打量了他一会儿，注意到了他那水手式的蹄W。
“你是在哪儿灌的？”警察问他。
马丁·伊登回到了地面。他的机体反应灵敏，能迅速地调整，并把变化输送到每一个角落，把它充满。警察一招呼，他立即明白过来，清醒地掌握了情况。
“很好玩，是么？”他笑笑，回答，“我还不知道叫出了声呢！”
“你怕是马上还要唱歌吧，”警察给他作出诊断。
“不会的，给我根火柴我就赶下班车回家。”
他点燃了香烟，道了晚安，向前走去。“你没有糊涂吧？”他压低嗓子叫道。“那公安以为我醉了。”他暗暗好笑，想。“我看我倒真是醉了，”他又说，“可我不相信一个女人的漂亮面孔会醉倒我。”
他搭了一部通向伯克利的电报局大街的班车。车上满是青年和学生，学生们唱着歌，不时地喊着大学啦啦队的啦啦词。他好奇地研究着他们。是大学男生。跟她同学，跟她交往，同班，说不定还认识她，若是想见到她就每天都能见到。他不明白他们怎么会不想见她，那天晚上怎么会出去玩而没有在她身边围成一圈去跟她谈话，对她顶礼膜拜。他想了下去。他注意到一个青年眼睛细成两条缝，嘴唇还塔拉着。他断定那家伙阴险；要是在船上他肯定是个告黑状、翻是非、哼哼叽叽的主儿，而他，马丁·伊登准比他强。这想法叫他高兴，仿佛让他跟露丝靠近丁一步。他开始拿自己跟那些学生比较，意识到自己身体结实，有信心比他们谁都力气大。但是他们却有满脑子知识，跟露丝有共同的语言，这一想他又蔫了下来。可是，人长脑子是干吗的？他激动地问。他们能办到的事他也能办到，他们一直是从书本上学习生活．可他却一直在生活里忙碌。他的脑子也跟他们一样满是知识，不过是另一类知识罢了。他们有几个人能结水手结？能开船？能上班？他的生活在他眼前展开为一系列冒险犯难、艰苦劳动的图画。他想起了他在这种学习中所经历的失败和困苦。可无论如何他同样是优秀的。他们以扈还得开始生活，像他一样经受磨难。好吧，等他们忙着受磨难的时候，他便可以从书本上学习生活的另一个方面了。
汽车经过奥克兰和伯克利之间那个住宅稀疏的地区时，他一直在注意一幢熟悉的一楼一底的建筑，楼前有一块神气十足的大招牌：希金波坦现金商店。马丁·伊甸在这个街角下了车。他抬头望了望招牌。除了字面的意思之外这招牌对他还意味着别的：一个狭隘、自私，玩小花头的男人似乎正从那些大字后面露了出来。伯纳德·希金波坦娶了他的姐姐。他对这人很了解。他拿出弹簧锁钥匙开门进屋上了楼。他姐夫住楼上，杂货店在楼下。空气中有陈腐蔬菜的气味。他摸索着穿过厅堂，却碰上了一个玩具汽车，那是他众多的侄儿侄女之一留在那儿的，那车叫他一带，撞在一扇门上“砰”地一响。“吝啬鬼，”他想，“就舍不得花两分钱煤气点个灯，免得房客摔断脖子。”
他摸索到门把手，进了一间有灯光的屋子，他姐姐和伯纳德·希金波坦坐在屋里。姐姐在给姐夫补裤子，姐夫那精瘦的身子在两张椅子上搁着。他的脚穿着破烂的毡拖鞋，挂在另一张椅子上晃荡。他读着报，从报纸顶上瞥了他一眼，露出一对不老实的恶狠狠的黑眼睛。马丁·伊登一见他就禁不住感到恶心。他真不懂他姐姐究竟看上了这人的什么。他总觉得这家伙太像条虫，总叫他牙痒痒的，恨不得一脚踩死。“我总有一天要把他那脸撞个稀烂的，”他在受不了这家伙时常常这样安慰自己。那双凶狠的、黄鼠狼似的小眼睛盯着他，带着抱怨。
“行了，”马丁问，“有啥话就说。”
“那道门我是上个礼拜才油漆的呢，”希金波坦先生半是哀号，半是威胁，“工联规定的工钱有多高你是知道的。你应该小心一点。”
马丁想反驳，可再一想，反驳也没有用，便越过那灵魂的严重丑恶去看墙上那幅五彩石印画，那画让他大吃了一惊。他以前一向是很喜欢它的，现在却仿佛是第一次见到。那画廉价，跟屋里其他东西一样，只能算是廉价。他的心回到了刚才离开的住宅。首先看见了那儿的画，然后便看见了在跟自己握手告别的露丝，她正看着他，温柔得能叫人融化，他忘掉了自己现在的地点，忘掉了希金波坦还在面前。希金波坦问道：
“你见鬼了？”
马丁回过神来，看见了那对含讥带讽、专横却又怯懦的小眼睛。另一对眼睛像在银幕上一样映入了他的眼帘：希金波坦在楼下商店里做生意时的眼睛：讨好、吹嘘、油滑、奉承。
“没错，”马丁回答，“我是见到鬼了，晚安。晚安，格特露。”
他打算离升屋子，却在松垮垮的地毯一条绽开的缝上绊了一下。
“别把门关得砰砰响，”希金波坦先生提醒他。
他一阵怒火中烧，却控制住了自己，在身后轻轻带上了门。
希金波坦先生得意扬扬地望着他的妻子。
“喝上了，”他沙哑着嗓子宣布，“我告诉过你他会喝上的。”
她无可奈何地点点头。
“他的眼睛倒是有些发亮，”她承认，“领带也解掉了，可出去时是打上的。不过他可能只喝了两杯。”
“连站都站不住了，”她的丈夫断然地说，“我观察过他。走路已经歪歪倒倒。你自己也听见的，他在大厅里几乎摔倒。”
“我看他是撞上阿丽丝的车了，”她说，“黑暗里看不见。”
希金波坦先生发起脾气来，提高了嗓门。他整天在店里低声下气，把气留到晚上对家里的人发。晚上他就有特权原形毕露。
“我告诉你，你那宝贝弟弟是喝醉了。”
他口气冷酷，尖锐而且专断，嘴唇像机器上的铸模一样一个字一个字地敲。他的妻子叹了口气，没再说话。她是个身材高大的健壮女人，总是穿得邋里邋遢，总是因为自己个子太大，工作太重，丈夫太刁而精疲力竭。
“我告诉你，那是从他爸爸那儿遗传来的。”希金波坦先生继续指摘，“有一天也照样会醉倒在阳沟里去哼哼的，这你知道。”
她点点头，叹口气，继续补裤子。两人意见已经一致：马丁回家时确是喝醉了。他们灵魂里没有理解美的能力，否则他们就会看出那闪亮的眼睛和酡红的面顿所表示的正是青春对爱情的第一次幻想。
“给孩子们作了个好榜样，”希金波坦先生在沉默中突然哼了一声。他的妻子要对沉默负责，而他又讨厌她的沉默。他有时几乎恨不得他妻子多反驳他几句．“他要是再喝酒，就得给我走人，懂不懂？我不会听凭他胡闹下去的。——天真无邪的孩子们都给他带邪了。”希金波坦先生喜欢“带邪”这个词，那是他词汇表上的一个新词，前不久才从报纸专栏上学来的。“就是‘带邪’——别的词都不对。”
他的妻子们在叹气，并忧伤地摇着头，继续缝补。希金波坦先生又读起报来。
“他上个月的膳宿费交了没有？”他越过报纸叫道。
她点点头，又补充一句：“他还有点钱。”
“他什么时候再出海？”
“工资用完了就走，我猜是，”她回答，“他昨天去旧金山就是去找船的。但是他还有钱，而且对签字要去干活的船很挑剔。”
“像他那种擦甲板的角色，还拿什么架子，”希金波坦先生嗤之以鼻，“挑剔！他！”
“他说起过一条船，正在作准备，要到什么荒凉的地方去寻找埋藏的珍宝，若是他的钱用得到那时的话，他就上那条船去干活儿。”
“他要能踏实一点我倒可以给他个活干。开货车。”她丈夫说，口气里全无照顾的意思，“汤姆不干了。”
他的妻子脸上流露出了惊讶和疑问。
“今晚上就不干了。要去给卡路塞斯干。他们给的那工钱我给不起。”
“我告诉过你你会失去他的，”她叫了起来，“你该给他加工资的，他应该多得。”
“听着，老太婆，”希金波坦威胁道，“我给你说过无数退了，铺子里的事你别瞎操心。下回我可不再打招呼了。”
“那我不管，”她抽了抽鼻子，说，“汤姆原来可是个好孩子。”
她丈夫恶狠狠地瞪了她一眼，毫无来由地挑衅道。
“你那弟弟若是不白吃那么多面包，他可以来开货车。”他哼了一声。
“他可是吃和住都交了费的，”她反驳道，“何况还是我弟弟，只要他不欠你钱你就没理由动不动对他大呼小叫。我还是有感情的，哪怕跟你结了婚七年。”
“你告诉过他若是他再躺在床上看书就要他增加煤气费么？”他问。
希金波坦太太没回答。她的反抗烟消云散了。她肉体太疲倦，精神便蔫了下来、她丈夫占了理，赢了，眼睛一闪一闪放出惩罚的光。他听见地抽泣，心里更高兴。他从驳得她声不响中得到极大的乐趣，而这些日子她却很容易就用上了啥，尽管结婚的头几年并不如此；那时她那一大群娃娃和他那没完没了的唠叨还不曾消磨尽她的锐气。
“好，那你就明天通知他，”他说，“还有，趁我还没忘记。也告诉你一声：你明天最好打发人去叫茉莉安来看孩子。汤姆不干了，我只好去开车，你得下决心到楼下去守柜台。”
“可明天要洗衣服，”她有气没力地反对。
“那就早点起床先洗完衣服。我十点钟之前还不走，”
他凶狠地翻着报纸，翻得沙沙响，然后又读了起来。
Chapter 4
Martin Eden, with blood still crawling from contact with his brother-in-law, felt his way along the unlighted back hall and entered his room, a tiny cubbyhole with space for a bed, a wash- stand, and one chair. Mr. Higginbotham was too thrifty to keep a servant when his wife could do the work. Besides, the servant's room enabled them to take in two boarders instead of one. Martin placed the Swinburne and Browning on the chair, took off his coat, and sat down on the bed. A screeching of asthmatic springs greeted the weight of his body, but he did not notice them. He started to take off his shoes, but fell to staring at the white plaster wall opposite him, broken by long streaks of dirty brown where rain had leaked through the roof. On this befouled background visions began to flow and burn. He forgot his shoes and stared long, till his lips began to move and he murmured, "Ruth."
"Ruth." He had not thought a simple sound could be so beautiful. It delighted his ear, and he grew intoxicated with the repetition of it. "Ruth." It was a talisman, a magic word to conjure with. Each time he murmured it, her face shimmered before him, suffusing the foul wall with a golden radiance. This radiance did not stop at the wall. It extended on into infinity, and through its golden depths his soul went questing after hers. The best that was in him was out in splendid flood. The very thought of her ennobled and purified him, made him better, and made him want to be better. This was new to him. He had never known women who had made him better. They had always had the counter effect of making him beastly. He did not know that many of them had done their best, bad as it was. Never having been conscious of himself, he did not know that he had that in his being that drew love from women and which had been the cause of their reaching out for his youth. Though they had often bothered him, he had never bothered about them; and he would never have dreamed that there were women who had been better because of him. Always in sublime carelessness had he lived, till now, and now it seemed to him that they had always reached out and dragged at him with vile hands. This was not just to them, nor to himself. But he, who for the first time was becoming conscious of himself, was in no condition to judge, and he burned with shame as he stared at the vision of his infamy.
He got up abruptly and tried to see himself in the dirty looking- glass over the wash-stand. He passed a towel over it and looked again, long and carefully. It was the first time he had ever really seen himself. His eyes were made for seeing, but up to that moment they had been filled with the ever changing panorama of the world, at which he had been too busy gazing, ever to gaze at himself. He saw the head and face of a young fellow of twenty, but, being unused to such appraisement, he did not know how to value it. Above a square-domed forehead he saw a mop of brown hair, nut-brown, with a wave to it and hints of curls that were a delight to any woman, making hands tingle to stroke it and fingers tingle to pass caresses through it. But he passed it by as without merit, in Her eyes, and dwelt long and thoughtfully on the high, square forehead, - striving to penetrate it and learn the quality of its content. What kind of a brain lay behind there? was his insistent interrogation. What was it capable of? How far would it take him? Would it take him to her?
He wondered if there was soul in those steel-gray eyes that were often quite blue of color and that were strong with the briny airs of the sun-washed deep. He wondered, also, how his eyes looked to her. He tried to imagine himself she, gazing into those eyes of his, but failed in the jugglery. He could successfully put himself inside other men's minds, but they had to be men whose ways of life he knew. He did not know her way of life. She was wonder and mystery, and how could he guess one thought of hers? Well, they were honest eyes, he concluded, and in them was neither smallness nor meanness. The brown sunburn of his face surprised him. He had not dreamed he was so black. He rolled up his shirt-sleeve and compared the white underside if the arm with his face. Yes, he was a white man, after all. But the arms were sunburned, too. He twisted his arm, rolled the biceps over with his other hand, and gazed underneath where he was least touched by the sun. It was very white. He laughed at his bronzed face in the glass at the thought that it was once as white as the underside of his arm; nor did he dream that in the world there were few pale spirits of women who could boast fairer or smoother skins than he - fairer than where he had escaped the ravages of the sun.
His might have been a cherub's mouth, had not the full, sensuous lips a trick, under stress, of drawing firmly across the teeth. At times, so tightly did they draw, the mouth became stern and harsh, even ascetic. They were the lips of a fighter and of a lover. They could taste the sweetness of life with relish, and they could put the sweetness aside and command life. The chin and jaw, strong and just hinting of square aggressiveness, helped the lips to command life. Strength balanced sensuousness and had upon it a tonic effect, compelling him to love beauty that was healthy and making him vibrate to sensations that were wholesome. And between the lips were teeth that had never known nor needed the dentist's care. They were white and strong and regular, he decided, as he looked at them. But as he looked, he began to be troubled. Somewhere, stored away in the recesses of his mind and vaguely remembered, was the impression that there were people who washed their teeth every day. They were the people from up above - people in her class. She must wash her teeth every day, too. What would she think if she learned that he had never washed his teeth in all the days of his life? He resolved to get a tooth-brush and form the habit. He would begin at once, to-morrow. It was not by mere achievement that he could hope to win to her. He must make a personal reform in all things, even to tooth-washing and neck-gear, though a starched collar affected him as a renunciation of freedom.
He held up his hand, rubbing the ball of the thumb over the calloused palm and gazing at the dirt that was ingrained in the flesh itself and which no brush could scrub away. How different was her palm! He thrilled deliciously at the remembrance. Like a rose-petal, he thought; cool and soft as a snowflake. He had never thought that a mere woman's hand could be so sweetly soft. He caught himself imagining the wonder of a caress from such a hand, and flushed guiltily. It was too gross a thought for her. In ways it seemed to impugn her high spirituality. She was a pale, slender spirit, exalted far beyond the flesh; but nevertheless the softness of her palm persisted in his thoughts. He was used to the harsh callousness of factory girls and working women. Well he knew why their hands were rough; but this hand of hers . . . It was soft because she had never used it to work with. The gulf yawned between her and him at the awesome thought of a person who did not have to work for a living. He suddenly saw the aristocracy of the people who did not labor. It towered before him on the wall, a figure in brass, arrogant and powerful. He had worked himself; his first memories seemed connected with work, and all his family had worked. There was Gertrude. When her hands were not hard from the endless housework, they were swollen and red like boiled beef, what of the washing. And there was his sister Marian. She had worked in the cannery the preceding summer, and her slim, pretty hands were all scarred with the tomato-knives. Besides, the tips of two of her fingers had been left in the cutting machine at the paper- box factory the preceding winter. He remembered the hard palms of his mother as she lay in her coffin. And his father had worked to the last fading gasp; the horned growth on his hands must have been half an inch thick when he died. But Her hands were soft, and her mother's hands, and her brothers'. This last came to him as a surprise; it was tremendously indicative of the highness of their caste, of the enormous distance that stretched between her and him.
He sat back on the bed with a bitter laugh, and finished taking off his shoes. He was a fool; he had been made drunken by a woman's face and by a woman's soft, white hands. And then, suddenly, before his eyes, on the foul plaster-wall appeared a vision. He stood in front of a gloomy tenement house. It was night-time, in the East End of London, and before him stood Margey, a little factory girl of fifteen. He had seen her home after the bean- feast. She lived in that gloomy tenement, a place not fit for swine. His hand was going out to hers as he said good night. She had put her lips up to be kissed, but he wasn't going to kiss her. Somehow he was afraid of her. And then her hand closed on his and pressed feverishly. He felt her callouses grind and grate on his, and a great wave of pity welled over him. He saw her yearning, hungry eyes, and her ill-fed female form which had been rushed from childhood into a frightened and ferocious maturity; then he put his arms about her in large tolerance and stooped and kissed her on the lips. Her glad little cry rang in his ears, and he felt her clinging to him like a cat. Poor little starveling! He continued to stare at the vision of what had happened in the long ago. His flesh was crawling as it had crawled that night when she clung to him, and his heart was warm with pity. It was a gray scene, greasy gray, and the rain drizzled greasily on the pavement stones. And then a radiant glory shone on the wall, and up through the other vision, displacing it, glimmered Her pale face under its crown of golden hair, remote and inaccessible as a star.
He took the Browning and the Swinburne from the chair and kissed them. Just the same, she told me to call again, he thought. He took another look at himself in the glass, and said aloud, with great solemnity:-
"Martin Eden, the first thing to-morrow you go to the free library an' read up on etiquette. Understand!"
He turned off the gas, and the springs shrieked under his body.
"But you've got to quit cussin', Martin, old boy; you've got to quit cussin'," he said aloud.
Then he dozed off to sleep and to dream dreams that for madness and audacity rivalled those of poppy-eaters.
因为跟姐夫的接触，马丁·伊登还窝了一肚子气。他摸索着穿过没有灯光的后厅，进了自己的屋——一间小屋，只放得了一张床、一个盥洗台和一把椅子。希金波坦先生太节省，有了老婆干活他是不会雇用人的。何况佣人住房还可以出租——租给两个人而不是一个人。马丁把史文朋和勃朗宁的书放在椅子上，脱掉外衣，在床上坐了下来，著喘病的弹簧被他身体一压便吱吱地喘气，他都没注意。他正汗始脱鞋，却忽然望着对面的墙壁呆看起来。那墙上的白色涂料被屋顶漏下的雨画上了许多肮脏的黄褐色斑纹。幻影开始在这个肮脏的背景上流荡、燃烧起来。他忘了脱鞋，呆望了许久，最后嘴唇才开始蠕动，喃喃地说出“露丝”两个字。 
“露丝，”他没想到这么简单的声音竟有这么动听。他听了感到快乐，便又重复，而且激动。“露丝，”那是一道能召唤心灵的符(上竹下录)、咒语。他每次低诵那名字，她的脸便在地面前出现，金光灿烂，照亮了那肮脏的墙壁。那金光并不在墙壁上停留，而是往无限处延伸。他的灵魂在那金光的深处探索着露丝的灵魂。他胸中最精粹的部分便化作了美妙的洪流奔泻。对她的思念使他高贵、纯洁、上进，也使他更求上进。这于他是全新的感受。他还从来没有遇见过使他上进的女人。女人总产生相反的效果，使他更像野兽。他并不知道许多女人也曾因地力求上进，虽然后果不佳。因为他从无自我意识，所以并不知道自己身上育种能招引女人疼爱的魅力，能引得她们向他的青春伸出手来。她们虽常来烦恼他，他却从不曾为她们烦恼过，也不曾梦想到会有女人能因他而上进。迄今为止，他一向过着洒脱的无忧无虑的生活，现在他却似乎觉得她们总是向他伸出邪恶的手要把他往下拽。这种想法对她问是不公平的，对他自己也不公平。但是，初次有自我意识的他却还不具备判断的条件，他呆望着自己耻辱的幻影羞愧得无地自容。
他猛然站起身来，想在盟洗台的肮脏镜子里看看自己。他用毛巾擦擦镜子，仔细端详了许久。那是他第一次真正地看见自己。他天生一副善于观察的眼睛，但在那以前他眼里只充满了广袤的人世千变万化的形象，只顾着世界，便看不见自己了，现在他看见了一个二十岁的小伙子的头和脸。因为不习惯于品头论足，他不知道对自己该如何衡量。方正的前额上是一堆棕色的头发，像板栗一样的棕色，卷起一个大花，还连着几个能讨女人欢喜的小波浪。那头发能叫女人手发痒，想摸一摸；能叫她们指头不安分，想插进去揉一揉。但对这头发他却置之不理，认为那在露丝眼里算不上什么。他对那方正而高的前额思考了许久，要想看透它，知道它的内涵。他不断地问：那里面的脑子如何？它能做什么？能给他带来什么？能使他接近她么？
他那双钢灰色的眼睛常常变成湛蓝，在阳光灿烂的海上经得起带咸味的海风吹打。他不知道自己这对眼睛有没有灵魂，也不知道露丝竹他的眼睛观感如何。他努力把自己想作是她，凝望着那一双眼睛，可是玩这个杂技他却失败了。他可以设身处地猜测其他男子汉的思想，但那得是他知道他们生活方式的人。而他却不知道露丝的生活方式。露丝是神秘的，是个奇迹，他能猜得出她的念头吗？哪怕是一个？好了，他的结论是自己这对眼睛是诚恳的，其中没有小气和卑劣。他那张被太阳晒黑的脸令他吃惊。他做梦也没有想到自己会这么黑。他卷起袖子把胳膊白色的内侧和脸作比较。是的，他毕竟是个白人。但是他的胳膊也是晒黑了的。他又侧过手臂，用另一只手扭起二头肌，看着太阳最难照到的地方。那地方很白。他一想起自己的脸当初也像胳膊下那么白便对着镜子巴那张晒成青铜色的脸笑了起来。他不能想像世界卜会有什么白皙的美女能夸口说她的皮肤比他没被阳光蹂躏的部分更白皙更光滑。
他那丰满敏感的双唇若不是在有压力时会紧紧地抿起来，倒像是个婴儿的嘴。有时那嘴抿得很紧，便显得严厉、凶狠！甚至带禁欲主义的苛刻。那是一个战斗者的嘴，也是个情入的嘴。它可以欢畅地品味入生的甜蜜，也可以抛开甜蜜去指挥生活。他那刚什始露出威严棱角的下巴和跨骨也帮助着嘴唇指挥生活。在这里力量和敏感刚柔相济，相得益彰，促使他喜爱有益身心的美，也因无伤健康的感受而震颤。他那双唇之间的牙从没见过牙医也不需要牙医照顾。他认为那牙洁白、结实、整齐。可是再一看，又开始着急，在他心里的某个角落不知怎么存有一个模糊的印象：有些人每天要洗牙，那是上层的人，露丝阶级的人。她也一定每天洗牙的。若是她发现他一辈子没有洗过牙，会作何感想？他决心买把牙刷，养成刷牙的习惯。他决心马上开始，明天就办。他既想接近她就不能光靠本领，还得在各方面改进自己，甚至要洗牙齿、打领带、尽行他觉得套上硬领像是放弃了自由。
他抬起手用拇指肚揉揉长满老茧的手掌。细看着嵌入肌理的连刷子也刷不掉的污垢。露丝的手掌是多么不同啊！一回忆起来他就欣喜震颤。像玫瑰花瓣，他想；消凉。柔软，像雪花他没想到文人的手党能这么柔嫩可爱；他忽然发觉自己在想像着一个奇迹：接受一又像这样的手的抚摸，不禁羞惭得满脸通红。对她怀这样的念头未免太粗野，可以说是对她高洁性灵的亵读。她是个苍白、苗条的精灵，是远远超越于肉体之外的，可她那手心的柔嫩仍在他心里萦绕不去。他习惯于工厂女工和劳动妇女的硬茧，洞悉她们的手粗糙的原因，但露丝的手却……因为从不劳动而栗嫩细腻一想到有人竟可以不劳动而生活。露丝跟他的鸿沟便加宽了。他突然明白了不劳动者的高贵身分。那身分在地面前的墙上巍然屹立，如一尊傲慢专横的青铜雕像，他自己一向都是干活的，他最早的记忆就似乎限于活分不开。他一家人都干活。格特露于活；在她的手同为做不完的活而长起老茧之前早已又红又肿，像煮过的牛肉，主要同为洗衣服，茉莉安妹妹干活。上个夏天他去罐头厂干活，那双白嫩美丽的手便叫番茄刀割出了许多伤疤＿而去年冬天她还把两个指头尖留在了纸盒厂的切纸机里。他记得母亲躺在棺材里时那粗糙的手心；他的父亲是一直干到呼出最后一口微弱的气才死去的，死时手上的硬茧足有半英寸厚。但是露丝的手却柔嫩，她母亲的手、哥哥的手也如此。她哥哥的手使他吃惊，这一事实雄辩地表明了他家阶级地位之高，也表明了露丝和他之间的距离之大。
他苦笑了一下，坐回床上，总算脱下了鞋。他是个傻瓜，竟然会为一个女人的脸和她柔嫩白皙的手沉醉。眼前肮脏的涂料墙上又出现了一个幻影。是晚上。在伦敦的东头，他站在一家阴暗的公寓门前。面前站着玛尔姬，一个十五岁的小女工。吃完解雇宴他送她回到了家门口。她就住在那幢阴暗的、连猪也不宜住的公寓里。他把手伸向她，道了晚安。她仰起嘴唇等着他亲吻，但他不想吻她。不知为什么他有些怕她。于是她抓住了他的手狂热地捏。他感到她手上的老茧磨擦着也硌着他手上的老茧，心里不禁涌起强烈的怜悯之情。他看见她那期待的眼神和她那营养不良的女性的身子。那身子正带着恐惧匆忙而残忍地成熟起来。于是他怀着极大的宽容拥抱了她，弯下腰吻了她的嘴唇。她那低声的欢叫震响在他耳里。他感到她紧偎着他，像只猫。可怜的饥渴的姑娘！他继续凝望着许久以前的往事的幻觉，他的肉体悸动起来，跟那天夜里小姑娘紧偎着他时一样。他心里一阵热，怜惜之情油然而生。那是个灰色的场面，阴沉的灰色，细雨阴沉地洒落在铺路石上。此刻，一片辉煌的光照到墙上，她那头金冠般的秀发下的苍白的面孔穿透了适才的幻影，取代了它，却辽远得无法企及，像颗星星。
他从椅子上拿起勃朗宁和史文朋的作品，亲了亲，反正她曾经要我再去看她，他想。又看了看镜里的自己，极为庄严地叫道：
“马丁·伊登、你明天早上第一件事就是去免费图书馆读读社交礼仪。懂吗！”
他关掉灯，弹簧又在他身子底下吱吱地喘。
“可是你不能再骂粗话了，马丁，伙计，不能骂粗话！”他大声说。
于是他朦胧睡去，做起梦来。那梦之疯狂大胆不亚于鸦片鬼的梦。
Chapter 5
He awoke next morning from rosy scenes of dream to a steamy atmosphere that smelled of soapsuds and dirty clothes, and that was vibrant with the jar and jangle of tormented life. As he came out of his room he heard the slosh of water, a sharp exclamation, and a resounding smack as his sister visited her irritation upon one of her numerous progeny. The squall of the child went through him like a knife. He was aware that the whole thing, the very air he breathed, was repulsive and mean. How different, he thought, from the atmosphere of beauty and repose of the house wherein Ruth dwelt. There it was all spiritual. Here it was all material, and meanly material.
"Come here, Alfred," he called to the crying child, at the same time thrusting his hand into his trousers pocket, where he carried his money loose in the same large way that he lived life in general. He put a quarter in the youngster's hand and held him in his arms a moment, soothing his sobs. "Now run along and get some candy, and don't forget to give some to your brothers and sisters. Be sure and get the kind that lasts longest."
His sister lifted a flushed face from the wash-tub and looked at him.
"A nickel'd ha' ben enough," she said. "It's just like you, no idea of the value of money. The child'll eat himself sick."
"That's all right, sis," he answered jovially. "My money'll take care of itself. If you weren't so busy, I'd kiss you good morning."
He wanted to be affectionate to this sister, who was good, and who, in her way, he knew, loved him. But, somehow, she grew less herself as the years went by, and more and more baffling. It was the hard work, the many children, and the nagging of her husband, he decided, that had changed her. It came to him, in a flash of fancy, that her nature seemed taking on the attributes of stale vegetables, smelly soapsuds, and of the greasy dimes, nickels, and quarters she took in over the counter of the store.
"Go along an' get your breakfast," she said roughly, though secretly pleased. Of all her wandering brood of brothers he had always been her favorite. "I declare I WILL kiss you," she said, with a sudden stir at her heart.
With thumb and forefinger she swept the dripping suds first from one arm and then from the other. He put his arms round her massive waist and kissed her wet steamy lips. The tears welled into her eyes - not so much from strength of feeling as from the weakness of chronic overwork. She shoved him away from her, but not before he caught a glimpse of her moist eyes.
"You'll find breakfast in the oven," she said hurriedly. "Jim ought to be up now. I had to get up early for the washing. Now get along with you and get out of the house early. It won't be nice to-day, what of Tom quittin' an' nobody but Bernard to drive the wagon."
Martin went into the kitchen with a sinking heart, the image of her red face and slatternly form eating its way like acid into his brain. She might love him if she only had some time, he concluded. But she was worked to death. Bernard Higginbotham was a brute to work her so hard. But he could not help but feel, on the other hand, that there had not been anything beautiful in that kiss. It was true, it was an unusual kiss. For years she had kissed him only when he returned from voyages or departed on voyages. But this kiss had tasted soapsuds, and the lips, he had noticed, were flabby. There had been no quick, vigorous lip-pressure such as should accompany any kiss. Hers was the kiss of a tired woman who had been tired so long that she had forgotten how to kiss. He remembered her as a girl, before her marriage, when she would dance with the best, all night, after a hard day's work at the laundry, and think nothing of leaving the dance to go to another day's hard work. And then he thought of Ruth and the cool sweetness that must reside in her lips as it resided in all about her. Her kiss would be like her hand-shake or the way she looked at one, firm and frank. In imagination he dared to think of her lips on his, and so vividly did he imagine that he went dizzy at the thought and seemed to rift through clouds of rose-petals, filling his brain with their perfume.
In the kitchen he found Jim, the other boarder, eating mush very languidly, with a sick, far-away look in his eyes. Jim was a plumber's apprentice whose weak chin and hedonistic temperament, coupled with a certain nervous stupidity, promised to take him nowhere in the race for bread and butter.
"Why don't you eat?" he demanded, as Martin dipped dolefully into the cold, half-cooked oatmeal mush. "Was you drunk again last night?"
Martin shook his head. He was oppressed by the utter squalidness of it all. Ruth Morse seemed farther removed than ever.
"I was," Jim went on with a boastful, nervous giggle. "I was loaded right to the neck. Oh, she was a daisy. Billy brought me home."
Martin nodded that he heard, - it was a habit of nature with him to pay heed to whoever talked to him, - and poured a cup of lukewarm coffee.
"Goin' to the Lotus Club dance to-night?" Jim demanded. "They're goin' to have beer, an' if that Temescal bunch comes, there'll be a rough-house. I don't care, though. I'm takin' my lady friend just the same. Cripes, but I've got a taste in my mouth!"
He made a wry face and attempted to wash the taste away with coffee.
"D'ye know Julia?"
Martin shook his head.
"She's my lady friend," Jim explained, "and she's a peach. I'd introduce you to her, only you'd win her. I don't see what the girls see in you, honest I don't; but the way you win them away from the fellers is sickenin'."
"I never got any away from you," Martin answered uninterestedly. The breakfast had to be got through somehow.
"Yes, you did, too," the other asserted warmly. "There was Maggie."
"Never had anything to do with her. Never danced with her except that one night."
"Yes, an' that's just what did it," Jim cried out. "You just danced with her an' looked at her, an' it was all off. Of course you didn't mean nothin' by it, but it settled me for keeps. Wouldn't look at me again. Always askin' about you. She'd have made fast dates enough with you if you'd wanted to."
"But I didn't want to."
"Wasn't necessary. I was left at the pole." Jim looked at him admiringly. "How d'ye do it, anyway, Mart?"
"By not carin' about 'em," was the answer.
"You mean makin' b'lieve you don't care about them?" Jim queried eagerly.
Martin considered for a moment, then answered, "Perhaps that will do, but with me I guess it's different. I never have cared - much. If you can put it on, it's all right, most likely."
"You should 'a' ben up at Riley's barn last night," Jim announced inconsequently. "A lot of the fellers put on the gloves. There was a peach from West Oakland. They called 'm 'The Rat.' Slick as silk. No one could touch 'm. We was all wishin' you was there. Where was you anyway?"
"Down in Oakland," Martin replied.
"To the show?"
Martin shoved his plate away and got up.
"Comin' to the dance to-night?" the other called after him.
"No, I think not," he answered.
He went downstairs and out into the street, breathing great breaths of air. He had been suffocating in that atmosphere, while the apprentice's chatter had driven him frantic. There had been times when it was all he could do to refrain from reaching over and mopping Jim's face in the mush-plate. The more he had chattered, the more remote had Ruth seemed to him. How could he, herding with such cattle, ever become worthy of her? He was appalled at the problem confronting him, weighted down by the incubus of his working-class station. Everything reached out to hold him down - his sister, his sister's house and family, Jim the apprentice, everybody he knew, every tie of life. Existence did not taste good in his mouth. Up to then he had accepted existence, as he had lived it with all about him, as a good thing. He had never questioned it, except when he read books; but then, they were only books, fairy stories of a fairer and impossible world. But now he had seen that world, possible and real, with a flower of a woman called Ruth in the midmost centre of it; and thenceforth he must know bitter tastes, and longings sharp as pain, and hopelessness that tantalized because it fed on hope.
He had debated between the Berkeley Free Library and the Oakland Free Library, and decided upon the latter because Ruth lived in Oakland. Who could tell? - a library was a most likely place for her, and he might see her there. He did not know the way of libraries, and he wandered through endless rows of fiction, till the delicate-featured French-looking girl who seemed in charge, told him that the reference department was upstairs. He did not know enough to ask the man at the desk, and began his adventures in the philosophy alcove. He had heard of book philosophy, but had not imagined there had been so much written about it. The high, bulging shelves of heavy tomes humbled him and at the same time stimulated him. Here was work for the vigor of his brain. He found books on trigonometry in the mathematics section, and ran the pages, and stared at the meaningless formulas and figures. He could read English, but he saw there an alien speech. Norman and Arthur knew that speech. He had heard them talking it. And they were her brothers. He left the alcove in despair. From every side the books seemed to press upon him and crush him.
He had never dreamed that the fund of human knowledge bulked so big. He was frightened. How could his brain ever master it all? Later, he remembered that there were other men, many men, who had mastered it; and he breathed a great oath, passionately, under his breath, swearing that his brain could do what theirs had done.
And so he wandered on, alternating between depression and elation as he stared at the shelves packed with wisdom. In one miscellaneous section he came upon a "Norrie's Epitome." He turned the pages reverently. In a way, it spoke a kindred speech. Both he and it were of the sea. Then he found a "Bowditch" and books by Lecky and Marshall. There it was; he would teach himself navigation. He would quit drinking, work up, and become a captain. Ruth seemed very near to him in that moment. As a captain, he could marry her (if she would have him). And if she wouldn't, well - he would live a good life among men, because of Her, and he would quit drinking anyway. Then he remembered the underwriters and the owners, the two masters a captain must serve, either of which could and would break him and whose interests were diametrically opposed. He cast his eyes about the room and closed the lids down on a vision of ten thousand books. No; no more of the sea for him. There was power in all that wealth of books, and if he would do great things, he must do them on the land. Besides, captains were not allowed to take their wives to sea with them.
Noon came, and afternoon. He forgot to eat, and sought on for the books on etiquette; for, in addition to career, his mind was vexed by a simple and very concrete problem: WHEN YOU MEET A YOUNG LADY AND SHE ASKS YOU TO CALL, HOW SOON CAN YOU CALL? was the way he worded it to himself. But when he found the right shelf, he sought vainly for the answer. He was appalled at the vast edifice of etiquette, and lost himself in the mazes of visiting-card conduct between persons in polite society. He abandoned his search. He had not found what he wanted, though he had found that it would take all of a man's time to be polite, and that he would have to live a preliminary life in which to learn how to be polite.
"Did you find what you wanted?" the man at the desk asked him as he 
was leaving.
"Yes, sir," he answered. "You have a fine library here."
The man nodded. "We should be glad to see you here often. Are you a sailor?"
"Yes, sir," he answered. "And I'll come again."
Now, how did he know that? he asked himself as he went down the stairs.
And for the first block along the street he walked very stiff and straight and awkwardly, until he forgot himself in his thoughts, whereupon his rolling gait gracefully returned to him.
第二天早上他从玫瑰色的梦境中醒来，屋子已是水气蒙蒙，带着肥皂泡和脏衣服的气味，全属都在艰苦生活的碰撞和嘈杂里震颤着。他一走出屋子便听见泼啦泼啦的水声，然后便是一声尖叫，一个响亮的耳光，那是姐姐心请不好在拿她众多的儿女之一发闷气。孩子的嚎叫像刀子一样扎在他心里。整个情况都叫他烦恼、抵触，连呼吸的空气也都如此。跟露丝家那美丽宁静的气氛有多么不同呀！他想。那儿一切都那么高雅，这儿却只有庸俗，低级的庸俗。 
“来，阿弗瑞德，”他对哭号的孩子叫道，伸手进了裤子口袋。他的钱总装在口袋里，随随便便，跟他的生活方式一样。他把一个二角五的硬币塞进小家伙手里，抱着他哄了一会儿。“现在快跑，买糖去，别忘了分点给哥哥姐姐弟弟妹妹。买最经吃的，记住。”
姐姐从洗衣盆抬起红脸膛望着他。
“给他五分就够了，”她说，“跟你一样，不知道金钱的贯重。会吃坏肚子的。”
“没事儿，姐姐，”他快活地回答，“钱用了又会来的。你要不是忙着，我倒想亲亲你，向你问好呢！”
他这姐姐好，他想对她表示爱意。他知道她也以她的方式喜欢他。可是，不知怎么这些年来她越来越不像原来的她，也越来越不好理解了。他认为是因为工作太重，孩子太多，丈夫又太唠叨。他突然产生一种幻觉，她的天性似乎也变了，变得像陈腐的蔬菜、难闻的肥皂泡沫和她在商店柜台上收进的油腻腻的一角、五分。二角五的硬币工。
“去去，吃早饭去，”她嘴上虽凶，心里却暗自高兴。在她这一群四海为家的哥哥弟弟之中她最喜欢的一向是他。“我说，我就要亲亲怀。”她说，心里突然激动起来。
她叉开拇指和食指抹掉了一条胳膊上的肥皂沫，又抹了另一条。他用双手搂住她那巨大的腰，吻了吻她那潮湿的带水汽的嘴唇。她眼里涌出了泪珠——与其说是由于感情的强烈，倒不如说是由于长期劳动过度的软弱。她推开了他，可他们瞥见了在她眼里闪耀的泪花。
“早饭在炉子里，”她匆匆地说，“吉姆现在该起来了。我不得不提早起来洗衣服。好了，赶快收拾，早点出去。今天怕是不好过，汤姆不干了，伯纳德得去顶班开货车。”
马丁心情沉重地走进厨房。她那红通通的脸膛和道里遍遇的样子像酸素一样侵蚀着他的心。她要是有时间是可能对他表示爱的，他断定。但是她却累得要死。伯纳德·希金波坦真是个禽兽，竟叫她这么辛苦。可是从另一方面看他也不得不承认她那一吻不算美妙。不错，这一吻不平常。多少年来她已只在地出海或回家时才吻他了。但是这一吻却带有肥皂泡沫，而且地发现那嘴唇松弛，缺乏应有的迅速有力的接触。她那吻是个疲倦的妇女的吻。她劳累得太久，已经不知道怎么亲吻了。他还记得她做姑娘的时候。那时她还没有结婚，在洗衣店系了一天还要跟最好的小伙子通宵跳舞，根本没把跳完舞还要上班子一整天重活放在心上。他又想起了露丝，露丝的嘴唇一定跟她全身一样，清凉芬芳。她的吻一定像她的握手，或是她看人时的神态：坚定而坦然。他放开胆子在想像中看到了她的唇吻着自己的唇。他想得很生动，想得脑袋晕眩，仿佛从玫瑰花瓣的雾窗之中穿过，任花瓣的馨香在他脑海中洋溢。
他在厨房见到了另一个房客吉姆，那人正在懒洋洋地吃着玉米粥，眼里泛出厌烦的、心不在焉的神气。吉姆是个水暖工学徒，不善言词，贪图享受，还加上某些神经过敏的傻气，在抢饭碗的竞争中前途暗淡。
“你怎么不吃呢？”他见马丁阴郁地戳着煮得半熟的燕麦粥，问，“昨几晚上又喝醉了？”
马丁摇摇头。整个环境的肮脏通通令他难受。露丝·莫尔斯跟他的距离比任何时候都大了。
“玩得痛快极了，”吉姆神经质地格格一笑，夸张地说，“啊，她可是朵雏菊花儿呢。是比尔送我回来的。”
马丁点点头表示听见了——谁跟他说话地都认真听，他这习惯出自天性——然后倒了一杯温热的咖啡。
“今天晚上去荷花俱乐部参加舞会么？”吉姆问，“供应啤酒，若是泰默斯柯那帮人来，会闹翻天的。不过我不在乎。我照常带我的女朋友去。耶稣！我嘴里有什么味儿！”
他做了个鬼脸，打算用咖啡把那怪味地冲下去。
“你认识朱莉娜吗？”
马丁摇摇头。
“是我女朋友，”吉姆解释，“好一只仙桃儿，我要介绍你认识她，只有你才能叫她高兴。我不知道姑娘们喜欢你什么，说实话，我不知道。可你把姑娘们从别人手里抢走，那叫人恶心。”
“我并没从你手上抢走过谁，”马丁淡淡地说。早饭总得要吃完的，
“你抢走过的，”对方激动地肯定，“玛姬就是。”
“我跟她毫无关系。除了那天晚上以外我没跟她跳过舞。”
“对，可就那一回就出了问题，”吉姆叫道，“你跟她跳了跳舞，看了看她，就坏了事。你当然没起什么心，我却再也没指望了。她看也不肯看我一眼。老问起你。若是你愿意，她是会乐意跟你幽会亲热的。”
“可是我不愿意。”
“你用不着，可我给晾到一边了。”吉姆羡慕地望着他，“不过，你是怎么叫她们入迷的，马？”
“不理她们，”他回答。
“你是说装作对她们不感兴趣？”吉姆着急地问。
马丁考虑了一会儿，回答道：“也许那就够了，不过我觉得我的情况不一样。我从来就不大感兴趣。你要是能装出满不在乎的样子，那就行了，八九不离十。”
“昨天晚上你应该到莱利家的仓库去的，”吉姆换了个话题，告诉他；“好多人都戴上手套打过几拳，从西奥克兰来了个好角色，人家叫他‘耗子’，手脚麻利，谁都挨不上他的边。我们都希望你在那儿。可你到哪儿去了？”
“下奥克兰去了，”马丁回答。
“看表演去了？”
马丁推开盘子站了起来。
“今儿晚上去舞会么？”吉姆还在对他身后问。
“不，不去，”他回答。
他下了楼，出了屋，来到街上便大口大口吸气。那学徒的唠叨快把他通疯了。那气氛几乎叫他窒息。他好几次都很不得把吉姆那脸按到玉米粥盘子里，却好不容易才忍住了。他越是唠叨露丝就似乎离他越远。跟这样的货色打交道，怎么能配得上露丝呢！眼前面临的问题叫他恐怖了。他那工人阶级的处境像梦宽一样压着他。一切都在把他往下拽——他姐姐，姐姐的屋子和家庭，学徒吉姆，他认得的每个人，每一种人际关系。在他嘴里活着的滋味很不美好，在此之前他一直认为活着是好事，一直生活在周围的一切里、除了读书的时候之外地从不曾怀疑过它。不过书本毕竟是书本，只是关于一个更加美好却并不可能的世界的童活。叶是现在他却看到了那个世界，可能而且现实，它的核心是一个花朵般的女人．叫露丝；从此以后他就得品尝种种苦味，品尝像痛苦一样尖锐的相思，品尝绝望的滋味，那绝望靠希望哺育，可望而不可即。
他在伯克利和奥克兰的两家免费图书馆之间作了选择，决定去奥克兰，因为露丝住在奥克兰。图书馆是她最可能去的地方，说不定会在那儿遇上她。谁能说得准？他不懂图书馆藏书办法，便在无穷无尽的小说书架边穿行，最后还是个面目较好的像个法国人的姑娘告诉他参考书部在楼上（她好像是负责人）。他也不知道到借书台去咨询，径自在哲学部跑来跑去。他听说过哲学书，却没想到会有那么多。塞满了大部头著作的巍巍然的书架使他自惭渺小，却也刺激了他。这里可是他脑子的用武之地。他在数学类发现了三角，例览了一番，却只好对着那些莫名其妙的公式和图像发呆。英文他能读，但他在那儿看见的却是一种陌生的语言。诺尔曼和亚瑟懂得这种语言。他听见他俩使用过。而他们是她的弟弟。他绝望地离开了数学部。书本仿佛从四面八方向他压了过来，要压垮地。他从没想到人类知识的积蓄竟会如此汗牛充栋。他害怕了。这么多东西他的脑子能全掌握吗？却又立即想起，有许多人是掌握了的。他压低嗓门满怀热情地发下宏誓大愿，别人的脑子能办到的，他的脑子电准能办到。
他就像这样遇来退去，望着堆满了智慧的书架，时而蔫头搭脑，时而斗志昂扬。在杂学类地遇见了一本《诺瑞著作提要》。他肃然起敬，翻了翻。那书的语言跟他接近。它谈海洋，而他是海上人。然后他找到一本鲍迪齐的著作，几本雷基与马夏尔合著的书。要找的找到了。他要自学航海术，要戒掉酒，鼓起劲，以后当个船长。在那一瞬间露丝似乎跟他近在咫尺了。他做了船长就要娶她（若是她愿意的话）。但若是她不愿意，那么——为了她的缘故他就打算在男人世界过正派的生活，酒是无论如何不喝了。可他又想起了股东和船主，那是船长必须伺候的两个老板，哪个老板都能管住他，也想管住他，而股东跟船主却有针锋相对的利害冲突。他扫视了一眼全屋，闭目想了想这一万本书，不，他不想下海了，在这丰富的藏书里存在着力量，他既要干大事，就得在陆地上干，何况船长出海是不准带太太的。
正午到了，然后是下午。他忘了吃饭，仍然在书丛里寻找社会礼仪的书一因为在事业之外他心里还为一个很简单具体的问题烦恼：你遇见一位年青小姐，而她又要你去看她，你该在多久以后才去？（这是他给自己的问题的措辞。）可是等他找对了书架，答案却仍然渺茫。那座社会礼仪的大厦之高大叫他恐怖，他在礼仪社会之间的名片交往的迷宫里迷了路，终于放弃了寻找。要找的东西虽没找到，却找到一条道理：要想会礼貌得学一辈子，而他呢，若要学会礼貌还得先同一辈子作准备。
“找到要找的书了吧？”借书处的人在他离开时间他。
“找到了，先生，”他回答，“你们图书馆藏书很丰富。”
那人点点头。“欢迎你常来，你是个水手吧？”
“是的，先生，”他回答，“我还要来。”
他是怎么知道的呢？他下楼时问自己。
走在第一段街道上时他把背挺得笔直，僵硬，不自然，然后由于想着心事，忘掉了姿势，他那摇摇摆摆的步子又美妙地回来了。
Chapter 6
A terrible restlessness that was akin to hunger afflicted Martin Eden. He was famished for a sight of the girl whose slender hands had gripped his life with a giant's grasp. He could not steel himself to call upon her. He was afraid that he might call too soon, and so be guilty of an awful breach of that awful thing called etiquette. He spent long hours in the Oakland and Berkeley libraries, and made out application blanks for membership for himself, his sisters Gertrude and Marian, and Jim, the latter's consent being obtained at the expense of several glasses of beer. With four cards permitting him to draw books, he burned the gas late in the servant's room, and was charged fifty cents a week for it by Mr. Higginbotham.
The many books he read but served to whet his unrest. Every page of every book was a peep-hole into the realm of knowledge. His hunger fed upon what he read, and increased. Also, he did not know where to begin, and continually suffered from lack of preparation. The commonest references, that he could see plainly every reader was expected to know, he did not know. And the same was true of the poetry he read which maddened him with delight. He read more of Swinburne than was contained in the volume Ruth had lent him; and "Dolores" he understood thoroughly. But surely Ruth did not understand it, he concluded. How could she, living the refined life she did? Then he chanced upon Kipling's poems, and was swept away by the lilt and swing and glamour with which familiar things had been invested. He was amazed at the man's sympathy with life and at his incisive psychology. PSYCHOLOGY was a new word in Martin's vocabulary. He had bought a dictionary, which deed had decreased his supply of money and brought nearer the day on which he must sail in search of more. Also, it incensed Mr. Higginbotham, who would have preferred the money taking the form of board.
He dared not go near Ruth's neighborhood in the daytime, but night found him lurking like a thief around the Morse home, stealing glimpses at the windows and loving the very walls that sheltered her. Several times he barely escaped being caught by her brothers, and once he trailed Mr. Morse down town and studied his face in the lighted streets, longing all the while for some quick danger of death to threaten so that he might spring in and save her father. On another night, his vigil was rewarded by a glimpse of Ruth through a second-story window. He saw only her head and shoulders, and her arms raised as she fixed her hair before a mirror. It was only for a moment, but it was a long moment to him, during which his blood turned to wine and sang through his veins. Then she pulled down the shade. But it was her room - he had learned that; and thereafter he strayed there often, hiding under a dark tree on the opposite side of the street and smoking countless cigarettes. One afternoon he saw her mother coming out of a bank, and received another proof of the enormous distance that separated Ruth from him. She was of the class that dealt with banks. He had never been inside a bank in his life, and he had an idea that such institutions were frequented only by the very rich and the very powerful.
In one way, he had undergone a moral revolution. Her cleanness and purity had reacted upon him, and he felt in his being a crying need to be clean. He must be that if he were ever to be worthy of breathing the same air with her. He washed his teeth, and scrubbed his hands with a kitchen scrub-brush till he saw a nail-brush in a drug-store window and divined its use. While purchasing it, the clerk glanced at his nails, suggested a nail-file, and so he became possessed of an additional toilet-tool. He ran across a book in the library on the care of the body, and promptly developed a penchant for a cold-water bath every morning, much to the amazement of Jim, and to the bewilderment of Mr. Higginbotham, who was not in sympathy with such high-fangled notions and who seriously debated whether or not he should charge Martin extra for the water. Another stride was in the direction of creased trousers. Now that Martin was aroused in such matters, he swiftly noted the difference between the baggy knees of the trousers worn by the working class and the straight line from knee to foot of those worn by the men above the working class. Also, he learned the reason why, and invaded his sister's kitchen in search of irons and ironing-board. He had misadventures at first, hopelessly burning one pair and buying another, which expenditure again brought nearer the day on which he must put to sea.
But the reform went deeper than mere outward appearance. He still smoked, but he drank no more. Up to that time, drinking had seemed to him the proper thing for men to do, and he had prided himself on his strong head which enabled him to drink most men under the table. Whenever he encountered a chance shipmate, and there were many in San Francisco, he treated them and was treated in turn, as of old, but he ordered for himself root beer or ginger ale and good-naturedly endured their chaffing. And as they waxed maudlin he studied them, watching the beast rise and master them and thanking God that he was no longer as they. They had their limitations to forget, and when they were drunk, their dim, stupid spirits were even as gods, and each ruled in his heaven of intoxicated desire. With Martin the need for strong drink had vanished. He was drunken in new and more profound ways - with Ruth, who had fired him with love and with a glimpse of higher and eternal life; with books, that had set a myriad maggots of desire gnawing in his brain; and with the sense of personal cleanliness he was achieving, that gave him even more superb health than what he had enjoyed and that made his whole body sing with physical well- being.
One night he went to the theatre, on the blind chance that he might see her there, and from the second balcony he did see her. He saw her come down the aisle, with Arthur and a strange young man with a football mop of hair and eyeglasses, the sight of whom spurred him to instant apprehension and jealousy. He saw her take her seat in the orchestra circle, and little else than her did he see that night - a pair of slender white shoulders and a mass of pale gold hair, dim with distance. But there were others who saw, and now and again, glancing at those about him, he noted two young girls who looked back from the row in front, a dozen seats along, and who smiled at him with bold eyes. He had always been easy-going. It was not in his nature to give rebuff. In the old days he would have smiled back, and gone further and encouraged smiling. But now it was different. He did smile back, then looked away, and looked no more deliberately. But several times, forgetting the existence of the two girls, his eyes caught their smiles. He could not re- thumb himself in a day, nor could he violate the intrinsic kindliness of his nature; so, at such moments, he smiled at the girls in warm human friendliness. It was nothing new to him. He knew they were reaching out their woman's hands to him. But it was different now. Far down there in the orchestra circle was the one woman in all the world, so different, so terrifically different, from these two girls of his class, that he could feel for them only pity and sorrow. He had it in his heart to wish that they could possess, in some small measure, her goodness and glory. And not for the world could he hurt them because of their outreaching. He was not flattered by it; he even felt a slight shame at his lowliness that permitted it. He knew, did he belong in Ruth's class, that there would be no overtures from these girls; and with each glance of theirs he felt the fingers of his own class clutching at him to hold him down.
He left his seat before the curtain went down on the last act, intent on seeing Her as she passed out. There were always numbers of men who stood on the sidewalk outside, and he could pull his cap down over his eyes and screen himself behind some one's shoulder so that she should not see him. He emerged from the theatre with the first of the crowd; but scarcely had he taken his position on the edge of the sidewalk when the two girls appeared. They were looking for him, he knew; and for the moment he could have cursed that in him which drew women. Their casual edging across the sidewalk to the curb, as they drew near, apprised him of discovery. They slowed down, and were in the thick of the crown as they came up with him. One of them brushed against him and apparently for the first time noticed him. She was a slender, dark girl, with black, defiant eyes. But they smiled at him, and he smiled back.
"Hello," he said.
It was automatic; he had said it so often before under similar circumstances of first meetings. Besides, he could do no less. There was that large tolerance and sympathy in his nature that would permit him to do no less. The black-eyed girl smiled gratification and greeting, and showed signs of stopping, while her companion, arm linked in arm, giggled and likewise showed signs of halting. He thought quickly. It would never do for Her to come out and see him talking there with them. Quite naturally, as a matter of course, he swung in along-side the dark-eyed one and walked with her. There was no awkwardness on his part, no numb tongue. He was at home here, and he held his own royally in the badinage, bristling with slang and sharpness, that was always the preliminary to getting acquainted in these swift-moving affairs. At the corner where the main stream of people flowed onward, he started to edge out into the cross street. But the girl with the black eyes caught his arm, following him and dragging her companion after her, as she cried:
"Hold on, Bill! What's yer rush? You're not goin' to shake us so sudden as all that?"
He halted with a laugh, and turned, facing them. Across their shoulders he could see the moving throng passing under the street lamps. Where he stood it was not so light, and, unseen, he would be able to see Her as she passed by. She would certainly pass by, for that way led home.
"What's her name?" he asked of the giggling girl, nodding at the dark-eyed one.
"You ask her," was the convulsed response.
"Well, what is it?" he demanded, turning squarely on the girl in question.
"You ain't told me yours, yet," she retorted.
"You never asked it," he smiled. "Besides, you guessed the first rattle. It's Bill, all right, all right."
"Aw, go 'long with you." She looked him in the eyes, her own sharply passionate and inviting. "What is it, honest?"
Again she looked. All the centuries of woman since sex began were eloquent in her eyes. And he measured her in a careless way, and knew, bold now, that she would begin to retreat, coyly and delicately, as he pursued, ever ready to reverse the game should he turn fainthearted. And, too, he was human, and could feel the draw of her, while his ego could not but appreciate the flattery of her kindness. Oh, he knew it all, and knew them well, from A to Z. Good, as goodness might be measured in their particular class, hard-working for meagre wages and scorning the sale of self for easier ways, nervously desirous for some small pinch of happiness in the desert of existence, and facing a future that was a gamble between the ugliness of unending toil and the black pit of more terrible wretchedness, the way whereto being briefer though better paid.
"Bill," he answered, nodding his head. "Sure, Pete, Bill an' no other."
"No joshin'?" she queried.
"It ain't Bill at all," the other broke in.
"How do you know?" he demanded. "You never laid eyes on me before."
"No need to, to know you're lyin'," was the retort.
"Straight, Bill, what is it?" the first girl asked.
"Bill'll do," he confessed.
She reached out to his arm and shook him playfully. "I knew you was lyin', but you look good to me just the same."
He captured the hand that invited, and felt on the palm familiar markings and distortions.
"When'd you chuck the cannery?" he asked.
"How'd yeh know?" and, "My, ain't cheh a mind-reader!" the girls chorussed.
And while he exchanged the stupidities of stupid minds with them, before his inner sight towered the book-shelves of the library, filled with the wisdom of the ages. He smiled bitterly at the incongruity of it, and was assailed by doubts. But between inner vision and outward pleasantry he found time to watch the theatre crowd streaming by. And then he saw Her, under the lights, between her brother and the strange young man with glasses, and his heart seemed to stand still. He had waited long for this moment. He had time to note the light, fluffy something that hid her queenly head, the tasteful lines of her wrapped figure, the gracefulness of her carriage and of the hand that caught up her skirts; and then she was gone and he was left staring at the two girls of the cannery, at their tawdry attempts at prettiness of dress, their tragic efforts to be clean and trim, the cheap cloth, the cheap ribbons, and the cheap rings on the fingers. He felt a tug at his arm, and heard a voice saying:-
"Wake up, Bill! What's the matter with you?"
"What was you sayin'?" he asked.
"Oh, nothin'," the dark girl answered, with a toss of her head. "I was only remarkin' - "
"What?"
"Well, I was whisperin' it'd be a good idea if you could dig up a gentleman friend - for her" (indicating her companion), "and then, we could go off an' have ice-cream soda somewhere, or coffee, or anything."
He was afflicted by a sudden spiritual nausea. The transition from Ruth to this had been too abrupt. Ranged side by side with the bold, defiant eyes of the girl before him, he saw Ruth's clear, luminous eyes, like a saint's, gazing at him out of unplumbed depths of purity. And, somehow, he felt within him a stir of power. He was better than this. Life meant more to him than it meant to these two girls whose thoughts did not go beyond ice-cream and a gentleman friend. He remembered that he had led always a secret life in his thoughts. These thoughts he had tried to share, but never had he found a woman capable of understanding - nor a man. He had tried, at times, but had only puzzled his listeners. And as his thoughts had been beyond them, so, he argued now, he must be beyond them. He felt power move in him, and clenched his fists. If life meant more to him, then it was for him to demand more from life, but he could not demand it from such companionship as this. Those bold black eyes had nothing to offer. He knew the thoughts behind them - of ice-cream and of something else. But those saint's eyes alongside - they offered all he knew and more than he could guess. They offered books and painting, beauty and repose, and all the fine elegance of higher existence. Behind those black eyes he knew every thought process. It was like clockwork. He could watch every wheel go around. Their bid was low pleasure, narrow as the grave, that palled, and the grave was at the end of it. But the bid of the saint's eyes was mystery, and wonder unthinkable, and eternal life. He had caught glimpses of the soul in them, and glimpses of his own soul, too.
"There's only one thing wrong with the programme," he said aloud. "I've got a date already."
The girl's eyes blazed her disappointment.
"To sit up with a sick friend, I suppose?" she sneered.
"No, a real, honest date with - " he faltered, "with a girl."
"You're not stringin' me?" she asked earnestly.
He looked her in the eyes and answered: "It's straight, all right. But why can't we meet some other time? You ain't told me your name yet. An' where d'ye live?"
"Lizzie," she replied, softening toward him, her hand pressing his arm, while her body leaned against his. "Lizzie Connolly. And I live at Fifth an' Market."
He talked on a few minutes before saying good night. He did not go home immediately; and under the tree where he kept his vigils he looked up at a window and murmured: "That date was with you, Ruth. I kept it for you."
一种可怕的烦躁折磨着马丁·伊登，近似于饥渴。他渴望见到那位用她那柔嫩的手以巨人的握力攫住了他全部生命的姑娘，却总鼓不起勇气去看她。他怕去得太快，违背了那可怕的叫做社交礼仪的庞然大物。他在奥克兰和伯克利图书馆花了许多时间为自己填了几张借书申请表。他自己的，姐姐格特露的和妹妹茉莉安的，还有吉姆的。为取得吉姆的同意他还付出了几杯啤酒。有了这四张借书证，他便在仆人屋罕熬起夜来，希金波坦因此每周多收了他五角钱煤气费。 
他读了许多书，可那只使他更加烦躁不安。每本书的每一页都是一个窥视孔，让他窥见了知识天地。他读到的东西只培养了他的食欲，使他更饥饿了。他不知道从何学起，只不断因为基础太差而烦恼。他缺乏许多最平常的背景知识，而他清楚知道那是每个读者都早该明白的。读诗时也一样，尽管诗歌叫他如醉如痴。除了露丝借给他的那一本之外他还读了一些史文朋的作品。《多洛丽丝》他完全能理解，他的结论是露丝肯定没读懂。她过着那样优裕的生活怎么能读得懂呢？然后他又碰上了吉卜林的诗，他为它们的韵律、节奏和他赋予日常事物的越力所倾倒。吉卜林对生命的感受和深刻的心理描写也使他吃惊。在马丁的词汇里“心理”是个新词。他买了一本词典，这压缩了他的存款，提前了他出海挣钱的日子，同时也惹恼了希金波坦先生。他是恨不得把那钱当作膳宿费收了去的。
白天他不敢走近露丝的家，可到晚上他却像个小偷一样在莫尔斯家住宅附近通来退去，偷偷地瞧着窗户，爱恋着那荫蔽她的墙壁。有几次他几乎被她的弟弟撞见。有一回他还跟着莫尔斯先生走到繁华区，在街边的灯光下研究着他的面孔，恨不得出现突然的危险威胁他的生命，好让他扑过去救他。有一天晚上他的守夜活动得到了报偿。他在二楼的窗户里看到了露丝的身影——只见到头和肩，她在镜前梳妆，举起了一条胳膊。虽只一瞬，对他却很长，他的血液化作了酒装，在血管里歌唱起来。然后她便拉下了窗帘。可是他已发现了她的房间，从此便常溜到那儿去躲到街时面一棵黑xuxu的树下，抽上不知多少支香烟。有天下午他看见她的母亲从一家银行出来，那又给了他一个地跟她有遥远距离的证明。她属于进出于银行之门的阶级，而他却一辈子也没进过银行，一向认为那是只有最有钱最有势的人才光顾的机构。
就某种意义而言，他也经历了一次道德上的等命。她的纯洁无瑕影响了他，他从内心感到一种对清洁的迫切要求。既然他希望有跟她同呼吸共命运的资格，他便必须爱干净。他开始刷牙，并用刷子刷手。后来他在一家药店的橱窗卫看到了指甲刷，猜到了它的用处。他买指甲刷的时候店员看了一眼他的手便向地推荐一种指甲锉，于是他又多了一份梳妆用品。他在图书馆见到一本讲生理卫生的书，立即养成了每天清晨冷水冲淋的爱好。这叫吉姆吃惊，也叫希金波坦先生纳闷。他对他这样敢作高雅不以为然，而且进行了一番严重的思想斗争：是否要叫他额外交点水费。马丁的另一个大进步表现在裤子的语度上。既然这类事已引起注意，他很快便发现工人阶级膝盖松弛的裤子跟地位较高的人从膝盖到脚背有一条笔直的褶痕的裤子之间的差异，而且找出了原因。于是便闯进姐姐的厨房去找熨斗和熨衣板。开头他闯了祸，把一条裤子烫得一塌糊涂，只好月买一条，这样又复提前了他出海的日期。
但是他的改年并不光停留在外表上。他仍然抽烟，却不喝酒了。那以前他认为喝酒似乎是男子汉的本分，并以自己的酒量能把大部分男子汉喝到桌子底下而骄傲。遇到了海上老朋友（在旧金山这类言朋友很多）他也跟过去一样请客和作客，但只给自己叫草根啤和姜汁麦酒，别人嘲笑他，他也只乖乖听着。别人喝醉酒哭哭啼啼他就冷眼旁观，眼看他们兽性发作不能自拔，便感谢上帝自己跟他们再也不同了。他们有许多烦恼需要忘掉，喝醉了酒，每个人浑饨蠢笨的灵魂便俨如神仙，在欲望的酷酊的天堂里称王称霸。马丁对烈性饮料的需要虽已消失，却以一种新的更为深沉的方式沉醉了——为露丝而沉醉了。露丝燃起了他的爱火，让他瞥见了更为高尚的永恒的生命；她用书本唤起的无数欲望的蠕虫咬啮着他的头脑；她让他感到干净纯洁，而干净纯洁又使他享受到大大超过从前的健康，感到通体舒畅，痛快淋漓。
有天晚上他到戏院去，抱着盲目的希望，想碰见她。在坐进二楼座位时倒真看见了她。他见她跟亚瑟和一个陌生的男子沿着座位间的甬道走着。那人戴着眼镜，蓄橄榄球发式。一见那人他就害怕而且妒忌。地望见她在堂厢里乐队前坐了下来，便整个晚上望着她，别的很少看。雪白的秀美的双肩，淡金色飘逸的发鬟，因为远，有点模糊。但还有别的人也在看戏。他偶然望一望周围，发现两个年青姑娘从前排十多个座位外侧过头来看他，并大胆地对他微笑。他一向随和，天生不愿回绝别人。要是在过去他一定会微笑回答，而且鼓励对方继续微笑。可现在不同了。他也微笑回答，但随即望向别处，故意不再去看她们。可是在他已把她们忘记之后却又好几次督见她们仍在对他微笑。他不能在一天之内两次失态，也不能违背自己宽厚的天性，再见了姑娘们笑，便也满面春风地对她们微笑。这于他并不新鲜，他知道她们是在向地伸出女性的手。只是现在不同了，在远处靠近乐队的地方有一个世界上唯一的女性，跟他自己阶级的姑娘们不同，简直有天壤之别。因此他只能怜悯她们，为她们悲哀。他私心里也希望她们能有一点点她的长处和辉煌。她们既向他伸手，他无论如何也不能伤害她们。他并未因此而得意；他甚至因为自己身分低下可以感到得意而多少觉得可耻。他也明白自己若是属于露丝的阶级，这些姑娘是不会对他眉目传情的。于是她们每瞥他一眼他便感到本阶级的手指在扯他，要把他往下拽。
最后一场还没落幕他就离开了座位。他急于在她出戏院时看到她。剧院外阶沿上一向有许多男人，他可以拉下便帽遮住眼睛躲在别人肩膀后面不让她看见。他随着最早的一群人走出了戏院；可他刚在路边站住，那两个姑娘便出现了。他明白她们是在找他。一时真想咒骂自己对女性的雄力。两个姑娘仿佛偶然地挤过了街治来到了路边，他明白她们找到他了。两人放慢了脚步，挤在人群中跟他一起走着。一个姑娘碰了他一下，装作刚发现他的样子。那是个黝黑修长的姑娘，有一双大胆的眼睛。她俩向他微笑，他只好微笑作答。
“哈罗，”他说。
这是个不自觉的动作。在这类初次见面时他常这么说，而且不能不这样做。他天性宽厚容忍，富于同情心，不允许自己粗鲁。黑眼睛的姑娘微笑着招呼他并表示感谢，有停下脚步的意思。跟她手挽手的同伴格格一笑，也想停步。他急忙考虑了一下：绝对不能让她出来时看见他跟她们谈话，于是仿佛理所当然地转过身来走在那黑眼睛姑娘的身边。他一点也不尴尬，也不笨嘴拙舌。他大方，坦然，应付裕如，对答如流，俏皮犀利，这一类闪电恋爱的相识阶段一向是这样开始的，他在主要人群经过的街角挤进了一条岔道。那黑眼睛的姑娘却拽住他，跟着他，还拉了伙伴同路，而巨叫道：
“别跑，比尔！干吗跑这么快？不会是想马上把我们甩掉吧？”
他哈哈一笑，转过身来对着她俩。通过她们的肩头地可以看到人群在路灯下走。他站着的地方灯光暗淡，他可以在她经过时看见她，而不至于被她发觉。她肯定会经过的，那是她回家的路。
“她叫什么名字？”他问那格格笑的姑娘，用下巴指了指黑眼睛。
“你问她好了，”对方笑了，回答。
“喂，你叫什么名字？”他回头面对那姑娘问道。
“你还没告诉我你的名字呢，”她反击。
“你也没问过我呀！”他微笑道，“而且，你一叫就叫准了，我叫比尔，正好，没错。”
“去你的吧，”她注视着他的眼睛，眼神热情挑逗，“叫什么名字，说真话？”
她又看着他。自有男欢女爱以来数不尽的世代的女性的柔情都在她眼里动情地闪烁。他满不在乎地掂量了她一下。现在胆子大了。心中有数，只要他进攻，她就会小心翼翼羞羞答答地退却；而他若是胆小退却，她便会反守为攻，追了上来。他也是个男人，也受到她的吸引。对她这样的殷勤他的自我不能不感到得意。啊，他完全明白——他对这些姑娘们从头到脚了如指掌。她们善良（她们那特定的阶级的姑娘一般都是善良的），为了微薄的工资而辛勤地劳动，却瞧不起为追求逸乐而出卖自己，她们的末来有如赌局：或者是无穷无尽的劳作，或者是更可怕的苦难的深渊。后者收入虽然较丰，路却更短。面对这场赌博她们在生活的荒漠里也迫切地希望得到几分欢乐。
“比尔，”他点头回答，“没错，小姐，我就叫比尔，没有别的名字。”
“没胡扯么？”她追问。
“他根本不叫比尔，”另一个姑娘插嘴。
“你怎么会知道？”他问，“你以前又没见过我。”
“不用见过也知道你是胡扯，”对方反驳。
“坦白，比尔，叫什么？”第一个姑娘问。
“叫比尔不就行了，”他承认了。
她把手伸向他的胳膊，开玩笑地读了探他，“我早知道你是在瞎说，不过我还是觉得你好，喜欢你。”
他抓住那只伸向他的手，感到手上有熟悉的记号和伤残。
“你们啥时候从罐头厂来的？”他问。
“你咋知道的？”一个说。“天呐，你是个赛半仙咋的？”两人同时叫道。
在他跟她俩你一言我一语说些从愚昧的头脑平冒出的愚昧的话时，他心灵的眼睛面前却矗立着图书馆的书架，其中满是各个时代的智慧。他为这两者的不协调而苦笑，心里满是怀疑。他辗转于内心的幻影和外在的说笑之间，却同时观察着从戏院前经过的人群。这时他看见了她，在灯光之下，走在她弟弟和那个戴眼镜的陌生青年之间。他的心似乎停止了跳动。就为这一瞬间他已等了许久。他注意到她那王家气派的头上罩了个轻飘飘的东西；注意到她盛装的身躯那品味高雅的线条、她那曼婉美妙的神态和提着长据的纤手。她很快便走掉了，留下地望着两个罐头厂的姑娘：两人刻意打扮，却显得花里胡哨；她们为了打扮得干净漂亮所作的努力令人难过。廉价的衣料、廉价的丝带，手指上还套着廉价的戒指。他感到手臂被拉了一下，听见一个声音说：
“醒醒，比尔！你怎么啦？”
“你说什么？”他问。
“没什么，”黝黑的姑娘脑袋一甩，回答，“我只是在说——”
“说什么？”
“唔，我在悄悄说，你若是能挖出个小伙子——给她”（示意她的同伴），“倒是个好主意。我们就可以找个地方去喝点冰淇淋汽水，咖啡，或是别的了。”
他精神上突然感到一阵恶心，难过极了。从露丝到眼前的两个姑娘，这转变太突然。他看见露丝那双清澈明亮的圣女般的眼睛如深湛纯净的深潭凝望着他，而跟她并排的却是眼前这姑娘那双大胆泼辣的眼睛。不知怎么，一种力量在他心里躁动起来：他要高于这种水平。他必须活得比这两个姑娘更有意义。她们只想着吃冰淇淋交男朋友。他想起自己一向在意识里过着一种秘密的生活，曾想把它向人诉说，可从来没有遇见一个女人懂得——也没有男人懂得。他有时也讲起，但对方总所得莫名其妙。他现在认为，既然自己的思想超过了她们，他自己也一定高于她们。他感到力量在心里涌动，便捏紧了拳头。既然生命对他有更丰富的内容，他便应当对生命提出更高的要求。但对眼前这样的伙伴他是无法提出更高的要求的。那汉大胆的黑眼睛提供不了什么。他明白那眼睛背后的思想不过是冰淇淋之类。可并付的那双圣女的眼睛呢——它们却向他提供了他所知道的一切和他梦想不到的东西：书籍、绘画、美、平静、上层生活的优美高雅。他也明白那双黑眼睛后面的一切思想活动，就像明白钟表的机件。他能看到它的每个轮子运转。她所追求的只是低级的享乐，像坟墓一样狭窄、阴暗，享乐的尽头就是坟墓。可那圣女的眼睛追求的却是神秘的、难以想像的奇迹和永生。他在那儿瞥见了她的灵魂，也瞥见了自己的灵魂。
“你这计划只有一点毛病，”他大声说，“我已经有了个约会。”
那姑娘的眼里闪出失望的光。
“要陪生病的朋友吧，我看是？”她话里带刺。
“不，真有约会，说实话——”他犹豫了，“是一个姑娘。”
“你没骗我？”她认真地问。
他笔直望着她的眼睛回答：“不假，完全不假。可为什么我们不能另外约个时间见面呢？你还没告诉我你的名字呢。你住在哪儿？”
“叫丽齐，”她回答，用手捏着他的手臂，对他的态度友好了些，身子也向他靠了过去。“丽齐·康诺利。住在五号街和市场街的交叉口。”
他又谈了几分钟话，然后道了晚安。他并没有立即回家；他在一向守望的树下望着那扇窗户前南地说道：“那是跟你的约会，露丝。我为你保留的。”
Chapter 7
A week of heavy reading had passed since the evening he first met Ruth Morse, and still he dared not call. Time and again he nerved himself up to call, but under the doubts that assailed him his determination died away. He did not know the proper time to call, nor was there any one to tell him, and he was afraid of committing himself to an irretrievable blunder. Having shaken himself free from his old companions and old ways of life, and having no new companions, nothing remained for him but to read, and the long hours he devoted to it would have ruined a dozen pairs of ordinary eyes. But his eyes were strong, and they were backed by a body superbly strong. Furthermore, his mind was fallow. It had lain fallow all his life so far as the abstract thought of the books was concerned, and it was ripe for the sowing. It had never been jaded by study, and it bit hold of the knowledge in the books with sharp teeth that would not let go.
It seemed to him, by the end of the week, that he had lived centuries, so far behind were the old life and outlook. But he was baffled by lack of preparation. He attempted to read books that required years of preliminary specialization. One day he would read a book of antiquated philosophy, and the next day one that was ultra-modern, so that his head would be whirling with the conflict and contradiction of ideas. It was the same with the economists. On the one shelf at the library he found Karl Marx, Ricardo, Adam Smith, and Mill, and the abstruse formulas of the one gave no clew that the ideas of another were obsolete. He was bewildered, and yet he wanted to know. He had become interested, in a day, in economics, industry, and politics. Passing through the City Hall Park, he had noticed a group of men, in the centre of which were half a dozen, with flushed faces and raised voices, earnestly carrying on a discussion. He joined the listeners, and heard a new, alien tongue in the mouths of the philosophers of the people. One was a tramp, another was a labor agitator, a third was a law- school student, and the remainder was composed of wordy workingmen. For the first time he heard of socialism, anarchism, and single tax, and learned that there were warring social philosophies. He heard hundreds of technical words that were new to him, belonging to fields of thought that his meagre reading had never touched upon. Because of this he could not follow the arguments closely, and he could only guess at and surmise the ideas wrapped up in such strange expressions. Then there was a black-eyed restaurant waiter who was a theosophist, a union baker who was an agnostic, an old man who baffled all of them with the strange philosophy that WHAT IS IS RIGHT, and another old man who discoursed interminably about the cosmos and the father-atom and the mother-atom.
Martin Eden's head was in a state of addlement when he went away after several hours, and he hurried to the library to look up the definitions of a dozen unusual words. And when he left the library, he carried under his arm four volumes: Madam Blavatsky's "Secret Doctrine," "Progress and Poverty," "The Quintessence of Socialism," and, "Warfare of Religion and Science." Unfortunately, he began on the "Secret Doctrine." Every line bristled with many- syllabled words he did not understand. He sat up in bed, and the dictionary was in front of him more often than the book. He looked up so many new words that when they recurred, he had forgotten their meaning and had to look them up again. He devised the plan of writing the definitions in a note-book, and filled page after page with them. And still he could not understand. He read until three in the morning, and his brain was in a turmoil, but not one essential thought in the text had he grasped. He looked up, and it seemed that the room was lifting, heeling, and plunging like a ship upon the sea. Then he hurled the "Secret Doctrine" and many curses across the room, turned off the gas, and composed himself to sleep. Nor did he have much better luck with the other three books. It was not that his brain was weak or incapable; it could think these thoughts were it not for lack of training in thinking and lack of the thought-tools with which to think. He guessed this, and for a while entertained the idea of reading nothing but the dictionary until he had mastered every word in it.
Poetry, however, was his solace, and he read much of it, finding his greatest joy in the simpler poets, who were more understandable. He loved beauty, and there he found beauty. Poetry, like music, stirred him profoundly, and, though he did not know it, he was preparing his mind for the heavier work that was to come. The pages of his mind were blank, and, without effort, much he read and liked, stanza by stanza, was impressed upon those pages, so that he was soon able to extract great joy from chanting aloud or under his breath the music and the beauty of the printed words he had read. Then he stumbled upon Gayley's "Classic Myths" and Bulfinch's "Age of Fable," side by side on a library shelf. It was illumination, a great light in the darkness of his ignorance, and he read poetry more avidly than ever.
The man at the desk in the library had seen Martin there so often that he had become quite cordial, always greeting him with a smile and a nod when he entered. It was because of this that Martin did a daring thing. Drawing out some books at the desk, and while the man was stamping the cards, Martin blurted out:-
"Say, there's something I'd like to ask you."
The man smiled and paid attention.
"When you meet a young lady an' she asks you to call, how soon can you call?"
Martin felt his shirt press and cling to his shoulders, what of the sweat of the effort.
"Why I'd say any time," the man answered.
"Yes, but this is different," Martin objected. "She - I - well, you see, it's this way: maybe she won't be there. She goes to the university."
"Then call again."
"What I said ain't what I meant," Martin confessed falteringly, while he made up his mind to throw himself wholly upon the other's mercy. "I'm just a rough sort of a fellow, an' I ain't never seen anything of society. This girl is all that I ain't, an' I ain't anything that she is. You don't think I'm playin' the fool, do you?" he demanded abruptly.
"No, no; not at all, I assure you," the other protested. "Your request is not exactly in the scope of the reference department, but I shall be only too pleased to assist you."
Martin looked at him admiringly.
"If I could tear it off that way, I'd be all right," he said.
"I beg pardon?"
"I mean if I could talk easy that way, an' polite, an' all the rest."
"Oh," said the other, with comprehension.
"What is the best time to call? The afternoon? - not too close to meal-time? Or the evening? Or Sunday?"
"I'll tell you," the librarian said with a brightening face. "You call her up on the telephone and find out."
"I'll do it," he said, picking up his books and starting away.
He turned back and asked:-
"When you're speakin' to a young lady - say, for instance, Miss Lizzie Smith - do you say 'Miss Lizzie'? or 'Miss Smith'?"
"Say 'Miss Smith,'" the librarian stated authoritatively. "Say 'Miss Smith' always - until you come to know her better."
So it was that Martin Eden solved the problem.
"Come down any time; I'll be at home all afternoon," was Ruth's reply over the telephone to his stammered request as to when he could return the borrowed books.
She met him at the door herself, and her woman's eyes took in immediately the creased trousers and the certain slight but indefinable change in him for the better. Also, she was struck by his face. It was almost violent, this health of his, and it seemed to rush out of him and at her in waves of force. She felt the urge again of the desire to lean toward him for warmth, and marvelled again at the effect his presence produced upon her. And he, in turn, knew again the swimming sensation of bliss when he felt the contact of her hand in greeting. The difference between them lay in that she was cool and self-possessed while his face flushed to the roots of the hair. He stumbled with his old awkwardness after her, and his shoulders swung and lurched perilously.
Once they were seated in the living-room, he began to get on easily - more easily by far than he had expected. She made it easy for him; and the gracious spirit with which she did it made him love her more madly than ever. They talked first of the borrowed books, of the Swinburne he was devoted to, and of the Browning he did not understand; and she led the conversation on from subject to subject, while she pondered the problem of how she could be of help to him. She had thought of this often since their first meeting. She wanted to help him. He made a call upon her pity and tenderness that no one had ever made before, and the pity was not so much derogatory of him as maternal in her. Her pity could not be of the common sort, when the man who drew it was so much man as to shock her with maidenly fears and set her mind and pulse thrilling with strange thoughts and feelings. The old fascination of his neck was there, and there was sweetness in the thought of laying her hands upon it. It seemed still a wanton impulse, but she had grown more used to it. She did not dream that in such guise new-born love would epitomize itself. Nor did she dream that the feeling he excited in her was love. She thought she was merely interested in him as an unusual type possessing various potential excellencies, and she even felt philanthropic about it.
She did not know she desired him; but with him it was different. He knew that he loved her, and he desired her as he had never before desired anything in his life. He had loved poetry for beauty's sake; but since he met her the gates to the vast field of love-poetry had been opened wide. She had given him understanding even more than Bulfinch and Gayley. There was a line that a week before he would not have favored with a second thought - "God's own mad lover dying on a kiss"; but now it was ever insistent in his mind. He marvelled at the wonder of it and the truth; and as he gazed upon her he knew that he could die gladly upon a kiss. He felt himself God's own mad lover, and no accolade of knighthood could have given him greater pride. And at last he knew the meaning of life and why he had been born.
As he gazed at her and listened, his thoughts grew daring. He reviewed all the wild delight of the pressure of her hand in his at the door, and longed for it again. His gaze wandered often toward her lips, and he yearned for them hungrily. But there was nothing gross or earthly about this yearning. It gave him exquisite delight to watch every movement and play of those lips as they enunciated the words she spoke; yet they were not ordinary lips such as all men and women had. Their substance was not mere human clay. They were lips of pure spirit, and his desire for them seemed absolutely different from the desire that had led him to other women's lips. He could kiss her lips, rest his own physical lips upon them, but it would be with the lofty and awful fervor with which one would kiss the robe of God. He was not conscious of this transvaluation of values that had taken place in him, and was unaware that the light that shone in his eyes when he looked at her was quite the same light that shines in all men's eyes when the desire of love is upon them. He did not dream how ardent and masculine his gaze was, nor that the warm flame of it was affecting the alchemy of her spirit. Her penetrative virginity exalted and disguised his own emotions, elevating his thoughts to a star-cool chastity, and he would have been startled to learn that there was that shining out of his eyes, like warm waves, that flowed through her and kindled a kindred warmth. She was subtly perturbed by it, and more than once, though she knew not why, it disrupted her train of thought with its delicious intrusion and compelled her to grope for the remainder of ideas partly uttered. Speech was always easy with her, and these interruptions would have puzzled her had she not decided that it was because he was a remarkable type. She was very sensitive to impressions, and it was not strange, after all, that this aura of a traveller from another world should so affect her.
The problem in the background of her consciousness was how to help him, and she turned the conversation in that direction; but it was Martin who came to the point first.
"I wonder if I can get some advice from you," he began, and received an acquiescence of willingness that made his heart bound. "You remember the other time I was here I said I couldn't talk about books an' things because I didn't know how? Well, I've ben doin' a lot of thinkin' ever since. I've ben to the library a whole lot, but most of the books I've tackled have ben over my head. Mebbe I'd better begin at the beginnin'. I ain't never had no advantages. I've worked pretty hard ever since I was a kid, an' since I've ben to the library, lookin' with new eyes at books - an' lookin' at new books, too - I've just about concluded that I ain't ben reading the right kind. You know the books you find in cattle- camps an' fo'c's'ls ain't the same you've got in this house, for instance. Well, that's the sort of readin' matter I've ben accustomed to. And yet - an' I ain't just makin' a brag of it - I've ben different from the people I've herded with. Not that I'm any better than the sailors an' cow-punchers I travelled with, - I was cow-punchin' for a short time, you know, - but I always liked books, read everything I could lay hands on, an' - well, I guess I think differently from most of 'em.
"Now, to come to what I'm drivin' at. I was never inside a house like this. When I come a week ago, an' saw all this, an' you, an' your mother, an' brothers, an' everything - well, I liked it. I'd heard about such things an' read about such things in some of the books, an' when I looked around at your house, why, the books come true. But the thing I'm after is I liked it. I wanted it. I want it now. I want to breathe air like you get in this house - air that is filled with books, and pictures, and beautiful things, where people talk in low voices an' are clean, an' their thoughts are clean. The air I always breathed was mixed up with grub an' house-rent an' scrappin' an booze an' that's all they talked about, too. Why, when you was crossin' the room to kiss your mother, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I ever seen. I've seen a whole lot of life, an' somehow I've seen a whole lot more of it than most of them that was with me. I like to see, an' I want to see more, an' I want to see it different.
"But I ain't got to the point yet. Here it is. I want to make my way to the kind of life you have in this house. There's more in life than booze, an' hard work, an' knockin' about. Now, how am I goin' to get it? Where do I take hold an' begin? I'm willin' to work my passage, you know, an' I can make most men sick when it comes to hard work. Once I get started, I'll work night an' day. Mebbe you think it's funny, me askin' you about all this. I know you're the last person in the world I ought to ask, but I don't know anybody else I could ask - unless it's Arthur. Mebbe I ought to ask him. If I was - "
His voice died away. His firmly planned intention had come to a halt on the verge of the horrible probability that he should have asked Arthur and that he had made a fool of himself. Ruth did not speak immediately. She was too absorbed in striving to reconcile the stumbling, uncouth speech and its simplicity of thought with what she saw in his face. She had never looked in eyes that expressed greater power. Here was a man who could do anything, was the message she read there, and it accorded ill with the weakness of his spoken thought. And for that matter so complex and quick was her own mind that she did not have a just appreciation of simplicity. And yet she had caught an impression of power in the very groping of this mind. It had seemed to her like a giant writhing and straining at the bonds that held him down. Her face was all sympathy when she did speak.
"What you need, you realize yourself, and it is education. You should go back and finish grammar school, and then go through to high school and university."
"But that takes money," he interrupted.
"Oh!" she cried. "I had not thought of that. But then you have relatives, somebody who could assist you?"
He shook his head.
"My father and mother are dead. I've two sisters, one married, an' the other'll get married soon, I suppose. Then I've a string of brothers, - I'm the youngest, - but they never helped nobody. They've just knocked around over the world, lookin' out for number one. The oldest died in India. Two are in South Africa now, an' another's on a whaling voyage, an' one's travellin' with a circus - he does trapeze work. An' I guess I'm just like them. I've taken care of myself since I was eleven - that's when my mother died. I've got to study by myself, I guess, an' what I want to know is where to begin."
"I should say the first thing of all would be to get a grammar. Your grammar is - " She had intended saying "awful," but she amended it to "is not particularly good."
He flushed and sweated.
"I know I must talk a lot of slang an' words you don't understand. But then they're the only words I know - how to speak. I've got other words in my mind, picked 'em up from books, but I can't pronounce 'em, so I don't use 'em."
"It isn't what you say, so much as how you say it. You don't mind my being frank, do you? I don't want to hurt you."
"No, no," he cried, while he secretly blessed her for her kindness. "Fire away. I've got to know, an' I'd sooner know from you than anybody else."
"Well, then, you say, 'You was'; it should be, 'You were.' You say 'I seen' for 'I saw.' You use the double negative - "
"What's the double negative?" he demanded; then added humbly, "You see, I don't even understand your explanations."
"I'm afraid I didn't explain that," she smiled. "A double negative is - let me see - well, you say, 'never helped nobody.' 'Never' is a negative. 'Nobody' is another negative. It is a rule that two negatives make a positive. 'Never helped nobody' means that, not helping nobody, they must have helped somebody."
"That's pretty clear," he said. "I never thought of it before. But it don't mean they MUST have helped somebody, does it? Seems to me that 'never helped nobody' just naturally fails to say whether or not they helped somebody. I never thought of it before, and I'll never say it again."
She was pleased and surprised with the quickness and surety of his mind. As soon as he had got the clew he not only understood but corrected her error.
"You'll find it all in the grammar," she went on. "There's something else I noticed in your speech. You say 'don't' when you shouldn't. 'Don't' is a contraction and stands for two words. Do you know them?"
He thought a moment, then answered, "'Do not.'"
She nodded her head, and said, "And you use 'don't' when you mean 'does not.'"
He was puzzled over this, and did not get it so quickly.
"Give me an illustration," he asked.
"Well - " She puckered her brows and pursed up her mouth as she thought, while he looked on and decided that her expression was most adorable. "'It don't do to be hasty.' Change 'don't' to 'do not,' and it reads, 'It do not do to be hasty,' which is perfectly absurd."
He turned it over in his mind and considered.
"Doesn't it jar on your ear?" she suggested.
"Can't say that it does," he replied judicially.
"Why didn't you say, 'Can't say that it do'?" she queried.
"That sounds wrong," he said slowly. "As for the other I can't make up my mind. I guess my ear ain't had the trainin' yours has."
"There is no such word as 'ain't,'" she said, prettily emphatic.
Martin flushed again.
"And you say 'ben' for 'been,'" she continued; "'come' for 'came'; and the way you chop your endings is something dreadful."
"How do you mean?" He leaned forward, feeling that he ought to get down on his knees before so marvellous a mind. "How do I chop?"
"You don't complete the endings. 'A-n-d' spells 'and.' You pronounce it 'an'.' 'I-n-g' spells 'ing.' Sometimes you pronounce it 'ing' and sometimes you leave off the 'g.' And then you slur by dropping initial letters and diphthongs. 'T-h-e-m' spells 'them.' You pronounce it - oh, well, it is not necessary to go over all of them. What you need is the grammar. I'll get one and show you how to begin."
As she arose, there shot through his mind something that he had read in the etiquette books, and he stood up awkwardly, worrying as to whether he was doing the right thing, and fearing that she might take it as a sign that he was about to go.
"By the way, Mr. Eden," she called back, as she was leaving the room. "What is BOOZE? You used it several times, you know."
"Oh, booze," he laughed. "It's slang. It means whiskey an' beer - anything that will make you drunk."
"And another thing," she laughed back. "Don't use 'you' when you are impersonal. 'You' is very personal, and your use of it just now was not precisely what you meant."
"I don't just see that."
"Why, you said just now, to me, 'whiskey and beer - anything that will make you drunk' - make me drunk, don't you see?"
"Well, it would, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, of course," she smiled. "But it would be nicer not to bring me into it. Substitute 'one' for 'you' and see how much better it sounds."
When she returned with the grammar, she drew a chair near his - he wondered if he should have helped her with the chair - and sat down beside him. She turned the pages of the grammar, and their heads were inclined toward each other. He could hardly follow her outlining of the work he must do, so amazed was he by her delightful propinquity. But when she began to lay down the importance of conjugation, he forgot all about her. He had never heard of conjugation, and was fascinated by the glimpse he was catching into the tie-ribs of language. He leaned closer to the page, and her hair touched his cheek. He had fainted but once in his life, and he thought he was going to faint again. He could scarcely breathe, and his heart was pounding the blood up into his throat and suffocating him. Never had she seemed so accessible as now. For the moment the great gulf that separated them was bridged. But there was no diminution in the loftiness of his feeling for her. She had not descended to him. It was he who had been caught up into the clouds and carried to her. His reverence for her, in that moment, was of the same order as religious awe and fervor. It seemed to him that he had intruded upon the holy of holies, and slowly and carefully he moved his head aside from the contact which thrilled him like an electric shock and of which she had not been aware.
从那天晚上第一次遇见露丝·莫尔斯起他已刻苦攻读了一周，却仍不敢去看他。他曾多次鼓起勇气要去，却总团顾虑重重而取消了决心。他不知道该什么时候去看她。没有人告诉他，他又害怕冒险，铸成难以补救的大错。他已摆脱了原来的朋友和生活方式，却又还没有新的朋友。除了读书再也无事可做。他读书时间极长，若是普通眼睛即使十双也已受不了，可他的眼睛很好，又有极健壮的身体作后盾。而且他的心灵已长期休耕，就书本上的抽象思维而；二，已经休耕了一辈子，最宜于播种。他的心灵还没有厌倦书本，总用它尖利的牙齿紧紧咬住书本上的知识不肯放松。 
一周过去，他似乎已过了好几个世纪。旧的生活旧的观点被远远抛到了身后。他啃了些需要作多年准备才能阅读的书。今天读过时无用的哲学，明天读超前时髦的哲学，脑子里的概念矛盾抵触，弄得他晕头转向。读经济学家也一样。在图书馆的一个书架上他发现了卡尔·马克思、李嘉图、亚当·斯密和米尔，这一家的深奥公式无法证明另一家的思想已经过时。他弄得糊里糊涂，却仍然想弄个明白。他在一天之内对经济学、工业和政治都发生了兴趣。他从市政大楼公园经过，发现一大群人，中心有五六个人在使劲大声地辩论；争得面红耳赤。他上前去听，从这些人民哲学家们嘴里又听见了一套陌生的新语言。辩论者有一个是流浪汉，有一个是劳工煽动家，还有一个是法学院的学生，其他的入则是爱说话的劳动者。他第一次听见了社会主义、无政府主义、单一税制，也听说了种种论战不休的社会哲学。他听见了数以百计的新术语，它们所使用的领域是他那可怜的一点阅读所不曾涉猎到的。他无法紧跟讨论，只能猜测和估计包裹在这些陌生词语中的意思。还有个黑眼珠的旅馆服务员，是个通神论者，有个面包师联合会会员是个不可知论者。一个老先生大谈其“存在便是正确”的奇怪哲学，谈得大家目瞪口呆。另一个老先生则滔滔不绝地讲着宇宙和父原子与母原子。
马丁·伊登几小时后离开那里时脑子已是一片混乱。他匆匆忙忙赶到图书馆查了十多个不常见的词语的定义，离开图书馆时又在腋下突了四本书：布拉伐茨基夫人的《秘密学说》、《进步与贫困》、《社会主义精义》和《宗教对科学之战》。倒霉的是他竟从《秘密学说》读起。那书每一行都有些威风凛凛的多音节词，他不认识。他坐在床上熬夜读着，查字典比看书的时候还多。查过的生词太多，第二次见面又想不起来了，还得再查。他想了个办法。用笔记本把定义抄下来，抄了一页又一页，可仍然读不懂，一直读到凌晨三点，读得头昏脑涨，却没抓住书上一个根本思想。他抬起头来，屋子仿佛像海上的船在起伏颠簸，于是他咒骂了几声，把《秘密学说》往屋里一丢，关掉煤气灯，安下心来睡觉。读另外三本书时他也未必更走运。并不是因为他脑子笨，不管用，他的脑子是能思考这类问题的，只是缺乏思想训练和思考工具罢了。他也估计到了这一点，曾经考虑过别的不读，先记住同典上每个词再说。
不过诗歌倒给了他安慰。他读了许多诗，比较朴实平易的诗人给了他最大的乐趣。他爱美，在他们的诗平找到了美。诗歌像音乐一样打动着他。实际上读诗正为他即将承担的更沉重的工作作者准备，虽然他此刻并没有意识到。他的头脑是一页页的白纸，他读到而且喜欢的许多诗便大段大段地轻轻松松地印了上去。他立即在朗诵或是默读时体会到那些印刷出的诗章的音乐与美，从中获得巨大的快乐。然后他在图书馆一个书架上并排发现了盖利的《希腊罗马神话》和布尔芬奇的格言时代人那是一种启发，是射入地蒙昧的黑暗中的巨大光明。地读起诗来更津津有味了。
借书处的人因常在那儿见到马丁，便对他十分热情，他一进门总对他点头、微笑打招呼，因此马丁便做了一件大胆的事。他借了几本书，趁那人在卡片上盖章时急忙说道：
“啊——我有件事想请教你。”
那人微笑了一下，听他说。
‘你要是认识了一位小姐，而她又叫你去看她，你该多久以后再去？”
又是紧张，又是流汗，马丁觉得衬衫紧贴到了他肩上，粘住了。
“我看，什么时候都可以去，”那人回答。
“不错，可这事不同，”马丁反驳，“她……我……你看，是这么回事：没准儿她不在家。她在上大学呢。”
“那就再去第二回呀。”
“我没说清楚，”马丁迟疑地承认，然后下定决心把自己交给他摆布。“我算是个粗人，没见过什么世面，而这个姑娘所具有的我完全没有；我所具有的她又完全没有。你不会认为我在胡扯吧？”他突然问道。
“不，不，一点也不，你放心。”那人回答，“你的要求超出了询问台业务范围，不过我们非常愿意为你效劳。”
马丁望着他，感到佩服。
“我若是能侃得那么顺当就好了，”他说。
“你说什么？”
“我说如果我说话能够那样轻松、有礼貌等等就好了。”
“啊，”对方明白了。
“那么，什么时候去最好呢？下午——午饭后多过一会儿？或是晚上？星期天？”
“我给你出个主意，”图书管理员脸上一亮说，“你不妨先打个电话问她。”
“好的，”他说，抓起书想走。
却又转身问道：
“你跟一位小姐说话——比如说，丽齐·史密斯小姐——你是叫她‘丽齐小姐’，还是‘史密斯小姐’？”
“叫她史密斯小姐，”图书管理员权威地说，“总是叫史密斯小姐——在感情更深以前都这么叫。”
马丁·伊登的问题就像这样解决了。
“什么时候都可以来，我整个下午都在家，”他结结巴巴问她什么时候可以去还书时，露丝在电话里回答。
她亲自到门口来迎接他。她那双女性的眼睛一眼就发觉了褶痕笔挺的裤子和他身上那难以说清的微妙变化。他那脸也引起了她的注意。精力充沛，近于专横，身上似乎有精力流溢，像浪潮一样向她扑来。她再一次感到了那种欲望，想偎依过去寻找温暖，她的心区不摩纳闷：他的出现为什么会对她产生这样的作用！他在服地招呼和握手刚出再次感到了那种荡漾的幸福之感。两人的差异是：她冷静而有节制；而他却满脸通红，红到发狠。他又是那样笨拙蹒跚地走在她的后面．甩着肩膀危险地晃动着身子。在大家坐下之后他才轻松下来——比他估计的轻松多了。是她故意让他轻松的。她为此所表现的亲切体贴炒地越发疯狂地爱上了她。两人先谈读过的书，谈他崇拜的史文用和他｛理解的勃朗于；然后她便一个话题一个话题引他谈下去，同时思考着怎样才能对他有所帮助。打从第一次见面之后她就常常考虑这个问题；她想帮助他。他来看她，希望得到她的同情与关怀，从前可没人这样做过。她的同情出于母性，并不伤害他的自尊她的同情也不可能寻常，因为引起她同情的人是个十足的男子汉，一个能使她同处女的畏惧则震动的男子汉，一个能用陌生的念头和感情使她欢欣震颤的团于仅他那脖子原来的诱惑依然存在＿一想到用手搂住它地使陶醉；这山似乎是一种放纵的冲动，但她已差不多习以为常；她做梦也不普恩到一场新的恋爱会以这样的方式出现，也没意识到地所引起的这种情扈竟会是爱情。她只觉得不过是对他发生了兴趣，认为他具有许多港注的优秀素质，不是等闲之辈而已。她计至有些行善济人之感。
她并没有意识到自己在爱他；他却不同，他明白自己在爱她，想念她。他一辈子从没有过这样的刻骨相思。他爱过许，是因为美；但在遇见她之后爱情诗的广阔天地便对他敞开了大门。她所给他的喀尔比《寓言世界》和《希腊罗马神话》要深沉得多。有一句诗在一周前他是不屑再想的——“上帝的情人发了狂，但求一吻便死去。”可现在那句诗却在他心头缠绕不去。他愕然于这话的奇妙与失实。他凝望着她，知道自己是可以在亲吻她之后就欢乐地死去的。他觉得自己便是上帝那发了狂的情人，即使封他做骑士也不会让他更为骄矜得意。他终于明白了生命的意义，明白了自己来到世上的原因。
他凝望着她，听着她讲述，思想越来越大胆。他回味着自己的手在门口握着她的手时的狂欢极乐，渴望再握一次。他的目光有时落到她的唇上，便如饥似渴地想亲吻她。但那渴望全无粗野、世俗的成分〔那两瓣嘴唇阐述她所使用的词语时的每一动作都带给他难以描述的欢乐。她那嘴唇绝非普通男女的嘴唇，绝非人问材料制成，而是纯粹性灵的结晶。他对那嘴唇的要求跟催他亲吻其他嘴唇时的要求似乎绝对不同。他也可能亲吻她的嘴唇，把自己血肉之后印上去，但必带有亲吻上帝的圣袍的惶惊与狂热。他并未意识到自己内心这种价值观的变化，也不曾意识到自己望着她时眼里所闪动的光跟一切男性爱欲冲动时的目光其实没有两样。他做梦也没想到自己的目光会那么炽烈、强悍，它那温暖的火苗会搅乱她的方寸。她那沦肌使髓的处女之美使他的感情崇高，也掩饰了它，使他的思想达到清冷贞纯如星星的高度。他待知道自己眼里放射的光芒是会大吃一惊的。那光芒橡暖流一样浸润了露丝全身，唤起了她同样的热情，使她感到一种微妙的烦乱。那美妙的闯入干扰了她的思想，逼得她不时地重寻中断的思绪，却不明白干扰从何而至。她一向善于言谈，若不是她确信此人出类拔草，这种干扰的出现是会使她困惑的。她非常敏感，认为这个从另一世界来的旅人既具有这样独特的气质，他能令她如此激动也就不足为奇。
既然她意识背后的问题是怎样帮助他，她便把谈话往那个方向引，但终于挑明了问题的却是马丁。
“我不知道你是否可以告诉我，”他开始了，对方的默许使他的心怦怦地跳，“你还记得吧？上次我在这儿说过我不能谈论书本上的问题是因为不知道怎样谈。是的，从那以后我想过许多。我曾多次去图书馆，但是读到的书大都超过了我的能力。也许我还是从头学起的好。我没有多少有利条件。我从小就努力读书，但是去图书馆用新的眼光看了看书，也看了看新书，便差不多得到了结论：我读的书都不合适。你知道牧人帐篷里和水手舱里的书跟你们家的书是很不一样的。我读惯了那种书。不过，不是自夸，我跟我的伙伴们还是不同。不是说我比跟我一起流浪的水手或牛仔高明——我做过短时间牛仔，你知道——但我总喜欢书，能到手什么就读什么，所以，我认为我跟他们的思想不一样。
“现在来说我想说的问题吧！我从来没走进过像你们家这样的房子。一个礼拜前我来这儿看到了这儿的一切就很喜欢。你、你母亲、弟弟，和一切。这些我以前听人说过，在有些书里也读到过，等到一看你们家，呀，书本全变成了现实。我要说的是：我喜欢这个，需要这个，现在就需要。我想呼吸跟你这屋里同样的空气——充满书籍、绘画、美丽的事物的空气。这儿的人说话轻言细语，身上干净，思想也干净。可我呼吸的空气里却一向离不开吃饭、房租、打架、‘马尿’，谈的也尽是这些。你走过房间去吻你母亲的时候，我认为那是我所见过的最美好的东西。我见过各式各样的生活，却没想到现在见到的会比我周围的人见到的高出不知多少倍。我喜欢看，还想看得更多，看到不同寻常的东西。
“不过我还没说到本题。本题是：我也要过你们家的这种生活。生活里除了灌‘马尿’、做苦工和流派还有许多内容。那么，我要怎么才能做到呢？我该从抓什么入手呢？你知道，我是乐意靠双手打天下的。要说刻苦我能刻苦得大多数人吃不消。只要开了头，我就可以没日没夜地干。我向你提这个问题你也许会觉得滑稽。我知道在这个世界上我最不该问的人就是你。可我又不认识别的可以问的人——除了亚瑟以外。也许我应该去问他。如果我——”
他住了嘴。他精心设计的计划只好在一个和伯的可能性问前打住了。他原该问亚瑟的，他这是在出自己的洋相。露丝并没有立即开口。她一心只想把他这结巴笨拙的话语所表示的质朴甲纯的意思跟她在他脸上看到的东西统一起来。她从来没见过一双眼睛表现过这样巨大的力量。她从中读到的信息是：这人什么事都办得到。这信息跟他口齿的迟钝很不相称。而在这个问题上她的思维却迅速而复杂，对他的纯朴没给予应有的评价。不过她在探索对方心理时也感到了一种强对，仿佛见到一个巨人在锁链下扭来扭去地挣扎。她终于说话时脸上满是同情。
“你自己也明白，你需要的是教育。你应该回头去读完小学课程，再读中学和大学。”
“可那得花钱呀，”他插嘴道。
“呀！”她叫道，“这我可没想过。你总有亲戚可以帮助你吧？”
他摇摇头。
“我爸爸妈妈都死了。我有一个姐姐一个妹妹，姐姐已经结丁婚，妹妹我猜不久也要结婚。还有好几个哥哥——我最小，——他们非不肯帮助人。他们一直就在外面闯世界，找钱。大哥死在印度，两个哥哥目前在南非，还有一个在海上捕鲸，一个跟着马戏团旅行——玩空中飞人。我估计我也跟他们一样。我从十一岁起就靠自己过日子——那年我妈妈死了。看来我只好自修了，我想要知道的是从什么地方开始。”
“应该说首先要学会语法。你的语法——”她原打算说“一塌糊涂”，却改成了“不特别好”。
他脸红了，冒汗了。
“我知道我上话多，用的词你许多都听不懂。可我只会用这些词说话。我也记得许多书上捡来的词，可不会发音，因此不敢用。”
“问题不在你用什么同，而在你怎么说。我实话实说你不会生气吧！我没有叫你难堪的意思。”
“不会的，”他叫道，心里暗暗感谢她的好意，“你就直说吧，我得要知道。我觉得听你说比听别人说好。”
“那么，你刚才说，‘You was’to就不对，应该说‘You were ；你说‘I'm’也不对，应该是说‘I saw’。你还用双重否定来表示否定——”
“什么叫‘双重否定’？”他问，然后可怜巴巴地说，“你看，你讲了我都还没懂。”
“我看是我还没向你解释，”她笑了，“双重否定就是——我看——比如你刚才说‘非不肯帮助人’，‘非’是一个否定，‘不肯’又是一个否定，两个否定变成肯定，这是规律。‘非不肯帮助人’的意思不是不肯形助人，而是肯帮助人。”
“这很清楚，”他说，“我以前没想过。这话并没有‘不肯帮助人’的意思，对不对？我好像觉得‘非不肯帮助人’不自然，没说明他们是否肯帮助人。我以前从没想过，以后不用非字就行了。”
他那迅速准确的反应叫她吃了一惊。一听见提示他就明白过来，而且纠正了她的缠失之处。
“这些东西你在语法书上都可以学到，”她说下去，“我还注意到你话里一些其他的问题。在不该说‘don’t’的时候你也用‘don’t’。‘don’t’是个压缩词，实际是两个词。你知道不？”
他想了想，回答说：“是‘do not’。”
她点点头，说：“可你在该用‘dose not’的时候也用‘don’t’。”
这可把他难住了，一时没明白过来。
“给我举个例子吧，”他说。
“好的——”她皱起眉头嘟起嘴唇想着。他看着她，认为她那表情非常可爱。“It don't do to be hasty'。把‘dont’分为‘do not’，这句话就成了‘It do not do to be hasty’，当然是大错特错的。”
他在心里翻来覆去地琢磨。
“你觉得这话顺耳么？”她提示。
“不觉得不顺耳呀，”他想了想，说。
“你说‘不觉得不顺耳’为什么不用‘do ’而用‘does’呢？”她追问。
“用‘ do’听起来不对呀，”他慢吞吞地说，“可刚才那句话我却无法判断。我看我这耳朵没受过你那种训练。”
“你用的‘ ain't’这词也是没有的，”她着重说，那样子很美。
马丁又脸红了。
“你还把‘been’说成‘ben’，”她说下去，“该用过去时‘I came’时，你却用现在时‘I come’。你吞起尾音来也厉害。”
“你指的是什么？”他的身子弯了过来，觉得应当在这样杰出的心灵面前跪下。“我吞了什么？”
“你的尾音不全。‘and’这个字读作‘ a－n－d’，可你却读了‘an’，没有‘d’。‘ing’拼作‘in－g’，你有时读作‘ing’，有时却读掉了‘g’。有时你又把单词开头的辅音和双元音含糊掉。‘them’拼作‘t-h-e-m’，可你拼成‘em’——啊，算了，用不着一个个讲了。你需要的是语法。我给你找一本语法书来告诉你怎样开始吧！”
她站起身时他心里突然闪过社交礼仪书上的一句什么话，急忙笨拙地站了起来，却担心做得不对，又害怕她误会，以为她要走了。
“顺带问一问，伊登先生，”她要离开房间时回头叫道，“马尿是什么？你用了好几回，你知道。”
“啊，马尿，”她笑了起来，“是土话，意思是威士忌。啤酒什么的，总之能喝醉你的东西。”
“还有，”她也笑了，“话若没有说到对方就不要用‘你’。‘你’踢入是分不开的。你刚才用的‘你’并不全是你的本意。”
“我没懂。”
“可不，你刚才对我说‘威士忌、啤酒什么的，总之能喝醉你的东西’——喝醉我，懂了没有？”
“啊，有那个意思么？”
“当然有，”她微笑，“要是不把我也扯进去不是更好么？用“人’代替‘你’试试看，不是好多了么？”
她拿了语法书回来后，搬了把椅子到他身边坐下了——他拿不定主意是否该去帮她搬。她翻着语法书，两人的头靠到了一起。她在提纲契领告诉他他该做什么功课时，他几乎没听过去——她在他身边时带来的陶醉令他惊讶、但是在她强调“动词变化”的重要性时他便把她全忘了、他从没听说过“动同变化”，原来它是语言的“龙骨骨架”，能窥见这一点叫他很着迷地往书本靠了靠，露丝的头发便轻拂着他的面颊。他一生只昏倒过一次，此刻似乎又要昏倒，连呼吸都困难了。心脏把血直往喉咙四泵，弄得他几乎窒息。她跟他似乎前所未有地亲近，两人之间的巨大鸿沟之上一时似乎架起了桥梁。但是他对她的崇高感情并未因此而变化。她并没有向他降低，是地被带到了云雾之中她的身边．在那一刻地对她的崇拜还应算作宗教的敬畏和狂热，他似乎已闯进了最最神圣的领域。他小心地缓缓地侧开了头，中断了接触。那接触像电流一样令他震颤，而她却浑然不觉。
Chapter 8
Several weeks went by, during which Martin Eden studied his grammar, reviewed the books on etiquette, and read voraciously the books that caught his fancy. Of his own class he saw nothing. The girls of the Lotus Club wondered what had become of him and worried Jim with questions, and some of the fellows who put on the glove at Riley's were glad that Martin came no more. He made another discovery of treasure-trove in the library. As the grammar had shown him the tie-ribs of language, so that book showed him the tie-ribs of poetry, and he began to learn metre and construction and form, beneath the beauty he loved finding the why and wherefore of that beauty. Another modern book he found treated poetry as a representative art, treated it exhaustively, with copious illustrations from the best in literature. Never had he read fiction with so keen zest as he studied these books. And his fresh mind, untaxed for twenty years and impelled by maturity of desire, gripped hold of what he read with a virility unusual to the student mind.
When he looked back now from his vantage-ground, the old world he had known, the world of land and sea and ships, of sailor-men and harpy-women, seemed a very small world; and yet it blended in with this new world and expanded. His mind made for unity, and he was surprised when at first he began to see points of contact between the two worlds. And he was ennobled, as well, by the loftiness of thought and beauty he found in the books. This led him to believe more firmly than ever that up above him, in society like Ruth and her family, all men and women thought these thoughts and lived them. Down below where he lived was the ignoble, and he wanted to purge himself of the ignoble that had soiled all his days, and to rise to that sublimated realm where dwelt the upper classes. All his childhood and youth had been troubled by a vague unrest; he had never known what he wanted, but he had wanted something that he had hunted vainly for until he met Ruth. And now his unrest had become sharp and painful, and he knew at last, clearly and definitely, that it was beauty, and intellect, and love that he must have.
During those several weeks he saw Ruth half a dozen times, and each time was an added inspiration. She helped him with his English, corrected his pronunciation, and started him on arithmetic. But their intercourse was not all devoted to elementary study. He had seen too much of life, and his mind was too matured, to be wholly content with fractions, cube root, parsing, and analysis; and there were times when their conversation turned on other themes - the last poetry he had read, the latest poet she had studied. And when she read aloud to him her favorite passages, he ascended to the topmost heaven of delight. Never, in all the women he had heard speak, had he heard a voice like hers. The least sound of it was a stimulus to his love, and he thrilled and throbbed with every word she uttered. It was the quality of it, the repose, and the musical modulation - the soft, rich, indefinable product of culture and a gentle soul. As he listened to her, there rang in the ears of his memory the harsh cries of barbarian women and of hags, and, in lesser degrees of harshness, the strident voices of working women and of the girls of his own class. Then the chemistry of vision would begin to work, and they would troop in review across his mind, each, by contrast, multiplying Ruth's glories. Then, too, his bliss was heightened by the knowledge that her mind was comprehending what she read and was quivering with appreciation of the beauty of the written thought. She read to him much from "The Princess," and often he saw her eyes swimming with tears, so finely was her aesthetic nature strung. At such moments her own emotions elevated him till he was as a god, and, as he gazed at her and listened, he seemed gazing on the face of life and reading its deepest secrets. And then, becoming aware of the heights of exquisite sensibility he attained, he decided that this was love and that love was the greatest thing in the world. And in review would pass along the corridors of memory all previous thrills and burnings he had known, - the drunkenness of wine, the caresses of women, the rough play and give and take of physical contests, - and they seemed trivial and mean compared with this sublime ardor he now enjoyed.
The situation was obscured to Ruth. She had never had any experiences of the heart. Her only experiences in such matters were of the books, where the facts of ordinary day were translated by fancy into a fairy realm of unreality; and she little knew that this rough sailor was creeping into her heart and storing there pent forces that would some day burst forth and surge through her in waves of fire. She did not know the actual fire of love. Her knowledge of love was purely theoretical, and she conceived of it as lambent flame, gentle as the fall of dew or the ripple of quiet water, and cool as the velvet-dark of summer nights. Her idea of love was more that of placid affection, serving the loved one softly in an atmosphere, flower-scented and dim-lighted, of ethereal calm. She did not dream of the volcanic convulsions of love, its scorching heat and sterile wastes of parched ashes. She knew neither her own potencies, nor the potencies of the world; and the deeps of life were to her seas of illusion. The conjugal affection of her father and mother constituted her ideal of love- affinity, and she looked forward some day to emerging, without shock or friction, into that same quiet sweetness of existence with a loved one.
So it was that she looked upon Martin Eden as a novelty, a strange individual, and she identified with novelty and strangeness the effects he produced upon her. It was only natural. In similar ways she had experienced unusual feelings when she looked at wild animals in the menagerie, or when she witnessed a storm of wind, or shuddered at the bright-ribbed lightning. There was something cosmic in such things, and there was something cosmic in him. He came to her breathing of large airs and great spaces. The blaze of tropic suns was in his face, and in his swelling, resilient muscles was the primordial vigor of life. He was marred and scarred by that mysterious world of rough men and rougher deeds, the outposts of which began beyond her horizon. He was untamed, wild, and in secret ways her vanity was touched by the fact that he came so mildly to her hand. Likewise she was stirred by the common impulse to tame the wild thing. It was an unconscious impulse, and farthest from her thoughts that her desire was to re-thumb the clay of him into a likeness of her father's image, which image she believed to be the finest in the world. Nor was there any way, out of her inexperience, for her to know that the cosmic feel she caught of him was that most cosmic of things, love, which with equal power drew men and women together across the world, compelled stags to kill each other in the rutting season, and drove even the elements irresistibly to unite.
His swift development was a source of surprise and interest. She detected unguessed finenesses in him that seemed to bud, day by day, like flowers in congenial soil. She read Browning aloud to him, and was often puzzled by the strange interpretations he gave to mooted passages. It was beyond her to realize that, out of his experience of men and women and life, his interpretations were far more frequently correct than hers. His conceptions seemed naive to her, though she was often fired by his daring flights of comprehension, whose orbit-path was so wide among the stars that she could not follow and could only sit and thrill to the impact of unguessed power. Then she played to him - no longer at him - and probed him with music that sank to depths beyond her plumb-line. His nature opened to music as a flower to the sun, and the transition was quick from his working-class rag-time and jingles to her classical display pieces that she knew nearly by heart. Yet he betrayed a democratic fondness for Wagner, and the "Tannhauser" overture, when she had given him the clew to it, claimed him as nothing else she played. In an immediate way it personified his life. All his past was the VENUSBURG motif, while her he identified somehow with the PILGRIM'S CHORUS motif; and from the exalted state this elevated him to, he swept onward and upward into that vast shadow-realm of spirit-groping, where good and evil war eternally.
Sometimes he questioned, and induced in her mind temporary doubts as to the correctness of her own definitions and conceptions of music. But her singing he did not question. It was too wholly her, and he sat always amazed at the divine melody of her pure soprano voice. And he could not help but contrast it with the weak pipings and shrill quaverings of factory girls, ill-nourished and untrained, and with the raucous shriekings from gin-cracked throats of the women of the seaport towns. She enjoyed singing and playing to him. In truth, it was the first time she had ever had a human soul to play with, and the plastic clay of him was a delight to mould; for she thought she was moulding it, and her intentions were good. Besides, it was pleasant to be with him. He did not repel her. That first repulsion had been really a fear of her undiscovered self, and the fear had gone to sleep. Though she did not know it, she had a feeling in him of proprietary right. Also, he had a tonic effect upon her. She was studying hard at the university, and it seemed to strengthen her to emerge from the dusty books and have the fresh sea-breeze of his personality blow upon her. Strength! Strength was what she needed, and he gave it to her in generous measure. To come into the same room with him, or to meet him at the door, was to take heart of life. And when he had gone, she would return to her books with a keener zest and fresh store of energy.
She knew her Browning, but it had never sunk into her that it was an awkward thing to play with souls. As her interest in Martin increased, the remodelling of his life became a passion with her.
"There is Mr. Butler," she said one afternoon, when grammar and arithmetic and poetry had been put aside.
"He had comparatively no advantages at first. His father had been a bank cashier, but he lingered for years, dying of consumption in Arizona, so that when he was dead, Mr. Butler, Charles Butler he was called, found himself alone in the world. His father had come from Australia, you know, and so he had no relatives in California. He went to work in a printing-office, - I have heard him tell of it many times, - and he got three dollars a week, at first. His income to-day is at least thirty thousand a year. How did he do it? He was honest, and faithful, and industrious, and economical. He denied himself the enjoyments that most boys indulge in. He made it a point to save so much every week, no matter what he had to do without in order to save it. Of course, he was soon earning more than three dollars a week, and as his wages increased he saved more and more.
"He worked in the daytime, and at night he went to night school. He had his eyes fixed always on the future. Later on he went to night high school. When he was only seventeen, he was earning excellent wages at setting type, but he was ambitious. He wanted a career, not a livelihood, and he was content to make immediate sacrifices for his ultimate again. He decided upon the law, and he entered father's office as an office boy - think of that! - and got only four dollars a week. But he had learned how to be economical, and out of that four dollars he went on saving money."
She paused for breath, and to note how Martin was receiving it. His face was lighted up with interest in the youthful struggles of Mr. Butler; but there was a frown upon his face as well.
"I'd say they was pretty hard lines for a young fellow," he remarked. "Four dollars a week! How could he live on it? You can bet he didn't have any frills. Why, I pay five dollars a week for board now, an' there's nothin' excitin' about it, you can lay to that. He must have lived like a dog. The food he ate - "
"He cooked for himself," she interrupted, "on a little kerosene stove."
"The food he ate must have been worse than what a sailor gets on the worst-feedin' deep-water ships, than which there ain't much that can be possibly worse."
"But think of him now!" she cried enthusiastically. "Think of what his income affords him. His early denials are paid for a thousand- fold."
Martin looked at her sharply.
"There's one thing I'll bet you," he said, "and it is that Mr. Butler is nothin' gay-hearted now in his fat days. He fed himself like that for years an' years, on a boy's stomach, an' I bet his stomach's none too good now for it."
Her eyes dropped before his searching gaze.
"I'll bet he's got dyspepsia right now!" Martin challenged.
"Yes, he has," she confessed; "but - "
"An' I bet," Martin dashed on, "that he's solemn an' serious as an old owl, an' doesn't care a rap for a good time, for all his thirty thousand a year. An' I'll bet he's not particularly joyful at seein' others have a good time. Ain't I right?"
She nodded her head in agreement, and hastened to explain:-
"But he is not that type of man. By nature he is sober and serious. He always was that."
"You can bet he was," Martin proclaimed. "Three dollars a week, an' four dollars a week, an' a young boy cookin' for himself on an oil-burner an' layin' up money, workin' all day an' studyin' all night, just workin' an' never playin', never havin' a good time, an' never learnin' how to have a good time - of course his thirty thousand came along too late."
His sympathetic imagination was flashing upon his inner sight all the thousands of details of the boy's existence and of his narrow spiritual development into a thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year man. With the swiftness and wide-reaching of multitudinous thought Charles Butler's whole life was telescoped upon his vision.
"Do you know," he added, "I feel sorry for Mr. Butler. He was too young to know better, but he robbed himself of life for the sake of thirty thousand a year that's clean wasted upon him. Why, thirty thousand, lump sum, wouldn't buy for him right now what ten cents he was layin' up would have bought him, when he was a kid, in the way of candy an' peanuts or a seat in nigger heaven."
It was just such uniqueness of points of view that startled Ruth. Not only were they new to her, and contrary to her own beliefs, but she always felt in them germs of truth that threatened to unseat or modify her own convictions. Had she been fourteen instead of twenty-four, she might have been changed by them; but she was twenty-four, conservative by nature and upbringing, and already crystallized into the cranny of life where she had been born and formed. It was true, his bizarre judgments troubled her in the moments they were uttered, but she ascribed them to his novelty of type and strangeness of living, and they were soon forgotten. Nevertheless, while she disapproved of them, the strength of their utterance, and the flashing of eyes and earnestness of face that accompanied them, always thrilled her and drew her toward him. She would never have guessed that this man who had come from beyond her horizon, was, in such moments, flashing on beyond her horizon with wider and deeper concepts. Her own limits were the limits of her horizon; but limited minds can recognize limitations only in others. And so she felt that her outlook was very wide indeed, and that where his conflicted with hers marked his limitations; and she dreamed of helping him to see as she saw, of widening his horizon until it was identified with hers.
"But I have not finished my story," she said. "He worked, so father says, as no other office boy he ever had. Mr. Butler was always eager to work. He never was late, and he was usually at the office a few minutes before his regular time. And yet he saved his time. Every spare moment was devoted to study. He studied book- keeping and type-writing, and he paid for lessons in shorthand by dictating at night to a court reporter who needed practice. He quickly became a clerk, and he made himself invaluable. Father appreciated him and saw that he was bound to rise. It was on father's suggestion that he went to law college. He became a lawyer, and hardly was he back in the office when father took him in as junior partner. He is a great man. He refused the United States Senate several times, and father says he could become a justice of the Supreme Court any time a vacancy occurs, if he wants to. Such a life is an inspiration to all of us. It shows us that a man with will may rise superior to his environment."
"He is a great man," Martin said sincerely.
But it seemed to him there was something in the recital that jarred upon his sense of beauty and life. He could not find an adequate motive in Mr. Butler's life of pinching and privation. Had he done it for love of a woman, or for attainment of beauty, Martin would have understood. God's own mad lover should do anything for the kiss, but not for thirty thousand dollars a year. He was dissatisfied with Mr. Butler's career. There was something paltry about it, after all. Thirty thousand a year was all right, but dyspepsia and inability to be humanly happy robbed such princely income of all its value.
Much of this he strove to express to Ruth, and shocked her and made it clear that more remodelling was necessary. Hers was that common insularity of mind that makes human creatures believe that their color, creed, and politics are best and right and that other human creatures scattered over the world are less fortunately placed than they. It was the same insularity of mind that made the ancient Jew thank God he was not born a woman, and sent the modern missionary god-substituting to the ends of the earth; and it made Ruth desire to shape this man from other crannies of life into the likeness of the men who lived in her particular cranny of life.
几周过去，马丁·伊登在这几周里学了语法，复习了社交礼仪，苦读了感兴趣的书，由于他不跟本阶级的人来往，荷花俱乐部的姑娘们不知道他出了什么事，老向吉姆打听。在莱利家仓库搞拳击的人则因他的缺席而高兴。他在图书馆又挖出了一桩宝藏：语法书告诉他语言的龙骨结构，那本书却告诉他诗歌的龙骨结构。他开始学习诗歌的韵律、结构和形式，在他所爱的美之下探索着美的底蕴。他又发现了一本新潮的书，把诗歌当作一种表现艺术，从最优秀的文学作品中列举了丰富的例证，作了详尽的分析。过去他读小说从不曾像现在读这类书这么兴致勃勃，津津有味。他那二十年没曾动过的脑筋受到成熟的欲望的驱使，更对书本紧抓不放，孜孜吃吃，就初学者而言其啃劲之猛十分罕见。 
站在此时的高度回顾他所熟知的往日世界；那陆地摘洋。船只、水手、母夜叉似的女人都似乎渺小了起来；但也跟眼前的新天地交汁渗透。他的心一向追求统一。刚开始看到两个世界的交汇时他感到惊讶。他在书中发现的美与崇高的思想使他心胸高洁，更加坚信在社会上层，即在露丝和她一家所处的社会堂，所有的人，无论男女，思想和生活都纯净无瑕。而在下面，在他自己的生活圈子里，人们却卑贱秽污。他要洗净那污染了他一辈子的秽物，跻身于上层阶级所生活的高贵世界里。他的整个青少年时期都为一种朦胧的不安所困扰，不知道自己需要什么，老在追求着某种追求不到的东西，直到现在他遇见了露丝，他心中的不安更加强烈了，化作了痛苦。他终于清楚明确地知道了：他所追求的是美、智慧和爱情。
那段时间他曾好几次跟露丝见面，每次见面对他都是一次鼓舞。她帮助他学英语，纠正他的发音，给他上数学启蒙课。但他俩纳交往并不仅限于上课。他见过太多的生活，心灵太成熟，无法满足于分数、立方根、语句分析和解释，有时便转向了别的话题——他最近读过的诗，她最近研究着的诗人。她向他朗读她所喜爱的诗章时他便化游于欢乐的九天之上。他听过许多妇女说话，却从没听见过像她那么美妙的声音。她最轻微的声音都使他爱恋。他为她说出的每一个字感到欢乐和悸动。他爱恋她声音的悦耳、平和与它那动人的起伏——那是文化教养与高雅的灵魂的流露，柔和丰富得难以描述。听她说话时，他记忆的耳朵里也响起了凶悍的妇女刺耳的眼噪和劳动妇女和他本阶级的姑娘们虽不刺耳却也不中听的声音。这时幻觉开始施展了它的化合力，那些女人一个个在他心里复现，跟露丝形成对照，更增加了露丝的光彩。当他发现露丝的心为理解着她所朗诵的诗篇、体验着它的情思而战栗时自己不禁心花怒放。露丝为他朗诵了《公主》中不少段落。他见她眼里常噙着泪珠，便懂得了那诗篇是如何美妙地拨动了她天性中的审美琴弦。在这样的时刻她的脉脉情怀总使他胸襟高贵，化作了神明。在他凝望着她的面庞细听着她朗诵时，便仿佛在凝望着生命的面庞，体味着生命最深沉的奥秘。这时他意识到了自己精微的感受力所到达的高度，便认定这就是爱情，而爱情是世间最美妙的东西。于是他往日经历过的欢乐和狂热便在回忆的长廊里—一走过——酒后的昏沉、女人的爱抚、粗野的竞技比赛的胜负，——这一切跟他此刻的崇高的激情一比都显得微不足道，卑下无聊了。
这情况露丝无法觉察。她从没有过心灵方面的体验。在这类问题上她仅有的体验都来自书本，而在书本形，日常琐事一经过幻想加工都能成为若真若幻的神仙境界。她并不知道这个大老粗水手正在往她心里钻，并在那儿积蓄着力量，某一天将爆发为熊熊的烈焰，燃遍她的全身。她并不懂得真正的爱情之火。她对爱情的知识纯粹是理论性的。只把它想像作幽微的火苗，轻柔如露珠坠落、涟消乍起，清凉如天鹅绒般幽暗的夏夜。她对爱情的想法更像是一种心平气和的柔情，在花香氯氟半明半暗的轻松气氛卫为心爱的人做这做那。她从未梦想过火山爆发大地抽搐式的爱情，从未想到过它的熊熊烈焰，它的破坏作用，它能烧成一片片焦土。她不知道自己的力量，也不知道世界的力量；生命的深处于她不过是幻想的海洋。她父母的婚姻之爱是她理想的爱情境界。她希望有一天会跟一个如意郎君过同样甜蜜的日子，用不着经历震荡或磨擦。
因此她把马丁·伊登看作一个罕见的人，奇怪的人；只把这样的人对她所产生的影响当作奇人异事。这也很自然。她在动物园看见野兽时，她因狂风呼啸或是电闪雷鸣而恐惧时所体验到的感情也都不同寻常。这些东西具有某种浩瀚辽阔的性质，马丁也具有某些浩瀚辽阔的气质。他带着漠漠的天穹和广阔的空间的气息来到了她身边：他脸上有赤道的炎炎烈日，他柔韧暴突的肌肉中有原始的生命力。他受过一个神秘世界的粗暴的人与更粗暴的行为的伤害，留下了满身伤痕，而那个神秘的世界远远超出了她的世界之外。这个满身野气未经驯化的人能这么温驯地偎依在她手下，这使她暗自得意。人所共有的驯服凶猛动物的冲动怂恿着她——一种下意识的冲动。她从没想到要按她父亲的形象重新塑造他，尽管她认为那是世界上最美好的形象。由于没有经验，她无法知道她对他的浩瀚辽阔的印象其实是那最辽阔浩瀚的东西：爱情。爱情以同等的强力使男性与女性跨过于山万水互相吸引，促使雄鹿在交配季节互相残杀，甚至驱策着自然元素以无法抗拒的力量结合到一起。
他的迅速发展使她惊讶，也感到有趣。她发现他身上出现了意想不到的优点，像花朵在适宜的土壤里一天天成熟绽放。她向他朗诵勃朗宁的诗，却常因他对他们探讨的段落作出的新奇解释而感到困惑。她不可能意识到他的解释往往比她正确，因为他更熟悉人和人生。在她眼里他的看法似乎太天真，尽管自己也常因他一套套大胆的理解而激动。他的运行轨道远在星河之间，是她无法跟随的。她只能为他那出人意外的冲撞所震撼。然后她便为他弹奏钢琴。她不再向他发出警告，却用音乐探测他，因为音乐能深入到她的探测线所到达不了的地方。他的天性对音乐开放，有如花朵对太阳开放。他的爱好很快便从工人阶级喜爱的爵士乐和银明音乐发展到了她几乎能背诵的古典音乐代表作。只是他对瓦格纳流露出一种平民化的兴趣。他经她一点拨便发表意见说《坦豪瑟》序曲跟她弹奏的其他作品大不相同。这曲子间接地体现了他的生活。他的全部过去的主题正是维纳斯堡，他不知怎么还把露丝定为《香客合唱》的主题；他又从自已达到的高度继续不断向上奋进，穿入精神探索的寥廓晦涩的天地，在那里善与恶永远在战斗。
他有时提出的问题使她对自己为音乐所下的定义和某些概念产生过怀疑。但他对她的歌唱却从朱怀疑过。她的歌唱太像她自己了。他总是坐在那儿为她那清纯的女高音的神圣旋律感到惊讶。他不能不把它跟工厂女工们尖利颤抖而疲软的声音相比较——她们营养不良又没受过训练。他也把它和海港城市的妇女们刺耳的噪音相比较——她们喝杜松于酒喝哑了嗓子。她喜欢为他弹琴唱歌。事实上她是第一次跟一个人的灵魂做游戏，而塑造他那可塑性很强的性格也是令人高兴的事，因为她觉得自己是怀着一番好意塑造着他。何况，跟他在一起也令她陶醉，她对他不再反感了。第一次的反感事实上是对她尚未觉察的自我的一种畏惧，而现在那种畏惧已经休眠。虽然尚未意识到，但她对地已产生了一种独占情绪。他也是她的一种兴奋剂。她在大学读书报用功，让她暂别尘封的书堆，享受一番他那性格的海风的清新吹拂，能使她精力充沛。精力2她所需要的正是精力，他慷慨地给予了她充沛的精力。跟他一起进屋，或是在门口迎接他，都使她振奋。他离开之后她再回到书本，钻研起来便更加精力旺盛、朝气蓬勃。
她懂得勃朗于，可从没真正懂得跟灵魂游戏能使人尴尬。随着她对马丁兴趣的增长，重新塑造他的生命便成了她的一种激情。
“有一位巴特勒先生，”一天下午她说，那时他们已把语法、数学和诗歌放到了一边G“开始时他的条件并不好。他父亲原是个出纳，但病榻缠绵了好几年，终于因肺榜死于亚利桑纳州。他逝世之后巴特勒先生（他叫查尔斯·巴特勒先生）发现自己孤苦伶l地活在世上。他父亲是从澳大利亚来的，你要知道，因此他在加利福尼亚州一个亲人也没有。他到一个印刷办公室工作——我听他说过好儿回——从周薪三元开始。而他今天的收入每年至少是三万。他是怎么富起来的呢？靠的是诚实、自信。刻苦和节俭。他不让自己享受大多数男孩子都热中的东西。他规定好每周要存多少钱，便可以为此牺牲一切。当然，不久以后他的薪水便不止三元了。但工资加了，他的储蓄额也随之增加了。
“他白天上班，晚上上夜校。总把眼睛盯紧了未来。后来他又上了夜校中学班，才十七岁他做排字工的收入已经很高。他很有抱负。他要的不是生活而是事业。为了最终的利益他心甘情愿地作出了牺牲。他决定学法律，进了我爸爸的公司作跑街——想想看！每周只得四块钱。但是他已学会了节俭，四块钱他也照样储蓄。”
她停了停，歇口气，看看马丁的反应。马丁的脸上因年青的巴特勒先生的奋斗闪出了兴趣的光芒，同时也皱起了同头。
“我看这条路对一个青年来说是太苦了，”他发表意见，“每周四块钱！他怎么活得下去？你可以打赌他是任何享受都没有的。我现在吃饭住房也得每周五块钱呢，而且条件很蹩脚，他肯定活得像条狗，你可以打赌。吃的东西——”
“他自己做饭，”她插嘴道，“用个小煤油炉。”
“他吃的东西肯定比最糟糕的远洋轮上的水手还精，精到不能再增了。”
“可你想想他的现在吧！”她激动地叫道，“思想他现在的收入能给他什么吧！他早年的刻苦现在得到了一千倍的回报。”
马丁目光炯炯地盯住她。
“有一条我可以打赌，”他说，“巴特勒先生尽管发了财，心里并不快活。他一年又一年那样安排伙食，只吃小孩子的分量，我敢打赌他现在肠胃绝对不太好。”
在他那问询的目光下她垂下了眼睑。
“我敢打赌他现在还患着消化不良，”马丁挑战地说。
“不错，他是消化不良，”她承认，“但是——”
“我还敢打赌，”马丁紧逼，“他一定像只老猫头鹰一样板着面孔，一本正经，不喜欢快活，尽管一年有三万块钱。我还可以n赌他见了别人快活便不太愉快。我说得对吧？”
她同意地点点头，却赶快解释：
“但他不是那类人。他天生就冷静、严肃。一向如此。”
“你可以打赌他准定如此，”马丁宣布，“三块钱一个礼拜，四块钱一个礼拜，一个年青人弄个煤油炉子自己做饭，为了存钱！白天上班，晚上上学，只会工作不会玩，从来没有快活过，也从不学着快活快活——这样的三万块一年当然是来得太晚了O”
他那易于共鸣的想像力在心里描绘出了那孩子的无数生活细节和他变成为年收入三万元的富翁的狭隘的精神历程。查尔斯·巴特勒的整个一生在他的幻觉中凝缩呈现，马丁立即思绪万千，什么都看透了。
“你知道不，”他又说，“我为巴特勒先生难过。他那时年幼无知，为了三万块糟踏了自己一辈子，而现在那三万块对他已完全是浪费。整整三万块能为他买到的东西还抵不上他年青时储蓄的一毛钱所能买到的。比如糖果、花生或是顶楼座位的一张戏票。”
使露丝吃惊的正是他这类独特的见解。它们对她不但新颖，跟她的信念抵触，而且总让她发现含有真理的种子，有可能推翻或改变她自己的信仰。她老是十四岁而不是二十四岁便会因之而改变信念，但是她已经二十四岁，由于天性和教养，她的性格保守，早已在她所出生和成长的角落里定了形。不错，他的奇谈怪论刚出现时曾叫她迷惑，但她认为那是由于他的奇特类型和奇特生活所致，立即把它忘掉了。尽管如此，他发出这些论调时所表现的力量，眼里所闪出的光＃和面都表情的认真仍然叫她悸动心跳，吸引着她，尽管她并不赞成，她不可能猜到这个来自她的视野以外的人此刻正在怀着更广阔深沉的思想飞速前进。露丝的局限性是她的视野的局限性，而受到局限的心灵不通过别人是意识不到的。因此她感到自己的视野已经很广阔，他跟她看法矛盾之处只标志着他的局限性。她梦想着帮助地使他像她一样看问题，扩大他的眼界，直到跟她的看法一致。
“不过，我的故事还没有完，”她说，“父亲说他比他办公室组的任何跑街的工作得都好。巴特勒先生工作总是很努力，从不迟到，总是提前几分钟到办公室。而且还能挤出时间来。他把一切空闲时间都用于学习。学簿记，学打字，晚上为一个需要训练的法庭记者做听写练习，赚了钱学速记。他很快便被提升为职员，让自己变成了无价之宝。爸爸很欣赏他，认定他有远大的前程。他听从了我爸爸的建议，上了法律学院，成了律师。他再回到办公室时爸爸就让他做了他的年青搭档。他是个了不起的人，多次拒绝做美国参议员。爸爸说只要他愿意，一旦出缺他就可能做最高法院的法官。这样的一生对我们是一种鼓舞。它说明一个意志坚强的人是可以摆脱环境的限制成长起来的。”
“他是个了不起的人，”马丁由衷地赞美道。
但是他似乎觉得这故事里有些限他对美和人生的感觉抵触的东西。他认为巴特勒先生那种积攒困苦的生活动机未必恰当。如若是为了爱一个女人，或是为了追求美，马丁能理解。上帝的疯狂的情人为了一个吻是什么都可以干的。但是为了一年三万元却不值得。他对巴特勒先生的事业不满意，总觉得其中有些东西不足为训。三万元一年固然好，但是因此得了消化不良，连像人一样快活一下也不会，这样的巨大收入全无价值可言。
他努力向露丝阐述了这种想法，露丝吓了一跳，认为还需要继续对他重新塑造。她的心灵是常见的那种编狭心灵。这种心灵使人相信自己的肤色、信条和政治是最好的，最正确的，而分居世界各他的其他的人则不如他们幸运。正是同样的偏狭心理使古代的犹太人因为自己未曾生为女人而感谢上帝；使现代的教士到天涯海角去做上帝的代有人；使露丝要求把这个从生活另一角落来的人物接她自己那特定的生活角落里的人的样子加以塑造。
Chapter 9
Back from sea Martin Eden came, homing for California with a lover's desire. His store of money exhausted, he had shipped before the mast on the treasure-hunting schooner; and the Solomon Islands, after eight months of failure to find treasure, had witnessed the breaking up of the expedition. The men had been paid off in Australia, and Martin had immediately shipped on a deep- water vessel for San Francisco. Not alone had those eight months earned him enough money to stay on land for many weeks, but they had enabled him to do a great deal of studying and reading.
His was the student's mind, and behind his ability to learn was the indomitability of his nature and his love for Ruth. The grammar he had taken along he went through again and again until his unjaded brain had mastered it. He noticed the bad grammar used by his shipmates, and made a point of mentally correcting and reconstructing their crudities of speech. To his great joy he discovered that his ear was becoming sensitive and that he was developing grammatical nerves. A double negative jarred him like a discord, and often, from lack of practice, it was from his own lips that the jar came. His tongue refused to learn new tricks in a day.
After he had been through the grammar repeatedly, he took up the dictionary and added twenty words a day to his vocabulary. He found that this was no light task, and at wheel or lookout he steadily went over and over his lengthening list of pronunciations and definitions, while he invariably memorized himself to sleep. "Never did anything," "if I were," and "those things," were phrases, with many variations, that he repeated under his breath in order to accustom his tongue to the language spoken by Ruth. "And" and "ing," with the "d" and "g" pronounced emphatically, he went over thousands of times; and to his surprise he noticed that he was beginning to speak cleaner and more correct English than the officers themselves and the gentleman-adventurers in the cabin who had financed the expedition.
The captain was a fishy-eyed Norwegian who somehow had fallen into possession of a complete Shakespeare, which he never read, and Martin had washed his clothes for him and in return been permitted access to the precious volumes. For a time, so steeped was he in the plays and in the many favorite passages that impressed themselves almost without effort on his brain, that all the world seemed to shape itself into forms of Elizabethan tragedy or comedy and his very thoughts were in blank verse. It trained his ear and gave him a fine appreciation for noble English; withal it introduced into his mind much that was archaic and obsolete.
The eight months had been well spent, and, in addition to what he had learned of right speaking and high thinking, he had learned much of himself. Along with his humbleness because he knew so little, there arose a conviction of power. He felt a sharp gradation between himself and his shipmates, and was wise enough to realize that the difference lay in potentiality rather than achievement. What he could do, - they could do; but within him he felt a confused ferment working that told him there was more in him than he had done. He was tortured by the exquisite beauty of the world, and wished that Ruth were there to share it with him. He decided that he would describe to her many of the bits of South Sea beauty. The creative spirit in him flamed up at the thought and urged that he recreate this beauty for a wider audience than Ruth. And then, in splendor and glory, came the great idea. He would write. He would be one of the eyes through which the world saw, one of the ears through which it heard, one of the hearts through which it felt. He would write - everything - poetry and prose, fiction and description, and plays like Shakespeare. There was career and the way to win to Ruth. The men of literature were the world's giants, and he conceived them to be far finer than the Mr. Butlers who earned thirty thousand a year and could be Supreme Court justices if they wanted to.
Once the idea had germinated, it mastered him, and the return voyage to San Francisco was like a dream. He was drunken with unguessed power and felt that he could do anything. In the midst of the great and lonely sea he gained perspective. Clearly, and for the first lime, he saw Ruth and her world. It was all visualized in his mind as a concrete thing which he could take up in his two hands and turn around and about and examine. There was much that was dim and nebulous in that world, but he saw it as a whole and not in detail, and he saw, also, the way to master it. To write! The thought was fire in him. He would begin as soon as he got back. The first thing he would do would be to describe the voyage of the treasure-hunters. He would sell it to some San Francisco newspaper. He would not tell Ruth anything about it, and she would be surprised and pleased when she saw his name in print. While he wrote, he could go on studying. There were twenty-four hours in each day. He was invincible. He knew how to work, and the citadels would go down before him. He would not have to go to sea again - as a sailor; and for the instant he caught a vision of a steam yacht. There were other writers who possessed steam yachts. Of course, he cautioned himself, it would be slow succeeding at first, and for a time he would be content to earn enough money by his writing to enable him to go on studying. And then, after some time, - a very indeterminate time, - when he had learned and prepared himself, he would write the great things and his name would be on all men's lips. But greater than that, infinitely greater and greatest of all, he would have proved himself worthy of Ruth. Fame was all very well, but it was for Ruth that his splendid dream arose. He was not a fame-monger, but merely one of God's mad lovers.
Arrived in Oakland, with his snug pay-day in his pocket, he took up his old room at Bernard Higginbotham's and set to work. He did not even let Ruth know he was back. He would go and see her when he finished the article on the treasure-hunters. It was not so difficult to abstain from seeing her, because of the violent heat of creative fever that burned in him. Besides, the very article he was writing would bring her nearer to him. He did not know how long an article he should write, but he counted the words in a double-page article in the Sunday supplement of the SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER, and guided himself by that. Three days, at white heat, completed his narrative; but when he had copied it carefully, in a large scrawl that was easy to read, he learned from a rhetoric he picked up in the library that there were such things as paragraphs and quotation marks. He had never thought of such things before; and he promptly set to work writing the article over, referring continually to the pages of the rhetoric and learning more in a day about composition than the average schoolboy in a year. When he had copied the article a second time and rolled it up carefully, he read in a newspaper an item on hints to beginners, and discovered the iron law that manuscripts should never be rolled and that they should be written on one side of the paper. He had violated the law on both counts. Also, he learned from the item that first- class papers paid a minimum of ten dollars a column. So, while he copied the manuscript a third time, he consoled himself by multiplying ten columns by ten dollars. The product was always the same, one hundred dollars, and he decided that that was better than seafaring. If it hadn't been for his blunders, he would have finished the article in three days. One hundred dollars in three days! It would have taken him three months and longer on the sea to earn a similar amount. A man was a fool to go to sea when he could write, he concluded, though the money in itself meant nothing to him. Its value was in the liberty it would get him, the presentable garments it would buy him, all of which would bring him nearer, swiftly nearer, to the slender, pale girl who had turned his life back upon itself and given him inspiration.
He mailed the manuscript in a flat envelope, and addressed it to the editor of the SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER. He had an idea that anything accepted by a paper was published immediately, and as he had sent the manuscript in on Friday he expected it to come out on the following Sunday. He conceived that it would be fine to let that event apprise Ruth of his return. Then, Sunday afternoon, he would call and see her. In the meantime he was occupied by another idea, which he prided himself upon as being a particularly sane, careful, and modest idea. He would write an adventure story for boys and sell it to THE YOUTH'S COMPANION. He went to the free reading-room and looked through the files of THE YOUTH'S COMPANION. Serial stories, he found, were usually published in that weekly in five instalments of about three thousand words each. He discovered several serials that ran to seven instalments, and decided to write one of that length.
He had been on a whaling voyage in the Arctic, once - a voyage that was to have been for three years and which had terminated in shipwreck at the end of six months. While his imagination was fanciful, even fantastic at times, he had a basic love of reality that compelled him to write about the things he knew. He knew whaling, and out of the real materials of his knowledge he proceeded to manufacture the fictitious adventures of the two boys he intended to use as joint heroes. It was easy work, he decided on Saturday evening. He had completed on that day the first instalment of three thousand words - much to the amusement of Jim, and to the open derision of Mr. Higginbotham, who sneered throughout meal-time at the "litery" person they had discovered in the family.
Martin contented himself by picturing his brother-in-law's surprise on Sunday morning when he opened his EXAMINER and saw the article on the treasure-hunters. Early that morning he was out himself to the front door, nervously racing through the many-sheeted newspaper. He went through it a second time, very carefully, then folded it up and left it where he had found it. He was glad he had not told any one about his article. On second thought he concluded that he had been wrong about the speed with which things found their way into newspaper columns. Besides, there had not been any news value in his article, and most likely the editor would write to him about it first.
After breakfast he went on with his serial. The words flowed from his pen, though he broke off from the writing frequently to look up definitions in the dictionary or to refer to the rhetoric. He often read or re-read a chapter at a time, during such pauses; and he consoled himself that while he was not writing the great things he felt to be in him, he was learning composition, at any rate, and training himself to shape up and express his thoughts. He toiled on till dark, when he went out to the reading-room and explored magazines and weeklies until the place closed at ten o'clock. This was his programme for a week. Each day he did three thousand words, and each evening he puzzled his way through the magazines, taking note of the stories, articles, and poems that editors saw fit to publish. One thing was certain: What these multitudinous writers did he could do, and only give him time and he would do what they could not do. He was cheered to read in BOOK NEWS, in a paragraph on the payment of magazine writers, not that Rudyard Kipling received a dollar per word, but that the minimum rate paid by first-class magazines was two cents a word. THE YOUTH'S COMPANION was certainly first class, and at that rate the three thousand words he had written that day would bring him sixty dollars - two months' wages on the sea!
On Friday night he finished the serial, twenty-one thousand words long. At two cents a word, he calculated, that would bring him four hundred and twenty dollars. Not a bad week's work. It was more money than he had ever possessed at one time. He did not know how he could spend it all. He had tapped a gold mine. Where this came from he could always get more. He planned to buy some more clothes, to subscribe to many magazines, and to buy dozens of reference books that at present he was compelled to go to the library to consult. And still there was a large portion of the four hundred and twenty dollars unspent. This worried him until the thought came to him of hiring a servant for Gertrude and of buying a bicycle for Marion.
He mailed the bulky manuscript to THE YOUTH'S COMPANION, and on Saturday afternoon, after having planned an article on pearl- diving, he went to see Ruth. He had telephoned, and she went herself to greet him at the door. The old familiar blaze of health rushed out from him and struck her like a blow. It seemed to enter into her body and course through her veins in a liquid glow, and to set her quivering with its imparted strength. He flushed warmly as he took her hand and looked into her blue eyes, but the fresh bronze of eight months of sun hid the flush, though it did not protect the neck from the gnawing chafe of the stiff collar. She noted the red line of it with amusement which quickly vanished as she glanced at his clothes. They really fitted him, - it was his first made-to-order suit, - and he seemed slimmer and better modelled. In addition, his cloth cap had been replaced by a soft hat, which she commanded him to put on and then complimented him on his appearance. She did not remember when she had felt so happy. This change in him was her handiwork, and she was proud of it and fired with ambition further to help him.
But the most radical change of all, and the one that pleased her most, was the change in his speech. Not only did he speak more correctly, but he spoke more easily, and there were many new words in his vocabulary. When he grew excited or enthusiastic, however, he dropped back into the old slurring and the dropping of final consonants. Also, there was an awkward hesitancy, at times, as he essayed the new words he had learned. On the other hand, along with his ease of expression, he displayed a lightness and facetiousness of thought that delighted her. It was his old spirit of humor and badinage that had made him a favorite in his own class, but which he had hitherto been unable to use in her presence through lack of words and training. He was just beginning to orientate himself and to feel that he was not wholly an intruder. But he was very tentative, fastidiously so, letting Ruth set the pace of sprightliness and fancy, keeping up with her but never daring to go beyond her.
He told her of what he had been doing, and of his plan to write for a livelihood and of going on with his studies. But he was disappointed at her lack of approval. She did not think much of his plan.
"You see," she said frankly, "writing must be a trade, like anything else. Not that I know anything about it, of course. I only bring common judgment to bear. You couldn't hope to be a blacksmith without spending three years at learning the trade - or is it five years! Now writers are so much better paid than blacksmiths that there must be ever so many more men who would like to write, who - try to write."
"But then, may not I be peculiarly constituted to write?" he queried, secretly exulting at the language he had used, his swift imagination throwing the whole scene and atmosphere upon a vast screen along with a thousand other scenes from his life - scenes that were rough and raw, gross and bestial.
The whole composite vision was achieved with the speed of light, producing no pause in the conversation, nor interrupting his calm train of thought. On the screen of his imagination he saw himself and this sweet and beautiful girl, facing each other and conversing in good English, in a room of books and paintings and tone and culture, and all illuminated by a bright light of steadfast brilliance; while ranged about and fading away to the remote edges of the screen were antithetical scenes, each scene a picture, and he the onlooker, free to look at will upon what he wished. He saw these other scenes through drifting vapors and swirls of sullen fog dissolving before shafts of red and garish light. He saw cowboys at the bar, drinking fierce whiskey, the air filled with obscenity and ribald language, and he saw himself with them drinking and cursing with the wildest, or sitting at table with them, under smoking kerosene lamps, while the chips clicked and clattered and the cards were dealt around. He saw himself, stripped to the waist, with naked fists, fighting his great fight with Liverpool Red in the forecastle of the Susquehanna; and he saw the bloody deck of the John Rogers, that gray morning of attempted mutiny, the mate kicking in death-throes on the main-hatch, the revolver in the old man's hand spitting fire and smoke, the men with passion- wrenched faces, of brutes screaming vile blasphemies and falling about him - and then he returned to the central scene, calm and clean in the steadfast light, where Ruth sat and talked with him amid books and paintings; and he saw the grand piano upon which she would later play to him; and he heard the echoes of his own selected and correct words, "But then, may I not be peculiarly constituted to write?"
"But no matter how peculiarly constituted a man may be for blacksmithing," she was laughing, "I never heard of one becoming a blacksmith without first serving his apprenticeship."
"What would you advise?" he asked. "And don't forget that I feel in me this capacity to write - I can't explain it; I just know that it is in me."
"You must get a thorough education," was the answer, "whether or not you ultimately become a writer. This education is indispensable for whatever career you select, and it must not be slipshod or sketchy. You should go to high school."
"Yes - " he began; but she interrupted with an afterthought:-
"Of course, you could go on with your writing, too."
"I would have to," he said grimly.
"Why?" She looked at him, prettily puzzled, for she did not quite like the persistence with which he clung to his notion.
"Because, without writing there wouldn't be any high school. I must live and buy books and clothes, you know."
"I'd forgotten that," she laughed. "Why weren't you born with an income?"
"I'd rather have good health and imagination," he answered. "I can make good on the income, but the other things have to be made good for - " He almost said "you," then amended his sentence to, "have to be made good for one."
"Don't say 'make good,'" she cried, sweetly petulant. "It's slang, and it's horrid."
He flushed, and stammered, "That's right, and I only wish you'd correct me every time."
"I - I'd like to," she said haltingly. "You have so much in you that is good that I want to see you perfect."
He was clay in her hands immediately, as passionately desirous of being moulded by her as she was desirous of shaping him into the image of her ideal of man. And when she pointed out the opportuneness of the time, that the entrance examinations to high school began on the following Monday, he promptly volunteered that he would take them.
Then she played and sang to him, while he gazed with hungry yearning at her, drinking in her loveliness and marvelling that there should not be a hundred suitors listening there and longing for her as he listened and longed.
马丁·伊登从海上一回来便怀着情人的相思回到加利福尼亚。当初他花光了自己的积蓄后便上了那艘寻宝船做水手。八个月的寻宝活动失败，探宝队在所罗门群岛解散了。船员们在澳大利亚领了工资散了伙，马丁立即坐上一艘远洋轮回到了旧金山。那八个月不但让他挣到了钱可以在岸上再过几周，而且让他做了许多功课和研究工作。 
他具有学者的心灵，在学习能力背后还有他那不屈不挠的天性和他对露丝的爱。他带上了语法书，翻来覆去地读，直读到他那不知疲倦的头脑把它弄了个滚瓜烂熟。他注意到伙伴们蹩脚的语法，便刻意改正他们话语中的粗率不文之处，以求进步。他发现自己的耳朵敏感了，培养出了一条语法神经，不由得满心欢喜。他听见双重否定就刺耳，但是由于缺少实践，那刺耳的东西偏偏又常从自己的嘴里溜出。他的舌头还没能迅速掌握新的技巧。
反复读完了语法他又拿起字典每天为自己增加二十个单词。他发现这任务不轻松。无论在掌舵或是腔望时他都坚持一遍又一遍地复习他越来越多的单词的发音和定义，直记到自己昏昏欲睡。为了让舌头习惯于露丝那种语言，他总低声重复着某些句型及其变化：用never引起的倒装句，用if…were表示的虚拟语态，和those things…之类。读and和-ing要把d和g交代清楚。他练习了无数遍。令他意外的是他说出的英语竟比官员们和出资探宝的冒险家先生们还要纯粹正确了。
船长是个视力昏督的挪威人，不知怎么有一套莎士比亚全集，却从来不读。马丁便帮他洗衣服，好叫他同意借阅那些宝贵的书。有一段时间他读得如醉如痴。好些他喜爱的段落几乎毫不费力便印入了他的脑子。整个世界也似乎纳入了伊丽莎白时代的悲剧和喜剧的模式里。连他思考问题也用起了素体诗。这却训练了他的耳朵，使他读起典雅英语来有精微的欣赏能力，同时也把许多古老和过时的东西引进了他心里O
这八个月过得很有意义。他除了学会了纯正的语言和高雅的思想，对自己他也懂了许多。他一方面因为缺少学问而自卑，另一方面也相信起自己的力量来。他感到自己和伙伴们之间有了明显的级别差异。他有自知之明，知道那差异在潜在能力而不在实际之中。他所能做的，别人也都能做；但他内心感到了一种混乱的发酵过程。那告诉他他具有的条件要高于他已有的成绩。海上那绚丽多姿的景色使他难受，他恨不得露丝在场跟他共同欣赏。他决心向她描述南太平洋的种种美景。这想法点燃了他胸中的创作精神，要求他为更多的人重新创造出那美。于是那伟大的思想灿烂地出现了。他要写作。他要成为世人的眼睛，让他们看到；成为世人的耳朵，让他们听到；成为世人的。卜灵，让他们感觉到。他要写——什么都写——写诗。写散文。写小说，要描述；要写戏，写像莎士比亚一样的戏。这便是事业，是通向露丝的路。文学家是世界的巨人，他认为他们比每年能赚三万元若是愿意便可以当最高法院法官的巴特勒先生之流要优秀得多。
这个念头一萌芽，便主宰了他，回旧金山的路已恍如梦寐。他为自己从没想到过的能力所陶醉了，他感到自己什么事都能行。他在法期的寂寞的大海里看到了远景。他第一次清楚地看到了露丝和她的世界。他在心里把它描绘了出来，是个具体的东西，司以双手捧起来翻来覆去地研究把玩的东西，那个世界有些部分还暧昧不明，但他看到的是全局而不是细部，而且看到了主宰那个世界的道路。写作！这念头在他心里成了一把火。他一回去就要开干。第一件事就是描写这次探宝人的海上航行。他要卖给旧金山某家报纸。充不告诉露丝，等他的名字印出来她就会大吃一惊，而且高兴的。他可以一边写一边继续研究G他每天有二十四小时。他不可战胜，他知道怎样工作，堡垒会被他征服。那他就不用再出海了——不用当水手出海了。顷刻间他已看到一艘快艇的幻影。其他的作家也有快艇呢I当然，他警告自己，开始时成功会来得很慢。在一段时间之内他只能以挣到的钱能维持学习为满足。然后，过了一段时间——准确估计好的一段时间——等地学习好了，作好了准备，他就能写出伟大的作品来。那时他的名字就会挂在众人的嘴上。而比出名还要了不起，不知道了不起多少倍，最了不起的事是：他就能证明自己配得上露丝了。出名是好事，但他那光辉的梦却是为了露丝。他不是追名逐利之徒，只不过是上帝的痴迷的情人而已。
兜里装了一笔可观的工资他来到奥克兰，在伯纳德·希金波坦商店那间老房间住了下来，开始了工作。他甚至没告诉露丝他回来了。他打算在写完探宝人的故事之后再去看她。他心里的创作之火燃烧正旺，管住自己不去看她并不困难。何况他要写的那篇东西还能让她更靠近自己呢！他不知道一篇文章应当写多长，但他数了数《旧金山检验者》星期日增刊的一篇占了两版的文章，以它的数字作参照。他狂热地写了三天，完成了他的故事。但是在他用容易辨认的大草体工工整整抄好之后，却从他在图书馆借来的一本修辞学书上知道还有分段和引号之类他以前根本没想到过的东西。他只好马上重新抄一遍，同时不断参考修辞学书籍，在一天之内学到的写作知识比普通学童一年学到的还要多。等地第二次抄完文章卷起之后，他又在一张报纸上读到一篇对初学作者的提示。其中有一条铁的规律：手稿不能卷，稿笺不能两面写，而这两条他都犯了。他又从那篇东西知道，第一流的文稿每栏至少可以得到十元稿费。因此，在他第三次抄写手稿时他又以十元乘十栏来安慰自己。乘积总是一样：一百元。于是他肯定那要比出海强多了。若是没有触犯那些重要规定，这篇文章地三天就写完了。三天一百元，而同样的数目在海上得挣三个多月。他的结论是：能写作的人还去出海简直就是傻瓜，虽然他并不把钱放在眼里。钱的价值只在于能给他自由，给他像样的见客服装，让他尽快靠近那个苗条苍白的、给了他灵感的姑娘——她已把他完全翻了个个儿。
他用一个扁扁的信封装了手稿，寄给了《旧金山检验者》的编辑。他以为报纸接受了的东西立刻就会发表。手稿既是星期五寄出的，星期一就该见报。他设想最好以文章见报的方式告诉露丝他已回来了。那么星期天下午他就可以去看她了。他还有另一个想法。他为那想法的清醒、审慎、谦逊而得意。他要为男孩子们写一个冒险故事，卖给《青年伙伴入他到免费阅览室在资料中查了《青年伙伴》，发现连载故事在那个周报上总是分五期登完，每期约三千字。却也发现有登了七期的，于是决定写一篇连载七期的。
他曾在北极作过捕鲸航行。原打算去三年的，因为出了海难事故三个月就结束了。尽管他富于幻想，甚至有时想入非非，可基本上他是喜欢实际的，这就要求他写自己熟悉的东西。他熟悉捕鲸，他利用自己熟悉的材料设计了两个男孩作主角，从而计展他设想的冒险活动。这工作很容易，他星期六晚上作出决定，当天就完成了第一期的三千字——吉姆觉得挺好玩．希金波坦先生却公开嗤之以具，整个进餐时间都在嘲笑家里新发现的“文豪”。
马丁只想像着星期天早上他的姐夫打开《检验者》读到探宝故事时那副吃惊的样子，并以此为满足。星期天他一大早就到了大门口，紧张地翻了一遍版数很多的报纸，又再仔细地翻了一遍，然后抗好放回原处。他很庆幸没有把写这篇文章的事告诉任何人。后来他想了想，得出结论，报纸发表文章的速度不是他所想像的那么快。何况他那文章并无新闻价值，编者很有可能先要跟他联系之后再发稿。
早饭之后他继续写他的连载故事。他的文思滔滔不绝，尽管常常停下笔来查词典。查修辞学。在查阅时又往往一章一章地读下去，反复地读。他安慰自己说这虽还不是在写作自己心目中的伟大作品，却是在练习写作，培养构思和表达的能力。他卖劲地写，写到黄昏时分再出门到阅览室去翻杂志和周刊，直到阅览室十点钟关门。他整周的日程都是如此。每天三千字，晚上翻杂志，调查编辑喜欢发去哪类故事。文章和诗歌。有一点是肯定的：既然有那么多作家能写，他就能写。只要能给他时间，他还能写出他们写不出来的东西。他在《书籍新闻》上读到一段有关杂志撰稿人收入的文章很受到鼓舞。倒不是吉卜林的稿费每字一元，而是第一流杂志的最低稿费是每字两分。《青年伙伴》肯定是第一流杂志，按那标准计算他那天写的三千字就可以给他赚来六十元——那可是出海两个月的工资！
星期五晚上他写完了连载故事，二万一千字。他算了算，每个字两分，四百二十元。这一周的活干得可不赖，他一次用收入从没有这么高的。真不知道怎么花呢！他挖到金矿了。这矿还能持续不断地开下去呢！他计划再买几套衣服，订很多杂志，买上几十本参考书，那就用不看到图书馆查书了。那四百二十元还剩下很多，这叫他伤了好一会儿脑筋。最后才想起可以给格特露请个佣人，给茉莉安买辆自行车。
他把那厚厚的手稿寄给了精年伙伴》，又计划好写一篇潜水来珠的故事，然后才在星期六下午去看露丝。他事先打过电话，露丝亲自到门口迎接了他，他那一身熟悉的旺盛精力喷薄而出二仿佛劈面给了她一个冲击，仿佛一道奔泻的光芒射进了她的身子，流遍了她的血管。给了她力量，使她震颤。他握住她的手望着她那蓝色的眼睛时禁不住脸红了。可那八个月的太阳晒成的青铜色把那红晕遮住了，尽管它遮不住脖子不让它受硬领的折磨。她注意到那一道红印觉得好笑，但转眼看到那身衣服她的笑意便消失了。那衣服确实报称身——那是他第一套雷体定做的服装——他看去似乎更颀长了些，挺拔了些。他那布便帽也换成了软礼帽。她要求他戴上看看，然后便称赞他漂亮。她想不起什么时候曾经这样快活过〔他的变化乃是她的成绩，她以此自豪，更急于进一步帮助他。
但是他最大的也最叫她高兴的变化却是他的谈吐。不但纯正多了，而且轻松多了。他使用了许多新词语。只是一激动或兴奋他那含糊不清的老毛病又会发作，字尾的辅音也会吞掉。而在他试用刚学会的新同语时还会出现尴尬的犹豫。还有，他说话不但流畅了，而且带了几分俏皮诙谐，这么叫她高兴。他一向幽默风趣，善于开玩笑，很受伙伴们欢迎，但是由于词语不丰、训练不足，他在她面前却无从施展。现在他已摸到了方向，觉得自己不再是局外人。但是他却很小心，甚至过分小心，只紧跟露丝定下的快活和幻想的尺度，不敢轻易越雷池一步。
他告诉她他近来做了些什么，又说他打算靠写作为生，并巨继续做研究工作。但是他失望了。她并没有表示赞同，对他的计划评价不高。
“你看，”她担率地说，“写作跟别的工作一样必须是个职业。当然，我对写作并不了解，只是凭常识判断。要当铁匠不先做三年学徒是不行的——也许是五年吧！作家比铁匠的收入高多了，想当作家的人自然会多得多，想写作的人多着呢。”
‘可我是不是得天独厚，最宜于写作呢？”他问道，心中暗暗为话中使用的习语得意。他敏锐的想像力把现在这场面、气氛跟他生活中无数粗鲁放肆鄙陋野蛮的场面投射到了同一个巨大的幕布——这复杂的幻影整个以光速形成，没有使谈话停顿，也没有影响他平静的思路。在他那想像的银幕上他看到自己跟这个美丽可爱的姑娘面对面坐在一间充满书籍。绘画。情趣与文化的屋子里，用纯正的英语交谈着，一道明亮耀眼的光稳定地笼罩住他俩。而与此对照的种种场面则罗列在他们四周，逐渐往银幕的边沿淡去。每一个场面是一幅图画，而他是看客，可以随意观看自己喜欢的画面。他穿过流荡的烟云和旋卷的雾震观看着这些画面。烟云雾震在耀眼的红光前散开，他看见了酒吧前的牛仔喝着烈性的威一L忌，空气中弥漫着很亵粗鲁的话语，他看见自己跟他们在一起，跟最粗野的人在一起喝酒咒骂，或是跟他们玩着扑克，赌场的筹码在冒黑烟的煤油灯下发着脆响。他看见自己打着赤膊投戴手套服“利物浦红火”在萨斯克汉纳号的前舱进行着那场了不起的拳击赛。他看见约翰·罗杰斯号血淋淋的甲板。是那个准备哗变的灰色清晨，大副在主舱D因死前的痛苦踢着腿；可那老头儿手上的连发枪还冒着烟。水手们扭曲着激动的面孔，发出尖利狠毒的咒骂，一个个粗鲁的汉子在他身边倒下。他又回想到正中的场面，光照稳定。平静、纯洁。露丝跟他对坐闲谈，周围全是书籍和绘画。他也看到了钢琴。于是露丝为他弹奏。他听见了自己选用的正确词语在震响。“那么，我难道不是得天独厚最宜于写作的人么？”
“但是一个人无论怎样得天独厚最直于当铁匠，”露丝笑了，“我却从来没听说有人不光当学徒就能行的。”
“那你看我该怎么办？”他问，“别忘了，我觉得我有这种写作能力——我解释不清楚，我只知道我内心有这件条件。”
‘你必须受到完整的教育，”她回答，“无论你最终是否当作家，无论你选定什么职业，这种教育是必不可少的，而且不能马虎粗糙。你应当上中学。”
“是的——”他正要说，她补充了一句，打断了他的话。
“当然，你也可以继续写作。”
“我是非写作不可的，”他狠狠地说。
“怎么？”她茫然地、甜甜地望着他。不太喜欢他那种执拗劲。
“因为我不写作就上不了中学。你知道我很吃晚得买书，买衣服。”
“这我倒忘了，”她笑了起来，“你怎么会生下来没有遗产呢？”
“我倒更乐意生下来就身体结实，想像力丰富。”他回答，“钱不钱可以将就，有些东西——”他几乎用了个“你”，却删去了——“叮将就不了。”
“你说‘将就’，”她生气地叫道，口气却甜蜜，“那话太俗，太难听了。”
他脸红了，给巴地说：“好的，我只希望你一发现我有错就纠正。”
“我——我愿意，”她犹豫地说，“你身上有很多优点，我希望看见你十全十美。”
他立即变成了她手中的泥团。他满腔热情地希望她塑造他；她也很想把他塑造成为一个理想的人。她告诉他，正巧中学入学考试就要在下周星期一举行，他立即表示愿意参加。
然后她便为他弹琴唱歌。他怀着一腔饥渴注视着她，饱饮着她的美丽，心里纳闷：怎么会没有一百个追求者像他一样在那儿听她弹唱，恋爱看她呢？
Chapter 10
He stopped to dinner that evening, and, much to Ruth's satisfaction, made a favorable impression on her father. They talked about the sea as a career, a subject which Martin had at his finger-ends, and Mr. Morse remarked afterward that he seemed a very clear-headed young man. In his avoidance of slang and his search after right words, Martin was compelled to talk slowly, which enabled him to find the best thoughts that were in him. He was more at ease than that first night at dinner, nearly a year before, and his shyness and modesty even commended him to Mrs. Morse, who was pleased at his manifest improvement.
"He is the first man that ever drew passing notice from Ruth," she told her husband. "She has been so singularly backward where men are concerned that I have been worried greatly."
Mr. Morse looked at his wife curiously.
"You mean to use this young sailor to wake her up?" he questioned.
"I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the answer. "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in general, it will be a good thing."
"A very good thing," he commented. "But suppose, - and we must suppose, sometimes, my dear, - suppose he arouses her interest too particularly in him?"
"Impossible," Mrs. Morse laughed. "She is three years older than he, and, besides, it is impossible. Nothing will ever come of it. Trust that to me."
And so Martin's role was arranged for him, while he, led on by Arthur and Norman, was meditating an extravagance. They were going out for a ride into the hills Sunday morning on their wheels, which did not interest Martin until he learned that Ruth, too, rode a wheel and was going along. He did not ride, nor own a wheel, but if Ruth rode, it was up to him to begin, was his decision; and when he said good night, he stopped in at a cyclery on his way home and spent forty dollars for a wheel. It was more than a month's hard- earned wages, and it reduced his stock of money amazingly; but when he added the hundred dollars he was to receive from the EXAMINER to the four hundred and twenty dollars that was the least THE YOUTH'S COMPANION could pay him, he felt that he had reduced the perplexity the unwonted amount of money had caused him. Nor did he mind, in the course of learning to ride the wheel home, the fact that he ruined his suit of clothes. He caught the tailor by telephone that night from Mr. Higginbotham's store and ordered another suit. Then he carried the wheel up the narrow stairway that clung like a fire- escape to the rear wall of the building, and when he had moved his bed out from the wall, found there was just space enough in the small room for himself and the wheel.
Sunday he had intended to devote to studying for the high school examination, but the pearl-diving article lured him away, and he spent the day in the white-hot fever of re-creating the beauty and romance that burned in him. The fact that the EXAMINER of that morning had failed to publish his treasure-hunting article did not dash his spirits. He was at too great a height for that, and having been deaf to a twice-repeated summons, he went without the heavy Sunday dinner with which Mr. Higginbotham invariably graced his table. To Mr. Higginbotham such a dinner was advertisement of his worldly achievement and prosperity, and he honored it by delivering platitudinous sermonettes upon American institutions and the opportunity said institutions gave to any hard-working man to rise - the rise, in his case, which he pointed out unfailingly, being from a grocer's clerk to the ownership of Higginbotham's Cash Store.
Martin Eden looked with a sigh at his unfinished "Pearl-diving" on Monday morning, and took the car down to Oakland to the high school. And when, days later, he applied for the results of his examinations, he learned that he had failed in everything save grammar.
"Your grammar is excellent," Professor Hilton informed him, staring at him through heavy spectacles; "but you know nothing, positively nothing, in the other branches, and your United States history is abominable - there is no other word for it, abominable. I should advise you - "
Professor Hilton paused and glared at him, unsympathetic and unimaginative as one of his own test-tubes. He was professor of physics in the high school, possessor of a large family, a meagre salary, and a select fund of parrot-learned knowledge.
"Yes, sir," Martin said humbly, wishing somehow that the man at the desk in the library was in Professor Hilton's place just then.
"And I should advise you to go back to the grammar school for at least two years. Good day."
Martin was not deeply affected by his failure, though he was surprised at Ruth's shocked expression when he told her Professor Hilton's advice. Her disappointment was so evident that he was sorry he had failed, but chiefly so for her sake.
"You see I was right," she said. "You know far more than any of the students entering high school, and yet you can't pass the examinations. It is because what education you have is fragmentary, sketchy. You need the discipline of study, such as only skilled teachers can give you. You must be thoroughly grounded. Professor Hilton is right, and if I were you, I'd go to night school. A year and a half of it might enable you to catch up that additional six months. Besides, that would leave you your days in which to write, or, if you could not make your living by your pen, you would have your days in which to work in some position."
But if my days are taken up with work and my nights with school, when am I going to see you? - was Martin's first thought, though he refrained from uttering it. Instead, he said:-
"It seems so babyish for me to be going to night school. But I wouldn't mind that if I thought it would pay. But I don't think it will pay. I can do the work quicker than they can teach me. It would be a loss of time - " he thought of her and his desire to have her - "and I can't afford the time. I haven't the time to spare, in fact."
"There is so much that is necessary." She looked at him gently, and he was a brute to oppose her. "Physics and chemistry - you can't do them without laboratory study; and you'll find algebra and geometry almost hopeless with instruction. You need the skilled teachers, the specialists in the art of imparting knowledge."
He was silent for a minute, casting about for the least vainglorious way in which to express himself.
"Please don't think I'm bragging," he began. "I don't intend it that way at all. But I have a feeling that I am what I may call a natural student. I can study by myself. I take to it kindly, like a duck to water. You see yourself what I did with grammar. And I've learned much of other things - you would never dream how much. And I'm only getting started. Wait till I get - " He hesitated and assured himself of the pronunciation before he said "momentum. I'm getting my first real feel of things now. I'm beginning to size up the situation - "
"Please don't say 'size up,'" she interrupted.
"To get a line on things," he hastily amended.
"That doesn't mean anything in correct English," she objected.
He floundered for a fresh start.
"What I'm driving at is that I'm beginning to get the lay of the land."
Out of pity she forebore, and he went on.
"Knowledge seems to me like a chart-room. Whenever I go into the library, I am impressed that way. The part played by teachers is to teach the student the contents of the chart-room in a systematic way. The teachers are guides to the chart-room, that's all. It's not something that they have in their own heads. They don't make it up, don't create it. It's all in the chart-room and they know their way about in it, and it's their business to show the place to strangers who might else get lost. Now I don't get lost easily. I have the bump of location. I usually know where I'm at - What's wrong now?"
"Don't say 'where I'm at.'"
"That's right," he said gratefully, "where I am. But where am I at - I mean, where am I? Oh, yes, in the chart-room. Well, some people - "
"Persons," she corrected.
"Some persons need guides, most persons do; but I think I can get along without them. I've spent a lot of time in the chart-room now, and I'm on the edge of knowing my way about, what charts I want to refer to, what coasts I want to explore. And from the way I line it up, I'll explore a whole lot more quickly by myself. The speed of a fleet, you know, is the speed of the slowest ship, and the speed of the teachers is affected the same way. They can't go any faster than the ruck of their scholars, and I can set a faster pace for myself than they set for a whole schoolroom."
"'He travels the fastest who travels alone,'" she quoted at him.
But I'd travel faster with you just the same, was what he wanted to blurt out, as he caught a vision of a world without end of sunlit spaces and starry voids through which he drifted with her, his arm around her, her pale gold hair blowing about his face. In the same instant he was aware of the pitiful inadequacy of speech. God! If he could so frame words that she could see what he then saw! And he felt the stir in him, like a throe of yearning pain, of the desire to paint these visions that flashed unsummoned on the mirror of his mind. Ah, that was it! He caught at the hem of the secret. It was the very thing that the great writers and master-poets did. That was why they were giants. They knew how to express what they thought, and felt, and saw. Dogs asleep in the sun often whined and barked, but they were unable to tell what they saw that made them whine and bark. He had often wondered what it was. And that was all he was, a dog asleep in the sun. He saw noble and beautiful visions, but he could only whine and bark at Ruth. But he would cease sleeping in the sun. He would stand up, with open eyes, and he would struggle and toil and learn until, with eyes unblinded and tongue untied, he could share with her his visioned wealth. Other men had discovered the trick of expression, of making words obedient servitors, and of making combinations of words mean more than the sum of their separate meanings. He was stirred profoundly by the passing glimpse at the secret, and he was again caught up in the vision of sunlit spaces and starry voids - until it came to him that it was very quiet, and he saw Ruth regarding him with an amused expression and a smile in her eyes.
"I have had a great visioning," he said, and at the sound of his words in his own ears his heart gave a leap. Where had those words come from? They had adequately expressed the pause his vision had put in the conversation. It was a miracle. Never had he so loftily framed a lofty thought. But never had he attempted to frame lofty thoughts in words. That was it. That explained it. He had never tried. But Swinburne had, and Tennyson, and Kipling, and all the other poets. His mind flashed on to his "Pearl- diving." He had never dared the big things, the spirit of the beauty that was a fire in him. That article would be a different thing when he was done with it. He was appalled by the vastness of the beauty that rightfully belonged in it, and again his mind flashed and dared, and he demanded of himself why he could not chant that beauty in noble verse as the great poets did. And there was all the mysterious delight and spiritual wonder of his love for Ruth. Why could he not chant that, too, as the poets did? They had sung of love. So would he. By God! -
And in his frightened ears he heard his exclamation echoing. Carried away, he had breathed it aloud. The blood surged into his face, wave upon wave, mastering the bronze of it till the blush of shame flaunted itself from collar-rim to the roots of his hair.
"I - I - beg your pardon," he stammered. "I was thinking."
"It sounded as if you were praying," she said bravely, but she felt herself inside to be withering and shrinking. It was the first time she had heard an oath from the lips of a man she knew, and she was shocked, not merely as a matter of principle and training, but shocked in spirit by this rough blast of life in the garden of her sheltered maidenhood.
But she forgave, and with surprise at the ease of her forgiveness. Somehow it was not so difficult to forgive him anything. He had not had a chance to be as other men, and he was trying so hard, and succeeding, too. It never entered her head that there could be any other reason for her being kindly disposed toward him. She was tenderly disposed toward him, but she did not know it. She had no way of knowing it. The placid poise of twenty-four years without a single love affair did not fit her with a keen perception of her own feelings, and she who had never warmed to actual love was unaware that she was warming now.
那天晚上他留下来吃了晚饭，给露丝的父亲留下了良好的印象，露丝很为满意。他们谈海洋事业，这是马丁了如指掌的话题。事后莫尔斯先生说他似乎是个有头脑的青年。由于回避土精俗语和寻找恰当的字眼，马丁说话放慢了速度，这能使他便于找到心中最好的想法。他比大约在一年前的晚餐席上轻松多了。他的腼腆和谦恭甚至博得了莫尔斯太太的好感。她见了他明显的进步很为高兴。 
“他是第一个引起露丝偶然注意的男人，”她告诉她的丈夫，“在男性问题上她落后得出奇，我为她非常担心呢。”
莫尔斯先生惊异地望着妻子。
“你打算用这个年青水手去唤醒她么？”他问。
“我是说我只要有法可想是决不会让她当一辈子老姑娘的，”她回答。“若是这年青的伊登能唤醒她对男性的普遍兴趣，倒是件好事、”
“是件大好事，”父亲发表意见，“但是假定——有时我们不能不假定，亲爱的——假定她竟对他请有独钟呢？”
“不可能，”莫尔斯太太笑了，“她比他大三岁，而且也办不到，不会出问题的，相信我好了。”
马丁所要扮演的角色就这样内定了下来。而此时他在亚瑟和诺尔曼的诱导下正在考虑一桩特别花钱的事。他们要到小山区去作自行车旅游。马丁对此原不感兴趣，但他却听说露丝匕会骑自行车，也要去，便同意了。他不会骑自行车，也没有车，但既然露丝要骑他就决定自己非骑不可。晚上分手以后他便在回家的路上进了一家自行车行，买了一部自行车，花了四十块钱。那数目超过了他一个月的辛苦钱，严重地缩减了他的储蓄。但是在他把《检验者》要给他的一百元加在《青年伙伴》至少要给他的四百二十元以上后便感到这笔不寻常的开支所带来的烦恼减轻了。在他学着骑车回家的路上衣服又给撕破了，他也满不在乎。那天晚上他从希金波坦先生店奖给裁缝打了个电话，另行定做了一套。然后他便把自行车扛上了紧贴房屋后壁乍得像太平梯一样的楼梯，再把自己的床从墙边柳开，便发现那小屋只装得下他和自行车了。
星期天他原打算用来准备中学入学考试的，但那篇潜水采珠的故事引开了他的兴趣。他用了一整天工夫狂热地重视了那叫他燃烧的美和浪漫。《检验者》那天早上没有刊载他的探宝故事，可那并没有叫他泄气。他此时居高临下，是不会泄气的、希金波坦先生两次叫他去参加星期天晚上的聚餐，他都没去。希金波坦先生家星期天总要加点好菜。这顿饭是他事业有成繁荣兴旺的广告。在席上他总要发表一篇老套的说教，夸赞美国的制度和它能给一切肯吃苦的人上进的机会。他总要指出，他就是从一个杂货店店员上升为希金波坦现金商店的老板的。
星期一早上马丁·伊登望着还没写完的潜水采珠的故事。叹了一口气，坐车到了奥克兰的中学。几天之后他去看考试成绩，发现地除了语法之外每门课都没有及格。
“你的语法优秀，”希尔顿老师隔着厚厚的镜片盯着他，对他说，“但别的功课却一无所知，确实是一无所知。你的美国史简直糟糕透了——没有别的词形容，就是糟糕透了。我劝你——”
希尔顿老师停了停，瞪着地，缺乏同情和想像力，跟他的试管一样。他是中学的物理老师，养着一大家人，薪水微薄，有一肚子精挑细选的人云亦云的知识。
“是，先生，”马丁乖乖地说，希望那时处于希尔顿老师地位的是图书馆询问台的那个人。
“我建议你回小学去至少读两年。日安。”
马丁对考试失败并不大在乎，但他告诉露丝希尔顿老师的建议时露丝那震惊的表情却叫他大吃了一惊。她的失望非常明显。他感到抱歉，但主要是因为她。
“你看，我说对了，”她说，“你比读中学的学生知识丰富多了，可你就是考不及格，那是因为你的教育是零碎的、粗疏的。你需要训练，那是只有熟练教师才能做的事。你必须有全面的基础。希尔顿老师是对的，我要是你，我就去上夜校。一年半的夜校就可以让你赶上去，可以少读六个月，而且能给你时间写作。即使不能靠写作为生，也可以找白天干的活儿。”
可是我若是白天干活儿，晚上上夜校，哪有时间来看你呢？——这是马丁的第一个念头。但他忍住了没讲。他说：
“让我上夜校，太像小孩儿了。但只要我认为有用我也不在乎。但是我并不认为有用。我可以学得比他们教得快。夜校只是浪费时间而已——”他想到了她，想到自己还要获得她——“而且我也没有时间。实际上我挤不出时间。”
“你必须学习的东西太多，”她那样温和地望着他，使他觉得若是再反对就成了禽兽。“物理和化学——没有实验课你是学不会的，你还会发现代数和几何若是不听课也学不会，你需要的是熟练的教师，传授知识的专家。”
他沉默了一会儿，想找到个最不虚荣的方式表达自己的意思。
“请不要以为我在吹牛，”他开始说，“我一点没有吹牛的意思。但是我有一种感觉，我是那种可以称作天生的自学者的人。我可以自学。我天生好学，像鸭子喜欢水一样。我学语法的情况件是看见的。我还学过许多别的东西——你做梦也想不到我学了多少。而我不过才开始。只要等我积聚起——”他犹豫了一下，确信自己没用错词才说，‘”积聚起势头，我现在才真正有了点感觉。我正开始估算形势——”
“请不要用‘估算’，”她插嘴道。
“摸索形势，”他赶紧改正。
“在正确英语回这话也不通，”她批评。
他挣扎着另谋出路。
“我的意思是我正开始琢磨情况。”
出于同情她容忍了。他说了下去。
“在我看来知识仿佛就是一门海图室。我每次去图书馆都产生这种印象。老师的任务就是把它系统地教给学生，他将图室的指导，如此而已。海图室并不是老师脑子担的东西，老师并没有造出海图室，海图室不是他的作品。海图都在海图室，他们知道怎样利用海图，他们的工作就是向陌生人指出图上的方位以免别人迷航。而我却是不容易迷航的。我有方向感，总知道自己在什么地方——又出了什么问题了。”
“Where后面不要再用at。”
“对，”他感谢地说，“不用at。我说到哪儿了？啊是的，说到海图图。唔，有的人是需要指导的，大部分人都需要。但我认为我不要指导照样可以工作。我现在已在海图室工作了很久，差不多学会了该看什么图，找哪个海岸了。我琢磨我若是自己摸索进步要快得多，你要知道，舰队的速度就是它最慢的船只的速度，教师的进度也受到同样的影响，不能比差生快。我给自己规定可以比老师为全班学生规定的速度快。”
“独行最速，”她为他引用了一句成语。
有一句话他几乎脱口而出：我跟你一起照样能快。一个幻觉在他眼前出现：一片无边无际的天空，这里阳光明媚，那里星光灿烂，他跟她一起飞翔，他的手臂搂住她，她淡金色的头发拂着他的面颊。可这时却感到了他那蹩脚的语言的隔阂。上帝呀！要是他能自由自在地运用语言，让她看到他看到的东西就好了！他感到一阵激动；要为她把自己内心的明镜上自然呈现的幻影描述出来，那是一种痛苦的渴望。啊，原来如此！他隐隐约约领悟到了那奥秘。那正是大文豪大诗人的本领所在，他们之所以伟大的道理。他们懂得怎样把自己所想到的、感觉到的和见到的表现出来。在阳光中睡觉的狗常要呜咽或吠叫几声，但狗说不出自己看到的那使它呜咽的东西。他常常猜测狗看见了什么。而他自己就是只在阳光奖睡觉的狗。他看到了高雅美丽的幻影，却只有对着露丝呜咽吠叫。他得要停止在阳光军睡觉。他要睁开眼睛，站起身来，要奋斗、要工作、要学习，直到眼前没有了蔽障，舌尖没有了挂碍，能够把他丰富的幻觉与露丝共享。别的人已找到了表达的窍门，能让词语得心应手，让同语的组合表达出比单词意义相加丰富得多的意思。对这奥秘的短短的一瞥给了他深沉的鼓舞，他再度看到了阳光明媚星光灿烂的空间的幻影——他忽然发现没有声音了，他看见露丝眼含微笑，饶有兴味地观察看他。
“我刚才看到了一个了不起的幻影，”他说，听见自己的话语声他的心猛地跳了一下。他用的词是从哪儿来的？他的话为幻影所导致的停顿作了恰如其分的说明。直是奇迹。他从没有像这样把一个崇高的思想崇高地表达出来过。根本没有想到过问题的症结正在这里，解决的办法也在这里，他从没有试过。但是史文朋试过，吉卜林和所有的诗人都试过。他的心闪向了他的《潜水采珠》，他从没有敢于尝试伟大的东西，去表现那燃烧在他心底的美丽的神韵。若是把它写了出来，一定会与众不同的。那故事应有的美的广阔浩瀚令他畏惧。他的心再一次闪亮，再一次鼓起勇气，他问自己，为什么就不能像伟大的诗人们那样用高雅的诗篇歌唱那全部的美？还有他对腐丝的爱情造成的神秘的欢乐与精神的奇迹，他为什么不能像诗人们一样歌颂它？他们歌唱过爱情，那么他也要歌唱爱情。啊，上帝作证！——这声惊叹反响到他月出，不禁叫他吓了一跳。他一时忘情，竟然叫出了声！血液一阵阵冲向他的面颊，压倒了额上的青铜色，羞赧的红晕从硬须留一直涌到发报。
“我——我——我很抱歉，”他结巴地说，“我刚才显在思考。”
“听起来你好像在作祷告呢，”她鼓起勇气说，心经却不禁世了气，感到难受。从她所认识的男人嘴里听见亵线的活，这在她还是第一次。她很吃惊，不但因为那是个原则和教养时问题，而己因为她的精神在她受到庇护的处文苑圃里受到了生活里的狂风的吹打，感到了震撼。
但是她却原谅了他，原谅得很轻松，她自己也感到意外。不知怎么，原谅他的任何过失都并不困难。他不像别人那么幸运，却十计肯干，而且有成绩。她从来没有想到自己对他的好感还会有别的理由。她对他怀着温柔的情绪自己却不知道，也无法知道。她二十四岁了，一向平静稳重，从没恋爱过，可这并没有使她对自己的感情敏锐起来。这位从未因真正的爱情而动心的姑娘并没意识到她已怦然心动。
Chapter 11
Martin went back to his pearl-diving article, which would have been finished sooner if it had not been broken in upon so frequently by his attempts to write poetry. His poems were love poems, inspired by Ruth, but they were never completed. Not in a day could he learn to chant in noble verse. Rhyme and metre and structure were serious enough in themselves, but there was, over and beyond them, an intangible and evasive something that he caught in all great poetry, but which he could not catch and imprison in his own. It was the elusive spirit of poetry itself that he sensed and sought after but could not capture. It seemed a glow to him, a warm and trailing vapor, ever beyond his reaching, though sometimes he was rewarded by catching at shreds of it and weaving them into phrases that echoed in his brain with haunting notes or drifted across his vision in misty wafture of unseen beauty. It was baffling. He ached with desire to express and could but gibber prosaically as everybody gibbered. He read his fragments aloud. The metre marched along on perfect feet, and the rhyme pounded a longer and equally faultless rhythm, but the glow and high exaltation that he felt within were lacking. He could not understand, and time and again, in despair, defeated and depressed, he returned to his article. Prose was certainly an easier medium.
Following the "Pearl-diving," he wrote an article on the sea as a career, another on turtle-catching, and a third on the northeast trades. Then he tried, as an experiment, a short story, and before he broke his stride he had finished six short stories and despatched them to various magazines. He wrote prolifically, intensely, from morning till night, and late at night, except when he broke off to go to the reading-room, draw books from the library, or to call on Ruth. He was profoundly happy. Life was pitched high. He was in a fever that never broke. The joy of creation that is supposed to belong to the gods was his. All the life about him - the odors of stale vegetables and soapsuds, the slatternly form of his sister, and the jeering face of Mr. Higginbotham - was a dream. The real world was in his mind, and the stories he wrote were so many pieces of reality out of his mind.
The days were too short. There was so much he wanted to study. He cut his sleep down to five hours and found that he could get along upon it. He tried four hours and a half, and regretfully came back to five. He could joyfully have spent all his waking hours upon any one of his pursuits. It was with regret that he ceased from writing to study, that he ceased from study to go to the library, that he tore himself away from that chart-room of knowledge or from the magazines in the reading-room that were filled with the secrets of writers who succeeded in selling their wares. It was like severing heart strings, when he was with Ruth, to stand up and go; and he scorched through the dark streets so as to get home to his books at the least possible expense of time. And hardest of all was it to shut up the algebra or physics, put note-book and pencil aside, and close his tired eyes in sleep. He hated the thought of ceasing to live, even for so short a time, and his sole consolation was that the alarm clock was set five hours ahead. He would lose only five hours anyway, and then the jangling bell would jerk him out of unconsciousness and he would have before him another glorious day of nineteen hours.
In the meantime the weeks were passing, his money was ebbing low, and there was no money coming in. A month after he had mailed it, the adventure serial for boys was returned to him by THE YOUTH'S COMPANION. The rejection slip was so tactfully worded that he felt kindly toward the editor. But he did not feel so kindly toward the editor of the SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER. After waiting two whole weeks, Martin had written to him. A week later he wrote again. At the end of the month, he went over to San Francisco and personally called upon the editor. But he did not meet that exalted personage, thanks to a Cerberus of an office boy, of tender years and red hair, who guarded the portals. At the end of the fifth week the manuscript came back to him, by mail, without comment. There was no rejection slip, no explanation, nothing. In the same way his other articles were tied up with the other leading San Francisco papers. When he recovered them, he sent them to the magazines in the East, from which they were returned more promptly, accompanied always by the printed rejection slips.
The short stories were returned in similar fashion. He read them over and over, and liked them so much that he could not puzzle out the cause of their rejection, until, one day, he read in a newspaper that manuscripts should always be typewritten. That explained it. Of course editors were so busy that they could not afford the time and strain of reading handwriting. Martin rented a typewriter and spent a day mastering the machine. Each day he typed what he composed, and he typed his earlier manuscripts as fast as they were returned him. He was surprised when the typed ones began to come back. His jaw seemed to become squarer, his chin more aggressive, and he bundled the manuscripts off to new editors.
The thought came to him that he was not a good judge of his own work. He tried it out on Gertrude. He read his stories aloud to her. Her eyes glistened, and she looked at him proudly as she said:-
"Ain't it grand, you writin' those sort of things."
"Yes, yes," he demanded impatiently. "But the story - how did you like it?"
"Just grand," was the reply. "Just grand, an' thrilling, too. I was all worked up."
He could see that her mind was not clear. The perplexity was strong in her good-natured face. So he waited.
"But, say, Mart," after a long pause, "how did it end? Did that young man who spoke so highfalutin' get her?"
And, after he had explained the end, which he thought he had made artistically obvious, she would say:-
"That's what I wanted to know. Why didn't you write that way in the story?"
One thing he learned, after he had read her a number of stories, namely, that she liked happy endings.
"That story was perfectly grand," she announced, straightening up from the wash-tub with a tired sigh and wiping the sweat from her forehead with a red, steamy hand; "but it makes me sad. I want to cry. There is too many sad things in the world anyway. It makes me happy to think about happy things. Now if he'd married her, and - You don't mind, Mart?" she queried apprehensively. "I just happen to feel that way, because I'm tired, I guess. But the story was grand just the same, perfectly grand. Where are you goin' to sell it?"
"That's a horse of another color," he laughed.
"But if you DID sell it, what do you think you'd get for it?"
"Oh, a hundred dollars. That would be the least, the way prices go."
"My! I do hope you'll sell it!"
"Easy money, eh?" Then he added proudly: "I wrote it in two days. That's fifty dollars a day."
He longed to read his stories to Ruth, but did not dare. He would wait till some were published, he decided, then she would understand what he had been working for. In the meantime he toiled on. Never had the spirit of adventure lured him more strongly than on this amazing exploration of the realm of mind. He bought the text-books on physics and chemistry, and, along with his algebra, worked out problems and demonstrations. He took the laboratory proofs on faith, and his intense power of vision enabled him to see the reactions of chemicals more understandingly than the average student saw them in the laboratory. Martin wandered on through the heavy pages, overwhelmed by the clews he was getting to the nature of things. He had accepted the world as the world, but now he was comprehending the organization of it, the play and interplay of force and matter. Spontaneous explanations of old matters were continually arising in his mind. Levers and purchases fascinated him, and his mind roved backward to hand-spikes and blocks and tackles at sea. The theory of navigation, which enabled the ships to travel unerringly their courses over the pathless ocean, was made clear to him. The mysteries of storm, and rain, and tide were revealed, and the reason for the existence of trade-winds made him wonder whether he had written his article on the northeast trade too soon. At any rate he knew he could write it better now. One afternoon he went out with Arthur to the University of California, and, with bated breath and a feeling of religious awe, went through the laboratories, saw demonstrations, and listened to a physics professor lecturing to his classes.
But he did not neglect his writing. A stream of short stories flowed from his pen, and he branched out into the easier forms of verse - the kind he saw printed in the magazines - though he lost his head and wasted two weeks on a tragedy in blank verse, the swift rejection of which, by half a dozen magazines, dumfounded him. Then he discovered Henley and wrote a series of sea-poems on the model of "Hospital Sketches." They were simple poems, of light and color, and romance and adventure. "Sea Lyrics," he called them, and he judged them to be the best work he had yet done. There were thirty, and he completed them in a month, doing one a day after having done his regular day's work on fiction, which day's work was the equivalent to a week's work of the average successful writer. The toil meant nothing to him. It was not toil. He was finding speech, and all the beauty and wonder that had been pent for years behind his inarticulate lips was now pouring forth in a wild and virile flood.
He showed the "Sea Lyrics" to no one, not even to the editors. He had become distrustful of editors. But it was not distrust that prevented him from submitting the "Lyrics." They were so beautiful to him that he was impelled to save them to share with Ruth in some glorious, far-off time when he would dare to read to her what he had written. Against that time he kept them with him, reading them aloud, going over them until he knew them by heart.
He lived every moment of his waking hours, and he lived in his sleep, his subjective mind rioting through his five hours of surcease and combining the thoughts and events of the day into grotesque and impossible marvels. In reality, he never rested, and a weaker body or a less firmly poised brain would have been prostrated in a general break-down. His late afternoon calls on Ruth were rarer now, for June was approaching, when she would take her degree and finish with the university. Bachelor of Arts! - when he thought of her degree, it seemed she fled beyond him faster than he could pursue.
One afternoon a week she gave to him, and arriving late, he usually stayed for dinner and for music afterward. Those were his red- letter days. The atmosphere of the house, in such contrast with that in which he lived, and the mere nearness to her, sent him forth each time with a firmer grip on his resolve to climb the heights. In spite of the beauty in him, and the aching desire to create, it was for her that he struggled. He was a lover first and always. All other things he subordinated to love.
Greater than his adventure in the world of thought was his love- adventure. The world itself was not so amazing because of the atoms and molecules that composed it according to the propulsions of irresistible force; what made it amazing was the fact that Ruth lived in it. She was the most amazing thing he had ever known, or dreamed, or guessed.
But he was oppressed always by her remoteness. She was so far from him, and he did not know how to approach her. He had been a success with girls and women in his own class; but he had never loved any of them, while he did love her, and besides, she was not merely of another class. His very love elevated her above all classes. She was a being apart, so far apart that he did not know how to draw near to her as a lover should draw near. It was true, as he acquired knowledge and language, that he was drawing nearer, talking her speech, discovering ideas and delights in common; but this did not satisfy his lover's yearning. His lover's imagination had made her holy, too holy, too spiritualized, to have any kinship with him in the flesh. It was his own love that thrust her from him and made her seem impossible for him. Love itself denied him the one thing that it desired.
And then, one day, without warning, the gulf between them was bridged for a moment, and thereafter, though the gulf remained, it was ever narrower. They had been eating cherries - great, luscious, black cherries with a juice of the color of dark wine. And later, as she read aloud to him from "The Princess," he chanced to notice the stain of the cherries on her lips. For the moment her divinity was shattered. She was clay, after all, mere clay, subject to the common law of clay as his clay was subject, or anybody's clay. Her lips were flesh like his, and cherries dyed them as cherries dyed his. And if so with her lips, then was it so with all of her. She was woman, all woman, just like any woman. It came upon him abruptly. It was a revelation that stunned him. It was as if he had seen the sun fall out of the sky, or had seen worshipped purity polluted.
Then he realized the significance of it, and his heart began pounding and challenging him to play the lover with this woman who was not a spirit from other worlds but a mere woman with lips a cherry could stain. He trembled at the audacity of his thought; but all his soul was singing, and reason, in a triumphant paean, assured him he was right. Something of this change in him must have reached her, for she paused from her reading, looked up at him, and smiled. His eyes dropped from her blue eyes to her lips, and the sight of the stain maddened him. His arms all but flashed out to her and around her, in the way of his old careless life. She seemed to lean toward him, to wait, and all his will fought to hold him back.
"You were not following a word," she pouted.
Then she laughed at him, delighting in his confusion, and as he looked into her frank eyes and knew that she had divined nothing of what he felt, he became abashed. He had indeed in thought dared too far. Of all the women he had known there was no woman who would not have guessed - save her. And she had not guessed. There was the difference. She was different. He was appalled by his own grossness, awed by her clear innocence, and he gazed again at her across the gulf. The bridge had broken down.
But still the incident had brought him nearer. The memory of it persisted, and in the moments when he was most cast down, he dwelt upon it eagerly. The gulf was never again so wide. He had accomplished a distance vastly greater than a bachelorship of arts, or a dozen bachelorships. She was pure, it was true, as he had never dreamed of purity; but cherries stained her lips. She was subject to the laws of the universe just as inexorably as he was. She had to eat to live, and when she got her feet wet, she caught cold. But that was not the point. If she could feel hunger and thirst, and heat and cold, then could she feel love - and love for a man. Well, he was a man. And why could he not be the man? "It's up to me to make good," he would murmur fervently. "I will be THE man. I will make myself THE man. I will make good."
马丁又回头来写他的《潜水采珠》。若不是他多次中途转而写诗，写完那篇文章会要早得多。他的诗都是爱情诗，灵感来自露丝，但都没有写成。用高雅的诗篇歌唱并非一朝一夕之功。韵脚、格律和结构已经够难的了，何况还有一种他在一切伟大的诗歌里都能感觉到却总是捉摸不定的东西，这东西他把捉不住，写不进诗里。他感觉得到，孜孜以求却无法抓住的是诗歌那闪烁不定的神韵。那东西于他宛若一道微明的亮光，一片温馨的流云，永远可望而不可即，他偶然抓住了一丝半缕编织成几个诗句，那维绕的音韵便在他脑子里回荡往复，而那以前从未见过的芙便如膝俄的雾雷在他的视野中涌现。这真叫人惶惑。他渴望表达，渴望得头疼，可诌出来的却总是些准都能诌出的东西，平淡无奇。他把自己写成的片断大声朗读，那格悻中规中矩，十至十美，韵脚敲出的节奏虽然舒缓，也同样无懈可击，但总没有他认为应当有的光芒与激情。他不知道为什么，只能一次又一次地失望、失败、泄气，又回来写他的故事。散文毕竟是较为容易的文体。 
写完《潜水采珠》，他又写了一篇有关海上生涯的东西，一篇捉海龟的东西，一篇关于东北贸易风的东西。然后他试着写短篇小说，原只想试试手，还没撒开大步，已经写成了六个，寄给了六家不同的杂志。除了去阅览室查资料、图书馆借书，或看露丝之外，他紧张地起早贪黑地写着，成果累累。他感到由衷地痛快，他的生活格调高雅，创作的狂热从不间断。他感到了过去以为只有神灵才能享有的创造的欢乐。他周围的一切全成了幻影——陈腐的蔬菜的气味，肥皂沫的气味，姐姐遍遇的样子，希金波坦先生那冷嘲热讽的脸。他心里有的才是现实世界，他写出的小说只是他心中的现实的许多片断。
日子太短，他要研究的太多。他把睡眠削减为五小时，觉得也过得去。他又试了试四小时半，却只能遗憾地放弃。把醒着的时刻用于他所追求的任河项目他都高兴。停止写作去做研究他感到遗憾，停止研究会图书馆他感到遗憾，离开知识的海图室或阅览室的杂志他也感到遗憾（杂志里充满了卖文成功的作家们的窍门）。跟露丝在一起却又得站起来离开，更像是扯断了心里的琴弦。可随即又心急火燎地穿过黑暗的街道，要尽早回到地的书本中去。而最叫他难受的却是关上代数或物理书、放开铅笔和笔记本闭上疲劳的双眼去睡觉。一想到要暂停生活（哪怕是短短的几小时）他便遗憾，他唯一的安慰是闹钟定在五个小时之后。损失毕竟只有五个小时，然后那叮铃铃的钟声便会把他从酣睡中震醒，那时地面前又会有个光辉的日子——十九个小时。
时间一周周过去，他的钱越来越少，却没有分文进项。他那篇为男孩子们写的冒险连载故事一个月之后由《青年伙伴》退了回来。退稿信措辞委婉得体，使他对编者发生了好感。但对《旧金山检验者》的编辑他却反感。等了两个礼拜，给编辑去了信，一月以后又写了一封信，满了一个月，他又亲自到旧金山去拜访编辑，可总见不到那位高高在上的人物，因为有那么一位年纪不大满头红发的办公室小厮像只塞伯勒斯狗一样把着大门。第五周周末稿件邮寄了回来，没有个交代：没有退稿单，没有解释，什么都没有。他的别的文章在旧金山主要的报纸的遭遇也完全一样。他收到之后又送到了东部去，退稿更快，总是附着印好的退稿条子。
几个短篇小说也以类似的形式退了回来。他把它们读来读去，仍很喜欢。他真想不出为什么会退稿。直到有一天地在报上读到稿件总应当用打字机打好的，这才明白过来。当然啦，编辑们都很忙，没有功夫，也不育费事去读手稿。马丁租来一部打字机，花了一天功夫学会了打字，把每天写的东西用打字机打好。以前的稿件一退给他，他也立即打好送出，可他打好的稿件仍然给退了回来的时候他吃惊了，腮帮子似乎更有棱有角了，下巴似乎更咄咄逼人了。他又把手稿寄给了别的编辑。
他开始想到自己未必是对自己的作品的好评判员，便让格特露听听。他向她朗诵了自己的小说。她的眼里闪着光，骄傲地望着他说：
“你还能写这样的东西，可真棒！”
“好了，好了，”他不耐烦地追问，“可是那故事——你觉得怎么样？”
“就是摔呗，”她回答，“就是棒，好听极了，听得我好激动。”
他看出她的心里其实并不清楚。她那善良的脸上露出了强烈的困惑，便等她说下去。
“可是，马，”过了好一会儿她才说，“这故事到末了是怎么回事？那位说了那么多好听的话的年青人最后得到她了么？”
他向她解释了故事的结局（他原以为已巧妙而明显地作了交代的），她却说：
“我想弄清楚的就是这个。你为什么不在故事里那么写呢、
在他朗读了几个故事之后他明白了一点：她喜欢大团圆的结局。
“那故事捧得不得了，”她在洗衣盆边直起身子疲劳地叹了一口气，用一只红通通冒着水汽的手抹掉了额上的汗，宣布，“可这故事叫我难受，想哭。世界上的伤心事就是太多了。想想快活的事能叫我快活。如果那小伙子娶了她，而且——你不会生气吧，马？”她胆怯地问，“我是随便发表意见的。我看是因为我太累了。这毕竟是个了不起的故事，挑不出毛病的。你打算把它卖到哪儿去？”
“那就是另一码子事了。”他哈哈一笑。
“若要真实了，你能得多少钱？”
“啊，一百块，还是最少的，按时价算。”
“天呐！我真希望你能卖掉！”
“这钱好赚，是吧？”他又骄傲地补充道，“
“这钱好赚，是吧？”他又骄傲地补充道，“是两天就写成的。五十块钱一天呢。”
他很想把自己的故事读给露丝听，却不敢。他决定等到发表了几篇之后再说，那时她就能明白他在忙些什么了。目前他还继续干着。他的冒险精神过去从没有这样强有力地促使他在心灵的领域做过这种惊人的探索。除了代数，他还买了物理和化学课本，做演算和求证。他对实验室实验采取相信书本的态度。他那强大的想像力使他对于化学物质之间的反应比一般学生经过实验所了解的更深刻。他在艰苦的学问里继续漫游，因为获得了对事物本质的了解而高兴得不得了。以前他只把世界看作世界，现在他懂得了世界的构造，力与物质之间的相互作用。对旧有事物的理解在他心里自然涌出。杠杆与支点的道理令他着迷，他的心回到了海上，在撬棍、滑车和复滑车中倘佯。他现在懂得了能让船只在没有道路的海上航行不致迷路的航海理论，揭开了风暴、雨和潮汐的奥秘。季候风成因的理论使他担心自己那篇描写东北季候风的文章写得太早。至少他知道了自己现在能够写得更好。有一天下午他跟亚瑟去了一趟加州大学，在那里带着宗教的敬畏屏神静气地在许多实验室走了一圈，看了演示，听了一个物理学教授上课。
但他并没有忽视写作。从他笔下流出了一连串短篇小说。他有时又拐弯写起较为平易的诗来——他在杂志纪见到的那种。他还一时头脑发热花了两个礼拜用素体诗写了个悲剧。那剧本校六七个杂志退了稿，叫他大吃了一惊。然后他发现了亨雷，便按照《病院速写》的模式写了一系列海上诗歌嘟是些朴实的，有光有色，浪漫和冒险的诗。他把它们命名为《海上抒情诗》，认为那是他的最佳作品。一共三十首，他一个月就写成了，每天写完了额定分最（相当于一般成功作家一周的工作量）之后再写一首。他对这样的刻苦用功并不在平。那不算刻苦。他不过是寻找着表达的语言而已。在他那结结巴巴的嘴唇后面关闭了多少年的美与奇迹现在化作了一道狂野道劲的急流滔滔不绝地流泻着而且。
他不把《海上抒情诗》给任何人看，连编辑也不给。他已经信不过编辑。但他不肯叫人看的原因并不在信不过，而是因为他觉得那些诗太美，只能保留下来，等到很久以后的某个光辉时到跟露丝共同欣赏，那时他已敢于向她即读自己的作品了。他把这些诗珍藏起来就为的那个时刻。他反复地朗读它们，读得滚瓜烂熟。
醒着的时候他分秒必争地生活着，睡着的时候他仍然生活着，他主观的心灵在五小时的暂停里骚乱着，把白天的思想和事件组合成为离奇荒谬的奇迹。实际上他从不曾休息过。身作稍差脑子稍不稳定的人早就崩溃了。他后半下午对露丝的拜访次数也在减少，因为六月快到了，那时她要取得学位，从大学毕业。文学学士——一想到她的学位她便似乎从他身边飞走了，其速度之快他根本赶不上。
她只给他每周一个下午。他到得晚，常常留下来吃晚饭，听音乐。那便是他的喜庆日子，那屋里的气氛跟他所住的屋子形成的鲜明对比，还有跟她的亲近，使他每次离开时都更加下定了决心要往上爬。尽管他有满脑子的美，也迫切地想加以表现，他斗争的鸽的还是她。他首先是一个情人，而且永远是情人。他让别的一切拜阅于爱情足下。他的爱情探险要比他在思想世界的探险来得伟大，且并不因构成它的原子分子由不可抗拒的力量推动而化合从而显得神奇；叫世界显得神奇的是它上面活着个露丝，她是他所见过的。梦想过的或猜测过的最惊人的事物，但她的辽远却永远压迫着他。她离他太远，他不知道怎么靠近她。在他自己阶级的姑娘、妇女面前他一向顺利；可他从没有爱过其中任何一个；而他却爱上了她，更为难的是，她还不光属于另一个阶级。他对她的爱使她高于一切阶级。她是个辽远的人，报辽远，他就无法像一个情人那样靠近她。不错，他越学知识和语法就离她越近，说着她那种语言；发现跟她相同的思想和爱好；但那并不能满足他作为情人的渴望。他那情人的想像把她神圣化了，太神圣化了，精神化了，不可能跟他有任何肉体的往来。把她推开，使她跟他似乎好不起来的正是他自己的爱情。是爱惜自己向他否定了他所要求的唯一的东西。
于是有一天，两人之间的鸿沟突然暂时出现了桥梁。以后鸿沟虽仍存在，却在一天天变窄。那天两人在吃樱桃——味美粒大的黑樱桃，液汁黑得像深色的酒。后来，在她为他朗诵《公主》的时候他偶然注意到了她唇上有樱桃汁。就在那一刹那她的神圣感粉碎了。她也不过是血肉之躯，跟他和别人一样都要服从血肉之躯的法则。她的嘴唇也跟他的嘴唇一样是肉做的，樱桃既能污染他，也就能污染她。嘴唇如此，全身也如此。她是女人，全身都是女人，跟任何别的女人没有两样。这种突然闪过他心里的想法成了一种启示，叫他大吃了一惊。仿佛看见太阳飞出天外，受到膜拜的纯洁遭到站污。
然后地明白了此事的意义，心房便怦怦地跳了起来，要求他跟这个女人谈情说爱。她并非是天外世界的精灵，而是一个嘴唇也能为樱桃汁染污的女人。他这想法的胆大狂妄使他战栗，但他的整个灵魂都在歌唱，而理智则在胜利的赞歌中肯定了他的正确。他内心的变化一定多少落到了她的眼里，因为她暂停了朗诵，抬头看了看他，微笑了。他的目光从他蓝色的眼睛落到她的唇上，唇上的污迹使他疯狂了，使他几乎像他逍遥自在的时期一样伸出双臂去拥抱她。她也似乎在向他歪过身子，等待着，他是用全部的意志力才遏制住了自己的。
“你一个字也没听呢，”她极起了嘴。
于是她为他那狼狈的样子感到开心，笑了起来。他看看她那坦率的目光，发现她丝毫也没觉察到他的想法，便感到惭愧了。他的思想实在是太出格。他认识的女人除了她之外谁都会猜到的，可她没猜到。差异正在这里。她就是与众不同。他为自己的粗野感到骇然，对她的纯净无邪肃然起敬。又隔着鸿沟注视着她。矫断了。
可这件事让他跟她靠得更近了。心里老记着。在他最沮丧的时刻便使劲反复地想着它。鸿沟变窄了。他跨过了一段比一个文学士学位，比一打文学士学位还大得多的距离。确实，她很纯洁，纯洁到他梦想不到的程度，但是樱桃也能弄脏她的嘴唇。她也像他一样，必须服从无法抗拒的宇宙法则。要吃饭才能活命，脚潮了也着凉。但］和题还在于：她既然也会俄，会渴，知冷，知热，也就能爱——能爱上个什么人。而他，也是个人。他为什么就不能做那个人呢？“那得靠我自己去奋斗，”他常狂热地低语，“我就要做那个人。我要让自己成为那个人。我要奋斗。”
Chapter 12
Early one evening, struggling with a sonnet that twisted all awry the beauty and thought that trailed in glow and vapor through his brain, Martin was called to the telephone.
"It's a lady's voice, a fine lady's," Mr. Higginbotham, who had called him, jeered.
Martin went to the telephone in the corner of the room, and felt a wave of warmth rush through him as he heard Ruth's voice. In his battle with the sonnet he had forgotten her existence, and at the sound of her voice his love for her smote him like a sudden blow. And such a voice! - delicate and sweet, like a strain of music heard far off and faint, or, better, like a bell of silver, a perfect tone, crystal-pure. No mere woman had a voice like that. There was something celestial about it, and it came from other worlds. He could scarcely hear what it said, so ravished was he, though he controlled his face, for he knew that Mr. Higginbotham's ferret eyes were fixed upon him.
It was not much that Ruth wanted to say - merely that Norman had been going to take her to a lecture that night, but that he had a headache, and she was so disappointed, and she had the tickets, and that if he had no other engagement, would he be good enough to take her?
Would he! He fought to suppress the eagerness in his voice. It was amazing. He had always seen her in her own house. And he had never dared to ask her to go anywhere with him. Quite irrelevantly, still at the telephone and talking with her, he felt an overpowering desire to die for her, and visions of heroic sacrifice shaped and dissolved in his whirling brain. He loved her so much, so terribly, so hopelessly. In that moment of mad happiness that she should go out with him, go to a lecture with him - with him, Martin Eden - she soared so far above him that there seemed nothing else for him to do than die for her. It was the only fit way in which he could express the tremendous and lofty emotion he felt for her. It was the sublime abnegation of true love that comes to all lovers, and it came to him there, at the telephone, in a whirlwind of fire and glory; and to die for her, he felt, was to have lived and loved well. And he was only twenty- one, and he had never been in love before.
His hand trembled as he hung up the receiver, and he was weak from the organ which had stirred him. His eyes were shining like an angel's, and his face was transfigured, purged of all earthly dross, and pure and holy.
"Makin' dates outside, eh?" his brother-in-law sneered. "You know what that means. You'll be in the police court yet."
But Martin could not come down from the height. Not even the bestiality of the allusion could bring him back to earth. Anger and hurt were beneath him. He had seen a great vision and was as a god, and he could feel only profound and awful pity for this maggot of a man. He did not look at him, and though his eyes passed over him, he did not see him; and as in a dream he passed out of the room to dress. It was not until he had reached his own room and was tying his necktie that he became aware of a sound that lingered unpleasantly in his ears. On investigating this sound he identified it as the final snort of Bernard Higginbotham, which somehow had not penetrated to his brain before.
As Ruth's front door closed behind them and he came down the steps with her, he found himself greatly perturbed. It was not unalloyed bliss, taking her to the lecture. He did not know what he ought to do. He had seen, on the streets, with persons of her class, that the women took the men's arms. But then, again, he had seen them when they didn't; and he wondered if it was only in the evening that arms were taken, or only between husbands and wives and relatives.
Just before he reached the sidewalk, he remembered Minnie. Minnie had always been a stickler. She had called him down the second time she walked out with him, because he had gone along on the inside, and she had laid the law down to him that a gentleman always walked on the outside - when he was with a lady. And Minnie had made a practice of kicking his heels, whenever they crossed from one side of the street to the other, to remind him to get over on the outside. He wondered where she had got that item of etiquette, and whether it had filtered down from above and was all right.
It wouldn't do any harm to try it, he decided, by the time they had reached the sidewalk; and he swung behind Ruth and took up his station on the outside. Then the other problem presented itself. Should he offer her his arm? He had never offered anybody his arm in his life. The girls he had known never took the fellows' arms. For the first several times they walked freely, side by side, and after that it was arms around the waists, and heads against the fellows' shoulders where the streets were unlighted. But this was different. She wasn't that kind of a girl. He must do something.
He crooked the arm next to her - crooked it very slightly and with secret tentativeness, not invitingly, but just casually, as though he was accustomed to walk that way. And then the wonderful thing happened. He felt her hand upon his arm. Delicious thrills ran through him at the contact, and for a few sweet moments it seemed that he had left the solid earth and was flying with her through the air. But he was soon back again, perturbed by a new complication. They were crossing the street. This would put him on the inside. He should be on the outside. Should he therefore drop her arm and change over? And if he did so, would he have to repeat the manoeuvre the next time? And the next? There was something wrong about it, and he resolved not to caper about and play the fool. Yet he was not satisfied with his conclusion, and when he found himself on the inside, he talked quickly and earnestly, making a show of being carried away by what he was saying, so that, in case he was wrong in not changing sides, his enthusiasm would seem the cause for his carelessness.
As they crossed Broadway, he came face to face with a new problem. In the blaze of the electric lights, he saw Lizzie Connolly and her giggly friend. Only for an instant he hesitated, then his hand went up and his hat came off. He could not be disloyal to his kind, and it was to more than Lizzie Connolly that his hat was lifted. She nodded and looked at him boldly, not with soft and gentle eyes like Ruth's, but with eyes that were handsome and hard, and that swept on past him to Ruth and itemized her face and dress and station. And he was aware that Ruth looked, too, with quick eyes that were timid and mild as a dove's, but which saw, in a look that was a flutter on and past, the working-class girl in her cheap finery and under the strange hat that all working-class girls were wearing just then.
"What a pretty girl!" Ruth said a moment later.
Martin could have blessed her, though he said:-
"I don't know. I guess it's all a matter of personal taste, but she doesn't strike me as being particularly pretty."
"Why, there isn't one woman in ten thousand with features as regular as hers. They are splendid. Her face is as clear-cut as a cameo. And her eyes are beautiful."
"Do you think so?" Martin queried absently, for to him there was only one beautiful woman in the world, and she was beside him, her hand upon his arm.
"Do I think so? If that girl had proper opportunity to dress, Mr. Eden, and if she were taught how to carry herself, you would be fairly dazzled by her, and so would all men."
"She would have to be taught how to speak," he commented, "or else most of the men wouldn't understand her. I'm sure you couldn't understand a quarter of what she said if she just spoke naturally."
"Nonsense! You are as bad as Arthur when you try to make your point."
"You forget how I talked when you first met me. I have learned a new language since then. Before that time I talked as that girl talks. Now I can manage to make myself understood sufficiently in your language to explain that you do not know that other girl's language. And do you know why she carries herself the way she does? I think about such things now, though I never used to think about them, and I am beginning to understand - much."
"But why does she?"
"She has worked long hours for years at machines. When one's body is young, it is very pliable, and hard work will mould it like putty according to the nature of the work. I can tell at a glance the trades of many workingmen I meet on the street. Look at me. Why am I rolling all about the shop? Because of the years I put in on the sea. If I'd put in the same years cow-punching, with my body young and pliable, I wouldn't be rolling now, but I'd be bow- legged. And so with that girl. You noticed that her eyes were what I might call hard. She has never been sheltered. She has had to take care of herself, and a young girl can't take care of herself and keep her eyes soft and gentle like - like yours, for example."
"I think you are right," Ruth said in a low voice. "And it is too bad. She is such a pretty girl."
He looked at her and saw her eyes luminous with pity. And then he remembered that he loved her and was lost in amazement at his fortune that permitted him to love her and to take her on his arm to a lecture.
Who are you, Martin Eden? he demanded of himself in the looking- glass, that night when he got back to his room. He gazed at himself long and curiously. Who are you? What are you? Where do you belong? You belong by rights to girls like Lizzie Connolly. You belong with the legions of toil, with all that is low, and vulgar, and unbeautiful. You belong with the oxen and the drudges, in dirty surroundings among smells and stenches. There are the stale vegetables now. Those potatoes are rotting. Smell them, damn you, smell them. And yet you dare to open the books, to listen to beautiful music, to learn to love beautiful paintings, to speak good English, to think thoughts that none of your own kind thinks, to tear yourself away from the oxen and the Lizzie Connollys and to love a pale spirit of a woman who is a million miles beyond you and who lives in the stars! Who are you? and what are you? damn you! And are you going to make good?
He shook his fist at himself in the glass, and sat down on the edge of the bed to dream for a space with wide eyes. Then he got out note-book and algebra and lost himself in quadratic equations, while the hours slipped by, and the stars dimmed, and the gray of dawn flooded against his window.
有一天晚上，时间尚早，马丁正在绞尽脑汁写一首十四行诗。曳着荣光与迷雾的美与情思从他脑里涌现，写下的诗却把它扭曲得不成样子。这时电话来了。 
“是位小姐的声音，一位漂亮小姐的声音。”希金波坦先生含讥带讽地叫他。
马丁来到屋角的电话机旁，一听见露丝的声音，一道暖流便流遍了他的全身。在他跟十四行诗奋斗的时候他忘掉了她的存在，可一听见她的声音，他对她的爱便像突然的一击震动了他的全身。多么美妙的声音！——娇嫩、甜蜜，有如遥远处依稀的音乐，或者，更不如说像银铃，绝美的音色，清亮得像水晶。有这样的嗓子的绝不仅是个女人，其中有天国的东西，来自另外的世界。他不禁心荡神驰，几乎听不见对方的话语，尽管他仍控制住自己的面部表现，因为他知道希金波坦先生那双臭即一样的眼睛正盯着他。
露丝要说的话不多，不过是：诺尔曼那天晚上原要陪她去听讲演的，却因头痛去不了，她感到非常失望。她有票，若是他没有事，能否劳驾陪她去一趟？
能否陪她去！他竭力控制了嗓子里的激动。多么惊人的消息！他一向总在她屋里跟她见面，从没敢邀请她一起出过门，这时就在他站在电话机旁跟她说着话时，他便毫无道理地产生了一种强烈的欲望：愿意为她赴汤蹈火。慷慨赴死的种种幻影在他那晕眩迷醉的头脑里一再形成、消失。他那么爱她，爱得那么死去活来，希望又那么渺茫。她要跟他（跟他，马丁·伊登！）一起去听讲演了。在这个快乐得要发疯的时刻她对他是那么高不可攀，他似乎感到除了为她而死再没有别的事可做。死亡似乎成了他对她表白自己那伟大崇高的爱的唯一恰当的方式。那是一切挚爱者都会有的、出于至情的崇高的献身精神。它就在这里，在电话机旁，在他心里产生了，是一股烈焰与强光的旋风。他感到为她而死便是死得其所，爱得尽情。他才二十一岁，以前从来没有恋爱过。
他挂上电话时手在发抖，从那令他激动的电话机旁走开时他快站不住了。他的双目泛出光彩，宛如天使，脸也变了，洗尽了入世的污浊，变得纯净圣洁。
“到外面约会去？”他的姐夫嘲笑道，“你知道那是什么意思。弄不好会上局子的。”
但是马丁此时无法从云霄落下。就连这话中隐含的f流意思也无法让他回到人世。他已超然于愤怒与伤害之外。他看到了一个伟大的幻影，自己已严然成了神灵。对于这个蛆虫样的入他只有深沉与肃穆的怜悯。他没去看他，目光虽从他身b掠过，却视而不见。他像在梦里一样走出屋子去穿衣服。直到他回到自己屋里打着领带时地才意识到有个声音在他耳里不愉快地纠缠。找了找那声音才发现那是伯纳德·希金波坦最后的一声哼哼。不知为什么刚才它就没有钻进他的脑子。
露丝家的门在他们身后关上，他跟她一起走下了台阶，他才发现自己非常慌乱。陪她去听演说并非是不含杂质的纯粹的幸福。他不知道该做些什么。他在街上见过她那个阶级的外出的女人接着男人的胳膊。可也见过并不接胳膊的。他弄不清楚是否是晚上出门才接胳膊，或是只有夫妻或亲属之间才如此。
他刚走到人行道上便想起了米妮。米妮一向是个考究的人，第二次跟他出门就把他狠狠训了一顿，因为他走在了靠里的一面。她告诉他规矩：男的跟女的同路男的要走靠外的一面。以后他们过街的时候米妮便总跟他的脚后跟，提醒地走靠外的一面。他不知道她那条规矩是从哪儿来的，是否是从上面拉来的，是否可靠。
两人来到人行道，他认为试试这条规矩也没什么妨害；便从露丝背后转到靠外一面他的位置上。这时另一个问题出现了。他是否应当向她伸出胳膊？他一辈子也没向谁伸出过胳膊。他认得的姑娘从不搂同伴的胳膊。开头几次两人并排分开走，然后便是互相搂着腰，到黑暗的地方脑袋便靠在伙伴肩头上。可这回却不同。她可不是那种姑娘。他得想出个办法。
他弯起了靠她那一边的胳膊——略微一弯，悄悄地试试，并未做出请她挽着的样子，只是随随便便，仿佛习惯于那样走路。于是奇迹发生了。他感到她的手挽住了他的胳膊。刚一接触，一阵美妙的酥府便传遍了他全身，甜甜蜜蜜地过了好一会儿沈仿佛离开了这坚实的世界带着她在空中飘飞。可是新的复杂局面又叫他回到了地上。他们要过街了。那就会把他转到了靠里的一面，而他是应该在外面的。他是否应当松下她的手转换方向？若是松了手，下回还需要再弯弯胳膊么？再下回怎么办？这里有点不对头的东西。他决心不要再东换西换出洋相了。可他对自己的结论又不放心。于是在他靠里走的时候便滔滔不绝津津有味地谈着话，仿佛谈得出了神，这样，万一做错了也可以用热情和粗心辩护。
横跨大马路的时候他又迎面碰上了新问题。在白炽的电灯光下他看到了丽齐·康诺利和她那爱格格发笑的朋友。他只犹豫了一下便迎了上去，脱帽招呼。他不能对自己人不忠，他脱帽招呼的可不光是丽齐·康诺利。她点点头，大胆地望着他。她的目光不像露丝那样温和妇雅，而是明亮、犀利地从他瞧到露丝，—一打量了她的面庞、服装和身分。他也意识到露丝也在打量她，那畏怯温驯像鸽子的目光转瞬即逝。就在那转瞬之间露丝已看到了一个工人阶级的姑娘，一身廉价的服饰，戴一顶那时所有的工人阶级的姑娘都戴的帽子。
“多么漂亮的姑娘！”过了一会儿露丝说。
马丁差不多可以向她表示感谢，不过们说：
“我不清楚。大约是各人的口味不同吧，我倒不觉得她特别好看。”
“怎么，那么整齐漂亮的脸儿可是千里也难挑一的呢！她长得精彩极了。那张股轮廓分明，像是玉石上的浮雕。眼睛也挺美的。”
“你这样想么？”马丁心不在焉地问道，因为在他看来世界上只有一个美丽的女人，而那个女人就在他身边挽着他的胳膊。
“我这样想？若是那个姑娘有恰当的机会穿着打扮，伊登先生，若是再学学仪表姿态，是能叫你眼花绦乱，叫所有的男子汉都眼花镜乱的。”
“可她得先学会说话，”他发表意见，“否则大部分男子汉都会听不懂得她的话的。我肯定，若是她信口便说，你会连她四分之一都听不懂的。”
“瞎说！你阐述起自己的观点来也跟亚瑟一样蹩脚。”
“你忘了你第一次遇见我时我是怎么说话的了。从那以后我学了一种新的语言。在那以前我说话也跟那姑娘一样。现在我可以用你们的语言说得让你们完全听得懂了；能向你解释你听不懂的那个姑娘的谈话了。你知道她走路为什么那个姿势么？过去我从来不考虑这类问题，现在考虑了，我开始明白了——许多道理。”
“她为什么那个姿势？”
“她在机器边干了多年的活儿。人年轻的时候身子可塑性强，做苦工能按工作的性质把身子重新塑造，就像捏油灰一样。有许多我在街上遇见的工入我一眼就能看出是干什么活儿的。你看我吧。我在屋甲为什么老晃动身子？因为我在海上过了很多年。若是在那些年平我当了牛仔，我这年轻的可塑性强的身子就不会再晃荡，而是圈着腿了。那姑娘也是这样。你注意到了吧！她的服种我可以叫做：凌厉。她从来没有准保护，只有自己照顾自己。而一个年轻姑娘是不可能既照顾自己，又目光温柔得像——像你一样的，比如。”
“我认为你说得不错，”露丝低声地说，“很遗憾。她是那么漂亮的一个姑娘。”
他看着她，见她的眼里闪出矜传的光。他这才想起自己爱她，于是又因自己的幸运而感到惊讶，忘了一切。幸运意允许他爱她，让她搂着他的胳膊去听演说。
“你是谁呀，马丁·伊登？”那天晚上他回到屋里，对着镜子里的自己问道。他满怀好奇久久地凝视着自己。你是谁呀？你是干什么的？是什么身分？你理所当然是属于丽齐·康诺利这样的姑娘的。你的伙伴是吃苦受累的人，是下贱、粗野、丑陋的人。你跟牛马苦役作伴，只配住在肮脏的臭气熏天的环境里。现在不就有陈腐的蔬菜、腐烂的土豆的怪味么。闻闻看，妈的，闻闻着。可你却胆敢翻汗书本，听美好的音乐，学着爱美丽的绘画，说纯正的英语，产生你的自己人产生不出来的思想，挣扎着要离开牛群和丽齐·康诺利这样的姑娘们，去爱上跟你相距十万八千里、住在星星里的苍白的精灵一样的女人。你是谁？是干什么的？去你的吧，你还要奋斗么？
他对着镜里的自己晃了晃拳头。在床边坐了下来，睁大了眼睛梦想了一会儿。然后他拿出笔记本和代数书，投入了二次方程式见时光悄悄溜走，星星渐渐隐敛。黎明的鱼肚白向他的窗户泻了下来。
Chapter 13
It was the knot of wordy socialists and working-class philosophers that held forth in the City Hall Park on warm afternoons that was responsible for the great discovery. Once or twice in the month, while riding through the park on his way to the library, Martin dismounted from his wheel and listened to the arguments, and each time he tore himself away reluctantly. The tone of discussion was much lower than at Mr. Morse's table. The men were not grave and dignified. They lost their tempers easily and called one another names, while oaths and obscene allusions were frequent on their lips. Once or twice he had seen them come to blows. And yet, he knew not why, there seemed something vital about the stuff of these men's thoughts. Their logomachy was far more stimulating to his intellect than the reserved and quiet dogmatism of Mr. Morse. These men, who slaughtered English, gesticulated like lunatics, and fought one another's ideas with primitive anger, seemed somehow to be more alive than Mr. Morse and his crony, Mr. Butler.
Martin had heard Herbert Spencer quoted several times in the park, but one afternoon a disciple of Spencer's appeared, a seedy tramp with a dirty coat buttoned tightly at the throat to conceal the absence of a shirt. Battle royal was waged, amid the smoking of many cigarettes and the expectoration of much tobacco-juice, wherein the tramp successfully held his own, even when a socialist workman sneered, "There is no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is his prophet." Martin was puzzled as to what the discussion was about, but when he rode on to the library he carried with him a new-born interest in Herbert Spencer, and because of the frequency with which the tramp had mentioned "First Principles," Martin drew out that volume.
So the great discovery began. Once before he had tried Spencer, and choosing the "Principles of Psychology" to begin with, he had failed as abjectly as he had failed with Madam Blavatsky. There had been no understanding the book, and he had returned it unread. But this night, after algebra and physics, and an attempt at a sonnet, he got into bed and opened "First Principles." Morning found him still reading. It was impossible for him to sleep. Nor did he write that day. He lay on the bed till his body grew tired, when he tried the hard floor, reading on his back, the book held in the air above him, or changing from side to side. He slept that night, and did his writing next morning, and then the book tempted him and he fell, reading all afternoon, oblivious to everything and oblivious to the fact that that was the afternoon Ruth gave to him. His first consciousness of the immediate world about him was when Bernard Higginbotham jerked open the door and demanded to know if he thought they were running a restaurant.
Martin Eden had been mastered by curiosity all his days. He wanted to know, and it was this desire that had sent him adventuring over the world. But he was now learning from Spencer that he never had known, and that he never could have known had he continued his sailing and wandering forever. He had merely skimmed over the surface of things, observing detached phenomena, accumulating fragments of facts, making superficial little generalizations - and all and everything quite unrelated in a capricious and disorderly world of whim and chance. The mechanism of the flight of birds he had watched and reasoned about with understanding; but it had never entered his head to try to explain the process whereby birds, as organic flying mechanisms, had been developed. He had never dreamed there was such a process. That birds should have come to be, was unguessed. They always had been. They just happened.
And as it was with birds, so had it been with everything. His ignorant and unprepared attempts at philosophy had been fruitless. The medieval metaphysics of Kant had given him the key to nothing, and had served the sole purpose of making him doubt his own intellectual powers. In similar manner his attempt to study evolution had been confined to a hopelessly technical volume by Romanes. He had understood nothing, and the only idea he had gathered was that evolution was a dry-as-dust theory, of a lot of little men possessed of huge and unintelligible vocabularies. And now he learned that evolution was no mere theory but an accepted process of development; that scientists no longer disagreed about it, their only differences being over the method of evolution.
And here was the man Spencer, organizing all knowledge for him, reducing everything to unity, elaborating ultimate realities, and presenting to his startled gaze a universe so concrete of realization that it was like the model of a ship such as sailors make and put into glass bottles. There was no caprice, no chance. All was law. It was in obedience to law that the bird flew, and it was in obedience to the same law that fermenting slime had writhed and squirmed and put out legs and wings and become a bird.
Martin had ascended from pitch to pitch of intellectual living, and here he was at a higher pitch than ever. All the hidden things were laying their secrets bare. He was drunken with comprehension. At night, asleep, he lived with the gods in colossal nightmare; and awake, in the day, he went around like a somnambulist, with absent stare, gazing upon the world he had just discovered. At table he failed to hear the conversation about petty and ignoble things, his eager mind seeking out and following cause and effect in everything before him. In the meat on the platter he saw the shining sun and traced its energy back through all its transformations to its source a hundred million miles away, or traced its energy ahead to the moving muscles in his arms that enabled him to cut the meat, and to the brain wherewith he willed the muscles to move to cut the meat, until, with inward gaze, he saw the same sun shining in his brain. He was entranced by illumination, and did not hear the "Bughouse," whispered by Jim, nor see the anxiety on his sister's face, nor notice the rotary motion of Bernard Higginbotham's finger, whereby he imparted the suggestion of wheels revolving in his brother-in-law's head.
What, in a way, most profoundly impressed Martin, was the correlation of knowledge - of all knowledge. He had been curious to know things, and whatever he acquired he had filed away in separate memory compartments in his brain. Thus, on the subject of sailing he had an immense store. On the subject of woman he had a fairly large store. But these two subjects had been unrelated. Between the two memory compartments there had been no connection. That, in the fabric of knowledge, there should be any connection whatever between a woman with hysterics and a schooner carrying a weather-helm or heaving to in a gale, would have struck him as ridiculous and impossible. But Herbert Spencer had shown him not only that it was not ridiculous, but that it was impossible for there to be no connection. All things were related to all other things from the farthermost star in the wastes of space to the myriads of atoms in the grain of sand under one's foot. This new concept was a perpetual amazement to Martin, and he found himself engaged continually in tracing the relationship between all things under the sun and on the other side of the sun. He drew up lists of the most incongruous things and was unhappy until he succeeded in establishing kinship between them all - kinship between love, poetry, earthquake, fire, rattlesnakes, rainbows, precious gems, monstrosities, sunsets, the roaring of lions, illuminating gas, cannibalism, beauty, murder, lovers, fulcrums, and tobacco. Thus, he unified the universe and held it up and looked at it, or wandered through its byways and alleys and jungles, not as a terrified traveller in the thick of mysteries seeking an unknown goal, but observing and charting and becoming familiar with all there was to know. And the more he knew, the more passionately he admired the universe, and life, and his own life in the midst of it all.
"You fool!" he cried at his image in the looking-glass. "You wanted to write, and you tried to write, and you had nothing in you to write about. What did you have in you? - some childish notions, a few half-baked sentiments, a lot of undigested beauty, a great black mass of ignorance, a heart filled to bursting with love, and an ambition as big as your love and as futile as your ignorance. And you wanted to write! Why, you're just on the edge of beginning to get something in you to write about. You wanted to create beauty, but how could you when you knew nothing about the nature of beauty? You wanted to write about life when you knew nothing of the essential characteristics of life. You wanted to write about the world and the scheme of existence when the world was a Chinese puzzle to you and all that you could have written would have been about what you did not know of the scheme of existence. But cheer up, Martin, my boy. You'll write yet. You know a little, a very little, and you're on the right road now to know more. Some day, if you're lucky, you may come pretty close to knowing all that may be known. Then you will write."
He brought his great discovery to Ruth, sharing with her all his joy and wonder in it. But she did not seem to be so enthusiastic over it. She tacitly accepted it and, in a way, seemed aware of it from her own studies. It did not stir her deeply, as it did him, and he would have been surprised had he not reasoned it out that it was not new and fresh to her as it was to him. Arthur and Norman, he found, believed in evolution and had read Spencer, though it did not seem to have made any vital impression upon them, while the young fellow with the glasses and the mop of hair, Will Olney, sneered disagreeably at Spencer and repeated the epigram, "There is no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is his prophet."
But Martin forgave him the sneer, for he had begun to discover that Olney was not in love with Ruth. Later, he was dumfounded to learn from various little happenings not only that Olney did not care for Ruth, but that he had a positive dislike for her. Martin could not understand this. It was a bit of phenomena that he could not correlate with all the rest of the phenomena in the universe. But nevertheless he felt sorry for the young fellow because of the great lack in his nature that prevented him from a proper appreciation of Ruth's fineness and beauty. They rode out into the hills several Sundays on their wheels, and Martin had ample opportunity to observe the armed truce that existed between Ruth and Olney. The latter chummed with Norman, throwing Arthur and Martin into company with Ruth, for which Martin was duly grateful.
Those Sundays were great days for Martin, greatest because he was with Ruth, and great, also, because they were putting him more on a par with the young men of her class. In spite of their long years of disciplined education, he was finding himself their intellectual equal, and the hours spent with them in conversation was so much practice for him in the use of the grammar he had studied so hard. He had abandoned the etiquette books, falling back upon observation to show him the right things to do. Except when carried away by his enthusiasm, he was always on guard, keenly watchful of their actions and learning their little courtesies and refinements of conduct.
The fact that Spencer was very little read was for some time a source of surprise to Martin. "Herbert Spencer," said the man at the desk in the library, "oh, yes, a great mind." But the man did not seem to know anything of the content of that great mind. One evening, at dinner, when Mr. Butler was there, Martin turned the conversation upon Spencer. Mr. Morse bitterly arraigned the English philosopher's agnosticism, but confessed that he had not read "First Principles"; while Mr. Butler stated that he had no patience with Spencer, had never read a line of him, and had managed to get along quite well without him. Doubts arose in Martin's mind, and had he been less strongly individual he would have accepted the general opinion and given Herbert Spencer up. As it was, he found Spencer's explanation of things convincing; and, as he phrased it to himself, to give up Spencer would be equivalent to a navigator throwing the compass and chronometer overboard. So Martin went on into a thorough study of evolution, mastering more and more the subject himself, and being convinced by the corroborative testimony of a thousand independent writers. The more he studied, the more vistas he caught of fields of knowledge yet unexplored, and the regret that days were only twenty-four hours long became a chronic complaint with him.
One day, because the days were so short, he decided to give up algebra and geometry. Trigonometry he had not even attempted. Then he cut chemistry from his study-list, retaining only physics.
"I am not a specialist," he said, in defence, to Ruth. "Nor am I going to try to be a specialist. There are too many special fields for any one man, in a whole lifetime, to master a tithe of them. I must pursue general knowledge. When I need the work of specialists, I shall refer to their books."
"But that is not like having the knowledge yourself," she protested.
"But it is unnecessary to have it. We profit from the work of the specialists. That's what they are for. When I came in, I noticed the chimney-sweeps at work. They're specialists, and when they get done, you will enjoy clean chimneys without knowing anything about the construction of chimneys."
"That's far-fetched, I am afraid."
She looked at him curiously, and he felt a reproach in her gaze and manner. But he was convinced of the rightness of his position.
"All thinkers on general subjects, the greatest minds in the world, in fact, rely on the specialists. Herbert Spencer did that. He generalized upon the findings of thousands of investigators. He would have had to live a thousand lives in order to do it all himself. And so with Darwin. He took advantage of all that had been learned by the florists and cattle-breeders."
"You're right, Martin," Olney said. "You know what you're after, and Ruth doesn't. She doesn't know what she is after for herself even."
" - Oh, yes," Olney rushed on, heading off her objection, "I know you call it general culture. But it doesn't matter what you study if you want general culture. You can study French, or you can study German, or cut them both out and study Esperanto, you'll get the culture tone just the same. You can study Greek or Latin, too, for the same purpose, though it will never be any use to you. It will be culture, though. Why, Ruth studied Saxon, became clever in it, - that was two years ago, - and all that she remembers of it now is 'Whan that sweet Aprile with his schowers soote' - isn't that the way it goes?"
"But it's given you the culture tone just the same," he laughed, again heading her off. "I know. We were in the same classes."
"But you speak of culture as if it should be a means to something," Ruth cried out. Her eyes were flashing, and in her cheeks were two spots of color. "Culture is the end in itself."
"But that is not what Martin wants."
"How do you know?"
"What do you want, Martin?" Olney demanded, turning squarely upon him.
Martin felt very uncomfortable, and looked entreaty at Ruth.
"Yes, what do you want?" Ruth asked. "That will settle it."
"Yes, of course, I want culture," Martin faltered. "I love beauty, and culture will give me a finer and keener appreciation of beauty."
She nodded her head and looked triumph.
"Rot, and you know it," was Olney's comment. "Martin's after career, not culture. It just happens that culture, in his case, is incidental to career. If he wanted to be a chemist, culture would be unnecessary. Martin wants to write, but he's afraid to say so because it will put you in the wrong."
"And why does Martin want to write?" he went on. "Because he isn't rolling in wealth. Why do you fill your head with Saxon and general culture? Because you don't have to make your way in the world. Your father sees to that. He buys your clothes for you, and all the rest. What rotten good is our education, yours and mine and Arthur's and Norman's? We're soaked in general culture, and if our daddies went broke to-day, we'd be falling down to- morrow on teachers' examinations. The best job you could get, Ruth, would be a country school or music teacher in a girls' boarding-school."
"And pray what would you do?" she asked.
"Not a blessed thing. I could earn a dollar and a half a day, common labor, and I might get in as instructor in Hanley's cramming joint - I say might, mind you, and I might be chucked out at the end of the week for sheer inability."
Martin followed the discussion closely, and while he was convinced that Olney was right, he resented the rather cavalier treatment he accorded Ruth. A new conception of love formed in his mind as he listened. Reason had nothing to do with love. It mattered not whether the woman he loved reasoned correctly or incorrectly. Love was above reason. If it just happened that she did not fully appreciate his necessity for a career, that did not make her a bit less lovable. She was all lovable, and what she thought had nothing to do with her lovableness.
"What's that?" he replied to a question from Olney that broke in upon his train of thought.
"I was saying that I hoped you wouldn't be fool enough to tackle Latin."
"But Latin is more than culture," Ruth broke in. "It is equipment."
"Well, are you going to tackle it?" Olney persisted.
Martin was sore beset. He could see that Ruth was hanging eagerly upon his answer.
"I am afraid I won't have time," he said finally. "I'd like to, but I won't have time."
"You see, Martin's not seeking culture," Olney exulted. "He's trying to get somewhere, to do something."
"Oh, but it's mental training. It's mind discipline. It's what makes disciplined minds." Ruth looked expectantly at Martin, as if waiting for him to change his judgment. "You know, the foot-ball players have to train before the big game. And that is what Latin does for the thinker. It trains."
"Rot and bosh! That's what they told us when we were kids. But there is one thing they didn't tell us then. They let us find it out for ourselves afterwards." Olney paused for effect, then added, "And what they didn't tell us was that every gentleman should have studied Latin, but that no gentleman should know Latin."
"Now that's unfair," Ruth cried. "I knew you were turning the conversation just in order to get off something."
"It's clever all right," was the retort, "but it's fair, too. The only men who know their Latin are the apothecaries, the lawyers, and the Latin professors. And if Martin wants to be one of them, I miss my guess. But what's all that got to do with Herbert Spencer anyway? Martin's just discovered Spencer, and he's wild over him. Why? Because Spencer is taking him somewhere. Spencer couldn't take me anywhere, nor you. We haven't got anywhere to go. You'll get married some day, and I'll have nothing to do but keep track of the lawyers and business agents who will take care of the money my father's going to leave me."
Onley got up to go, but turned at the door and delivered a parting shot.
"You leave Martin alone, Ruth. He knows what's best for himself. Look at what he's done already. He makes me sick sometimes, sick and ashamed of myself. He knows more now about the world, and life, and man's place, and all the rest, than Arthur, or Norman, or I, or you, too, for that matter, and in spite of all our Latin, and French, and Saxon, and culture."
"But Ruth is my teacher," Martin answered chivalrously. "She is responsible for what little I have learned."
"Rats!" Olney looked at Ruth, and his expression was malicious. "I suppose you'll be telling me next that you read Spencer on her recommendation - only you didn't. And she doesn't know anything more about Darwin and evolution than I do about King Solomon's mines. What's that jawbreaker definition about something or other, of Spencer's, that you sprang on us the other day - that indefinite, incoherent homogeneity thing? Spring it on her, and see if she understands a word of it. That isn't culture, you see. Well, tra la, and if you tackle Latin, Martin, I won't have any respect for you."
And all the while, interested in the discussion, Martin had been aware of an irk in it as well. It was about studies and lessons, dealing with the rudiments of knowledge, and the schoolboyish tone of it conflicted with the big things that were stirring in him - with the grip upon life that was even then crooking his fingers like eagle's talons, with the cosmic thrills that made him ache, and with the inchoate consciousness of mastery of it all. He likened himself to a poet, wrecked on the shores of a strange land, filled with power of beauty, stumbling and stammering and vainly trying to sing in the rough, barbaric tongue of his brethren in the new land. And so with him. He was alive, painfully alive, to the great universal things, and yet he was compelled to potter and grope among schoolboy topics and debate whether or not he should study Latin.
"What in hell has Latin to do with it?" he demanded before his mirror that night. "I wish dead people would stay dead. Why should I and the beauty in me be ruled by the dead? Beauty is alive and everlasting. Languages come and go. They are the dust of the dead."
And his next thought was that he had been phrasing his ideas very well, and he went to bed wondering why he could not talk in similar fashion when he was with Ruth. He was only a schoolboy, with a schoolboy's tongue, when he was in her presence.
"Give me time," he said aloud. "Only give me time."
Time! Time! Time! was his unending plaint.
在晴和的午后，嘈叨的社会主义者和工人阶级的哲学家们常在市政厅公园进行滔滔不绝的辩论。这次伟大的发现就是由他们引起的。每月有一两次，马丁在穿过市政厅公园去图书馆的路L总要停下自行车来听听他们的辩论，每次离开时都有些恋恋不舍。他们的讨论比莫尔斯先生餐桌上的讨论格调要低得多，不像那么一本正经，煞有介事。他们动不动就发脾气，扣帽子，嘴里不干不净地骂脏话。他还见他们打过一两回架。但是，不知道为什么，他们的思想中似乎有某种非常重要的东西。他们的唇枪舌剑要比莫尔斯先生们沉着冷静的教条更刺激起他的思考。这些把英语糟踏得一塌糊涂、疯头疯脑地打着手势、怀着原始的愤怒对彼此的思想交战的人似乎要比莫尔斯先生和他的老朋友巴特勒先生更为生气勃勃。 
在那公园里马丁好几次听见别人引用赫伯特·斯宾塞的话。有天下午斯宾塞的一个信徒出现了。那是个潦倒的流浪汉，穿一件肮脏的外套，为了掩饰里面没穿衬衫，钮扣一直扣到脖子。堂皇的战争开始了，抽了许多香烟，吐了许多斗烟唾沫，流浪汉坚守阵地，获得了成功，尽管有个相信社会主义的工人讥笑说：“没有上帝，只有不可知之物，赫伯特·斯宾塞就是他的先知。”马丁对他们讨论的东西感到茫然，在骑车去图书馆的路上对赫伯特·斯宾塞产生了兴趣。因为那流浪汉多次提到《首要原理》，马丁便借出了那本书。
于是伟大的发现开始了。他过去也曾试读过斯其塞，选择了《心理学原理》入门。却跟读布拉伐茨基夫人时一样惨遭败北，根本读不懂。没读完就还掉了。但是那天晚上学完代数和物理，写了一首十四行诗之后，他躺到床上翻开了格要原理》，却一口气直读到了天亮。他无法入睡，那天甚至停止了写作，只躺在床上读书，身子睡累了，便躺到硬地板上，书捧在头顶，或是向左侧，向右侧，继续读。直读到晚上，才又睡了一觉。策二天早上尽管恢复了写作，那书却仍在引诱着他，他受不了引诱又整整读了一个下午。他忘掉了一切，连那天下午是露丝安排给他的时间都忘掉了。直到希金波坦先生突然探开门要求他回答他住的是否是大饭店，他才第一次意识到身边的直接现实。
马丁·伊登一辈子都受着好奇心驱使，寻求着知识。是求知欲送他到世界各地去冒险的。可是现在他却从斯宾塞懂得了他原来一无所知，而且他若是继续航行与漫游是永远不会知道任何东西的。他只在事物的表面掠过，观察到的只是彼此无关的现象，搜集到的只是七零八碎的事实，只能在小范围内进行归纳——而在一个充满偶然与机遇的变化无常、杂乱无章的世界里，一切事物之间都是互不相关的。他曾观察过、研究过鸟群飞行的机制，并试作过解释，却从没想到去对鸟这种有机的飞行机制的演化过程寻求过解释。他没有想到鸟儿也是进化来的，只把它们当作一向就有的、自然存在的东西。
鸟儿既如此，一切也都如此。他过去对哲学那种全无准备的健啃没给他什么东西。康德的中世纪式的形而上学没有给予他开启任何东西的钥匙，它对他唯一的作用就是让他对自己的智力产生了怀疑。同样，他对进化论的钻研也只局限于罗迈尼斯的一本专业得读不懂的书。他什么都没有学到，读后的唯一印象就是：进化是一种枯燥乏味的玩艺儿，是一群运用着一大堆晦涩难解的词语的小人物弄出来的。现在他才明白，原来进化并不光是理论，而是已为人们所接受的发展过程。科学家们对它已无争议，只在有关进化的方式上还存在分歧。
现在又出了这个斯宾塞，为他把一切知识组织了起来，统一了起来，阐明了终极的现实，把一个描绘得非常具体的宇宙送到了他眼前，令他惊诧莫名，有如水手们做好放到玻璃橱里的船舶模型。没有想当然，没有偶然，全是法则。鸟儿能飞是服从法则，萌动的粘液汁扭曲、蠕动、长出腿和翅膀、变成鸟儿也是服从同一法则。
马丁的智力生活不断升级，现在已到了前所未有的高度。一切的秘密事物裸露出了它们的奥秘。理解使他沉醉。夜里睡着了他在光怪陆离的梦圃里眼神明生活在一起；白天醒着时，他像个梦游者一样走来走去，心不在焉地盯视着他刚发现的世界。对餐桌上那些卑微琐屑的谈话他听而不闻，心里只急于在眼前的一切事物中寻找和追踪因果关系。他从盘子里的肉看出了灿烂的阳光，又从阳光的种种转化形式回溯到它亿万里外的源头，或者又从它的能量追踪到自己胳膊上运动着的肌肉，这肌肉使他能切肉。又从而追踪到支配肌肉切肉的脑子，最后，通过内视看到了太阳在他的脑子里放光。这种大彻大悟使他出了神，没有听见吉姆在悄悄说“神经病”，没有看见他姐姐脸上的焦虑表情，也没注意到帕纳德·希金波坦用手指在画着圆圈，暗示他小舅子的脑袋里有些乱七八糟的轮子在转动。
在一定意义上给马丁印象最深的是知识（一切知识）之间的相互联系。过去他急于了解事物，取得一点知识就把它们存档，分别放进头脑中互不相干的抽屉里。这样，在航行这个课题上他有庞大的积累，在女人这个课题上也有可观的积累。但两个课题的记忆屉子之间并无联系。若是说在知识的网络中，一个歇斯底里的妇女跟在飓风中顺风使航或逆风行驶的船有什么联系的话，他准会觉得荒唐可笑，认为绝无可能。可是赫伯特·斯宾塞却向他证实了这说法不但不荒唐，而且两者之间不可能没有联系。一切事物都跟一切其他事物有联系，从最辽远广阔的空间里的星星到脚下沙粒中千千万万个原子，其间都有联系。这个新概念使马丁永远惊讶不已。于是他发现自己在不断地追寻着从太阳之下到太阳以外的一切事物之间的联系。他把最不相关的事物列成名单，在它们之间探索联系，探索不出就不高兴——他在爱情、诗歌、地震、火、响尾蛇、虹、宝石、妖魔、日落、狮吼、照明瓦斯、同类相食、美。杀害、情人、杠杆支点、和烟叶之间寻求联系，像这样把宇宙看作一个整体，捧起来观察，或是在它的僻径、小巷或丛莽中漫游。他不是个在种种神秘之间寻找未知目标的心惊胆战的旅客，而是在观察着、记载着、熟悉着想要知道的一切。知道得越多，就越是热情地崇拜宇宙和生命，包括他自己的生命。
“你这个傻瓜！”他望着镜子里的影像，说，“你想写作，也写作过，可你心里没有可写的东西。你心里能有什么呢？——一些幼稚天真的念头，一些半生不熟的情绪，许许多多没有消化的美，一大堆漆黑的愚昧，一颗叫爱情胀得快要爆炸的心，还有跟你的爱情一样巨大，跟你的愚昧一样无用的雄心壮志。你也想写作么！唉，你才评始能学到了东西可供你写作呢。你想创造美，可你连美的性质都不知道，怎么创造？你想写生活，可你对生活的根本特点都不知道。你想写世界，总写对生活的设想，可世界对你却是个玄虚的疑团，你所能写出的就只能是你并不了解的生活的设想而已。不过，别泄气，马丁，小伙子，你还是可以写作的，你还有一点知识，很少的一点点，现在又已找到了路可以知道得更多了。你若是幸运的话，说不定哪一天你能差不多知道一切可以知道的东西。那时你就好写了0”
他把他的伟大发现带到了露丝那儿，想跟她共享他的欢乐与惊诧。但她只一声不响地听着，并不热心，好像从她学过的课程供罕已有所了解似的。她并不像他那么激动。他若不是立即明白了斯其塞才露丝并不像对他那么新鲜，他是会大吃一惊的。他发现亚瑟与诺尔曼都相信进化论，也都读过斯宾塞，尽管两者对他俩没曾产生过举足轻重的影响。而那个头发浓密的戴眼镜的青年威尔·奥尔尼却还刻薄地挖苦了一番斯宾塞，并重复了那个警句，“没有上帝，只有不可知之物，而赫伯特·斯宾塞却是他的先知。”
但是马丁原谅了他的嘲讽，因为他开始发现奥尔尼并没有爱上露丝。后来他还从种种琐事上发现奥尔尼不但不爱露丝，反而很讨厌她。这简直叫他目瞪口呆。他想不通，这可是他无法用以跟宇宙其他任何现象联系的现象。可他仍然为这个年青人感到遗憾，因为地天性中的巨大缺陷使他难以恰当地欣赏露丝的高贵与美丽。有几个星明天他们曾一同骑车去山区游玩。马丁有多次机会看到露丝跟奥尔尼剑拔暨张的关系。奥尔尼常跟诺尔曼泡在一起，把露丝交给亚瑟和马丁陪伴。对此马丁当然很感激。
那几个星期天是马丁的大喜日子，最可喜的是他能跟露丝在一起，其次是他越来越能跟她同阶级的青年平起平坐了。他发现虽然他们受过多年教育培养，可自己在智力上却并不亚于他们，同时，跟他们谈话还给了他机会把他辛辛苦苦学会的语法付诸实践。社交礼仪的书他现在不读了，他转向了观察，从观察学习礼仪进退。除了内心激动情不自禁的时候之外，他总报警觉，总敏锐地注意着他们的行为，学着他们细微的礼节与高雅的举止。
读斯宾基的人很少，这一事实叫马丁惊讶了好久。“赫伯特·斯宾塞，”图书馆借书处那人说，“啊，不错，是个了不起的思想家。”但是那人对这位“了不起的思想家”的思想却似乎一无所知。有天晚上晚餐时巴特勒先生也在座，马丁把话头转向了斯宾塞。莫尔斯先生狠狠地责难了这位英国哲学家的不可知论一番，却承认他并未读过《首要原理》；巴特勒先生则说他没有耐心读斯宾塞。他的书他一个字也没读过，而且没有地照样过得不错。这在马丁心里引起了疑问。他若不是那么坚决地独行其事说不定也会接受大家的意见放弃斯宾塞的。可事实是，他觉得斯宾塞对事物的解释很有说服力，正如他的提法：“放弃斯宾塞无异于让航海家把罗盘和经线仪扔到海里。”于是他继续研究进化论，要把它彻底弄懂。他对这个问题越来越精通，许许多多独立的作者的旁证更使他坚信不疑。他越是学习，未曾探索过的知识领域便越是在他面前展现出远景。对一天只有二十四小时的遗憾简直成了他的慢性病。
由于一天的时间太短，有一天他便决定了放弃代数和几何。三角他甚至还没想过要学。然后他又从课程表上砍掉了化学，只留下了物理。
“我不是专家，”他在露丝面前辩解道，“也不想当专家。专门学问太多，无论什么人一辈子也学不了十分之一。我学的必须是一般的知识。在需要专家著作的时候只须参考他们的书就行了。”
“可那跟你自d掌握了毕竟不同，”她表示反对。
“但那没有必要，专家的工作给我们带来好处，这就是他们的作用。我刚进屋时看到扫烟囱的在干活儿。他们就是专家。他们干完了活儿你就可以享受干净的烟囱，而对烟囱的结构你可以什么都不知道。”
“这说法太牵强吧，我怕是。”
她探询地望着他，从她的目光和神态里他感到了责备的意思。但是他深信自己的理论是正确的。
“研究一般问题的思想家，实际上世界上最伟大的思想家，都得依靠专家。赫伯特·斯宾塞也依靠专家。他归纳了成千上万的调查者的发现。若要靠自己去干，他恐怕要活上一千年才行。达尔文也一样。他利用了花卉专家和牲畜培育专家的知识。”
“你没错，马丁，”奥尔尼回答，“你知道自己追求的是什么，露丝却不知道，连要为自己追求点什么她都没想过。”
“——啊，没错，”奥尔尼不顾她的反对，急忙说，“我知道你会把那叫做一般的文化素养。但是缺少一般的文化素养对你所要做的学问其实没有影响。你可以学法语，学德语，或者两者都不学，去学世界语，你的文化素养格调照样高雅。为了同样的目的，你也可以学希腊文或拉丁文，尽管它对你什么用处都没有。那也是文化素养。对了，派丝还学过撒克逊语，而且表现得聪明——那是两年前的事——可现在她记得的也就只剩下了‘正当馨香的四月带来了芬芳的阵雨’，——是这样吧？
“可它照样形成了你的文学格调，”他笑了，仍不让她插嘴，“这我知道。找们俩那时间同班。”
“你把文化素净当作达到某种目的手段去了，”露丝叫了出来。她的两眼放出光芒，两颊上泛起两朵红晕。“文化素养本身就是目的。”
“但马丁需要的并不是那个。”
“你怎么知道？”
“你需要的是什么，马丁？”奥尔尼转身正对着他问。
马丁感到不安，求救似的望青露丝
“不错．你需要的是什么？”露丝问，“你回答了．问题就解决了。”
“我需要文化素养，没错，”马丁犹豫了，“我爱美，文化素养能使我更好地更深刻地欣赏美。”
她点点头，露出胜利的表情，
“废话，这你是知道的，”奥尔尼说，“马丁追求的是事业，不是文化素养。可就他的事业而言，文化素养恰好必不可少。若是他想做个化学家，文化素养就不必要了。马丁想的是写作，但害怕直说出来会证明你错了。”
“那么，马丁为什么要写作呢？”他说下去，“因为他并没有腰缠万贯。你为什么拿撒克逊语和普通文化知识往脑子里塞呢？因为你不必进社会去闯天下，你爸爸早给你安排好了，他给你买衣服和别的一切。我们的教育——你的、我的、亚瑟的——有什么鬼用处！我们泡在普通文化营养里。若是我们的爸爸今天出了问题，我们明天就得落难，就得去参加教师考试。你所能得到的最好的工作，露丝，就是在乡下的学校或是女子寄宿学校当个音乐教师。”
“那么请问，你又干什么呢？”她问。
“我什么像样的活儿都干不了。只能干点普通劳动，一天赚一块半，也可能到汉莱的填鸭馆去当好外头——我说的是可能、请注意，一周之后我说不定会被开除，因为我没有本事。”
马丁专心地听着这场讨论，尽管他明向奥尔记述对的，却讨厌他对露丝那种不客气的态度，听着听着他心以便对爱情产生了一种新的想法：理智与爱情无关。他所爱的女人思考得对还是不对都没有关系。爱悄是超越理智的。即使她不能无分理解他追求事业的必要性．她的可爱也不会因而减少。她整个儿的就是可爱，她想什么跟她的可爱与否无关。
“什么？”他问。奥尔尼问了个问题打断了他的思路。
“我刚才在说你是不会傻到去啃拉丁文的。”
“但是拉丁文不属于文化素养范围。”露丝插嘴说，“那是学术配备。”
“唔，你要啃拉丁文么？”奥尔尼坚持问。
马丁被逼得很苦，他看得出露丝很为他的回答担心。
“我怕是没有时间，”他终于说，“我倒是想学，只是没有耐心。”
“你看，马丁追求的并不是文化素养，”奥尔尼高兴了，“他要的是达到某个目的，是有所作为。”
“啊，可那是对头脑的训练，是智力的培养。有训练的头脑就是这样培养出来的。”露丝怀着期望看着马丁，好像等着他改变看法。“你知道，橄榄球运动员大赛之前都是要训练的。那就是拉丁文对思想家的作用。它训练思维。”
“废话，胡说！那是我们当娃娃时大人告诉我们的话。但有一件事他们没有告诉我们，要我们长大后自己去体会出来。”奥尔尼为了增强效果停了停，“那就是：大人先生，人人学拉丁，学来学去，都不懂拉丁。”
“你这话不公平，”露丝叫道．“你一把话题引开我就知道你要卖弄小聪明。”
“小聪明归小聪明，”对方反驳，“却也没冤枉谁。懂拉丁的人只有药剂师、律师和拉丁文老师。若是马丁想当个什么师，就算我猜错了，可那跟赫伯特·斯宾塞又怎么能扯得上？马丁刚发现了斯宾塞，正为他神魂颠倒呢。为什么？因为斯宾塞让他前进了一步。斯宾塞不能让我进步，也不能让你进步。我们都不想进步。你有一天会结婚，我只需盯紧我的律帅和业务代理人就行，他们会管好找爸爸给我留下的钱的。”
奥尔尼起身要走，到了门口又杀了个回马枪。
“你别去干扰马丁了，露丝。他知道什么东西对他最好。你看看他的成就就知道了。他有时叫我烦，可烦归烦，却也叫我惭愧不如。他对于世界、人生、人的地位和诸如此类的问题现在所知道的要比亚瑟、诺尔曼或者我多，就这方面而言，也比你多，尽管我们有拉丁文、法文、撒克逊文、文化素养什么的一大套。”
“可是露丝是我的老师，”马丁挺身而出，“我能学到点东西全都靠了她。”
“废话！”奥尔尼阴沉了脸望了望露丝，“我怕你还要告诉我是她推荐你读斯宾塞的呢——好在你并没这么说。她对达尔文和进化论并不比我对所罗门王的宝藏知道得更多。那天你扔给我们的斯宾塞对什么东西下的那个信屈聱牙的定义——‘不确定不连贯的同质’什么的，是怎么说的？你也扔给她试试，看她能懂得一个字不。你看，这并不属于文化素养范围，啦啦啦啦啦，你若是去啃拉丁，马丁，我就不尊重你了。”
马丁对这场辩论虽一直有兴趣，却也觉得有不愉快的地方。是关于基础知识的讨论，谈学习和功课的。那学生娃娃味儿跟令他壮怀激烈的巨大事业很矛盾——即使在此时他也把指头攥得紧紧的，像鹰爪一样抓紧了生活，心情也为浩瀚的激情冲击得很难受，而且开始意识到自己可以完全控制学习了。他把自己比作一个诗人，因为海难，流落到了异国的海岸。他满腔是美的强力，想使用新的土地上山同胞们那种粗糙野蛮的语言歌唱；却结结巴巴难以如愿、那讨论也跟他矛盾。他对重大的问题普遍存在敏感，敏感得叫他痛苦，可他却不得不去考虑和探讨学生娃娃的话题，讨论他该不该学拉丁文。
“拉丁跟我的理想有什么关系．那天晚上他在镜子面前问道，“我希望死人乖乖躺着。为什么要让死人来统治我和我心中的美？美是生动活泼万古长青的，语言却有生有灭，不过是死人的灰烬而已。”
他马上感到他自己的想法措辞很精彩，躺上床时便想他为什么不能以同样的方式跟露丝交谈呢？在她面前他简直是个学生，说着学生的话。
“给我时间，”他高声说，“只要能给我时间就行。”
时间！时间！时间！是他无休无止的悲叹。
Chapter 14
It was not because of Olney, but in spite of Ruth, and his love for Ruth, that he finally decided not to take up Latin. His money meant time. There was so much that was more important than Latin, so many studies that clamored with imperious voices. And he must write. He must earn money. He had had no acceptances. Twoscore of manuscripts were travelling the endless round of the magazines. How did the others do it? He spent long hours in the free reading- room, going over what others had written, studying their work eagerly and critically, comparing it with his own, and wondering, wondering, about the secret trick they had discovered which enabled them to sell their work.
He was amazed at the immense amount of printed stuff that was dead. No light, no life, no color, was shot through it. There was no breath of life in it, and yet it sold, at two cents a word, twenty dollars a thousand - the newspaper clipping had said so. He was puzzled by countless short stories, written lightly and cleverly he confessed, but without vitality or reality. Life was so strange and wonderful, filled with an immensity of problems, of dreams, and of heroic toils, and yet these stories dealt only with the commonplaces of life. He felt the stress and strain of life, its fevers and sweats and wild insurgences - surely this was the stuff to write about! He wanted to glorify the leaders of forlorn hopes, the mad lovers, the giants that fought under stress and strain, amid terror and tragedy, making life crackle with the strength of their endeavor. And yet the magazine short stories seemed intent on glorifying the Mr. Butlers, the sordid dollar-chasers, and the commonplace little love affairs of commonplace little men and women. Was it because the editors of the magazines were commonplace? he demanded. Or were they afraid of life, these writers and editors and readers?
But his chief trouble was that he did not know any editors or writers. And not merely did he not know any writers, but he did not know anybody who had ever attempted to write. There was nobody to tell him, to hint to him, to give him the least word of advice. He began to doubt that editors were real men. They seemed cogs in a machine. That was what it was, a machine. He poured his soul into stories, articles, and poems, and intrusted them to the machine. He folded them just so, put the proper stamps inside the long envelope along with the manuscript, sealed the envelope, put more stamps outside, and dropped it into the mail-box. It travelled across the continent, and after a certain lapse of time the postman returned him the manuscript in another long envelope, on the outside of which were the stamps he had enclosed. There was no human editor at the other end, but a mere cunning arrangement of cogs that changed the manuscript from one envelope to another and stuck on the stamps. It was like the slot machines wherein one dropped pennies, and, with a metallic whirl of machinery had delivered to him a stick of chewing-gum or a tablet of chocolate. It depended upon which slot one dropped the penny in, whether he got chocolate or gum. And so with the editorial machine. One slot brought checks and the other brought rejection slips. So far he had found only the latter slot.
It was the rejection slips that completed the horrible machinelikeness of the process. These slips were printed in stereotyped forms and he had received hundreds of them - as many as a dozen or more on each of his earlier manuscripts. If he had received one line, one personal line, along with one rejection of all his rejections, he would have been cheered. But not one editor had given that proof of existence. And he could conclude only that there were no warm human men at the other end, only mere cogs, well oiled and running beautifully in the machine.
He was a good fighter, whole-souled and stubborn, and he would have been content to continue feeding the machine for years; but he was bleeding to death, and not years but weeks would determine the fight. Each week his board bill brought him nearer destruction, while the postage on forty manuscripts bled him almost as severely. He no longer bought books, and he economized in petty ways and sought to delay the inevitable end; though he did not know how to economize, and brought the end nearer by a week when he gave his sister Marian five dollars for a dress.
He struggled in the dark, without advice, without encouragement, and in the teeth of discouragement. Even Gertrude was beginning to look askance. At first she had tolerated with sisterly fondness what she conceived to be his foolishness; but now, out of sisterly solicitude, she grew anxious. To her it seemed that his foolishness was becoming a madness. Martin knew this and suffered more keenly from it than from the open and nagging contempt of Bernard Higginbotham. Martin had faith in himself, but he was alone in this faith. Not even Ruth had faith. She had wanted him to devote himself to study, and, though she had not openly disapproved of his writing, she had never approved.
He had never offered to show her his work. A fastidious delicacy had prevented him. Besides, she had been studying heavily at the university, and he felt averse to robbing her of her time. But when she had taken her degree, she asked him herself to let her see something of what he had been doing. Martin was elated and diffident. Here was a judge. She was a bachelor of arts. She had studied literature under skilled instructors. Perhaps the editors were capable judges, too. But she would be different from them. She would not hand him a stereotyped rejection slip, nor would she inform him that lack of preference for his work did not necessarily imply lack of merit in his work. She would talk, a warm human being, in her quick, bright way, and, most important of all, she would catch glimpses of the real Martin Eden. In his work she would discern what his heart and soul were like, and she would come to understand something, a little something, of the stuff of his dreams and the strength of his power.
Martin gathered together a number of carbon copies of his short stories, hesitated a moment, then added his "Sea Lyrics." They mounted their wheels on a late June afternoon and rode for the hills. It was the second time he had been out with her alone, and as they rode along through the balmy warmth, just chilled by she sea-breeze to refreshing coolness, he was profoundly impressed by the fact that it was a very beautiful and well-ordered world and that it was good to be alive and to love. They left their wheels by the roadside and climbed to the brown top of an open knoll where the sunburnt grass breathed a harvest breath of dry sweetness and content.
"Its work is done," Martin said, as they seated themselves, she upon his coat, and he sprawling close to the warm earth. He sniffed the sweetness of the tawny grass, which entered his brain and set his thoughts whirling on from the particular to the universal. "It has achieved its reason for existence," he went on, patting the dry grass affectionately. "It quickened with ambition under the dreary downpour of last winter, fought the violent early spring, flowered, and lured the insects and the bees, scattered its seeds, squared itself with its duty and the world, and - "
"Why do you always look at things with such dreadfully practical eyes?" she interrupted.
"Because I've been studying evolution, I guess. It's only recently that I got my eyesight, if the truth were told."
"But it seems to me you lose sight of beauty by being so practical, that you destroy beauty like the boys who catch butterflies and rub the down off their beautiful wings."
He shook his head.
"Beauty has significance, but I never knew its significance before. I just accepted beauty as something meaningless, as something that was just beautiful without rhyme or reason. I did not know anything about beauty. But now I know, or, rather, am just beginning to know. This grass is more beautiful to me now that I know why it is grass, and all the hidden chemistry of sun and rain and earth that makes it become grass. Why, there is romance in the life-history of any grass, yes, and adventure, too. The very thought of it stirs me. When I think of the play of force and matter, and all the tremendous struggle of it, I feel as if I could write an epic on the grass.
"How well you talk," she said absently, and he noted that she was looking at him in a searching way.
He was all confusion and embarrassment on the instant, the blood flushing red on his neck and brow.
"I hope I am learning to talk," he stammered. "There seems to be so much in me I want to say. But it is all so big. I can't find ways to say what is really in me. Sometimes it seems to me that all the world, all life, everything, had taken up residence inside of me and was clamoring for me to be the spokesman. I feel - oh, I can't describe it - I feel the bigness of it, but when I speak, I babble like a little child. It is a great task to transmute feeling and sensation into speech, written or spoken, that will, in turn, in him who reads or listens, transmute itself back into the selfsame feeling and sensation. It is a lordly task. See, I bury my face in the grass, and the breath I draw in through my nostrils sets me quivering with a thousand thoughts and fancies. It is a breath of the universe I have breathed. I know song and laughter, and success and pain, and struggle and death; and I see visions that arise in my brain somehow out of the scent of the grass, and I would like to tell them to you, to the world. But how can I? My tongue is tied. I have tried, by the spoken word, just now, to describe to you the effect on me of the scent of the grass. But I have not succeeded. I have no more than hinted in awkward speech. My words seem gibberish to me. And yet I am stifled with desire to tell. Oh! - " he threw up his hands with a despairing gesture - "it is impossible! It is not understandable! It is incommunicable!"
"But you do talk well," she insisted. "Just think how you have improved in the short time I have known you. Mr. Butler is a noted public speaker. He is always asked by the State Committee to go out on stump during campaign. Yet you talked just as well as he the other night at dinner. Only he was more controlled. You get too excited; but you will get over that with practice. Why, you would make a good public speaker. You can go far - if you want to. You are masterly. You can lead men, I am sure, and there is no reason why you should not succeed at anything you set your hand to, just as you have succeeded with grammar. You would make a good lawyer. You should shine in politics. There is nothing to prevent you from making as great a success as Mr. Butler has made. And minus the dyspepsia," she added with a smile.
They talked on; she, in her gently persistent way, returning always to the need of thorough grounding in education and to the advantages of Latin as part of the foundation for any career. She drew her ideal of the successful man, and it was largely in her father's image, with a few unmistakable lines and touches of color from the image of Mr. Butler. He listened eagerly, with receptive ears, lying on his back and looking up and joying in each movement of her lips as she talked. But his brain was not receptive. There was nothing alluring in the pictures she drew, and he was aware of a dull pain of disappointment and of a sharper ache of love for her. In all she said there was no mention of his writing, and the manuscripts he had brought to read lay neglected on the ground.
At last, in a pause, he glanced at the sun, measured its height above the horizon, and suggested his manuscripts by picking them up.
"I had forgotten," she said quickly. "And I am so anxious to hear."
He read to her a story, one that he flattered himself was among his very best. He called it "The Wine of Life," and the wine of it, that had stolen into his brain when he wrote it, stole into his brain now as he read it. There was a certain magic in the original conception, and he had adorned it with more magic of phrase and touch. All the old fire and passion with which he had written it were reborn in him, and he was swayed and swept away so that he was blind and deaf to the faults of it. But it was not so with Ruth. Her trained ear detected the weaknesses and exaggerations, the overemphasis of the tyro, and she was instantly aware each time the sentence-rhythm tripped and faltered. She scarcely noted the rhythm otherwise, except when it became too pompous, at which moments she was disagreeably impressed with its amateurishness. That was her final judgment on the story as a whole - amateurish, though she did not tell him so. Instead, when he had done, she pointed out the minor flaws and said that she liked the story.
But he was disappointed. Her criticism was just. He acknowledged that, but he had a feeling that he was not sharing his work with her for the purpose of schoolroom correction. The details did not matter. They could take care of themselves. He could mend them, he could learn to mend them. Out of life he had captured something big and attempted to imprison it in the story. It was the big thing out of life he had read to her, not sentence-structure and semicolons. He wanted her to feel with him this big thing that was his, that he had seen with his own eyes, grappled with his own brain, and placed there on the page with his own hands in printed words. Well, he had failed, was his secret decision. Perhaps the editors were right. He had felt the big thing, but he had failed to transmute it. He concealed his disappointment, and joined so easily with her in her criticism that she did not realize that deep down in him was running a strong undercurrent of disagreement.
"This next thing I've called 'The Pot'," he said, unfolding the manuscript. "It has been refused by four or five magazines now, but still I think it is good. In fact, I don't know what to think of it, except that I've caught something there. Maybe it won't affect you as it does me. It's a short thing - only two thousand words."
"How dreadful!" she cried, when he had finished. "It is horrible, unutterably horrible!"
He noted her pale face, her eyes wide and tense, and her clenched hands, with secret satisfaction. He had succeeded. He had communicated the stuff of fancy and feeling from out of his brain. It had struck home. No matter whether she liked it or not, it had gripped her and mastered her, made her sit there and listen and forget details.
"It is life," he said, "and life is not always beautiful. And yet, perhaps because I am strangely made, I find something beautiful there. It seems to me that the beauty is tenfold enhanced because it is there - "
"But why couldn't the poor woman - " she broke in disconnectedly. Then she left the revolt of her thought unexpressed to cry out: "Oh! It is degrading! It is not nice! It is nasty!"
For the moment it seemed to him that his heart stood still. NASTY! He had never dreamed it. He had not meant it. The whole sketch stood before him in letters of fire, and in such blaze of illumination he sought vainly for nastiness. Then his heart began to beat again. He was not guilty.
"Why didn't you select a nice subject?" she was saying. "We know there are nasty things in the world, but that is no reason - "
She talked on in her indignant strain, but he was not following her. He was smiling to himself as he looked up into her virginal face, so innocent, so penetratingly innocent, that its purity seemed always to enter into him, driving out of him all dross and bathing him in some ethereal effulgence that was as cool and soft and velvety as starshine. WE KNOW THERE ARE NASTY THINGS IN THE WORLD! He cuddled to him the notion of her knowing, and chuckled over it as a love joke. The next moment, in a flashing vision of multitudinous detail, he sighted the whole sea of life's nastiness that he had known and voyaged over and through, and he forgave her for not understanding the story. It was through no fault of hers that she could not understand. He thanked God that she had been born and sheltered to such innocence. But he knew life, its foulness as well as its fairness, its greatness in spite of the slime that infested it, and by God he was going to have his say on it to the world. Saints in heaven - how could they be anything but fair and pure? No praise to them. But saints in slime - ah, that was the everlasting wonder! That was what made life worth while. To see moral grandeur rising out of cesspools of iniquity; to rise himself and first glimpse beauty, faint and far, through mud- dripping eyes; to see out of weakness, and frailty, and viciousness, and all abysmal brutishness, arising strength, and truth, and high spiritual endowment -
He caught a stray sequence of sentences she was uttering.
"The tone of it all is low. And there is so much that is high. Take 'In Memoriam.'"
He was impelled to suggest "Locksley Hall," and would have done so, had not his vision gripped him again and left him staring at her, the female of his kind, who, out of the primordial ferment, creeping and crawling up the vast ladder of life for a thousand thousand centuries, had emerged on the topmost rung, having become one Ruth, pure, and fair, and divine, and with power to make him know love, and to aspire toward purity, and to desire to taste divinity - him, Martin Eden, who, too, had come up in some amazing fashion from out of the ruck and the mire and the countless mistakes and abortions of unending creation. There was the romance, and the wonder, and the glory. There was the stuff to write, if he could only find speech. Saints in heaven! - They were only saints and could not help themselves. But he was a man.
"You have strength," he could hear her saying, "but it is untutored strength."
"Like a bull in a china shop," he suggested, and won a smile.
"And you must develop discrimination. You must consult taste, and fineness, and tone."
"I dare too much," he muttered.
She smiled approbation, and settled herself to listen to another story.
"I don't know what you'll make of this," he said apologetically. "It's a funny thing. I'm afraid I got beyond my depth in it, but my intentions were good. Don't bother about the little features of it. Just see if you catch the feel of the big thing in it. It is big, and it is true, though the chance is large that I have failed to make it intelligible."
He read, and as he read he watched her. At last he had reached her, he thought. She sat without movement, her eyes steadfast upon him, scarcely breathing, caught up and out of herself, he thought, by the witchery of the thing he had created. He had entitled the story "Adventure," and it was the apotheosis of adventure - not of the adventure of the storybooks, but of real adventure, the savage taskmaster, awful of punishment and awful of reward, faithless and whimsical, demanding terrible patience and heartbreaking days and nights of toil, offering the blazing sunlight glory or dark death at the end of thirst and famine or of the long drag and monstrous delirium of rotting fever, through blood and sweat and stinging insects leading up by long chains of petty and ignoble contacts to royal culminations and lordly achievements.
It was this, all of it, and more, that he had put into his story, and it was this, he believed, that warmed her as she sat and listened. Her eyes were wide, color was in her pale cheeks, and before he finished it seemed to him that she was almost panting. Truly, she was warmed; but she was warmed, not by the story, but by him. She did not think much of the story; it was Martin's intensity of power, the old excess of strength that seemed to pour from his body and on and over her. The paradox of it was that it was the story itself that was freighted with his power, that was the channel, for the time being, through which his strength poured out to her. She was aware only of the strength, and not of the medium, and when she seemed most carried away by what he had written, in reality she had been carried away by something quite foreign to it - by a thought, terrible and perilous, that had formed itself unsummoned in her brain. She had caught herself wondering what marriage was like, and the becoming conscious of the waywardness and ardor of the thought had terrified her. It was unmaidenly. It was not like her. She had never been tormented by womanhood, and she had lived in a dreamland of Tennysonian poesy, dense even to the full significance of that delicate master's delicate allusions to the grossnesses that intrude upon the relations of queens and knights. She had been asleep, always, and now life was thundering imperatively at all her doors. Mentally she was in a panic to shoot the bolts and drop the bars into place, while wanton instincts urged her to throw wide her portals and bid the deliciously strange visitor to enter in.
Martin waited with satisfaction for her verdict. He had no doubt of what it would be, and he was astounded when he heard her say:
"It is beautiful."
"It is beautiful," she repeated, with emphasis, after a pause.
Of course it was beautiful; but there was something more than mere beauty in it, something more stingingly splendid which had made beauty its handmaiden. He sprawled silently on the ground, watching the grisly form of a great doubt rising before him. He had failed. He was inarticulate. He had seen one of the greatest things in the world, and he had not expressed it.
"What did you think of the - " He hesitated, abashed at his first attempt to use a strange word. "Of the MOTIF?" he asked.
"It was confused," she answered. "That is my only criticism in the large way. I followed the story, but there seemed so much else. It is too wordy. You clog the action by introducing so much extraneous material."
"That was the major MOTIF," he hurriedly explained, "the big underrunning MOTIF, the cosmic and universal thing. I tried to make it keep time with the story itself, which was only superficial after all. I was on the right scent, but I guess I did it badly. I did not succeed in suggesting what I was driving at. But I'll learn in time."
She did not follow him. She was a bachelor of arts, but he had gone beyond her limitations. This she did not comprehend, attributing her incomprehension to his incoherence.
"You were too voluble," she said. "But it was beautiful, in places."
He heard her voice as from far off, for he was debating whether he would read her the "Sea Lyrics." He lay in dull despair, while she watched him searchingly, pondering again upon unsummoned and wayward thoughts of marriage.
"You want to be famous?" she asked abruptly.
"Yes, a little bit," he confessed. "That is part of the adventure. It is not the being famous, but the process of becoming so, that counts. And after all, to be famous would be, for me, only a means to something else. I want to be famous very much, for that matter, and for that reason."
"For your sake," he wanted to add, and might have added had she proved enthusiastic over what he had read to her.
But she was too busy in her mind, carving out a career for him that would at least be possible, to ask what the ultimate something was which he had hinted at. There was no career for him in literature. Of that she was convinced. He had proved it to-day, with his amateurish and sophomoric productions. He could talk well, but he was incapable of expressing himself in a literary way. She compared Tennyson, and Browning, and her favorite prose masters with him, and to his hopeless discredit. Yet she did not tell him her whole mind. Her strange interest in him led her to temporize. His desire to write was, after all, a little weakness which he would grow out of in time. Then he would devote himself to the more serious affairs of life. And he would succeed, too. She knew that. He was so strong that he could not fail - if only he would drop writing.
"I wish you would show me all you write, Mr. Eden," she said.
He flushed with pleasure. She was interested, that much was sure. And at least she had not given him a rejection slip. She had called certain portions of his work beautiful, and that was the first encouragement he had ever received from any one.
"I will," he said passionately. "And I promise you, Miss Morse, that I will make good. I have come far, I know that; and I have far to go, and I will cover it if I have to do it on my hands and knees." He held up a bunch of manuscript. "Here are the 'Sea Lyrics.' When you get home, I'll turn them over to you to read at your leisure. And you must be sure to tell me just what you think of them. What I need, you know, above all things, is criticism. And do, please, be frank with me."
"I will be perfectly frank," she promised, with an uneasy conviction that she had not been frank with him and with a doubt if she could be quite frank with him the next time.
他终于决定不听露丝的意见，不顾自己对露丝的爱，不学拉丁文了。他的钱就意味着时间。比拉丁文重要的东西太多。许多学问都迫切要求他去做一他还得写作，还得赚钱他。他的稿子没人要。四十来篇稿件在各家杂志间没完没了地旅行。别的作家是怎么做的？他在免费阅览室花费了大量的时间研究别人出版的东西，急切地、用批评的眼光加以研究，把它们跟自己的作品比较，猜测着、反复猜测着他们所找到的卖出稿子的窍门。 
地对死气沉沉的出版物数量之庞大感到吃惊。这些作品没何透露出丝毫光明生命或色彩，没有生命在呼吸，却卖得掉，而且两分钱一个字，十元钱一千字——剪报上是这么说的。他为汗牛充栋的短篇小说感到迷惑。他承认它们写得聪明、轻松，但没有生命力和现实感、生命是如此离奇而美妙，充满了数不清的问题、梦想，和英勇的劳动，但那些小说却只在写平庸的生活。他感到了生活的压力和紧张，生活的狂热、汗水和剧变——毫无疑义，这才是值得写的东西！他想要赞美失去希望的事业的项导者，爱得死去活来的情人，在恐怖与悲剧中战斗，饱尝艰苦磨难，以他们的努力逼得生活节节败退的巨人何卜但是杂志上的短篇小说却似乎今注地吹嘘着巴特勒先生这利人，肮脏的逐利之徒和平庸的小男小女的平庸的爱情。这是因为杂志编辑本身就是平底之辈么？他追问．或是团为这些作者、编辑和读者都害怕生活呢？
但他的主要烦恼却是；他连一个作家、编辑或读音都不认识。而已他不光是不认识作家，就连试过写作的人也不认识。没有人告诉过他。提示过他，给过他十句忠告。他开始怀疑编辑是不是实有的人。他们似乎是机器上的螺丝钉。实际已就是一部机器。他把自己的灵魂注入了小说、散文和诗歌之中，最终却交给了机器去处理。他把稿件像这样折好，跟适员的邮票一起装进长信封，封好，在外面又贴上邮票，再丢进邮筒，让那信去作跨越大陆的旅行。过了一段时间邮递员交还他用另一个长信封装好的稿件，外面贴好地寄去的邮票。旅程的那头并无编辑这个人，只有一套巧妙的机器。那东西把稿件另装一个信封，贴上邮票，跟无人售货机一样，放过硬币就听见一阵机器旋转，然后一包回香糖或一块巧克力就送了出来。是得口香糖或是得巧克力决定手硬币投入了哪个投币口。一个投币口送出的是支票，另一个投币口送出的是退稿条。到目前为止，他找到的只有退稿口。
那可怕的机器式的过程是由退稿条来完成的。退稿条全是按千篇一律的格式印好的。他收到的已有好几百张——他早期的稿子每份的退稿条都在一打或一打以上。若是在他全部退稿条之中曾有一份上面写了一行字，说了点私人的话，他也会受到鼓舞。但是没有一个编辑证明有那种可能性。因此他只能不结论说那一头并没有温暖的带着人味儿的东西，只有上好了油在机器中美妙运转的齿轮。
他是个优秀的战士，全心全意，坚定顽强，可以长年累月往机器里喂稿件而心安理得。但他正在流血，流得快要死了，因此战斗的结果只须几个星期就可以见个分晓，用不了几年。他每周的膳宿费通知都把他带近毁灭一步，而四十份稿子的邮资流血之多也同样严重。他再不买书了，还在许多小地方节约，想推迟那无可避免的结局；可他却不知道怎样节约，又给了妹妹茉莉安五块钱买了一件衣服，让结局提前了一个星期。
他在黑暗中奋斗，没有人为他出主意，也没有人鼓励他。他在挫折的齿缝里挣扎。就连格特露也开始不满意他了。起初她怀着姐姐的溺爱心情纵容了他，认为那是他一时发傻；可是现在，出于做姐姐的关心，她着急了，觉得他的傻劲似乎成了疯狂。马丁明白她的想法，心里比遭到希金波坦唠唠叨叨的公开挖苦还要痛苦。马丁对自己有信心，但这信心是孤独的。就是露丝也没有信心，她曾要求他投身于学习。虽没有反对地写作，却也没表示过赞成。
他从没有要求露丝读读他的作品，那是因为一种过分的小心。何况她在大学的功课很重，他不愿剥夺她的时间。但在她得到学位之后她却主动要求他让她看一点他的作品。马丁很高兴，却又信心不足。现在有了裁判员了。
是个文学学士，在内行的教师指导下研究过文学。编辑们说不定L是能干的裁判员，但她跟他们不同，不会交给他一张千篇一律的退稿条，也不会告诉他他的作品没被选中未必意味着没有长处。她是个活生生的人，会说话，会以她那敏锐和聪明的方式说话。最重要的是，她可以多少看到真正的马丁·伊登，从他的作品观察到他的心智和灵魂，因而理解某些东西：他梦想的是什么，能力有多强之类，哪怕是一点点。
马丁选了他几个短篇小说的复写本，犹豫了一会儿，又加上了他的《海上抒情诗》。两人在一个六月的下午骑上自行车到了丘陵地区。那是他第二次跟她单独外出。芬芳温暖的空气被海风一吹，冷却下来，变得凉爽宜人。他俩骑车前进时他获得了一个深刻的印象：这是个非常美丽的、秩序井然的世界，活着而且恋爱着真是十分美好的事。他俩把自行车留在路旁，爬上了一个境界开阔的褐色丘陵。那儿被太阳晒干了的草心满意足地散发出一种收获季节的于香味儿。
“草地的任务完成了，”马丁说。两人安顿下来。露丝坐在马丁的外衣上，马丁趴着，紧贴在暖烘烘的地上。他嗅了嗅褐色的草的甜香。那香味儿进入了他的脑子，催动他的思想从特殊到一股旋转着。“它已找到了它存在的理由，”他说下去，深情地拍打着干草。“它在去年冬天凄凉的猛雨中立下志向，跟暴虐的早春作了斗争，开了花，引来了虫子和蜜蜂，撒播了种子，尽了本分，偿请了对世界的债，于是——”
“你为什么总用这样实际得可怕的眼睛看事物？”她插嘴道。
“因为我一直在研究进化论，我想。若要告诉你实情的话，我可是最近才睁开眼睛呢。”
“但我似乎觉得像你这样实际是会错过了美的。你像小孩捉住蝴蝶，弄掉了它美丽的翅膀上的鳞粉一样，破坏了美。”
他摇摇头。
“美是有意义的，但我以前不知道，只把美看作是没有意义的东西，认为美就是美，并无道理可言，这就说明我对美一无所知。可现在我知道了，确切地说，是开始知道了，现在我知道了草是怎样变成草的。在我知道了形成草的阳光、雨露、土壤的隐秘化学变化之后，便觉得单更加美丽了。的确，任何一片草叶的生命史中都有它的浪漫故事，是的，还有冒险故事。一想到这些我便心情激动。我想到力与物质之间的相互作用，其中的浩瀚巨大的斗争，便觉得自己似乎可以写一首小旱史诗。”
“你谈得多好呀，”她心不在焉地说，他注意到她正用探索的目光望着他。
顷刻之间他慌乱了、不好意思了，血涌了上来，脖子和额头都红了。
“我希望自己是在学着说话，”他结巴地说，“我似乎有一肚子的话要说，全都是些大题目。我找不出办法表示心里真正的感受。有时我似乎觉得整个世界、整个生命、一切的一切都在我心中生存，叫嚣着要我为它们说话。我感到了——啊，我无法描述——我感到了它的巨大，但一说起话来，却只能睁睁晤晤像个娃娃。把情绪和感受转化成文字或话语，能使读者或听话的人倒过来转化成心中同样的情绪或感受是一项艰巨的任务，一项不同凡响的任务。你看，我把脸理进草里，从鼻孔吸进的清香使我浮想连翩，全身战栗。我嗅到的是宇宙的气息。我知道歌声和欢笑、成功与痛苦、斗争和死亡；草的香气不知怎么在我的头脑里引起了种种幻影，我看见了这些幻影，我想把这一切告诉你，告诉全世界，可我的舌头不管用，它怎样才能管用呢？我刚才就是想向你用言语描绘草的香味对我的影响，但是没有成功。只是用拙劣的言词勾画了一下。我觉得自己说出的似乎全是废话。我憋闷得慌，急于表达。啊——”他的手向上一挥，做了个失望的手势——“我做不到，别人不理解！无法沟通！”
“但是你的确说得很好，”她坚持说，“想想看，在我认识你之后的短暂时间里，你已经有了多大的进步！巴特勒先生是个有名的演说家。选举的时候州委会常常要他到各地去演说，可你说得就跟他那天晚上在宴会上说得一样精彩。只是他更有控制，而你太激动而已。只要多说几回就好了。你可以成为一个优秀的演说家，只要你愿意干，你是可以大有作为的。你是个出类拔草的人，我相信你可以领导群众，凡是你想干的事没有理由于不成功。你在语法上的成功便是一个例子。你可以成为一个优秀的律师。你应当在政治上辉煌起来。没有东西能阻挡你取得眼巴特勒先生同样伟大的成功的——还不会消化不良。”她笑着补充了最后一句。
两人继续谈下去。她总是温文尔雅坚持不懈地回到一个问题：教育必须全面打好基础，拉丁文是基础的一部分，对从事任何事业都大有好处。她描绘出了她理想的成功者。那大体是她父亲的形象，其中明确无误地夹杂着一些巴特勒先生形象的线条与色彩。他躺在地上尖起耳朵专注地听着，抬头望着她，欣赏着她说话时嘴唇的每一动作，但脑子却装不进去。她所描绘的图画并不迷人。他隐约感到失望的痛苦，因为对她的爱那痛苦尤其尖锐。她的全部谈话没有一个字涉及他的写作。他带来念的稿子躺在地上受到冷落。
谈话终于暂停，他瞥了一眼太阳，估计了一下它跟地平线的距离，作为一种暗示拿起了稿子。
“我简直忘了，”她急忙说，“我非常想听呢！”
他为她念了一篇自己认为最好的短篇小说。他把它叫做《生命之酒》。故事里的酒是在他写作时悄悄钻进他脑子的，现许他一念，那酒又钻进了他的脑了，故事的轮廓本来就有相当的魅力，他又用文采和点缀加以渲染。他当初写作时的火焰与热情又在他心里燃起．使他陶醉，因而看不见也听不到自己作品的缺点了。露丝却不同。她那训练有素的耳朵听出了它的薄弱和夸张之处和初学者过分渲染的地方。句子的节奏一有疙瘩和拖沓也都立即为她察觉。除此之外只要没有太装腔作势她都几乎置节奏于不顾。作品那业余味儿给了她不愉快的印象。业余水平，这是她对整个小说的最后评价。不过她没有直说，相反，在他念完之后她只指出了一些次要的瑕疵，宣称她喜欢那篇小说。
但是他失望了。他承认她的评价是公正的，但他仍有一种感觉，他让她听这小说并非要她作课堂式的作文修改。细节并不重要，它们会自生自灭。他可以改，可以学会自己改。他在生活中把握住了某种重大的东西，要把它写进他的小说。他向她念的是那重大的东西，不是句子结构或分号什么的。他要她跟他一起体验属于他的这点重大的东西，那是他用自已的眼睛看见过，在自己的头脑里思考过，用自己的手在纸上打出来的。完了，我失败了，这是他心里的秘密结论。编辑们也许是对的。他感受到了那巨大的东西，却没有表现出来。他隐藏了心中的失望，轻松地附和了她的评价，使她没有意识到他心的深处有一道汹涌的潜流在奔腾。
“下一篇我把它叫《阴谋》，”他打开稿子说，“已经有四五个杂志退了稿，可我一直认为它不错。实际上我不知道该怎样评价。我只是把捉住了某种东西写了下来。它虽使我非常激动，却未必能使你同样激动。篇幅很小，只有两千字。”
“多么可怕！”他念完了稿子，她叫道。“骇人听闻，说不出的骇人听闻！”
他注意到了她那苍白的脸色，神色紧张的瞪大的双眼，和捏紧的拳头，心中暗暗满意。他成功了，他已表达出了自己在头脑中设计的形象与感情，他打中了。无论她喜不喜欢，故事已经抓住了她，支配了她，使她坐在那儿静听，再也不考虑细节。
“那是生活，”他说，“生洁并非是永远美丽的，也许因为我生性奇特，我在恐怖中找到了一些美丽的东西。我似乎感到正因为它出现在恐怖中．那美丽才增加了十倍，”
“但，那可怜的女人为什么不能——一”她心不在焉地插嘴道，却又控制了心中的厌恶之情，叫道，“啊！这小说堕落！不美、肮脏卜流！”
他感到心房似乎暂时停止了跳动。肮脏下流！他做梦也没想到，他设计那个意思，整个情节站在他面前，每个字母都燃前火，燃得那么明亮耀眼。他无论如何也找不出肮脏卜流的东西。他的心恢复了跳动，他问心无愧。
“你为什么不选一个美好的题材？”是她在说话，“世界上有肮脏下流的东西，这我们知道，可我们没有理由——”
她怒气冲冲地说下去，但他没有听，只抬起头望着她那处女的脸，心中暗自发笑，那张股多么天真纯洁，天真得令人怜爱、纯洁得动人心魂，能除去他身上的全部脏污，把他浸润于一种天国的灵光之中。那灵光清凉、柔和，如大鹅绒，像星星，世界上有肮脏下流的东西，这我们知道。看来她也知道有肮脏下流的东西，这叫他高兴，心平也不禁暗笑他只把她那话看作是恋爱时的笑话紧接着，千千万万细节的幻影便闪过他心田，他看到了自己所经历过电征服了的肮脏下流的生活的汪洋大海，他原谅了她，同为她不可能了解情况，而那并不是她的错。他感谢上帝她能这样天真无邪、一上不染。但是他却知道生活，知道它的肮脏和美好；知道它的伟大，尽管其中到处总是恶。以上帝发誓他正要向世界发言加以描述呢！天堂卫的圣徒除了美丽纯洁还能怎么样？对他们不必赞颂。但是丑恶渊薮中的圣徒——啊，那才是永恒的奇迹，那才是生命的价值所在．眼看着道德上的伟人从邪恶的泥淖中升起；眼看着白已从泥淖中升起，睁开滴着泥浆的双眼第一次瞥见遥远处隐约存在的美；眼看着力量、真理和崇高的精神天赋从无力、脆弱、恶意、和种种地狱般的兽性中升起——
从她嘴里说出的一串话语钻进了他的意识。
“这小说的格调整个儿低下。可现实小却有许多高尚的东西。试以《悼念》为例。”
他出于无奈，几乎要提起《洛克斯利大厅》。若不是他的幻影又抓住了他，让他盯住着她．他几乎真会说了出来。这跟他同一种属的女人，从远占的萌动评始，在生命的宏大的阶梯上爬行挣扎，经过了亿万斯年，才在最高层出现，演化出了一个露丝，纯洁、美丽、神圣，有力量让他理解爱情，向往纯洁，渴望品尝神性的滋味——地，马丁·伊登，也是。以某种令人惊诧的方式从泥淖中，从无数的错误和无穷多流产的创作中爬出来的。浪漫、奇迹和荣耀都在这平。只要他能表达。这就是写作的素材。天上的圣徒！——圣徒只不过是圣徒，连自己也拯救不了；可他却是个人。
“你是有力量的，”他听见她在说话，“可那是没经过训练的力量。”
“你必须培养鉴别能力，必须考虑品位、美和情调。”
“像一头闯进瓷器店的公牛，”他提出比喻，博得了她一笑。
“我胆太大，写得太多，”他喃喃地说。
她微笑同意了，然后坐好，又听下一篇。
“我不知道你对这一篇会怎么看，”他解释，“这一篇挺好玩，我怕是力不从心，但用意是好的。小的地方不必计较。只看看你是否感觉到其中重大的东西。它重大，也真实，尽管我很可能没有表现出来。”
他开始读，一边读一边注意她。他终于打动地了。她坐着不动，眼睛紧盯着他，连呼吸也几乎停止了。他觉得她是叫作品的魅力打动了，所得如醉如痴了。他把这小说叫做《冒险》，其实是对冒险的礼赞——不是故事书中那类冒险，而是现实中的冒险。野蛮的头领经历过可怕的惩罚取得了惊人的报偿。信心不足，多次反复要求着可怕的耐性和在辛酸的日夜里的勤劳苦作。面前或是耀眼的灿烂阳光，或是忍饥受渴之后的漆黑的死亡，或是长期高烧，形销骨立，精神严重错乱而死。通过血与汗，蚊叮虫咬，通过一串又一串琐碎平凡的交锋，终于到达了辉煌的结局，取得了壮丽的成就。
他写进小说的就是这种东西，它的全部，而且更多，他相信在她坐着静听时使她激动的正是这东西。她的眼睛睁得大大的，苍白的面颊泛出了红晕，他结束时似乎感到她快要端不过气来了。她的确激动了，但不是因为故事，而是因为他。她对故事的评价并不高。她感受到的是马丁那雄浑的力，他那一向过剩的精力仿佛正向她汩汩流注，淹没了她。说来也怪，正是满载着他的强力的小说一时成了他的力量向她倾泻的渠道。她只意识到那力量，却忽略了那媒体。在她似乎为他的作品所颠倒时，颠倒她的实际是一种对她还很陌生的东西——一种可怕而危险的思想不期而至，在她头脑里出现。她忽然发觉自己在迷惘着婚姻是什么样子，在她意识到那思想的放纵与狂热时她简直吓坏了。这念头太不适合她的处女身分，也不像她。她还从未因自己的女儿之身而苦恼过。她一向生活在丁尼生诗歌式的梦境里。那精细的大师对闯入王后与骑士之间的粗野成分虽作了微妙的暗示，但她对它的含义却感觉迟钝。她一向沉睡未醒，可现在生命已在迫不及待地猛敲着她的每一扇门扉。她的心灵乱成了一团，正忙着插插销，上门闩，可放纵的本能却在催促她敞开门户，邀请那陌生得美妙的客人进来。
马丁满意地等着她的判决辞。他对那判决如何毫不怀疑。可一听见她的话却不禁目瞪日呆。——
“很美。”
“确实很美，”片刻之后她又着重地重复了这句话。
当然很美，可其中不光有美，还有别的，有更光芒耀眼的东西，美在它面前只是个婢女。他默默地趴在地上，望着巨大的怀疑以其狰狞的形象在他面前升起。他失败了。他力不从心。他曾看到一个世界上最伟大的东西，却没有表达出来。
“你对——”他踌躇了一会儿，为第一次使用一个陌生的词感到不好意思。‘你对作品的主题有什么看法？”他问。
“主题有些混乱，”她回答，“大体说来这就是我唯一的评论。我跟随着故事情节，但其中似乎夹杂了许多别的东西，有些罗嗦。你插进了许多拉杂的东西，妨碍了动作的发展。”
“可那才是主要的主题呢，”他急忙解释，“是个重大的潜在的主题，广阔无边的具有普遍意义的东西。我努力让它跟故事本身同步发展，可毕竟也只能浮光掠影，我嗅到了一个猎物，看来枪法却不行。我没有写出我想写的东西。不过我总可以学会的。”
她没有理解他的意思。她是个文学土，但他已超越了禁烟着他的藩篱。对此她并不理解，却把自己的不理解看作是因为他的逻辑不清。
“你太拉杂，”她说，“但是小说很美，在某些部分。”
她的声音在他耳里仿佛很辽远，因为他正在考虑是否给她念念《海上抒情诗人他躺在那儿，隐约地感到失望，她却在打量他，又在思考着不期而至的疯狂放肆的婚姻问题。
“你想成名么？”她突然问他。
“想，有一点儿想，”他承认，“那是冒险的一部分。重要的不是出名本身，而是出名的过程。而对我来说，成名只是达到另一目的的手段。为了那个目的我非常想成名。”
“目的就是你，”他想加上这句话。若是她对他念给她听的东西反应热烈，说不定他就会加上的。
可是她此时正忙着思考，要为他设想出一种至少是可行的事业。她并没有追问他所暗示的最终目的的是什么。文学不是他的事业，对此她深信不疑，向他今天又已用他那些业余半生不熟的作品作了证明。他可以谈得娓娓动听，但不能用文学的手法加以描绘。她用丁尼生、勃朗宁和她爱好的散文大帅跟他作比较，跟他那业无可救药的弱点作比较。但她并没有把心小的话全告诉他，她对他那种奇怪的兴趣使她姑息着他。他的写作欲毕竟只是一种爱好，以后会自然消失的。那时他便会去从事生活中更为严肃的事业，而且取得成功，这她知道，他意志坚强．身体好，是不会失败的——只要他肯放弃写作。
“我希望你把全部作品都给我看看，伊登地生。”她说。
他高兴得涨红了脸。他至少可以肯定她已感到了兴趣。她没有给他一张退稿条。她说他的作品某些部分很美，这已是他从别人那里听到的第一个鼓励之辞。
“好的，”他激动地说，“而且，莫尔斯小姐，我向你保证一定好好干。我知道我的来路很长，要走的路也很长，但我一定要走到，哪旧是手足并用也要走到。”他捧起一叠稿子。“这是《海上抒情诗》，你回家时我再给你，你抽空读一读，请务必告诉我你对它的看法。你知道我最需要的就是批评。请你一定川率地提出意见。”
“我一定完全们率，”她答应着，心里却感到不安，因为她对他并不坦率，而且怀疑下回对他能否完全坦率。
Chapter 15
The first battle, fought and finished," Martin said to the looking-glass ten days later. "But there will be a second battle, and a third battle, and battles to the end of time, unless - "
He had not finished the sentence, but looked about the mean little room and let his eyes dwell sadly upon a heap of returned manuscripts, still in their long envelopes, which lay in a corner on the floor. He had no stamps with which to continue them on their travels, and for a week they had been piling up. More of them would come in on the morrow, and on the next day, and the next, till they were all in. And he would be unable to start them out again. He was a month's rent behind on the typewriter, which he could not pay, having barely enough for the week's board which was due and for the employment office fees.
He sat down and regarded the table thoughtfully. There were ink stains upon it, and he suddenly discovered that he was fond of it.
"Dear old table," he said, "I've spent some happy hours with you, and you've been a pretty good friend when all is said and done. You never turned me down, never passed me out a reward-of-unmerit rejection slip, never complained about working overtime."
He dropped his arms upon the table and buried his face in them. His throat was aching, and he wanted to cry. It reminded him of his first fight, when he was six years old, when he punched away with the tears running down his cheeks while the other boy, two years his elder, had beaten and pounded him into exhaustion. He saw the ring of boys, howling like barbarians as he went down at last, writhing in the throes of nausea, the blood streaming from his nose and the tears from his bruised eyes.
"Poor little shaver," he murmured. "And you're just as badly licked now. You're beaten to a pulp. You're down and out."
But the vision of that first fight still lingered under his eyelids, and as he watched he saw it dissolve and reshape into the series of fights which had followed. Six months later Cheese-Face (that was the boy) had whipped him again. But he had blacked Cheese-Face's eye that time. That was going some. He saw them all, fight after fight, himself always whipped and Cheese-Face exulting over him. But he had never run away. He felt strengthened by the memory of that. He had always stayed and taken his medicine. Cheese-Face had been a little fiend at fighting, and had never once shown mercy to him. But he had stayed! He had stayed with it!
Next, he saw a narrow alley, between ramshackle frame buildings. The end of the alley was blocked by a one-story brick building, out of which issued the rhythmic thunder of the presses, running off the first edition of the ENQUIRER. He was eleven, and Cheese-Face was thirteen, and they both carried the ENQUIRER. That was why they were there, waiting for their papers. And, of course, Cheese- Face had picked on him again, and there was another fight that was indeterminate, because at quarter to four the door of the press- room was thrown open and the gang of boys crowded in to fold their papers.
"I'll lick you to-morrow," he heard Cheese-Face promise; and he heard his own voice, piping and trembling with unshed tears, agreeing to be there on the morrow.
And he had come there the next day, hurrying from school to be there first, and beating Cheese-Face by two minutes. The other boys said he was all right, and gave him advice, pointing out his faults as a scrapper and promising him victory if he carried out their instructions. The same boys gave Cheese-Face advice, too. How they had enjoyed the fight! He paused in his recollections long enough to envy them the spectacle he and Cheese-Face had put up. Then the fight was on, and it went on, without rounds, for thirty minutes, until the press-room door was opened.
He watched the youthful apparition of himself, day after day, hurrying from school to the ENQUIRER alley. He could not walk very fast. He was stiff and lame from the incessant fighting. His forearms were black and blue from wrist to elbow, what of the countless blows he had warded off, and here and there the tortured flesh was beginning to fester. His head and arms and shoulders ached, the small of his back ached, - he ached all over, and his brain was heavy and dazed. He did not play at school. Nor did he study. Even to sit still all day at his desk, as he did, was a torment. It seemed centuries since he had begun the round of daily fights, and time stretched away into a nightmare and infinite future of daily fights. Why couldn't Cheese-Face be licked? he often thought; that would put him, Martin, out of his misery. It never entered his head to cease fighting, to allow Cheese-Face to whip him.
And so he dragged himself to the ENQUIRER alley, sick in body and soul, but learning the long patience, to confront his eternal enemy, Cheese-Face, who was just as sick as he, and just a bit willing to quit if it were not for the gang of newsboys that looked on and made pride painful and necessary. One afternoon, after twenty minutes of desperate efforts to annihilate each other according to set rules that did not permit kicking, striking below the belt, nor hitting when one was down, Cheese-Face, panting for breath and reeling, offered to call it quits. And Martin, head on arms, thrilled at the picture he caught of himself, at that moment in the afternoon of long ago, when he reeled and panted and choked with the blood that ran into his mouth and down his throat from his cut lips; when he tottered toward Cheese-Face, spitting out a mouthful of blood so that he could speak, crying out that he would never quit, though Cheese-Face could give in if he wanted to. And Cheese-Face did not give in, and the fight went on.
The next day and the next, days without end, witnessed the afternoon fight. When he put up his arms, each day, to begin, they pained exquisitely, and the first few blows, struck and received, racked his soul; after that things grew numb, and he fought on blindly, seeing as in a dream, dancing and wavering, the large features and burning, animal-like eyes of Cheese-Face. He concentrated upon that face; all else about him was a whirling void. There was nothing else in the world but that face, and he would never know rest, blessed rest, until he had beaten that face into a pulp with his bleeding knuckles, or until the bleeding knuckles that somehow belonged to that face had beaten him into a pulp. And then, one way or the other, he would have rest. But to quit, - for him, Martin, to quit, - that was impossible!
Came the day when he dragged himself into the ENQUIRER alley, and there was no Cheese-Face. Nor did Cheese-Face come. The boys congratulated him, and told him that he had licked Cheese-Face. But Martin was not satisfied. He had not licked Cheese-Face, nor had Cheese-Face licked him. The problem had not been solved. It was not until afterward that they learned that Cheese-Face's father had died suddenly that very day.
Martin skipped on through the years to the night in the nigger heaven at the Auditorium. He was seventeen and just back from sea. A row started. Somebody was bullying somebody, and Martin interfered, to be confronted by Cheese-Face's blazing eyes.
"I'll fix you after de show," his ancient enemy hissed.
Martin nodded. The nigger-heaven bouncer was making his way toward the disturbance.
"I'll meet you outside, after the last act," Martin whispered, the while his face showed undivided interest in the buck-and-wing dancing on the stage.
The bouncer glared and went away.
"Got a gang?" he asked Cheese-Face, at the end of the act.
"Sure."
"Then I got to get one," Martin announced.
Between the acts he mustered his following - three fellows he knew from the nail works, a railroad fireman, and half a dozen of the Boo Gang, along with as many more from the dread Eighteen-and- Market Gang.
When the theatre let out, the two gangs strung along inconspicuously on opposite sides of the street. When they came to a quiet corner, they united and held a council of war.
"Eighth Street Bridge is the place," said a red-headed fellow belonging to Cheese-Face's Gang. "You kin fight in the middle, under the electric light, an' whichever way the bulls come in we kin sneak the other way."
"That's agreeable to me," Martin said, after consulting with the leaders of his own gang.
The Eighth Street Bridge, crossing an arm of San Antonio Estuary, was the length of three city blocks. In the middle of the bridge, and at each end, were electric lights. No policeman could pass those end-lights unseen. It was the safe place for the battle that revived itself under Martin's eyelids. He saw the two gangs, aggressive and sullen, rigidly keeping apart from each other and backing their respective champions; and he saw himself and Cheese- Face stripping. A short distance away lookouts were set, their task being to watch the lighted ends of the bridge. A member of the Boo Gang held Martin's coat, and shirt, and cap, ready to race with them into safety in case the police interfered. Martin watched himself go into the centre, facing Cheese-Face, and he heard himself say, as he held up his hand warningly:-
"They ain't no hand-shakin' in this. Understand? They ain't nothin' but scrap. No throwin' up the sponge. This is a grudge- fight an' it's to a finish. Understand? Somebody's goin' to get licked."
Cheese-Face wanted to demur, - Martin could see that, - but Cheese- Face's old perilous pride was touched before the two gangs.
"Aw, come on," he replied. "Wot's the good of chewin' de rag about it? I'm wit' cheh to de finish."
Then they fell upon each other, like young bulls, in all the glory of youth, with naked fists, with hatred, with desire to hurt, to maim, to destroy. All the painful, thousand years' gains of man in his upward climb through creation were lost. Only the electric light remained, a milestone on the path of the great human adventure. Martin and Cheese-Face were two savages, of the stone age, of the squatting place and the tree refuge. They sank lower and lower into the muddy abyss, back into the dregs of the raw beginnings of life, striving blindly and chemically, as atoms strive, as the star-dust if the heavens strives, colliding, recoiling, and colliding again and eternally again.
"God! We are animals! Brute-beasts!" Martin muttered aloud, as he watched the progress of the fight. It was to him, with his splendid power of vision, like gazing into a kinetoscope. He was both onlooker and participant. His long months of culture and refinement shuddered at the sight; then the present was blotted out of his consciousness and the ghosts of the past possessed him, and he was Martin Eden, just returned from sea and fighting Cheese-Face on the Eighth Street Bridge. He suffered and toiled and sweated and bled, and exulted when his naked knuckles smashed home.
They were twin whirlwinds of hatred, revolving about each other monstrously. The time passed, and the two hostile gangs became very quiet. They had never witnessed such intensity of ferocity, and they were awed by it. The two fighters were greater brutes than they. The first splendid velvet edge of youth and condition wore off, and they fought more cautiously and deliberately. There had been no advantage gained either way. "It's anybody's fight," Martin heard some one saying. Then he followed up a feint, right and left, was fiercely countered, and felt his cheek laid open to the bone. No bare knuckle had done that. He heard mutters of amazement at the ghastly damage wrought, and was drenched with his own blood. But he gave no sign. He became immensely wary, for he was wise with knowledge of the low cunning and foul vileness of his kind. He watched and waited, until he feigned a wild rush, which he stopped midway, for he had seen the glint of metal.
"Hold up yer hand!" he screamed. "Them's brass knuckles, an' you hit me with 'em!"
Both gangs surged forward, growling and snarling. In a second there would be a free-for-all fight, and he would be robbed of his vengeance. He was beside himself.
"You guys keep out!" he screamed hoarsely. "Understand? Say, d'ye understand?"
They shrank away from him. They were brutes, but he was the arch- brute, a thing of terror that towered over them and dominated them.
"This is my scrap, an' they ain't goin' to be no buttin' in. Gimme them knuckles."
Cheese-Face, sobered and a bit frightened, surrendered the foul weapon.
"You passed 'em to him, you red-head sneakin' in behind the push there," Martin went on, as he tossed the knuckles into the water. "I seen you, an' I was wonderin' what you was up to. If you try anything like that again, I'll beat cheh to death. Understand?"
They fought on, through exhaustion and beyond, to exhaustion immeasurable and inconceivable, until the crowd of brutes, its blood-lust sated, terrified by what it saw, begged them impartially to cease. And Cheese-Face, ready to drop and die, or to stay on his legs and die, a grisly monster out of whose features all likeness to Cheese-Face had been beaten, wavered and hesitated; but Martin sprang in and smashed him again and again.
Next, after a seeming century or so, with Cheese-Face weakening fast, in a mix-up of blows there was a loud snap, and Martin's right arm dropped to his side. It was a broken bone. Everybody heard it and knew; and Cheese-Face knew, rushing like a tiger in the other's extremity and raining blow on blow. Martin's gang surged forward to interfere. Dazed by the rapid succession of blows, Martin warned them back with vile and earnest curses sobbed out and groaned in ultimate desolation and despair.
He punched on, with his left hand only, and as he punched, doggedly, only half-conscious, as from a remote distance he heard murmurs of fear in the gangs, and one who said with shaking voice: "This ain't a scrap, fellows. It's murder, an' we ought to stop it."
But no one stopped it, and he was glad, punching on wearily and endlessly with his one arm, battering away at a bloody something before him that was not a face but a horror, an oscillating, hideous, gibbering, nameless thing that persisted before his wavering vision and would not go away. And he punched on and on, slower and slower, as the last shreds of vitality oozed from him, through centuries and aeons and enormous lapses of time, until, in a dim way, he became aware that the nameless thing was sinking, slowly sinking down to the rough board-planking of the bridge. And the next moment he was standing over it, staggering and swaying on shaky legs, clutching at the air for support, and saying in a voice he did not recognize:-
"D'ye want any more? Say, d'ye want any more?"
He was still saying it, over and over, - demanding, entreating, threatening, to know if it wanted any more, - when he felt the fellows of his gang laying hands on him, patting him on the back and trying to put his coat on him. And then came a sudden rush of blackness and oblivion.
The tin alarm-clock on the table ticked on, but Martin Eden, his face buried on his arms, did not hear it. He heard nothing. He did not think. So absolutely had he relived life that he had fainted just as he fainted years before on the Eighth Street Bridge. For a full minute the blackness and the blankness endured. Then, like one from the dead, he sprang upright, eyes flaming, sweat pouring down his face, shouting:-
"I licked you, Cheese-Face! It took me eleven years, but I licked you!"
His knees were trembling under him, he felt faint, and he staggered back to the bed, sinking down and sitting on the edge of it. He was still in the clutch of the past. He looked about the room, perplexed, alarmed, wondering where he was, until he caught sight of the pile of manuscripts in the corner. Then the wheels of memory slipped ahead through four years of time, and he was aware of the present, of the books he had opened and the universe he had won from their pages, of his dreams and ambitions, and of his love for a pale wraith of a girl, sensitive and sheltered and ethereal, who would die of horror did she witness but one moment of what he had just lived through - one moment of all the muck of life through which he had waded.
He arose to his feet and confronted himself in the looking-glass.
"And so you arise from the mud, Martin Eden," he said solemnly. "And you cleanse your eyes in a great brightness, and thrust your shoulders among the stars, doing what all life has done, letting the 'ape and tiger die' and wresting highest heritage from all powers that be."
He looked more closely at himself and laughed.
"A bit of hysteria and melodrama, eh?" he queried. "Well, never mind. You licked Cheese-Face, and you'll lick the editors if it takes twice eleven years to do it in. You can't stop here. You've got to go on. It's to a finish, you know."
“第一仗打过了，打完了，”十天后马丁对着镜子说．“还会有第二仗，第三仗．直打到时间的尽头，除非——” 
话还没说完，他回头看了看那间寒伧的小屋，目光落在一堆退稿上，装在长信封里的份份退稿躺在地板角落山地里。他再没有邮票打发它们去周游了，一个礼拜以来退稿在不断堆积。明天还会有更多的退稿要来，还有后天，大后天，直到稿子全部退回。而他已无法再把它们打发出去了。他已有一个月没交打字机租金，因为交不出。他的钱只勉强够这一周已到期的膳宿费和职业介绍所的手续费。
他坐了下来，心事重重地望着桌子。桌子上有墨水印迹，他突然发现自己很爱这桌子。
“亲爱的老桌子，”他说，“我跟你一起度过了一段快乐的时光。归根到底你对我还是够朋友的，从来不拒绝为找做事，从来不给我一份退稿条用以回答我的太能，也从来没有抱怨过加班加点。”
他双肘往桌上一搁，便把脸埋了过去，他喉头硬塞，想哭。这让他想起他第一次打架。那时他六岁。他眼泪汪汪地不停地打着。比他大两岁的那个孩子拳头耳光直打得他精疲力竭。在他终于倒下的时候他看见那一圈男孩子像野蛮人一样嚎叫着。他痛得扭来扭去想呕吐，鼻子鲜血直流，受伤的眼睛眼泪直淌。
“可怜的小伙子，”他喃喃地说，“你现在又遭到了惨败，被打成了肉泥。你给打倒了，退场了。”
但那第一场架的幻影还在他眼帘下留存。他仔细一看，又见它融化开去，变作此后的多次打架。六个月之后干酪脸（他那对手）又把他打败了，却也被他打青了眼睛。那些仗打得可不简单。他一仗一仗都看到了，每一仗他都挨揍，干酪脸在他面前耀武扬威。但他从来没有逃走过。想到这一点他便有了力气。打不过就挨揍，却决不逃走。干酪脸打起架来是个小魔鬼，对他从不手软，但他总能挺住！总能挺住！
然后，他看到了一条狭窄的胡同，两旁是歪歪倒倒的棚屋。胡同尽头叫一栋一楼一底的砖房堵住，砖房里发出印刷机有节奏的轰鸣，第一期《探询者》报就是在这儿出版的。他那时十一岁，干酪脸十三岁。两人都送《探询者》，都在那儿等报纸。当然，干酪脸又跟他找碴，于是又打了一架。这一架胜负不分，因为三点三刻印刷车间大门一开报童们就挤进去折报纸了。
“我明天准收拾你，”他听见干酪脸向他保证，也听见自己尖细而颤抖的声音忍住了眼泪答应明天在那儿见。
第二天他果然去了，从学校匆匆赶去，抢先到达，两分钟后就跟干酿脸干了起来。别的孩子说他是好样的，给他参谋，指出他拼打中的毛病，说要是他照他们的主意打他准能赢。他们也给干酪脸参谋，出点子。那一仗他们看得好开心！他停止了回忆，却来羡慕那群孩子所看到的他跟干酪脸那场精彩表演。两人打了起来，打得难分难解，打了三十分钟，直打到印刷车间开门。
他观看着自己的幻影一天一天从学校匆匆赶到《探询者》胡同去。他行动不便了，因为天天打架，腿僵了，瘸了。因为挡开了数不清的拳头，他的前臂从手腕到手肘被打得青一块紫一块，有些地方还溃脓了。他的脑袋、胳臂、肩头、后腰都疼，全身都疼，脑袋沉重，发晕。在学校他不玩，也不读书，甚至像他现在这样在桌子边安安静静坐上一天，也是一种折磨。自从每天一架开始，日子便长得可怕，时间流驶成了梦魇，未来只是无穷无尽的每天一架。他常常想他为什么就打不败干酪脸？打败了他，可不就脱离苦海了么？可他从没有想到过不打，没想到过向干酪脸认输。
他就像这样忍受着肉体和灵魂的痛苦，挣扎着去到《探询者》胡同，去学忍受，去面对他那永恒的敌人干酪脸。那孩子也跟他一样痛苦，若不是有那群报童看热闹非得保全那痛苦的面子不可，他也有点不想打了。有一天下午在两人按照规矩（不许踢，不许打皮带以下部位，倒地之后不许再打）作了一场你死我活的苦斗之后，干酪脸被打得气喘吁吁，站立不稳，提出算个平局不再打了。这时脑袋伏在胳膊上的马丁看到了多年前那天下午自己的样子，禁不住满心欢喜。那时他已站立不稳，喘着气，打破的嘴唇在流血，那血倒灌进喉咙，噎得他说不出话来。但他却晃晃悠悠地向干酪脸走去，吐出了一口血，清理了喉咙，大叫说，干酪脸尽可以认输，可他还要揍他。干酪脸不认输，两人又打了起来。
第二天、第三天和以后没完没了的日子里下午的架照打不误。他每天抡起胳膊开仗时都疼得厉害。最初的几拳无论是打的还是挨的，都疼得他翻肠倒肚。然后就麻木了。他闷着头瞎打。干酪脸那粗大的五官、野兽一样的燃烧着的眼睛像梦境一样在他面前旋来旋去，晃来晃去。他集中全力揍他的脸，别的只剩下一团旋转的虚无，世界上除了那张脸便一无所有。不用自己那流血的拳头把他打成肉泥自己就得不到休息——幸福的休息。否则便是让不知怎么属于那张脸的血淋淋的拳头把自己打成肉泥。总之，无论胜负他都可以休息了。但是住手不打，要他马丁住手不打，哼！没门！
那一天终于到了。他拖着身子来到《探询者》胡同，却没见到干酪脸。以后干酪脸也再没有出现。孩子们祝贺他，告诉他干酪脸给他打败了。但是马丁并不满足。他还没有打败干酪脸，也没叫他打败。问题还没有解决。后来他们才听说干酪脸的父亲就在那天突然死了。
马丁跨过了许多年来到了奥狄多林戏院楼座的那天夜里。他那年十七岁，刚从海上回来。有人争吵，马丁出面干涉，面对他的正是干酪脸那怒气冲冲的眼睛。
“看完戏我再修理你，”他的老对手从牙缝里说。
马丁点了点头。楼座警卫已经向骚乱方向走来。
“最后一场完了咱俩外边会，”马丁低声说，脸上的兴趣仍在舞台的蹦蹦飞上，没有分心。
警卫瞪了瞪眼走掉了。
“有哥儿们么？”那一出看完他问干酪脸。
“当然。”
“那我也得找几个来。”马丁宣布。
他在幕间休息时召集了自己的人马——铁钉厂的三个熟人，一个铁路上的锅炉工，大麻帮的六七个，还加上两路口帮的六七个横人。
观众出戏院时两帮人马从街两面不显眼地鱼贯而出，来到一个僻静处所，会了面，举行了战前会议。
“地点定在八号街大桥，”干酪脸帮的一个红发崽说，“你俩可以在正中灯光下打，哪头来了公安都可以从另一头溜走。”
“我没有意见.”马丁跟自己那帮人的头头商量了一下，说。
八号街大桥横跨手安东尼奥河入海口的一道狭长的海湾，有城市的三段街长，在桥的正中和两头都有电灯。警察在桥头的灯火下一露脸就会被发现。要进行此刻在马丁眼帘前出现的战斗，那是个安全的地方。他会看同那两帮人气势汹汹，阴沉着脸，彼此冷冷对峙着。分别支持自己的斗士。他看见自己和干酪脸掉衣服。不远处布有岗哨，，任务是观察灯光照亮的两边桥头，大麻帮一个人拿着马丁的外衣、衬衫和帽了准备万一出现警察干预便跟他们一起向安全地带逃走。马丁看见自己走到正中。面对着干酪脸．听见自己举起手警告说：——
“这一架只打不和，懂吗？只能打到底，再没有别的；不许认输求和。这是算旧账，是要打到底的，懂吗？总得有一个人给打垮才完事。”
干酪脸想表示不同意见——马丁能看出——但在两帮人面前他不能不顾全自己面临危机的面子。
“噢，本吧，”他回答道，“少废话。奉陪到底。”
然后两人便像两头血气方刚的小牛一样了起架来。不戴手参，憋足了仇恨，巴不得把对手打伤、打残、打死。人类万余年来在创造的过程中，在向上发展的阶梯中所取得的进步已荡然无存，只剩下了电灯光，那是人类伟人的冒险历程中的一个里程碑、马丁和干酪脸都成了石器时代的野蛮人，穴居野处构木为巢。两人往烂泥的深渊里越陷越深，倒退成了生命初起时的渣滓，按化学规律盲目地斗争前，像原子一样，像诸天星尘一样斗争着。撞击，退缩，再撞击，永远撞击。
“上帝呀，原来我们都是野兽！残暴的野兽，”马丁看着斗殴继续，大声嘟哝道。那话是对自己说的，他现在具有卓越的视力，有如通过电影放映机在观看。他既是旁观看，又是参预者。许多个月的文化学习和教养使他见到这种场面感到毛骨惊然了。然后现实从他的意识中抹去，往昔的幽灵及附到他身上，他又成了刚从海上回来的马丁·伊登，在八号街大桥跟干酷胜打架。他挨打、苦斗、流汗、流血，没戴手套的拳头一打中，他就得意杨扬。
他们是两股仇恨的旋风，声势煊煊地绕着彼此旋转。时间流驰，敌对的两帮人鸦雀无声。他们从没见过这样的凶暴残忍，不禁惶恐起来。对拼的两人都是比他们更凶残的野兽、血气方刚的冲动和锐气逐渐消磨下去，双方都打得小心多了，谨慎多了，谁都没有占到便宜。“谁胜谁败可真说不准，”马丁听见有人说。然后他左右开弓时一个假动作紧逼过去，却挨了狠狠一拳反击，感到面颊被扯破了，破到了骨头。那不是光凭拳头能打成的。他听见那可怕的伤口引起的惊呼与窃窃私语。血淋漓地流了下来，但他没动声色．只是非常警觉了，因为他头脑聪明，深知自己这类人的狡猾与肮脏卑鄙。他观察着、等待着．终于佯装了一个猛攻却中途收拳，看见有金属的光一问。
“把你的手举起来！”他尖叫道，“你戴了铜大节．你用铜关节打我！”
两帮人都嗷嗷叫着，张牙舞爪地向前冲；一秒钟之内就可能打成一团，那他就报不了仇了。他急得发了疯。
“你们全都闪开！”他嘶哑着喉咙尖叫道，“懂不懂？说，懂不懂！”
人们退开了。他们都是野兽，可马丁却是头号野兽，是比他们高出一头的、管得了他们的凶神恶煞。
“这一架是我的架，别来瞎掺和。把铜关节交出来。”
干酪脸清醒下来，有点害怕了，交出了那可耻的暗器。
“是你递给他的，是你红头崽躲在别人背后递给他的，”马丁把铜关节扔进水里说．“我早看见你了，早猜到你要使坏。你要敢再使坏我就揍死你，听见没有？”
两人又打了起来，打得精疲力竭仍然不停，打到疲倦得无法衡量，难以想像，打到那帮野人从满足了嗜血的兴趣到被那惨象吓坏了。他们不偏不倚地提出双方停战。干酪脸差不多要倒地而死或是不倒地而死，他那险给打得成了一张十足的干酪皮，成了张狰狞的鬼脸。他动摇了，犹豫了；可是马丁扑进人群又对他接二连三地打了起来。
然后，大约过了一百年，干酪脸猛然垮了下去，可就在一阵混乱的击打声中突然出现了响亮的折断声，马丁的右臂垂了下来，他的骨头断了。那声音谁都听见，也都明白。干酪验也明白，便趁对方山穷水尽之际拳头雨点般地打了过去。马丁一帮冲上前来劝架。马丁被打得晕头转问，仍发出恶毒却也认真的咒骂，叫他们闪开。他怀着最终的凄凉与绝望抽泣着、呻吟着。
他用左手继续打了下去，他顽强地、晕晕忽忽地打着。他访怫听见遥远处那群人在恐怖地嘁嘁嚓嚓地议论。其中有一个嗓子颤抖地说：“这不叫打架，伙计们，这是杀人，我们得挡住他们。”
可是并没有人来挡住。马丁很高兴，用他那唯一的胳膊疲劳不堪地无休无止地打了下去，对着眼前那鲜血淋漓的东西狠命地打。邵东西已不是股，而是一团恐怖，一团晃来晃去、吭味吭陈难看已极的没有名字的东西。那东西坚持在他昏花的眼睛面前不肯离开。他一拳又一拳地打着，越打越慢，最后的活力点点滴滴地往外渗出。打了许多个世纪、亿万斯年，打到了天老地荒，最后才隐隐约约感到那难以名状的东西在往下垮，慢慢地坍倒在粗糙的桥面上。他随即耸立到了那东西上面。他双腿颤抖，踉跄着，摇晃着，在空中抓烧着，想找个依靠。用自己也不认识的声音说道：
“你还想挨揍不？说呀，还想挨揍不？”
他一遍一遍地逼问，要求回答，威胁着，问那东西还想不想挨揍——这时他感到团伙的同伴们扶住了他，为他拍背，给他穿衣服。于是眼前一黑，人事不省了。
桌上的白铁皮闹钟前附着，头埋在手臂里的马丁·伊登却没有听见。他什么都没听见，什么都没想。他绝对地在重温着昏死在八号街大桥上的那个旧梦，现在他也昏死了过去。眼前的黑暗和。心里内空虚持续了一分钟之久，他才死人复活一样蹦了起来，站直了身子，眼里燃着火，满脸流汗，叫道：——
“我打垮了你，干酪脸！等了十一年，可我打垮了你。”
他的膝盖在颤抖，他感到虚弱，摇摇晃晃地回到床边，一屁股坐在床沿上。往昔的日子仍然支配着他。他莫名其妙地望着小屋，不知道自己在什么地方，直到瞥见了屋角的稿件。然后回忆的轮子才飞掠过四年的时光，让他意识到了现在，意识到了他翻开的书和他从书本中所获得的天地、他的梦想和雄心，意识到他对一个苍白的天使一样的姑娘的爱情。那姑娘敏感、受宠、轻灵，若是看见了刚才在他眼前重演的旧日生活，哪怕只一瞬间，她也会吓坏的——而那却不过是他曾经经历过的全部肮脏生活的一个瞬间。
他站起身子，来到镜前，对着自己。
“你就这样从泥淖中爬出来了，伊登，”他庄严地说，“‘你在朦胧的光中涤净了眼睛，在星群之间挺起了双肩，你在做着生命要做的工作，‘让猴与虎死去’，从一切古往今来的力量中获取最优秀的遗产。”
他更仔细地审视着自己，笑了。
“有几分歇斯底里，还带几分浅薄的浪漫，是么？”他问，“没关系，你汀垮了干酪脸，你也能打垮编辑们的，哪怕要花去你两个十一年的时间。你不能到此为止。你必须前进。你得一走到底，要知道。”
Chapter 16
The alarm-clock went off, jerking Martin out of sleep with a suddenness that would have given headache to one with less splendid constitution. Though he slept soundly, he awoke instantly, like a cat, and he awoke eagerly, glad that the five hours of unconsciousness were gone. He hated the oblivion of sleep. There was too much to do, too much of life to live. He grudged every moment of life sleep robbed him of, and before the clock had ceased its clattering he was head and ears in the washbasin and thrilling to the cold bite of the water.
But he did not follow his regular programme. There was no unfinished story waiting his hand, no new story demanding articulation. He had studied late, and it was nearly time for breakfast. He tried to read a chapter in Fiske, but his brain was restless and he closed the book. To-day witnessed the beginning of the new battle, wherein for some time there would be no writing. He was aware of a sadness akin to that with which one leaves home and family. He looked at the manuscripts in the corner. That was it. He was going away from them, his pitiful, dishonored children that were welcome nowhere. He went over and began to rummage among them, reading snatches here and there, his favorite portions. "The Pot" he honored with reading aloud, as he did "Adventure." "Joy," his latest-born, completed the day before and tossed into the corner for lack of stamps, won his keenest approbation.
"I can't understand," he murmured. "Or maybe it's the editors who can't understand. There's nothing wrong with that. They publish worse every month. Everything they publish is worse - nearly everything, anyway."
After breakfast he put the type-writer in its case and carried it down into Oakland.
"I owe a month on it," he told the clerk in the store. "But you tell the manager I'm going to work and that I'll be in in a month or so and straighten up."
He crossed on the ferry to San Francisco and made his way to an employment office. "Any kind of work, no trade," he told the agent; and was interrupted by a new-comer, dressed rather foppishly, as some workingmen dress who have instincts for finer things. The agent shook his head despondently.
"Nothin' doin' eh?" said the other. "Well, I got to get somebody to-day."
He turned and stared at Martin, and Martin, staring back, noted the puffed and discolored face, handsome and weak, and knew that he had been making a night of it.
"Lookin' for a job?" the other queried. "What can you do?"
"Hard labor, sailorizing, run a type-writer, no shorthand, can sit on a horse, willing to do anything and tackle anything," was the answer.
The other nodded.
"Sounds good to me. My name's Dawson, Joe Dawson, an' I'm tryin' to scare up a laundryman."
"Too much for me." Martin caught an amusing glimpse of himself ironing fluffy white things that women wear. But he had taken a liking to the other, and he added: "I might do the plain washing. I learned that much at sea." Joe Dawson thought visibly for a moment.
"Look here, let's get together an' frame it up. Willin' to listen?"
Martin nodded.
"This is a small laundry, up country, belongs to Shelly Hot Springs, - hotel, you know. Two men do the work, boss and assistant. I'm the boss. You don't work for me, but you work under me. Think you'd be willin' to learn?"
Martin paused to think. The prospect was alluring. A few months of it, and he would have time to himself for study. He could work hard and study hard.
"Good grub an' a room to yourself," Joe said.
That settled it. A room to himself where he could burn the midnight oil unmolested.
"But work like hell," the other added.
Martin caressed his swelling shoulder-muscles significantly. "That came from hard work."
"Then let's get to it." Joe held his hand to his head for a moment. "Gee, but it's a stem-winder. Can hardly see. I went down the line last night - everything - everything. Here's the frame-up. The wages for two is a hundred and board. I've ben drawin' down sixty, the second man forty. But he knew the biz. You're green. If I break you in, I'll be doing plenty of your work at first. Suppose you begin at thirty, an' work up to the forty. I'll play fair. Just as soon as you can do your share you get the forty."
"I'll go you," Martin announced, stretching out his hand, which the other shook. "Any advance? - for rail-road ticket and extras?"
"I blew it in," was Joe's sad answer, with another reach at his aching head. "All I got is a return ticket."
"And I'm broke - when I pay my board."
"Jump it," Joe advised.
"Can't. Owe it to my sister."
Joe whistled a long, perplexed whistle, and racked his brains to little purpose.
"I've got the price of the drinks," he said desperately. "Come on, an' mebbe we'll cook up something."
Martin declined.
"Water-wagon?"
This time Martin nodded, and Joe lamented, "Wish I was."
"But I somehow just can't," he said in extenuation. "After I've ben workin' like hell all week I just got to booze up. If I didn't, I'd cut my throat or burn up the premises. But I'm glad you're on the wagon. Stay with it."
Martin knew of the enormous gulf between him and this man - the gulf the books had made; but he found no difficulty in crossing back over that gulf. He had lived all his life in the working- class world, and the CAMARADERIE of labor was second nature with him. He solved the difficulty of transportation that was too much for the other's aching head. He would send his trunk up to Shelly Hot Springs on Joe's ticket. As for himself, there was his wheel. It was seventy miles, and he could ride it on Sunday and be ready for work Monday morning. In the meantime he would go home and pack up. There was no one to say good-by to. Ruth and her whole family were spending the long summer in the Sierras, at Lake Tahoe.
He arrived at Shelly Hot Springs, tired and dusty, on Sunday night. Joe greeted him exuberantly. With a wet towel bound about his aching brow, he had been at work all day.
"Part of last week's washin' mounted up, me bein' away to get you," he explained. "Your box arrived all right. It's in your room. But it's a hell of a thing to call a trunk. An' what's in it? Gold bricks?"
Joe sat on the bed while Martin unpacked. The box was a packing- case for breakfast food, and Mr. Higginbotham had charged him half a dollar for it. Two rope handles, nailed on by Martin, had technically transformed it into a trunk eligible for the baggage- car. Joe watched, with bulging eyes, a few shirts and several changes of underclothes come out of the box, followed by books, and more books.
"Books clean to the bottom?" he asked.
Martin nodded, and went on arranging the books on a kitchen table which served in the room in place of a wash-stand.
"Gee!" Joe exploded, then waited in silence for the deduction to arise in his brain. At last it came.
"Say, you don't care for the girls - much?" he queried.
"No," was the answer. "I used to chase a lot before I tackled the books. But since then there's no time."
"And there won't be any time here. All you can do is work an' sleep."
Martin thought of his five hours' sleep a night, and smiled. The room was situated over the laundry and was in the same building with the engine that pumped water, made electricity, and ran the laundry machinery. The engineer, who occupied the adjoining room, dropped in to meet the new hand and helped Martin rig up an electric bulb, on an extension wire, so that it travelled along a stretched cord from over the table to the bed.
The next morning, at quarter-past six, Martin was routed out for a quarter-to-seven breakfast. There happened to be a bath-tub for the servants in the laundry building, and he electrified Joe by taking a cold bath.
"Gee, but you're a hummer!" Joe announced, as they sat down to breakfast in a corner of the hotel kitchen.
With them was the engineer, the gardener, and the assistant gardener, and two or three men from the stable. They ate hurriedly and gloomily, with but little conversation, and as Martin ate and listened he realized how far he had travelled from their status. Their small mental caliber was depressing to him, and he was anxious to get away from them. So he bolted his breakfast, a sickly, sloppy affair, as rapidly as they, and heaved a sigh of relief when he passed out through the kitchen door.
It was a perfectly appointed, small steam laundry, wherein the most modern machinery did everything that was possible for machinery to do. Martin, after a few instructions, sorted the great heaps of soiled clothes, while Joe started the masher and made up fresh supplies of soft-soap, compounded of biting chemicals that compelled him to swathe his mouth and nostrils and eyes in bath- towels till he resembled a mummy. Finished the sorting, Martin lent a hand in wringing the clothes. This was done by dumping them into a spinning receptacle that went at a rate of a few thousand revolutions a minute, tearing the matter from the clothes by centrifugal force. Then Martin began to alternate between the dryer and the wringer, between times "shaking out" socks and stockings. By the afternoon, one feeding and one, stacking up, they were running socks and stockings through the mangle while the irons were heating. Then it was hot irons and underclothes till six o'clock, at which time Joe shook his head dubiously.
"Way behind," he said. "Got to work after supper." And after supper they worked until ten o'clock, under the blazing electric lights, until the last piece of under-clothing was ironed and folded away in the distributing room. It was a hot California night, and though the windows were thrown wide, the room, with its red-hot ironing-stove, was a furnace. Martin and Joe, down to undershirts, bare armed, sweated and panted for air.
"Like trimming cargo in the tropics," Martin said, when they went upstairs.
"You'll do," Joe answered. "You take hold like a good fellow. If you keep up the pace, you'll be on thirty dollars only one month. The second month you'll be gettin' your forty. But don't tell me you never ironed before. I know better."
"Never ironed a rag in my life, honestly, until to-day," Martin protested.
He was surprised at his weariness when he act into his room, forgetful of the fact that he had been on his feet and working without let up for fourteen hours. He set the alarm clock at six, and measured back five hours to one o'clock. He could read until then. Slipping off his shoes, to ease his swollen feet, he sat down at the table with his books. He opened Fiske, where he had left off to read. But he found trouble began to read it through a second time. Then he awoke, in pain from his stiffened muscles and chilled by the mountain wind that had begun to blow in through the window. He looked at the clock. It marked two. He had been asleep four hours. He pulled off his clothes and crawled into bed, where he was asleep the moment after his head touched the pillow.
Tuesday was a day of similar unremitting toil. The speed with which Joe worked won Martin's admiration. Joe was a dozen of demons for work. He was keyed up to concert pitch, and there was never a moment in the long day when he was not fighting for moments. He concentrated himself upon his work and upon how to save time, pointing out to Martin where he did in five motions what could be done in three, or in three motions what could be done in two. "Elimination of waste motion," Martin phrased it as he watched and patterned after. He was a good workman himself, quick and deft, and it had always been a point of pride with him that no man should do any of his work for him or outwork him. As a result, he concentrated with a similar singleness of purpose, greedily snapping up the hints and suggestions thrown out by his working mate. He "rubbed out' collars and cuffs, rubbing the starch out from between the double thicknesses of linen so that there would be no blisters when it came to the ironing, and doing it at a pace that elicited Joe's praise.
There was never an interval when something was not at hand to be done. Joe waited for nothing, waited on nothing, and went on the jump from task to task. They starched two hundred white shirts, with a single gathering movement seizing a shirt so that the wristbands, neckband, yoke, and bosom protruded beyond the circling right hand. At the same moment the left hand held up the body of the shirt so that it would not enter the starch, and at the moment the right hand dipped into the starch - starch so hot that, in order to wring it out, their hands had to thrust, and thrust continually, into a bucket of cold water. And that night they worked till half-past ten, dipping "fancy starch" - all the frilled and airy, delicate wear of ladies.
"Me for the tropics and no clothes," Martin laughed.
"And me out of a job," Joe answered seriously. "I don't know nothin' but laundrying."
"And you know it well."
"I ought to. Began in the Contra Costa in Oakland when I was eleven, shakin' out for the mangle. That was eighteen years ago, an' I've never done a tap of anything else. But this job is the fiercest I ever had. Ought to be one more man on it at least. We work to-morrow night. Always run the mangle Wednesday nights - collars an' cuffs."
Martin set his alarm, drew up to the table, and opened Fiske. He did not finish the first paragraph. The lines blurred and ran together and his head nodded. He walked up and down, batting his head savagely with his fists, but he could not conquer the numbness of sleep. He propped the book before him, and propped his eyelids with his fingers, and fell asleep with his eyes wide open. Then he surrendered, and, scarcely conscious of what he did, got off his clothes and into bed. He slept seven hours of heavy, animal-like sleep, and awoke by the alarm, feeling that he had not had enough.
"Doin' much readin'?" Joe asked.
Martin shook his head.
"Never mind. We got to run the mangle to-night, but Thursday we'll knock off at six. That'll give you a chance."
Martin washed woollens that day, by hand, in a large barrel, with strong soft-soap, by means of a hub from a wagon wheel, mounted on a plunger-pole that was attached to a spring-pole overhead.
"My invention," Joe said proudly. "Beats a washboard an' your knuckles, and, besides, it saves at least fifteen minutes in the week, an' fifteen minutes ain't to be sneezed at in this shebang."
Running the collars and cuffs through the mangle was also Joe's idea. That night, while they toiled on under the electric lights, he explained it.
"Something no laundry ever does, except this one. An' I got to do it if I'm goin' to get done Saturday afternoon at three o'clock. But I know how, an' that's the difference. Got to have right heat, right pressure, and run 'em through three times. Look at that!" He held a cuff aloft. "Couldn't do it better by hand or on a tiler."
Thursday, Joe was in a rage. A bundle of extra "fancy starch" had come in.
"I'm goin' to quit," he announced. "I won't stand for it. I'm goin' to quit it cold. What's the good of me workin' like a slave all week, a-savin' minutes, an' them a-comin' an' ringin' in fancy- starch extras on me? This is a free country, an' I'm to tell that fat Dutchman what I think of him. An' I won't tell 'm in French. Plain United States is good enough for me. Him a-ringin' in fancy starch extras!"
"We got to work to-night," he said the next moment, reversing his judgment and surrendering to fate.
And Martin did no reading that night. He had seen no daily paper all week, and, strangely to him, felt no desire to see one. He was not interested in the news. He was too tired and jaded to be interested in anything, though he planned to leave Saturday afternoon, if they finished at three, and ride on his wheel to Oakland. It was seventy miles, and the same distance back on Sunday afternoon would leave him anything but rested for the second week's work. It would have been easier to go on the train, but the round trip was two dollars and a half, and he was intent on saving money.
闹钟响了，马丁惊醒过来。闹声很突然，若换个体质不如他的人怕是连头都会闹痛的。但他虽然睡得很熟，却像猪一样立即警觉起来，脑子也立即清醒了。他很高兴五小时的睡眠已经结束。他仇恨睡眠，一睡着就什么都忘了。而他有太多的事要做，太丰富的生活要过，一分钟也不舍得让睡眠夺去。铃声还没与完，他已连头带耳朵钻进了洗脸盒，叫冷水冲得直激灵； 
但他并没有按正规的日程办事。他已再没有没完成的小说要写。再没有新的小说要构思了。昨晚他熬了夜，现在已是早餐时分。他竭力想读一章费斯克。脑子里却乱糟糟的，只好合上了书。今天他要开始新的奋斗了，在一段时间之内他都不会再写作了。他感一种离乡背井告别亲人的忧伤，他望了望屋角的稿件。都是为了它们。他要跟槁件告别了——他那些到处不受欢迎的、受到侮辱的可怜的孩子们。他走了这么，检视起来。他东一段西一段地读起他的得意之作，他把明丽的荣誉给以《罐子》，然后给了《冒险》。前一天才完成的最新作品《欢乐》，因为没有邮资被扔到了角落里，此刻得到了他最由衷的赞美。
“我不懂得，”他喃喃地悦，“要不然就是编辑们不懂得，他们每个月都要发表许多更糟糕的作品。他们发表的东西全都很糟糕——至少是几乎全部都很糟糕，可他们却司空见惯，不觉得有什么错。”
早餐后他把打字机装进盒里，送下了奥克兰。
“我欠了一个月租金、”他告诉店里的店员，“请你告诉经理我要干活去，个把月就回来跟他结账。”
他坐轮渡到了旧金山，去到一家职业介绍所。“什么活都行，我没有技术，”他告诉那代理人，一个新来的人打岔了他。那人服装有些花哨，某些生性爱漂亮的工人就喜欢那种打扮。代理人无可奈何地摇摇头。
“没办法，是么？”那人说，“可我今儿非要找到一个人不可。”
他转身望着马丁，马丁回望了他一眼，注意到他那浮肿苍白的脸，漂亮，却没精打采。他知道他喝了一个通宵。
“找工作？”那人问，“能干什么？”
“辛苦活儿。当水手，打字（不会速记），干牧场活儿，什么活儿都能干，什么苦都能吃。”马丁回答。
那人点点头。
“我看不错。我叫道森，乔·道森，想找个洗衣工。”
“我干不了，”马丁仿佛看见自己在烫女人穿的毛茸茸的白色衣物，觉得滑稽。但看那人却顺眼，便补上一句：“洗衣服我倒会。出海的时候学过。”
乔·道森显然在思考，过了一会儿。
“听我说，咱俩合计合计，愿听不？”
马丁点点头。
“是个小洗衣店，在北边儿，属雪莉温泉——旅馆，你知道。两人干。一个头儿，一个帮手。我是头儿。你不是给我干活，只是做我的下手，愿意学吗？”
马丁想了一会儿。前景诱人。干几个月又会有时间学习了。他还可以一边努力干活，一边努力学习。
“饮食不错，你可以自己有间屋，”乔说。
那就解决了问题。自己有间屋就可以开夜车没人打扰了。
“可活儿重得要命，”那人又说。
马丁抚摸着他鼓突的肩部肌肉示意，“这可是干苦活儿熬出来的。”
“那咱们就谈谈，”乔用手捂了一会儿脑袋，“天啦！喝得倒痛快，可眼睛都花了。昨天晚上喝了个够——看不见了．看不见了。那边的条件是：两个人一百元，伙食在外。我一直是拿的六十，那个人拿四十。但他是熟手，你是生手，我得要教你，刚开头时还得干许多该你干的活儿，只给你三十，以后涨到四十。我不会亏待你的，到你能干完你那份活儿的时候就给你四十。”
“我就依你，”马丁宣布，伸出手来，对方握了握。“可以预支一点吗？——买火车票，还有别的。”
“我的钱花光了，”乔回答，有些伤心。又伸手捂住脑袋。“只剩下一张来回票了。”
“可我交了膳宿费就破产了。”
“那就溜呗。”乔出主意。
“不行，是欠我姐姐的。”
乔很尴尬，长长地吹了一声口哨，想了一会，没想出办法。
“我还有几个酒钱，”他豁出去了，说，“来吧，也许能想出个办法。”
马丁谢绝了。
“戒酒了？”
这回马丁点了点头，乔抱怨起来：“但愿我也能戒掉。”
“可我不知道为什么就是戒不掉，”他辩解道，“累死累活干了一星期总想喝个痛快。不喝就恨不得割破自己的喉咙，恨不得烧房子。不过我倒高兴你戒掉了。戒掉就别再喝了。”
马丁知道他跟自己之间有一道很大的鸿沟——那是读书造成的。他要是愿意跨回去倒也容易。他一辈子都在工人阶级环境里生活，对劳动者的同志情谊已是他的第二天性。对方头疼解决不了的交通问题他解决了。他可以利用乔的火车票把箱子带到雪莉温泉，自己骑自行车去。一共是七十英里，他可以在星期天一天骑到，星期一就上班。那之前他可以回去收拾。他用不着跟谁告别，露丝和她全家都到内华达山的太和湖度慢长的夏天去了。
星期天晚上他筋疲力尽满身脏污地到达了雪莉温泉。乔兴致勃勃地接待了他。乔用一条湿毛巾捆在疼痛的前额上，已经工作了一整天。
“我去找你的时候上周的衣服又堆了起来，”他解释，“你的箱子已经送到了。放到你屋里去了。你那鬼东西哪能叫箱子，装的是什么？金砖么？”
乔坐在床上，马丁打开箱子。箱子原是早餐食品包装箱，希金波坦先生收了他半元钱才给他的。他给它钉上两段绳作把手，从技术上把它改造成了可以在行李车厢上上下下的箱子。乔睁大了眼睛望着他取出几件衬衫和内衣内裤，然后便是书，再取出来还是书。
“一直到底都是书么？”他问。
马丁点点头，把书在一张厨房用的桌子上摆好。那桌子原是摆在屋里当盥洗架用的。
“天呐！”乔冲口而出，便再没作声，他在动脑筋想推断出个解释来。他终于明白了。
“看来，你对姑娘——不大感兴趣？”他试探着问。
“不感兴趣，”他回答，“在我迷上书之前也喜欢追女孩子。在那以后就没有时间了。”
“可在这儿是没有时间的。你只有干活和睡觉的分儿。”
马丁想到自己一夜只需要五小时睡眠便微微一笑。他那屋子在洗衣间楼上，跟发动机在同一幢楼。发动机又抽水，又发电，又带动洗衣机。住在隔壁房的技师过来跟新手马丁见了面，并帮他安了一盏电灯。安在接出来的电线上，又牵了一根绳，使灯泡可以在桌子和床的上方来回移动。
第二天早上六点一刻马丁便被叫醒，准备六点三刻吃早饭。洗衣楼有个浴盆，原是给侍役用的，他在里面洗了个冷水浴，叫乔大吃了一惊。
“天呐，你真棒！”他们在旅馆厨房的一个角落里坐下吃饭时，乔说。
跟他们一起吃饭的还有技师、花匠、花匠的下手和两三个马夫。吃饭时大家都匆忙，板着脸，很少谈话。马丁从他们的谈话更意识到自己跟他们现状的距离之远。他们的头脑贫弱得令他丧气，他恨不得赶快离开。因此使他跟他们一样把早餐匆匆塞进肚子，从厨房门走了出去，然后长长地舒了一口气。早餐很难吃，软唧唧的。
那是一个设备齐全的小型蒸汽洗衣房，凡机器可以做的工作都由最新式的机器做。马丁听了一遍解说便去分拣大堆大堆的肮脏衣物，给它们归类。这时乔便开动粉碎机，调制新的液体肥皂。那东西由带腐蚀性的化学药品合成，逼得他用浴巾把嘴、鼻子和眼睛都包了起来，包得像个木乃伊。衣服分拣完马丁便帮助他脱水：把衣物倒进一个旋转的容器，以每分钟几千转的速度旋转，利用离心力把水甩掉。然后他又开始在烘干机和脱水机之间忙来忙去，抽空把短袜长袜“抖抖”。下午他们加热了机器，一人送进一人折叠，把长袜短袜用热轧滚筒熨牛。然后便是用熨斗烫内衣内裤，直干到六点。这时乔仍然摇头。没把握能够干完。
“差远了，”他说，“晚饭后还得干。”
晚饭后他们在白亮的电灯光下一直干到十点，才把最后一件内衣熨完、折好、放进分发室。那是个炎热的加利福尼亚之夜，有个烧得红红的熨个炉灶在屋里，虽然大开着窗户，屋子仍然是个锅炉。马丁和乔两人脱得只剩下了内衣，光着膀子仍然大汗淋漓，喘不过气来。
“跟在赤道地区堆码货载一样。”两人上楼时马丁说。
“你能成，”乔回答，“你很肯干，真像把好手。就这么干下去，只需一个月拿三十块，下个月就可以拿四十块了。可你别说你以前没熨过衣服，我看得出来。”
“说实话，在今天以前连块破布也没有熨过。”马丁表示反对。
进了屋子他为自己的疲劳感到意外，忘了他已经连续站着干了十四个小时。他把闹钟定在六点，再倒回来算到一点。他可以一直读书到一点。他蹬掉鞋，让肿胀的脚舒服一点，拿起书在桌边坐下。他打开了费斯克，接着两天前中断的地方读下去。第一段就读得很吃力，回过头来又读。然后他醒了过来，感到僵直的肌肉生疼，从窗口吹进的山风刮得好冷。一看钟，指着两点。他已经睡了四个小时。他脱掉衣服钻进被窝，脑袋一挨枕头便昏睡过去。
星期二是同样的连续不断的苦工。乔干活的速度赢得了马丁的赞赏。他一个人抵得上十二个魔鬼。他干劲十足，标准很高。在漫长的一天里他每分钟都在为节约时间而奋斗。他集中注意力干活，集中注意力节省时间。他向马丁指出马丁用五个动作才完成的活儿可以三个动作完成，或是三个动作才完成的活儿可以两个动作完成。“消灭多余动作，”喝了望着他并照着他做时给他这一套取了个名字。马丁目已是个好工人，又灵巧又麻利，自负的是从不让别人做他那份工作，也从不让别人超过他。结果是他也同样专心致志集中力量干起活来。他那伙伴一给他传授窍门和点子他就急忙学。他“压平”领子和袖口，从夹层之间挤出粉浆，以免在熨烫时产生气泡。他做得很快，受到乔的赞美。
两人手边总有活干，从不空闲。乔一不等待二不纠缠，一件接一件流水般地干着。他们用一个收拢动作挽起衬衫，让袖口、领子、肩头和胸脯伸出在握成圆形的右手之外，这时左手捞起衬衫下半截，以免沾上粉浆，右手硬往粉浆里一浸——粉浆很烫，绞出粉浆时双手必须不断地往一桶冷水里浸。一共浆了两百件。那大晚11他们又一直干到十点半。为太太小姐们那些带褶皱的、摆阔气的、精美的衣物作“花式浆洗”
“我宁可在热带干活，也不愿洗衣服。”马丁笑着说。
“不洗衣服我就没活干了，”乔郑重其事地说，“我除了洗衣服啥都不会。”
“可你衣服洗得挺好”
“应该洗得好的。我是在奥克兰的康特拉科斯塔开始干活的，那时才十一岁，把东西抖散，为进热轧滚筒作准备。已干了十八年。别的活儿全没干过。但现在这活儿是我于过的活中最要命的。至少应该多加一个人。我们明天晚上还干活儿。用热轧滚筒总在星期王晚上——熨领子和袖口。”
马丁上好闹钟，坐到桌边，打开了费斯克。第一段没读完，一行行的事已模糊成了一片，他打起了盹。他走来走去，用拳头野蛮地捶脑袋，仍证服不了沉重的睡意。他把书支在面前，用手指搓着眼皮，可睁着眼睛明旧睡着了、他只好认输，晕晕忽忽脱掉衣服钻进了波窝。他睡了七个小时，睡得很沉，像畜生一样。被闹钟惊醒后还觉得睡意未消。
“读了很多书么？”乔问他。
马丁摇头。
“没关系。今天晚上咱们只开热轧滚筒。星期四六点就下班。你就可以看书了。”
那天马丁在一个大桶里用手洗毛料衣物，加的是强效肥皂液，用一个连在舂杵上的马车轮毂洗。舂杵固定在头顶的一根弹簧杆上。
“我的发明，”乔骄傲地说，“比搓衣板和你的手指头强多了，一周至少能省十五分钟，干这种活能省计五分钟就不可小看了。”
同热轧滚筒熨领子和袖口也是乔的主意。那天晚上他俩在电灯光下下活，他解释道：
“哪家洗衣房都没这么干过，除了我这儿。要想在星期六下午三点之前干完活儿，我必须用这个办法。但只有找才知道怎么做，差别就在这只。温度要合适，压力要合适，还要压三遍。你看！”他抓起一只袖口举了起来。“用手或压力熨都做不丁这么好。”
星期四乔气坏了。一大包额外的“花式浆洗”送了过来。
“我不干了，”他宣布，“受不了这种窝囊气。我要给他扔下走掉。我整周整周像个奴隶一样干活儿，争分夺秒，他们却给我送额外的‘花式浆洗’来。我忙来忙去有什么好处？我们这是个自由的国家，我要当而告诉那荷兰胖子我对他的意见。我不会骂他粗话，合众国式的直来直去我看就够好的了。他居然叫我给他加班干‘花式浆洗’。”
“我们今天晚上还是干吧，”过了一会儿他说，推翻了刚才的意见，向命运投降了。
那天晚上马丁没有读书。他已经一周没看报，令他奇怪的是，也并不想看。他对新闻已不感兴趣。他太疲劳，太厌倦，对什么都失去了兴趣，尽管他计划着若是星期六下午三点能收工，就骑车到奥克兰去。那是七十英里，星期天下午若是再骑车回来，就根本谈不上休息，然后只得去上下一周的班。坐火车虽轻松些，来回的票钱得要两块五角，而他却一心想攒钱。
Chapter 17
Martin learned to do many things. In the course of the first week, in one afternoon, he and Joe accounted for the two hundred white shirts. Joe ran the tiler, a machine wherein a hot iron was hooked on a steel string which furnished the pressure. By this means he ironed the yoke, wristbands, and neckband, setting the latter at right angles to the shirt, and put the glossy finish on the bosom. As fast as he finished them, he flung the shirts on a rack between him and Martin, who caught them up and "backed" them. This task consisted of ironing all the unstarched portions of the shirts.
It was exhausting work, carried on, hour after hour, at top speed. Out on the broad verandas of the hotel, men and women, in cool white, sipped iced drinks and kept their circulation down. But in the laundry the air was sizzling. The huge stove roared red hot and white hot, while the irons, moving over the damp cloth, sent up clouds of steam. The heat of these irons was different from that used by housewives. An iron that stood the ordinary test of a wet finger was too cold for Joe and Martin, and such test was useless. They went wholly by holding the irons close to their cheeks, gauging the heat by some secret mental process that Martin admired but could not understand. When the fresh irons proved too hot, they hooked them on iron rods and dipped them into cold water. This again required a precise and subtle judgment. A fraction of a second too long in the water and the fine and silken edge of the proper heat was lost, and Martin found time to marvel at the accuracy he developed - an automatic accuracy, founded upon criteria that were machine-like and unerring.
But there was little time in which to marvel. All Martin's consciousness was concentrated in the work. Ceaselessly active, head and hand, an intelligent machine, all that constituted him a man was devoted to furnishing that intelligence. There was no room in his brain for the universe and its mighty problems. All the broad and spacious corridors of his mind were closed and hermetically sealed. The echoing chamber of his soul was a narrow room, a conning tower, whence were directed his arm and shoulder muscles, his ten nimble fingers, and the swift-moving iron along its steaming path in broad, sweeping strokes, just so many strokes and no more, just so far with each stroke and not a fraction of an inch farther, rushing along interminable sleeves, sides, backs, and tails, and tossing the finished shirts, without rumpling, upon the receiving frame. And even as his hurrying soul tossed, it was reaching for another shirt. This went on, hour after hour, while outside all the world swooned under the overhead California sun. But there was no swooning in that superheated room. The cool guests on the verandas needed clean linen.
The sweat poured from Martin. He drank enormous quantities of water, but so great was the heat of the day and of his exertions, that the water sluiced through the interstices of his flesh and out at all his pores. Always, at sea, except at rare intervals, the work he performed had given him ample opportunity to commune with himself. The master of the ship had been lord of Martin's time; but here the manager of the hotel was lord of Martin's thoughts as well. He had no thoughts save for the nerve-racking, body- destroying toil. Outside of that it was impossible to think. He did not know that he loved Ruth. She did not even exist, for his driven soul had no time to remember her. It was only when he crawled to bed at night, or to breakfast in the morning, that she asserted herself to him in fleeting memories.
"This is hell, ain't it?" Joe remarked once.
Martin nodded, but felt a rasp of irritation. The statement had been obvious and unnecessary. They did not talk while they worked. Conversation threw them out of their stride, as it did this time, compelling Martin to miss a stroke of his iron and to make two extra motions before he caught his stride again.
On Friday morning the washer ran. Twice a week they had to put through hotel linen, - the sheets, pillow-slips, spreads, table- cloths, and napkins. This finished, they buckled down to "fancy starch." It was slow work, fastidious and delicate, and Martin did not learn it so readily. Besides, he could not take chances. Mistakes were disastrous.
"See that," Joe said, holding up a filmy corset-cover that he could have crumpled from view in one hand. "Scorch that an' it's twenty dollars out of your wages."
So Martin did not scorch that, and eased down on his muscular tension, though nervous tension rose higher than ever, and he listened sympathetically to the other's blasphemies as he toiled and suffered over the beautiful things that women wear when they do not have to do their own laundrying. "Fancy starch" was Martin's nightmare, and it was Joe's, too. It was "fancy starch" that robbed them of their hard-won minutes. They toiled at it all day. At seven in the evening they broke off to run the hotel linen through the mangle. At ten o'clock, while the hotel guests slept, the two laundrymen sweated on at "fancy starch" till midnight, till one, till two. At half-past two they knocked off.
Saturday morning it was "fancy starch," and odds and ends, and at three in the afternoon the week's work was done.
"You ain't a-goin' to ride them seventy miles into Oakland on top of this?" Joe demanded, as they sat on the stairs and took a triumphant smoke.
"Got to," was the answer.
"What are you goin' for? - a girl?"
"No; to save two and a half on the railroad ticket. I want to renew some books at the library."
"Why don't you send 'em down an' up by express? That'll cost only a quarter each way."
Martin considered it.
"An' take a rest to-morrow," the other urged. "You need it. I know I do. I'm plumb tuckered out."
He looked it. Indomitable, never resting, fighting for seconds and minutes all week, circumventing delays and crushing down obstacles, a fount of resistless energy, a high-driven human motor, a demon for work, now that he had accomplished the week's task he was in a state of collapse. He was worn and haggard, and his handsome face drooped in lean exhaustion. He pulled his cigarette spiritlessly, and his voice was peculiarly dead and monotonous. All the snap and fire had gone out of him. His triumph seemed a sorry one.
"An' next week we got to do it all over again," he said sadly. "An' what's the good of it all, hey? Sometimes I wish I was a hobo. They don't work, an' they get their livin'. Gee! I wish I had a glass of beer; but I can't get up the gumption to go down to the village an' get it. You'll stay over, an' send your books dawn by express, or else you're a damn fool."
"But what can I do here all day Sunday?" Martin asked.
"Rest. You don't know how tired you are. Why, I'm that tired Sunday I can't even read the papers. I was sick once - typhoid. In the hospital two months an' a half. Didn't do a tap of work all that time. It was beautiful."
"It was beautiful," he repeated dreamily, a minute later.
Martin took a bath, after which he found that the head laundryman had disappeared. Most likely he had gone for a glass of beer Martin decided, but the half-mile walk down to the village to find out seemed a long journey to him. He lay on his bed with his shoes off, trying to make up his mind. He did not reach out for a book. He was too tired to feel sleepy, and he lay, scarcely thinking, in a semi-stupor of weariness, until it was time for supper. Joe did not appear for that function, and when Martin heard the gardener remark that most likely he was ripping the slats off the bar, Martin understood. He went to bed immediately afterward, and in the morning decided that he was greatly rested. Joe being still absent, Martin procured a Sunday paper and lay down in a shady nook under the trees. The morning passed, he knew not how. He did not sleep, nobody disturbed him, and he did not finish the paper. He came back to it in the afternoon, after dinner, and fell asleep over it.
So passed Sunday, and Monday morning he was hard at work, sorting clothes, while Joe, a towel bound tightly around his head, with groans and blasphemies, was running the washer and mixing soft- soap.
"I simply can't help it," he explained. "I got to drink when Saturday night comes around."
Another week passed, a great battle that continued under the electric lights each night and that culminated on Saturday afternoon at three o'clock, when Joe tasted his moment of wilted triumph and then drifted down to the village to forget. Martin's Sunday was the same as before. He slept in the shade of the trees, toiled aimlessly through the newspaper, and spent long hours lying on his back, doing nothing, thinking nothing. He was too dazed to think, though he was aware that he did not like himself. He was self-repelled, as though he had undergone some degradation or was intrinsically foul. All that was god-like in him was blotted out. The spur of ambition was blunted; he had no vitality with which to feel the prod of it. He was dead. His soul seemed dead. He was a beast, a work-beast. He saw no beauty in the sunshine sifting down through the green leaves, nor did the azure vault of the sky whisper as of old and hint of cosmic vastness and secrets trembling to disclosure. Life was intolerably dull and stupid, and its taste was bad in his mouth. A black screen was drawn across his mirror of inner vision, and fancy lay in a darkened sick-room where entered no ray of light. He envied Joe, down in the village, rampant, tearing the slats off the bar, his brain gnawing with maggots, exulting in maudlin ways over maudlin things, fantastically and gloriously drunk and forgetful of Monday morning and the week of deadening toil to come.
A third week went by, and Martin loathed himself, and loathed life. He was oppressed by a sense of failure. There was reason for the editors refusing his stuff. He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself and the dreams he had dreamed. Ruth returned his "Sea Lyrics" by mail. He read her letter apathetically. She did her best to say how much she liked them and that they were beautiful. But she could not lie, and she could not disguise the truth from herself. She knew they were failures, and he read her disapproval in every perfunctory and unenthusiastic line of her letter. And she was right. He was firmly convinced of it as he read the poems over. Beauty and wonder had departed from him, and as he read the poems he caught himself puzzling as to what he had had in mind when he wrote them. His audacities of phrase struck him as grotesque, his felicities of expression were monstrosities, and everything was absurd, unreal, and impossible. He would have burned the "Sea Lyrics" on the spot, had his will been strong enough to set them aflame. There was the engine-room, but the exertion of carrying them to the furnace was not worth while. All his exertion was used in washing other persons' clothes. He did not have any left for private affairs.
He resolved that when Sunday came he would pull himself together and answer Ruth's letter. But Saturday afternoon, after work was finished and he had taken a bath, the desire to forget overpowered him. "I guess I'll go down and see how Joe's getting on," was the way he put it to himself; and in the same moment he knew that he lied. But he did not have the energy to consider the lie. If he had had the energy, he would have refused to consider the lie, because he wanted to forget. He started for the village slowly and casually, increasing his pace in spite of himself as he neared the saloon.
"I thought you was on the water-wagon," was Joe's greeting.
Martin did not deign to offer excuses, but called for whiskey, filling his own glass brimming before he passed the bottle.
"Don't take all night about it," he said roughly.
The other was dawdling with the bottle, and Martin refused to wait for him, tossing the glass off in a gulp and refilling it.
"Now, I can wait for you," he said grimly; "but hurry up."
Joe hurried, and they drank together.
"The work did it, eh?" Joe queried.
Martin refused to discuss the matter.
"It's fair hell, I know," the other went on, "but I kind of hate to see you come off the wagon, Mart. Well, here's how!"
Martin drank on silently, biting out his orders and invitations and awing the barkeeper, an effeminate country youngster with watery blue eyes and hair parted in the middle.
"It's something scandalous the way they work us poor devils," Joe was remarking. "If I didn't bowl up, I'd break loose an' burn down the shebang. My bowlin' up is all that saves 'em, I can tell you that."
But Martin made no answer. A few more drinks, and in his brain he felt the maggots of intoxication beginning to crawl. Ah, it was living, the first breath of life he had breathed in three weeks. His dreams came back to him. Fancy came out of the darkened room and lured him on, a thing of flaming brightness. His mirror of vision was silver-clear, a flashing, dazzling palimpsest of imagery. Wonder and beauty walked with him, hand in hand, and all power was his. He tried to tell it to Joe, but Joe had visions of his own, infallible schemes whereby he would escape the slavery of laundry-work and become himself the owner of a great steam laundry.
"I tell yeh, Mart, they won't be no kids workin' in my laundry - not on yer life. An' they won't be no workin' a livin' soul after six P.M. You hear me talk! They'll be machinery enough an' hands enough to do it all in decent workin' hours, an' Mart, s'help me, I'll make yeh superintendent of the shebang - the whole of it, all of it. Now here's the scheme. I get on the water-wagon an' save my money for two years - save an' then - "
But Martin turned away, leaving him to tell it to the barkeeper, until that worthy was called away to furnish drinks to two farmers who, coming in, accepted Martin's invitation. Martin dispensed royal largess, inviting everybody up, farm-hands, a stableman, and the gardener's assistant from the hotel, the barkeeper, and the furtive hobo who slid in like a shadow and like a shadow hovered at the end of the bar.
马丁学会了许多活儿。第一周的一个下午他跟乔“消灭”了那两百件白衬衫。乔使用压力熨今。那东西是个钩在一条钢筋上的熨斗，由钢筋提供压力。他用这东西熨烫了村肩、袖口和领圈，使领圈跟袖口形成直角，再把胸口烫出光泽。他迅速熨完了这几处立即把衬衫扔到他和马丁之间的一个架子上，马丁接过去“补火”——就是说熨烫没有浆过的地方。 
这活儿一小时一小时地高速干下去是非常累人的。旅馆外宽阔的阳台上男男女女穿着凉爽的白衬衫，啜着冰冻的饮料，舒缓着血液循环，可洗衣房里空气却热得要冒泡。巨大的火炉怒吼着，从通红烧到白炽。熨斗在潮湿的垫布上运行，送出一团团的水汽。这些熨斗跟家庭主妇们的熨牛大不相同。能用蘸水的指头测量的一般熨斗乔和马丁用起来都嫌太冷。那种测量法不行。他俩都是把熨斗放近面颊，以某种微妙的心灵反应来测量温度的。马丁对这办法很欣赏，却不明白其中奥妙。烧好的熨斗太热，需要用铁棒钩起送到冷水里浸一浸。这也要求健全的判断。多浸了若干分之一秒也会破坏准确的温度所产生的微妙细腻的作用。马丁为自己所培养出的精确反应感到惊讶——一种自动化的精确，准确无误到机器的标准。
可是他们没有时间惊讶。马丁的全部意识都用到了工作上。头和手不停地运动着，把他变成了一部智能机器，把他作为人的一切都集中到提供那种智能上去了。他脑子里再也装不下宇宙和宇宙间的重大问题了。他那广阔巨大的心灵走廊全关闭了。他被封锁了起来，像个隐士。他灵魂的回音室狭小得如一座锥形的塔，指挥着他的胳膊和肩肌、十个灵巧的指头、和熨斗，沿着雾气腾腾的道路迅跑，做大刀阔斧的挥动。挥动的次数不多不少，而且恰到好处，决不过火，只沿着无穷无尽的两袖、两腰、后背、后摆急跑，然后把熨烫完的衬衫甩到承接架上，还不让它打皱。而他那匆忙的灵魂在扔出这一件的同时已经在向另一件衬衫伸了过去。他们就像这样一小时一小时地干着，而车间外的整个世界则正让加利福尼亚的太阳晒得发昏——这间温度过高的屋子里可没有人发昏，因为阳台上乘凉的客人需要清洁的衬衫。
马丁大汗淋漓。他喝子大量的水，可天气太热，他又太累，喝下的水全部透过肌肉从毛孔里惨了出来。在海上，除了极少数特殊消况．他所从事的工作总能给他许多机会独自思考。那时船老板只主宰了他的时间；而在这儿，旅馆老板甚至还主宰了他的思想。在这儿只有折磨神经戕害身体的苦工，没有思想。除了干活儿不可能思考。他已不知道还爱着露丝，露丝甚至已根本不存在。因为他那疲于奔命的灵戏没有时间去回忆她。只有在晚上钻进被窝或是早上去吃早饭时露丝才在他短暂的回忆中确认了自己的地位。
“这是地狱，是么？”乔有一次说。
马丁点点头，却也感到一阵温怒。是地狱，自不待言，还用说大。他们俩干活儿时不说话，说话会打乱步伐。这回一说话就乱了。让马丁的熨斗错过了一个动作，多做了两个动作才赶上节拍。
星期五早上升动了洗衣机。他们每周要洗两次卧室用品：床单、枕头套、床罩、桌布和餐巾。洗完之后又得全力以赴干“花式浆洗”。那是慢工细活，又繁琐又精细。马丁学起来不是那么容易．而且不能冒险，一出错就是大乱子。
“看见了吧，”乔说，举起一件极薄的胸衣背心，那东西团一团就可以藏在手心里。“一烫坏就得扣掉你二十元工资呢。”
因此马丁没有烫坏那种东西。他的肌肉虽因此而松弛下来，神经可比任何时候都紧张。他怀着同情听着伙伴的咒骂。那是他在辛辛苦苦浆洗着漂亮衬衫时发出的——那些衬衫妇女们自己不浆洗却偏要穿。“花式浆洗”是马丁的噩梦，也是乔的噩梦。他们挖空心思节省下来的分分秒秒都叫这“花式浆洗”吞食了。他们搞了一整天“花式浆洗”，直到晚上七点才搞完，然后用热轧滚筒熨烫客房用品。晚上十点旅馆客人都睡了，两个洗衣工还在流着汗忙“花式浆洗”呢。忙到半夜一点、两点，直到两点半才下班。
星期六又是“花式浆洗”和许多零碎活儿，到下午三点，一同的活儿才终于干完。
“累成这样你不会还要骑七十英中午去奥克兰吧？”乔问。这时两人坐在台阶上庆祝胜利。
“要去，”马丁回答。
“去干吗？——看姑娘么？”
“为省两块五毛钱火车票钱。要到图书馆去续借几本书。”
“干吗不用快递寄去寄来？寄一趟不过两毛五。”
马丁考虑着这个建议。
“明天还是休息一下吧！”乔劝他，“你需要休息。我知道我就需要休息。累得半点力气都没有了”
他确实是满脸倦容。他整个礼拜都不可钱胜，为争分夺秒而奋斗着，从不休息，消灭着耽误．粉碎着障碍。他是一股清泉，流泻出无可抗拒的力量，是一部高功率的活马达，一个干活的魔鬼。可完成了一周的工作之后他却瘫痪了。他筋疲力尽，形容憔悴，那张漂亮的脸松弛了、瘦削了、堆满了倦容。他没精打采地吸着烟，声音异常呆板单调，全身上下那蓬勃的朝气和活力都没有了。他的胜利似乎很可怜。
“下周还得照样干，”他痛苦地说，“这一切又有什么意思呢？哼，我真恨不得去当个流浪汉。流浪汉不工作不也照样活么？天呐，我真想喝一杯啤酒，可又鼓不起劲下村子里去。你就留下吧！把书用快递寄回去，否则你就是他妈的一个大傻瓜。”
“可我星期天一整天在这儿干什么呢？”马丁问。
“休息呀。你不知道自己有多疲倦。唉，星期天我可是疲倦得要命，连报都懒得看的。有一回还生了病——伤寒。在医院内呆了两个半月，什么活儿都不干。那可真是美妙！”
“真是美妙，”过了一分钟他又重复道。
马丁洗了一个澡，洗完发现乔已经不见了。马丁估计他十有八九是喝酒去了。但要证实还得走半里路下到村里去。那路他觉得似乎太长。他没有穿鞋躺在床上，一时下不定决心。他没有取书读，疲倦得连睡意都感觉不到了。只迷迷糊糊躺着，几乎什么都不想做，直躺到晚饭时候。乔没有回来吃晚饭，马万听花匠说他很可能到酒吧“拆柜台”去了，便已经明白。晚饭一吃完他立即上了床，一觉睡到了天亮才感到获得了充分的休息。乔仍然没有露面。马丁弄来一张星期天的报纸，在树林里找了个阴凉角落躺下，一上午不知不觉就过去了。他没有睡觉，也没有谁干扰他，可报纸没有看完。吃完午饭他又回到那里读报，读着读着又睡着了。
星期天就像这样过去了。星期一早上他又辛辛苦苦地分捡开了衣物。乔用一根毛巾把脑袋扎得紧紧的，呻吟着，咒骂着，启动洗衣机，扰和着液体肥皂。
“我就是忍不住，”他解释说，“一到星期六晚上非喝酒不可。”又一周过去了。每天晚上都要在电灯光下苦战，直到里期六下午三点才结束。这时乔又品尝到了他已经凋萎的胜利的滋味。然后又信步走向村里，去寻找忘却。马丁的星期天跟以前一样：躺在树荫里漫无目的地看报，一躺许多个小时，什么都不做，什么都不想。他虽然对自己反感，却因太累，不去想它。他鄙弃自己，仿佛是卷入了堕落，或是天性卑劣。他身上神圣的一切全给抹掉了。豪情壮志没有了，活力没有了，澎湃的热情感觉不到了。他已经死了，仿佛没有了灵魂，成了个畜生，一个干活的畜生。阳光透过绿叶筛了下来，他看不见它的美；蔚蓝的天穹再也不像往日那样对他悄语，颤栗着展示出秘密，启示他宇宙的辽阔了。生命到了他嘴里只有苦味，沉闷而愚蠢，难以忍受。他内心那视觉的镜子罩上了一道黑色的帷幕。幻想躺进了密不透光的漆黑的病房。他羡慕乔能够在村子里肆无忌惮地“拆柜台”；脑子里能有蛆虫咬啮；能伤感地思考着伤感的问题，却也能情绪高涨；他羡慕他能醉得想人非非，光辉灿烂，忘掉了即将到来的星期一和一整周能累死人的苦役。
第三周过去，马丁厌恶了自己，也厌恶了生命。失败感令他难堪。现在他已明白过来：编辑们拒绝他的作品是有理由的。他嘲笑自己和自己的幻梦。露丝把他的《海上抒情诗》穿了回来。他无动于衷地读着她的信。露丝尽可能表示了喜欢这些诗，说它们很美。但她不能撒谎，不能对自己粉饰现实。他明白这些诗并不成功。他从露丝的信中每一行缺乏热情的官样文章里看出她并不认可，而她是对的。他重读了这些诗，坚信自己的感觉没有错。美感与神奇感已离开了他。读诗时地发现自己在纳闷：当初落笔时自己心里究竟有什么感受？他那些气势磅确的词句给他怪诞的印象：他的得意之笔其实很鄙陋。一切都荒唐、虚伪、不像话。他若是意志力够坚强，是会把《海上抒情诗》当场烧掉的——发动机房就在下面。但要花那么大力气把稿子送到锅炉里去并不值得。他全部的力气都用到洗别人的衣服上去了，再没有丝毫内力气于自己的事。
他决定在星期天振作起精神给露丝写封回信。可到星期六下午，等地结束了工作洗完了澡，那寻求忘却的愿望又压倒了他。“我看还是到下面去看看乔怎么样吧，”他这样为自己辩护，却也明白这是在撒谎，可他已没有力气去想它。即使有力气，他也不会思考了，因为他只想忘却。于是他便由着性子慢慢往村子走去。快到酒店时不知不觉加快了步伐。
“我以为你还在戒酒呢。”乔招呼他说。
马丁不屑于辩解，开口便叫威卜忌，给自己的杯子斟满之后把酒瓶递给了乔。
“别整夜整夜地喝，”他粗鲁地说。
乔捧了酒瓶磨蹭着，马丁不愿意等，一口气喝完了一杯又满斟了一杯。
“哎，我可以等你，”他凶狠地说，“可你也得快点。”
乔赶快斟满酒，两人对饮起来。
“是干活累的吧？”乔问他。
马丁拒绝讨论这个问题。
“这儿干的简直是地狱的活儿，我知道，”对方说下去，“但眼看你开了戒我心卫仍不是滋味。来，祝你好运！”
马丁闷声不想地喝着，咬着牙叫酒，咬着牙请人喝酒，叫得酒吧老板害怕。那老板是个带女人气的乡下小伙子，水汪汪的蓝眼睛，头发从正中分开。
“像这样逼咱们穷鬼们干活，真不要脸。”乔在说话，“我要是没有喝醉我就会不管它三七二十一把洗衣房给他烧掉。是我喝醉了才救了他们的，我可以告诉你。”
但是马丁没有答腔。几杯酒下肚他感到脑子里有令他激动的蛆虫在爬。啊！这才像活着！三周以来他第一次呼吸到了生命的气息，他的梦也回来了。幻想从漆黑的病房里出来了，像火焰一样明亮，引诱着他。他那映照出幻想的镜子清澈如银，有如一块旧的铭文大体磨去，又刻上了新的字迹的铜件。奇迹与美手挽手跟他同行，他拥有了一切力量。他想告诉乔，可乔有他自己的幻想。那是个周密的计划，他要当一家大的蒸汽洗衣场的老板，再也不受洗衣房的奴役。
“告诉你，马，我那洗衣场决不用童工——杀了我我也不干。下午六点以后车间里连鬼也不准有一个。听我说！机器要多，人要多，要在正规的时间服完成任务。因此，马，你来帮我的忙，我让你当监工，管全店，上上下下全管。我的计划是：戒酒，存上两年钱——存好钱就——”
但是马丁已经走开，让他去对着店老板唠叨，直唠叨到那位人物被叫去拿酒——是两个农民进了门，马丁在请他们喝酒。马丁出手阔绰，请大家都喝：几个农场帮工、一个马夫、旅馆花匠的下手、酒店老板，还有一个像幽灵一样溜进来、像幽灵一样在柜台一头游荡的。偷偷摸摸的流浪汉。
Chapter 18
Monday morning, Joe groaned over the first truck load of clothes to the washer.
"I say," he began.
"Don't talk to me," Martin snarled.
"I'm sorry, Joe," he said at noon, when they knocked off for dinner.
Tears came into the other's eyes.
"That's all right, old man," he said. "We're in hell, an' we can't help ourselves. An', you know, I kind of like you a whole lot. That's what made it - hurt. I cottoned to you from the first."
Martin shook his hand.
"Let's quit," Joe suggested. "Let's chuck it, an' go hoboin'. I ain't never tried it, but it must be dead easy. An' nothin' to do. Just think of it, nothin' to do. I was sick once, typhoid, in the hospital, an' it was beautiful. I wish I'd get sick again."
The week dragged on. The hotel was full, and extra "fancy starch" poured in upon them. They performed prodigies of valor. They fought late each night under the electric lights, bolted their meals, and even got in a half hour's work before breakfast. Martin no longer took his cold baths. Every moment was drive, drive, drive, and Joe was the masterful shepherd of moments, herding them carefully, never losing one, counting them over like a miser counting gold, working on in a frenzy, toil-mad, a feverish machine, aided ably by that other machine that thought of itself as once having been one Martin Eden, a man.
But it was only at rare moments that Martin was able to think. The house of thought was closed, its windows boarded up, and he was its shadowy caretaker. He was a shadow. Joe was right. They were both shadows, and this was the unending limbo of toil. Or was it a dream? Sometimes, in the steaming, sizzling heat, as he swung the heavy irons back and forth over the white garments, it came to him that it was a dream. In a short while, or maybe after a thousand years or so, he would awake, in his little room with the ink- stained table, and take up his writing where he had left off the day before. Or maybe that was a dream, too, and the awakening would be the changing of the watches, when he would drop down out of his bunk in the lurching forecastle and go up on deck, under the tropic stars, and take the wheel and feel the cool tradewind blowing through his flesh.
Came Saturday and its hollow victory at three o'clock.
"Guess I'll go down an' get a glass of beer," Joe said, in the queer, monotonous tones that marked his week-end collapse.
Martin seemed suddenly to wake up. He opened the kit bag and oiled his wheel, putting graphite on the chain and adjusting the bearings. Joe was halfway down to the saloon when Martin passed by, bending low over the handle-bars, his legs driving the ninety- six gear with rhythmic strength, his face set for seventy miles of road and grade and dust. He slept in Oakland that night, and on Sunday covered the seventy miles back. And on Monday morning, weary, he began the new week's work, but he had kept sober.
A fifth week passed, and a sixth, during which he lived and toiled as a machine, with just a spark of something more in him, just a glimmering bit of soul, that compelled him, at each week-end, to scorch off the hundred and forty miles. But this was not rest. It was super-machinelike, and it helped to crush out the glimmering bit of soul that was all that was left him from former life. At the end of the seventh week, without intending it, too weak to resist, he drifted down to the village with Joe and drowned life and found life until Monday morning.
Again, at the week-ends, he ground out the one hundred and forty miles, obliterating the numbness of too great exertion by the numbness of still greater exertion. At the end of three months he went down a third time to the village with Joe. He forgot, and lived again, and, living, he saw, in clear illumination, the beast he was making of himself - not by the drink, but by the work. The drink was an effect, not a cause. It followed inevitably upon the work, as the night follows upon the day. Not by becoming a toil- beast could he win to the heights, was the message the whiskey whispered to him, and he nodded approbation. The whiskey was wise. It told secrets on itself.
He called for paper and pencil, and for drinks all around, and while they drank his very good health, he clung to the bar and scribbled.
"A telegram, Joe," he said. "Read it."
Joe read it with a drunken, quizzical leer. But what he read seemed to sober him. He looked at the other reproachfully, tears oozing into his eyes and down his cheeks.
"You ain't goin' back on me, Mart?" he queried hopelessly.
Martin nodded, and called one of the loungers to him to take the message to the telegraph office.
"Hold on," Joe muttered thickly. "Lemme think."
He held on to the bar, his legs wobbling under him, Martin's arm around him and supporting him, while he thought.
"Make that two laundrymen," he said abruptly. "Here, lemme fix it."
"What are you quitting for?" Martin demanded.
"Same reason as you."
"But I'm going to sea. You can't do that."
"Nope," was the answer, "but I can hobo all right, all right."
Martin looked at him searchingly for a moment, then cried:-
"By God, I think you're right! Better a hobo than a beast of toil. Why, man, you'll live. And that's more than you ever did before."
"I was in hospital, once," Joe corrected. "It was beautiful. Typhoid - did I tell you?"
While Martin changed the telegram to "two laundrymen," Joe went on:-
"I never wanted to drink when I was in hospital. Funny, ain't it? But when I've ben workin' like a slave all week, I just got to bowl up. Ever noticed that cooks drink like hell? - an' bakers, too? It's the work. They've sure got to. Here, lemme pay half of that telegram."
"I'll shake you for it," Martin offered.
"Come on, everybody drink," Joe called, as they rattled the dice and rolled them out on the damp bar.
Monday morning Joe was wild with anticipation. He did not mind his aching head, nor did he take interest in his work. Whole herds of moments stole away and were lost while their careless shepherd gazed out of the window at the sunshine and the trees.
"Just look at it!" he cried. "An' it's all mine! It's free. I can lie down under them trees an' sleep for a thousan' years if I want to. Aw, come on, Mart, let's chuck it. What's the good of waitin' another moment. That's the land of nothin' to do out there, an' I got a ticket for it - an' it ain't no return ticket, b'gosh!"
A few minutes later, filling the truck with soiled clothes for the washer, Joe spied the hotel manager's shirt. He knew its mark, and with a sudden glorious consciousness of freedom he threw it on the floor and stamped on it.
"I wish you was in it, you pig-headed Dutchman!" he shouted. "In it, an' right there where I've got you! Take that! an' that! an' that! damn you! Hold me back, somebody! Hold me back!"
Martin laughed and held him to his work. On Tuesday night the new laundrymen arrived, and the rest of the week was spent breaking them into the routine. Joe sat around and explained his system, but he did no more work.
"Not a tap," he announced. "Not a tap. They can fire me if they want to, but if they do, I'll quit. No more work in mine, thank you kindly. Me for the freight cars an' the shade under the trees. Go to it, you slaves! That's right. Slave an' sweat! Slave an' sweat! An' when you're dead, you'll rot the same as me, an' what's it matter how you live? - eh? Tell me that - what's it matter in the long run?"
On Saturday they drew their pay and came to the parting of the ways.
"They ain't no use in me askin' you to change your mind an' hit the road with me?" Joe asked hopelessly:
Martin shook his head. He was standing by his wheel, ready to start. They shook hands, and Joe held on to his for a moment, as he said:-
"I'm goin' to see you again, Mart, before you an' me die. That's straight dope. I feel it in my bones. Good-by, Mart, an' be good. I like you like hell, you know."
He stood, a forlorn figure, in the middle of the road, watching until Martin turned a bend and was gone from sight.
"He's a good Indian, that boy," he muttered. "A good Indian."
Then he plodded down the road himself, to the water tank, where half a dozen empties lay on a side-track waiting for the up freight.
星期一早晨第一小车衣物送到了洗衣房，乔唉声叹气。 
“我说，”他开始说。
“别跟我说话，”马丁喝道。
“对不起，乔，”中午马丁说，两人下了班，正要去吃饭。
对方眼里涌出了泪水。
“没有啥，老兄，”他说，“我们是在地狱里，无可奈何。你知道，我好像十分喜欢你呢，我难过正因为这个。我一开头就挺喜欢你的。”
马丁抓住他的手摇了摇。
“咱们不干了吧，”乔建议，“丢下活儿当流浪汉去。我没有试过，可那难是最容易不过的，什么事都不用干。我生过一回病，伤寒，住在医院里，美妙极了，我真想再生一回病呢。”
那一星期过得很慢。旅馆客满，额外的“花式浆洗”不断送来。他们创造了英勇奋战的奇迹。每天晚上都在电灯光下苦干，吃饭狼吞虎咽，甚至在早饭前也加班半小时。马丁再也不洗冷水浴了，每时每刻都在赶、赶、赶。乔是个精明的羊倌，他牧放的是时间。他细心地赶着每时每刻，不让它们跑掉；像守财奴数金币一样反复计算着。他疯狂地计算着，计算得发了疯，成了一部发高烧的机器。还有一部机器也跟他配合。那部机器认为自己以前曾经叫马丁·伊登，原是个人。
马丁能思考的时刻已很罕见。他那思维的居室早已关闭，连窗户都打上了木板，而他已沦为那居室的幽灵一样的看守者。他是个幽灵，乔说得对。他们俩都是幽灵，而这里便是只有无穷无尽苦役的好久地狱，或者，这不过是个梦？有时，当他在雾气腾腾热得冒泡的环境里来回地挥舞着沉重的熨斗，熨烫着衣物时，他真觉得是个梦。一会儿之后，或是一千年之后，是会醒过来的。那时他仍会在他的小屋子里，在他那墨迹斑斑的桌子边，接着昨天停下的地方写小说。或者，连那也是一个梦，醒过来已是换班的时候，他得从颠簸的水手舱铺位上翻下来，爬到热带星空下的甲板上去，去掌舵，让凉爽的贸易风吹透他的肌肤。
星期六下午三点，空虚的胜利终于到来。
“我看我还是下去喝一杯啤酒吧，”乔说，口气古怪、单调，说明到周末他已经累垮了。
马丁似乎突然惊醒过来。他打开工具箱，给自行车上好油，给链条抹了石墨，调整好轴承，在乔去酒店的中途赶上了他。马丁低身伏在车把上，两腿有节奏地使劲蹬着九十六齿的齿轮，绷紧了脸准备面对七十英里的大道、坡路和灰尘。那天晚上他在奥克兰睡觉，星期天又骑完七十英里回来。星期一的早上他疲倦地开始了新一周的工作，但没有喝酒。
第五周过去，然后是第六周。这两周里他像个机器一样活着，服着苦役，心里只多余出一点点火星——那是灵魂的一丝微光，是那点光驱使他每周赶完那一百四十英里路。但这不是休息，而像是一部超级机器在干活儿，只帮助扑灭着灵魂的那点激光——那已是往日生活的仅有的残余。第七周周末他不知不觉已跟乔一起走上了去村子的路。在那儿他用酒淹没了生命，直到星期一早上才转世还魂。
到了周末他又去蹬那一百四十英里。为了消除太辛苦的劳动带来的麻木，他用了更辛苦的劳动带来的麻木。第三个月末他跟乔第三次下到村里，在那儿他沉入了遗忘，再活了过来。那时他清清楚楚看见他在把自己变成什么样的畜生——不是用酒，而是用干活。酒不是原因，而是结果。酒无可避免地紧随着苦活儿，正如黑夜紧随着白天。威士忌向他耳语的信息是：变作做苦工的畜生不能使他攀登到高处。他点头表示赞同。威士忌很聪明，他泄露有关自己的机密。
他要了纸和铅笔，还要了酒请每个人喝。别人为他的健康平杯时他靠着柜台潦草地写着。
“一份电报，乔，”他说，“读吧。”
乔怀疑他醉醇醇地瞄了瞄电报。那电又似乎让他清醒了过来。他带着责备的神情望着对方，泪水从眼里渗出，沿着面颊流下。
“你不是要扔掉我吧，马？”他绝望地问。
马丁点点头，叫了个闲逛的人把电报送到电报房去。
“等一等，”乔口齿不清地说，“让我想想。”
他扶着柜台，双腿摇晃，马丁用胳膊搂住地，扶住他，让他想。
“把它改成送两个洗衣工来好了。”他突然说，“喏，我来改。”
“你为什么辞职？”马丁问。
“理由跟你一样。”
“可我是要去出海呢，而你不能。”
“不能，”回答是，“可我能当好个流浪汉，能当好的。”
马丁打量了他一会儿、叫道：——
“上帝呀，我看你做得对！与其当干活的畜生不如当流浪汉。不错，老兄，你能生活的。比以前的生活还要好！”
“我住过一回医院，”乔纠正他，“生活得很美妙的，伤寒——我告诉过你么？”
马丁把电报改为两个“洗衣工”时乔接着说：——
“我住院的时候从来不想喝酒，很有趣，是吧？但像奴隶一样干上一周活儿，就非喝不可了。你见过厨房工人醉得一塌糊涂的么？——面包师傅有么？全都是干活儿逼的。非喝上酒不可。来，电报费我付一半。”
“咱俩掷骰子决定，”马丁提议。
“来吧，大家都喝，”乔叫道。两人哗哗地摇着骰子，掷在水汪汪的柜台上。
星期一早上乔盼望得发了狂。他不在乎头疼，也不在乎于活了。那心不在焉的牧羊人望着窗外的阳光和树林，让他时间的羊儿一群一群地逃散了。
“你看看外边！”他叫道，“那全是我的！全免费！我只要愿意，可以在那些树下睡上一千年。啊，来吧，马，咱俩不干了。再拖下去有什么意思。外面就是不用干活的土地。我有去那儿的票呢——而且不是来回票，他娘的！”
几分钟以后，在往小车里装脏衣服准备送到洗衣机去时，乔发现了旅馆老板的衬衫。他记得上面的记号，于是怀着突然获得自由的光辉之感，他把那衬衫往地上一扔便踩了上去。
“你这个荷兰老顽固，我真恨不得你就在你的衬衫里！”他大叫，“就在里头，在我踩着你的地点！挨我一脚！再来一脚！再来一脚！快来扶住我呀！扶住我！”
马丁哈哈大笑，急忙扶他去工作。星期二晚上新洗衣工到达。后来的几天就在培养他们学习那套例行工作中过去。乔坐在旁边解释他的干活系统，却不再干活了。
“碰都不想碰一下，”他宣布，“碰都不想碰。他们要是高兴，可以炒我鱿鱼。他一炒我就走。我没有劲干活了。我千恩万谢。我要去搭黄鱼车，要到树下去睡觉。干活吧，奴隶们！没有错，做奴隶流大汗去！做奴隶流大汗去！死了以后也跟我一样腐烂。那跟你生前怎么过活有什么关系？——呃？告诉我——归根到底又有什么关系？”
星期六两人领了工资来到分手的地点。
“我若是劝你改变主意跟我一起去流浪，怕是没有用吧？”乔不抱希望地问。
马丁摇摇头。他站在自行车旁正准备出发。两人握了手，乔往前走了几步，说道：——
“在咱俩死去之前，马，我还会跟你见面的。说真话，我从骨髓里感觉到这一点。再见，马，祝你好运。我真他妈太喜欢你了，你知道。”
他站在大路正中，一副孤苦伶仃的模样，望着马丁拐了一道弯，消失了。“他的车骑得真快呀，那小伙子，”他结结巴巴地说，“骑得真快。”
然后他便沿着大路蹒跚走去，来到水塔旁边。那儿有六七个空车皮停在一条支线上，等着北上的货车送来货载。
Chapter 19
Ruth and her family were home again, and Martin, returned to Oakland, saw much of her. Having gained her degree, she was doing no more studying; and he, having worked all vitality out of his mind and body, was doing no writing. This gave them time for each other that they had never had before, and their intimacy ripened fast.
At first, Martin had done nothing but rest. He had slept a great deal, and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing. He was like one recovering from some terrible bout if hardship. The first signs of reawakening came when he discovered more than languid interest in the daily paper. Then he began to read again - light novels, and poetry; and after several days more he was head over heels in his long-neglected Fiske. His splendid body and health made new vitality, and he possessed all the resiliency and rebound of youth.
Ruth showed her disappointment plainly when he announced that he was going to sea for another voyage as soon as he was well rested.
"Why do you want to do that?" she asked.
"Money," was the answer. "I'll have to lay in a supply for my next attack on the editors. Money is the sinews of war, in my case - money and patience."
"But if all you wanted was money, why didn't you stay in the laundry?"
"Because the laundry was making a beast of me. Too much work of that sort drives to drink."
She stared at him with horror in her eyes.
"Do you mean - ?" she quavered.45
 
 
It would have been easy for him to get out of it; but his natural impulse was for frankness, and he remembered his old resolve to be frank, no matter what happened.
"Yes," he answered. "Just that. Several times."
She shivered and drew away from him.
"No man that I have ever known did that - ever did that."
"Then they never worked in the laundry at Shelly Hot Springs," he laughed bitterly. "Toil is a good thing. It is necessary for human health, so all the preachers say, and Heaven knows I've never been afraid of it. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and the laundry up there is one of them. And that's why I'm going to sea one more voyage. It will be my last, I think, for when I come back, I shall break into the magazines. I am certain of it."
She was silent, unsympathetic, and he watched her moodily, realizing how impossible it was for her to understand what he had been through.
"Some day I shall write it up - 'The Degradation of Toil' or the 'Psychology of Drink in the Working-class,' or something like that for a title."
Never, since the first meeting, had they seemed so far apart as that day. His confession, told in frankness, with the spirit of revolt behind, had repelled her. But she was more shocked by the repulsion itself than by the cause of it. It pointed out to her how near she had drawn to him, and once accepted, it paved the way for greater intimacy. Pity, too, was aroused, and innocent, idealistic thoughts of reform. She would save this raw young man who had come so far. She would save him from the curse of his early environment, and she would save him from himself in spite of himself. And all this affected her as a very noble state of consciousness; nor did she dream that behind it and underlying it were the jealousy and desire of love.
They rode on their wheels much in the delightful fall weather, and out in the hills they read poetry aloud, now one and now the other, noble, uplifting poetry that turned one's thoughts to higher things. Renunciation, sacrifice, patience, industry, and high endeavor were the principles she thus indirectly preached - such abstractions being objectified in her mind by her father, and Mr. Butler, and by Andrew Carnegie, who, from a poor immigrant boy had arisen to be the book-giver of the world. All of which was appreciated and enjoyed by Martin. He followed her mental processes more clearly now, and her soul was no longer the sealed wonder it had been. He was on terms of intellectual equality with her. But the points of disagreement did not affect his love. His love was more ardent than ever, for he loved her for what she was, and even her physical frailty was an added charm in his eyes. He read of sickly Elizabeth Barrett, who for years had not placed her feet upon the ground, until that day of flame when she eloped with Browning and stood upright, upon the earth, under the open sky; and what Browning had done for her, Martin decided he could do for Ruth. But first, she must love him. The rest would be easy. He would give her strength and health. And he caught glimpses of their life, in the years to come, wherein, against a background of work and comfort and general well-being, he saw himself and Ruth reading and discussing poetry, she propped amid a multitude of cushions on the ground while she read aloud to him. This was the key to the life they would live. And always he saw that particular picture. Sometimes it was she who leaned against him while he read, one arm about her, her head upon his shoulder. Sometimes they pored together over the printed pages of beauty. Then, too, she loved nature, and with generous imagination he changed the scene of their reading - sometimes they read in closed-in valleys with precipitous walls, or in high mountain meadows, and, again, down by the gray sand-dunes with a wreath of billows at their feet, or afar on some volcanic tropic isle where waterfalls descended and became mist, reaching the sea in vapor veils that swayed and shivered to every vagrant wisp of wind. But always, in the foreground, lords of beauty and eternally reading and sharing, lay he and Ruth, and always in the background that was beyond the background of nature, dim and hazy, were work and success and money earned that made them free of the world and all its treasures.
"I should recommend my little girl to be careful," her mother warned her one day.
"I know what you mean. But it is impossible. He if; not - "
Ruth was blushing, but it was the blush of maidenhood called upon for the first time to discuss the sacred things of life with a mother held equally sacred.
"Your kind." Her mother finished the sentence for her.
Ruth nodded.
"I did not want to say it, but he is not. He is rough, brutal, strong - too strong. He has not - "
She hesitated and could not go on. It was a new experience, talking over such matters with her mother. And again her mother completed her thought for her.
"He has not lived a clean life, is what you wanted to say."
Again Ruth nodded, and again a blush mantled her face.
"It is just that," she said. "It has not been his fault, but he has played much with - "
"With pitch?"
"Yes, with pitch. And he frightens me. Sometimes I am positively in terror of him, when he talks in that free and easy way of the things he has done - as if they did not matter. They do matter, don't they?"
They sat with their arms twined around each other, and in the pause her mother patted her hand and waited for her to go on.
"But I am interested in him dreadfully," she continued. "In a way he is my protege. Then, too, he is my first boy friend - but not exactly friend; rather protege and friend combined. Sometimes, too, when he frightens me, it seems that he is a bulldog I have taken for a plaything, like some of the 'frat' girls, and he is tugging hard, and showing his teeth, and threatening to break loose."
Again her mother waited.
"He interests me, I suppose, like the bulldog. And there is much good in him, too; but there is much in him that I would not like in - in the other way. You see, I have been thinking. He swears, he smokes, he drinks, he has fought with his fists (he has told me so, and he likes it; he says so). He is all that a man should not be - a man I would want for my - " her voice sank very low - "husband. Then he is too strong. My prince must be tall, and slender, and dark - a graceful, bewitching prince. No, there is no danger of my failing in love with Martin Eden. It would be the worst fate that could befall me."
"But it is not that that I spoke about," her mother equivocated. "Have you thought about him? He is so ineligible in every way, you know, and suppose he should come to love you?"
"But he does - already," she cried.
"It was to be expected," Mrs. Morse said gently. "How could it be otherwise with any one who knew you?"
"Olney hates me!" she exclaimed passionately. "And I hate Olney. I feel always like a cat when he is around. I feel that I must be nasty to him, and even when I don't happen to feel that way, why, he's nasty to me, anyway. But I am happy with Martin Eden. No one ever loved me before - no man, I mean, in that way. And it is sweet to be loved - that way. You know what I mean, mother dear. It is sweet to feel that you are really and truly a woman." She buried her face in her mother's lap, sobbing. "You think I am dreadful, I know, but I am honest, and I tell you just how I feel."
Mrs. Morse was strangely sad and happy. Her child-daughter, who was a bachelor of arts, was gone; but in her place was a woman- daughter. The experiment had succeeded. The strange void in Ruth's nature had been filled, and filled without danger or penalty. This rough sailor-fellow had been the instrument, and, though Ruth did not love him, he had made her conscious of her womanhood.
"His hand trembles," Ruth was confessing, her face, for shame's sake, still buried. "It is most amusing and ridiculous, but I feel sorry for him, too. And when his hands are too trembly, and his eyes too shiny, why, I lecture him about his life and the wrong way he is going about it to mend it. But he worships me, I know. His eyes and his hands do not lie. And it makes me feel grown-up, the thought of it, the very thought of it; and I feel that I am possessed of something that is by rights my own - that makes me like the other girls - and - and young women. And, then, too, I knew that I was not like them before, and I knew that it worried you. You thought you did not let me know that dear worry of yours, but I did, and I wanted to - 'to make good,' as Martin Eden says."
It was a holy hour for mother and daughter, and their eyes were wet as they talked on in the twilight, Ruth all white innocence and frankness, her mother sympathetic, receptive, yet calmly explaining and guiding.
"He is four years younger than you," she said. "He has no place in the world. He has neither position nor salary. He is impractical. Loving you, he should, in the name of common sense, be doing something that would give him the right to marry, instead of paltering around with those stories of his and with childish dreams. Martin Eden, I am afraid, will never grow up. He does not take to responsibility and a man's work in the world like your father did, or like all our friends, Mr. Butler for one. Martin Eden, I am afraid, will never be a money-earner. And this world is so ordered that money is necessary to happiness - oh, no, not these swollen fortunes, but enough of money to permit of common comfort and decency. He - he has never spoken?"
"He has not breathed a word. He has not attempted to; but if he did, I would not let him, because, you see, I do not love him."
"I am glad of that. I should not care to see my daughter, my one daughter, who is so clean and pure, love a man like him. There are noble men in the world who are clean and true and manly. Wait for them. You will find one some day, and you will love him and be loved by him, and you will be happy with him as your father and I have been happy with each other. And there is one thing you must always carry in mind - "
"Yes, mother."
Mrs. Morse's voice was low and sweet as she said, "And that is the children."
"I - have thought about them," Ruth confessed, remembering the wanton thoughts that had vexed her in the past, her face again red with maiden shame that she should be telling such things.
"And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs. Morse went on incisively. "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am afraid, not clean. Your father has told me of sailors' lives, and - and you understand."
Ruth pressed her mother's hand in assent, feeling that she really did understand, though her conception was of something vague, remote, and terrible that was beyond the scope of imagination.
"You know I do nothing without telling you," she began. " - Only, sometimes you must ask me, like this time. I wanted to tell you, but I did not know how. It is false modesty, I know it is that, but you can make it easy for me. Sometimes, like this time, you must ask me, you must give me a chance."
"Why, mother, you are a woman, too!" she cried exultantly, as they stood up, catching her mother's hands and standing erect, facing her in the twilight, conscious of a strangely sweet equality between them. "I should never have thought of you in that way if we had not had this talk. I had to learn that I was a woman to know that you were one, too."
"We are women together," her mother said, drawing her to her and kissing her. "We are women together," she repeated, as they went out of the room, their arms around each other's waists, their hearts swelling with a new sense of companionship.
"Our little girl has become a woman," Mrs. Morse said proudly to her husband an hour later.
"That means," he said, after a long look at his wife, "that means she is in love."
"No, but that she is loved," was the smiling rejoinder. "The experiment has succeeded. She is awakened at last."
"Then we'll have to get rid of him." Mr. Morse spoke briskly, in matter-of-fact, businesslike tones.
But his wife shook her head. "It will not be necessary. Ruth says he is going to sea in a few days. When he comes back, she will not be here. We will send her to Aunt Clara's. And, besides, a year in the East, with the change in climate, people, ideas, and everything, is just the thing she needs."
露丝和她的全家都回来了，马丁回到奥克兰之后跟她常常见面。露丝获得了学位，不再读书了。马丁呢，劳动得心力交瘁，也不再写东西了。这就让他俩比以前有了更多的时间见面。两人的关系也迅速亲密起来。 
起初马丁除了休息什么事都不做，睡了很多觉，花了很多时间沉思默想。此外无所事事，像个饱尝了惊人的苦难后逐渐复原的人。他重新觉醒的最初信号是对每天的报纸发生了兴趣，不再淡漠了。然后他开始读书——读轻松的小说和诗歌。过了几天他又如醉如痴地迷上了他久已未读的费斯克。他那不同凡响的体魄和健康产生了新的活力，而他的青春又柔韧和富于弹性了。
当他宣布打算在充分休息之后再出一次海时，露丝表现了明显的失望。
“你为什么要出海？”她问。
“为了钱，”回答是，“我得攒一笔钱，准备下一次向编辑们发起进攻。就我的处境而言，钱是战斗力的泉源——一要有钱，二要有耐心。”
“既然你缺的只是钱，为什么不在洗衣房里干下去？”
“因为洗衣房要把我变成牲口。那样的活干得太多是会逼得人去喝酒的。”
她瞪大了眼望着他，眼里闪动着恐怖。
“你是说——？”她发着抖。
要绕开这个问题并不难，但他的自然冲动却是真诚坦率。他想起了从前的决心：无论出现什么情况都要真诚坦率。
“不错，”他回答，“就是那么回事。去喝了几回。”
她不禁一阵颤栗，离他远了些。
“我所认识的人没有人喝酒的——没有。”
“那是因为他们没有在雪莉温泉旅馆的洗衣房子过活，”他尖刻地笑道，“苦干是好事，所有的牧师都说它使人健全。上天也知道我从没有害怕过苦干。但世界上就有好过了头的事。那儿的洗衣房就是如此。因此我想再出一趟海。我认为那将是我最后的一次了。因为我回来之后就要打进杂志里去。我有把握。”
她沉默了。她并不赞成。马丁闷闷不乐地望着她。他明白要她理解他所经历的痛苦是多么枉然。总有一天我会把它全写出来的——《苦干的堕落作用》或是《工人阶级饮酒的心理研究》，诸如此类。
自从第一次见面之后他俩从没有像那天那么疏远过。他现坦率的自白背后虽带有反抗情绪，却仍使她反感。但令她震惊的倒不是导致反感的原因而是那反感本身。这事向她表明了他对她所具有的强大吸引力。意识到这一点之后她对他反倒更亲密了。此外，那也唤起了她的矜悯之情，和一种天真烂漫的理想主义的改造热情。无论对方愿意不愿意，她也要挽救这位跟她距离很远的蒙昧的青年，使他微弃旧我，摆脱早期环境的不幸影响。她认为这一切都出于一种异常高贵的胸怀，却做梦也没有想到那背后和下面会隐藏着爱情的谨填的欲望。
他俩常在秋高气爽的日子骑车外出，到山里去高声朗诵诗歌。有时他朗诵，有时她朗诵，读的都是使人醉心于高尚事物。催人上进的高雅诗章。她借此间接向他宣扬着克己、牺牲、忍耐、勤奋和刻苦上进之类的原则——在她心里这类抽象的品德都体现在她的父亲和巴特勒先生身上，还有安德路·卡耐基——那从一个贫穷的少年移民奋斗成为世界性权威的人。
这一切马丁都欣赏，而且喜欢。他现在更清楚她的思想脉络了。她的灵魂再也不是过去那种无法窥测的奇迹了。他跟她在智力上已经平等。他俩的意见出入并不影响爱情。他爱得比以前任何时候都炽热了。因为他爱的就是此时的她。就连她那娇弱的身子在他眼里也只增添了妩媚。他读到体弱多病的伊丽莎白·勃朗宁的故事。她有好多年双脚不曾沾过地面，直到她跟勃朗宁私奔的那一天，因为爱情燃烧竟然顶天立地地站了起来。马丁认为勃朗宁在她身上能做到的他也能在露丝身上做到。可首先她得要爱他，然后别的就好办了。他会给她力量和健康的。他督见了他俩以后多少年的共同生活。以工作、舒适和共同富裕为背景，他看见了自己跟露丝在一起读诗、探讨诗的场景。她偎在一大堆放在地面的靠垫上，向他朗诵着。这便是他俩未来生活的基调。他总看到那幅图画。有时她仅依着他，听他朗诵：他的手接着她的腰；她的头靠着他的肩。有时他们俩又一起沉润于那印刷在书页上的美。而且，她热爱大自然，于是他便以丰富的想像变换着他们俩读诗的场景——有时在峭壁环抱、与世隔绝的山谷之中；有时在高山峻岭之巅的草场上；有时在灰色的沙丘之旁，细浪在脚边如花环般京绕；有时在辽远的热带入山岛上，瀑布飞泻，水雾蒙蒙，宛如片片薄绡，直通到海滨，每一阵风地飘摇吹过都使那雾绡淡荡摇曳。但占据前景的总是他和露丝这对美的主人。他们永远高卧着，朗诵着，共享着，而在大自然这个背景之外还有个朦胧迷离的背景：劳动、成功和金钱。有了这些他们才可以不受世人和他们的全部财产的约束。
“找要提醒我的小姑娘小心呢，”有一天她的妈妈警告她。
“我懂得你的意思，但那是不可能的。他跟我不——”
露丝红了脸，是处女的羞红。她还是第一次跟被她看作神圣的母亲讨论这个在生命中同样神圣的问题。
“——不般配。”她妈妈为她补完了全句。
露丝点点头。
“我本来不想谈的。不过他确实不般配。他粗野、剽悍、健壮，太健壮了。没有——”
她犹豫了，说不下去了。她从不曾跟妈妈谈过这类事。她妈妈又为她把话说完：——
“你想说的是：他从没有过过干干净净的生活。”
露丝点点头，脸上又泛出羞红。
“正是这样，”她说，“那不能怪他，但他也太随——”
“——太随波逐流？”
“是的，太随波逐流。他叫我害怕。有时他谈起那些事竟那么轻松愉快，好像全不当回事似的，真叫我心惊胆战。那是应该当回事的，是么？”
这时她们母女俩彼此搂着腰坐着。她住了嘴。妈妈却一言不发，只拍拍她的手，等她说下去。
“但他却引起了我极大的兴趣，”她说，“他在一定意义上是我的门徒，也是我的第一个男朋友——确切地说，还算不上朋友，算是门徒兼朋友吧。而在他叫我害怕的时候他又似乎是我的一只牛头拘，供我养着玩的——学校姐妹会里就有人养牛头狗玩.可他在龇着牙使劲扯链子，想扯断了跑掉呢。”
她妈妈等着她继续说下去。
“我觉得他真像牛头狗一样引起我的兴趣。他还有许多长处。可另一方面他也有不少我不喜欢的东西，你看，我一直在想。他骂粗话抽烟、喝酒、打架（他告诉我的，而且说他喜欢打架）。男人不应有的东西他全有。他并不是我所喜欢的——”她放低了声音，“丈夫人选。而且他又太健壮。我的‘王子’应当是高挑、顾长、黝黑的——一个潇洒的有魅力的‘王子’。不，我没有爱上马丁·伊登的危险。爱上他只能是我最大的不幸。”
“不过，我想谈的倒不是这个。”她的母亲闪烁其词地说，“你从他那一面考虑过没有呢？他在各个方面都是那么不如人意，这你知道。可要是他爱上了你，你怎么办？”
“他已经爱上我了？”她叫道。
“这倒也是人之常情，”莫尔斯太太轻言细语地说，“认识你的人谁又能不爱上你呢？”
“奥尔尼可讨厌我呢！”她激动地叫道，“我也讨厌奥尔尼。只要他在场我就产生一种猫的感觉，要想给他难堪。即使我没有那个意思他也会给我难堪的。但跟马丁·伊登在一起，我却觉得愉快。以前没有人爱过我——我是说像男人那样爱过我，而有人爱——恋爱，却是很甜蜜的。你明白我的意思，好妈妈。发觉自己已是个真正的、十足的女人是很甜蜜的呢。”她把脸理进妈妈的招兜里抽泣起来。“我知道你为我担心。但我是诚实的，我告诉你的都是真实感情。”
说也奇怪，莫尔斯太太倒是悲喜交集。她的女儿，那个做了大学文学上的大姑娘，不见了，变成了个女人。她的实验成功了。露丝天性中那奇怪的空白填满了，并没有带来危险和不良后果。而工具便是这个粗鲁的水手。他唤起了她女人的感情。
“他的手发抖呢，”露丝说道，因为害羞仍然把脸埋在妈妈裙兜里。“非常有趣而且滑稽。可我也为他难过。在他的手抖得太凶、眼睛太闪亮的时候，啊，我就教训他，谈他的生活，告诉他他那改正缺点的路子不对。但我知道他崇拜我。他的双手和眼睛不会撒谎。一想到这个，只要一想到这个，我就觉得已经是个成年人了。我感到获得了我有权获得的东西——我跟别的姑娘和年轻女人一样了。我也知道我过去跟她们不一样，你因此着急，为我怀着隐忧。你以为没有让我知道，其实我早知道了，而且打算——用马丁·伊登的话说：‘解决它’。”
那是母女双方神圣的时刻。两人在薄喜的微光里谈着话，眼里噙满泪水。露丝胸无城府，天真烂漫，坦率真诚；母亲满怀同情，洞察人意，平静地解释着，开导着。
“他比你小四岁，”她说，“在社会上没有地位，没有职务，也没有薪水，而且不切实际。既然爱上了你，凭常识地也应该做一点使他有权结婚的事了吧！可他却拿他那些小说到处乱寄，做着孩子气的梦。我担心马丁·伊登是永远也不会长大成人了。他不会承担起责任，在世界上做一份男子汉的工作，像你父亲和我们所有的朋友一样，比如巴特勒先生。我担心马丁·伊登永远不会成为能挣钱的人。可是这个世界的秩序的要求却是：有钱才能幸福——啊，不，不一定要像我们家这样阔气，总也要过得舒服像样吧！他——没有提起过？”
“一个字也没有提过，没有打算过。不过即使他有那意思我也不会让他提的。因为，你看，我并不爱他。”
“这就叫我高兴了。我不会乐意看到我的女儿，我这样纯洁无假的唯一的女儿，爱上一个像他那样的人的。世界上有的是高尚的男人，纯洁、真诚、男子汉味十足的男人，你有一天是会碰见这样的人，并且爱上他的，他也会爱上你的。你跟他会很幸福，就像你爸爸跟我一样。有件事你必须永远记在心里——”
“是的，妈妈。”
莫尔斯太太放低了声音，甜蜜地说：“那就是孩子。”
“我考虑过孩子的问题，”露丝承认。她想起了过去那些曾叫她难为情的放肆的念头。因为不得不谈起这样的问题，脸上泛出了处女的羞红。
“孩子的问题更淘汰了伊登先生，”莫尔斯太太一针见血地说下去。“孩子们必须家世清白。我却担心他的家世并不清白。你爸爸告诉过我水手的生活，因此，你是了解的。”
露丝捏捏妈妈的手表示理解。她以为自己真了解，其实她的印象模糊、辽远、可怕、难以想像。
“你知道我无论做什么都是会告诉你的，”露丝说，“不过有时你得问问我，像这回一样。我本来是想告诉你的，可总觉得难以启齿。我知道不应该这样害羞。可你一问我就好开口了。你有时就是该来问问我，给我机会开口，像这回一样的。”
“唉，妈妈，原来你也是个女人！”两人站了起来，露丝站得笔直，拉住妈妈的双手，在微光里面对着她，意识到跟她之间的一种甜蜜的平等关系，欢喜得哭了起来。“没有这番谈话，我是不会那样看你的。在懂得了自己是个女人之后，我也才懂得了你也是个女人。”
“我们俩都是女人，”她的母亲拥抱她，亲吻着她说，“我们俩都是女人，”她们俩走出屋子时她重复道。两人互相接着腰，因体会到一种新的伙伴之情而心花怒放。
“我们的小丫头长大成人了呢。”一小时以后莫尔斯太太得意地告诉她的丈夫。
“那就是说，”他注视了妻子很久之后才说，“她在恋爱了。”
“不，只是有人爱上她了，”她含笑回答，“我们的实验成功了，她终于苏醒了过来。”
“那么，我们就得摆脱那个人了。”莫尔斯先生带着一本正经、公事公办的口气斩钉截铁地说。
但是他的妻子摇了摇头：“用不着。露丝说他过几天就要出海了。等他回来她早离开这儿了。我们要送她到她姑妈克拉拉家去。她正需要到东部去过上一年，换换气候，换换人，换换思想和一切呢。”
Chapter 20
The desire to write was stirring in Martin once more. Stories and poems were springing into spontaneous creation in his brain, and he made notes of them against the future time when he would give them expression. But he did not write. This was his little vacation; he had resolved to devote it to rest and love, and in both matters he prospered. He was soon spilling over with vitality, and each day he saw Ruth, at the moment of meeting, she experienced the old shock of his strength and health.
"Be careful," her mother warned her once again. "I am afraid you are seeing too much of Martin Eden."
But Ruth laughed from security. She was sure of herself, and in a few days he would be off to sea. Then, by the time he returned, she would be away on her visit East. There was a magic, however, in the strength and health of Martin. He, too, had been told of her contemplated Eastern trip, and he felt the need for haste. Yet he did not know how to make love to a girl like Ruth. Then, too, he was handicapped by the possession of a great fund of experience with girls and women who had been absolutely different from her. They had known about love and life and flirtation, while she knew nothing about such things. Her prodigious innocence appalled him, freezing on his lips all ardors of speech, and convincing him, in spite of himself, of his own unworthiness. Also he was handicapped in another way. He had himself never been in love before. He had liked women in that turgid past of his, and been fascinated by some of them, but he had not known what it was to love them. He had whistled in a masterful, careless way, and they had come to him. They had been diversions, incidents, part of the game men play, but a small part at most. And now, and for the first time, he was a suppliant, tender and timid and doubting. He did not know the way of love, nor its speech, while he was frightened at his loved one's clear innocence.
In the course of getting acquainted with a varied world, whirling on through the ever changing phases of it, he had learned a rule of conduct which was to the effect that when one played a strange game, he should let the other fellow play first. This had stood him in good stead a thousand times and trained him as an observer as well. He knew how to watch the thing that was strange, and to wait for a weakness, for a place of entrance, to divulge itself. It was like sparring for an opening in fist-fighting. And when such an opening came, he knew by long experience to play for it and to play hard.
So he waited with Ruth and watched, desiring to speak his love but not daring. He was afraid of shocking her, and he was not sure of himself. Had he but known it, he was following the right course with her. Love came into the world before articulate speech, and in its own early youth it had learned ways and means that it had never forgotten. It was in this old, primitive way that Martin wooed Ruth. He did not know he was doing it at first, though later he divined it. The touch of his hand on hers was vastly more potent than any word he could utter, the impact of his strength on her imagination was more alluring than the printed poems and spoken passions of a thousand generations of lovers. Whatever his tongue could express would have appealed, in part, to her judgment; but the touch of hand, the fleeting contact, made its way directly to her instinct. Her judgment was as young as she, but her instincts were as old as the race and older. They had been young when love was young, and they were wiser than convention and opinion and all the new-born things. So her judgment did not act. There was no call upon it, and she did not realize the strength of the appeal Martin made from moment to moment to her love-nature. That he loved her, on the other hand, was as clear as day, and she consciously delighted in beholding his love-manifestations - the glowing eyes with their tender lights, the trembling hands, and the never failing swarthy flush that flooded darkly under his sunburn. She even went farther, in a timid way inciting him, but doing it so delicately that he never suspected, and doing it half-consciously, so that she scarcely suspected herself. She thrilled with these proofs of her power that proclaimed her a woman, and she took an Eve-like delight in tormenting him and playing upon him.
Tongue-tied by inexperience and by excess of ardor, wooing unwittingly and awkwardly, Martin continued his approach by contact. The touch of his hand was pleasant to her, and something deliciously more than pleasant. Martin did not know it, but he did know that it was not distasteful to her. Not that they touched hands often, save at meeting and parting; but that in handling the bicycles, in strapping on the books of verse they carried into the hills, and in conning the pages of books side by side, there were opportunities for hand to stray against hand. And there were opportunities, too, for her hair to brush his cheek, and for shoulder to touch shoulder, as they leaned together over the beauty of the books. She smiled to herself at vagrant impulses which arose from nowhere and suggested that she rumple his hair; while he desired greatly, when they tired of reading, to rest his head in her lap and dream with closed eyes about the future that was to be theirs. On Sunday picnics at Shellmound Park and Schuetzen Park, in the past, he had rested his head on many laps, and, usually, he had slept soundly and selfishly while the girls shaded his face from the sun and looked down and loved him and wondered at his lordly carelessness of their love. To rest his head in a girl's lap had been the easiest thing in the world until now, and now he found Ruth's lap inaccessible and impossible. Yet it was right here, in his reticence, that the strength of his wooing lay. It was because of this reticence that he never alarmed her. Herself fastidious and timid, she never awakened to the perilous trend of their intercourse. Subtly and unaware she grew toward him and closer to him, while he, sensing the growing closeness, longed to dare but was afraid.
Once he dared, one afternoon, when he found her in the darkened living room with a blinding headache.
"Nothing can do it any good," she had answered his inquiries. "And besides, I don't take headache powders. Doctor Hall won't permit me."
"I can cure it, I think, and without drugs," was Martin's answer. "I am not sure, of course, but I'd like to try. It's simply massage. I learned the trick first from the Japanese. They are a race of masseurs, you know. Then I learned it all over again with variations from the Hawaiians. They call it LOMI-LOMI. It can accomplish most of the things drugs accomplish and a few things that drugs can't."
Scarcely had his hands touched her head when she sighed deeply.
"That is so good," she said.
She spoke once again, half an hour later, when she asked, "Aren't you tired?"
The question was perfunctory, and she knew what the answer would be. Then she lost herself in drowsy contemplation of the soothing balm of his strength: Life poured from the ends of his fingers, driving the pain before it, or so it seemed to her, until with the easement of pain, she fell asleep and he stole away.
She called him up by telephone that evening to thank him.
"I slept until dinner," she said. "You cured me completely, Mr. Eden, and I don't know how to thank you."
He was warm, and bungling of speech, and very happy, as he replied to her, and there was dancing in his mind, throughout the telephone conversation, the memory of Browning and of sickly Elizabeth Barrett. What had been done could be done again, and he, Martin Eden, could do it and would do it for Ruth Morse. He went back to his room and to the volume of Spencer's "Sociology" lying open on the bed. But he could not read. Love tormented him and overrode his will, so that, despite all determination, he found himself at the little ink-stained table. The sonnet he composed that night was the first of a love-cycle of fifty sonnets which was completed within two months. He had the "Love-sonnets from the Portuguese" in mind as he wrote, and he wrote under the best conditions for great work, at a climacteric of living, in the throes of his own sweet love-madness.
The many hours he was not with Ruth he devoted to the "Love-cycle," to reading at home, or to the public reading-rooms, where he got more closely in touch with the magazines of the day and the nature of their policy and content. The hours he spent with Ruth were maddening alike in promise and in inconclusiveness. It was a week after he cured her headache that a moonlight sail on Lake Merritt was proposed by Norman and seconded by Arthur and Olney. Martin was the only one capable of handling a boat, and he was pressed into service. Ruth sat near him in the stern, while the three young fellows lounged amidships, deep in a wordy wrangle over "frat" affairs.
The moon had not yet risen, and Ruth, gazing into the starry vault of the sky and exchanging no speech with Martin, experienced a sudden feeling of loneliness. She glanced at him. A puff of wind was heeling the boat over till the deck was awash, and he, one hand on tiller and the other on main-sheet, was luffing slightly, at the same time peering ahead to make out the near-lying north shore. He was unaware of her gaze, and she watched him intently, speculating fancifully about the strange warp of soul that led him, a young man with signal powers, to fritter away his time on the writing of stories and poems foredoomed to mediocrity and failure.
Her eyes wandered along the strong throat, dimly seen in the starlight, and over the firm-poised head, and the old desire to lay her hands upon his neck came back to her. The strength she abhorred attracted her. Her feeling of loneliness became more pronounced, and she felt tired. Her position on the heeling boat irked her, and she remembered the headache he had cured and the soothing rest that resided in him. He was sitting beside her, quite beside her, and the boat seemed to tilt her toward him. Then arose in her the impulse to lean against him, to rest herself against his strength - a vague, half-formed impulse, which, even as she considered it, mastered her and made her lean toward him. Or was it the heeling of the boat? She did not know. She never knew. She knew only that she was leaning against him and that the easement and soothing rest were very good. Perhaps it had been the boat's fault, but she made no effort to retrieve it. She leaned lightly against his shoulder, but she leaned, and she continued to lean when he shifted his position to make it more comfortable for her.
It was a madness, but she refused to consider the madness. She was no longer herself but a woman, with a woman's clinging need; and though she leaned ever so lightly, the need seemed satisfied. She was no longer tired. Martin did not speak. Had he, the spell would have been broken. But his reticence of love prolonged it. He was dazed and dizzy. He could not understand what was happening. It was too wonderful to be anything but a delirium. He conquered a mad desire to let go sheet and tiller and to clasp her in his arms. His intuition told him it was the wrong thing to do, and he was glad that sheet and tiller kept his hands occupied and fended off temptation. But he luffed the boat less delicately, spilling the wind shamelessly from the sail so as to prolong the tack to the north shore. The shore would compel him to go about, and the contact would be broken. He sailed with skill, stopping way on the boat without exciting the notice of the wranglers, and mentally forgiving his hardest voyages in that they had made this marvellous night possible, giving him mastery over sea and boat and wind so that he could sail with her beside him, her dear weight against him on his shoulder.
When the first light of the rising moon touched the sail, illuminating the boat with pearly radiance, Ruth moved away from him. And, even as she moved, she felt him move away. The impulse to avoid detection was mutual. The episode was tacitly and secretly intimate. She sat apart from him with burning cheeks, while the full force of it came home to her. She had been guilty of something she would not have her brothers see, nor Olney see. Why had she done it? She had never done anything like it in her life, and yet she had been moonlight-sailing with young men before. She had never desired to do anything like it. She was overcome with shame and with the mystery of her own burgeoning womanhood. She stole a glance at Martin, who was busy putting the boat about on the other tack, and she could have hated him for having made her do an immodest and shameful thing. And he, of all men! Perhaps her mother was right, and she was seeing too much of him. It would never happen again, she resolved, and she would see less of him in the future. She entertained a wild idea of explaining to him the first time they were alone together, of lying to him, of mentioning casually the attack of faintness that had overpowered her just before the moon came up. Then she remembered how they had drawn mutually away before the revealing moon, and she knew he would know it for a lie.
In the days that swiftly followed she was no longer herself but a strange, puzzling creature, wilful over judgment and scornful of self-analysis, refusing to peer into the future or to think about herself and whither she was drifting. She was in a fever of tingling mystery, alternately frightened and charmed, and in constant bewilderment. She had one idea firmly fixed, however, which insured her security. She would not let Martin speak his love. As long as she did this, all would be well. In a few days he would be off to sea. And even if he did speak, all would be well. It could not be otherwise, for she did not love him. Of course, it would be a painful half hour for him, and an embarrassing half hour for her, because it would be her first proposal. She thrilled deliciously at the thought. She was really a woman, with a man ripe to ask for her in marriage. It was a lure to all that was fundamental in her sex. The fabric of her life, of all that constituted her, quivered and grew tremulous. The thought fluttered in her mind like a flame-attracted moth. She went so far as to imagine Martin proposing, herself putting the words into his mouth; and she rehearsed her refusal, tempering it with kindness and exhorting him to true and noble manhood. And especially he must stop smoking cigarettes. She would make a point of that. But no, she must not let him speak at all. She could stop him, and she had told her mother that she would. All flushed and burning, she regretfully dismissed the conjured situation. Her first proposal would have to be deferred to a more propitious time and a more eligible suitor.
创作的欲望又在马丁心里萌动。小说和诗歌从他脑子里蹦出，并自然形成。他把它们草草记下，准备以后写成作品。不过此时他没有写，因为他在度一个短假。他决心把它用于休息和爱情。他两方面都大有进展。他很快又精神焕发，活力洋溢了，而且每天跟露丝见面，每次见面都让露丝感到了他那旺盛精力的冲击。 
“你得小心，”母亲再次警告露丝，“你跟马丁·伊登见面太多，我为你担心呢。”
露丝笑了，她相信自己没有危险。何况再过几天他就要出海去，等他回来她已经到东部做客去了。但马丁旺盛的精力仍然有它的魅力，而他也听说了她准备到东部去探亲的事，感到需要加快进行。他不知道怎样跟露丝这样的女人恋爱。跟与她绝对不同的女人恋爱他有丰富的经验，但那对他却很不利。那些女人知道爱情和生活，也会调情，但露丝却没有经验。她那惊人的天真无邪令他惶恐，把他热情的话语都冻结在嘴唇上，使他不能不相信自己配不上她。还有一点也对他不利。他以前从没有堕入过情网。在他那些趾高气扬的日子里，他喜欢过女人，也曾迷恋过几个，但并不知道怎样跟她们恋爱。那时他只需神气活现满不在乎地吹吹口哨她们就来了。她们只不过是一种消遣，一段插曲，是男子汉把戏的一部分——最多也只是一小部分。可现在他第一次变成了个温柔、羞怯、忐忑不安的追求者。他所爱的人儿是那样天真纯洁，一尘不染。他不知道怎样去爱她，也不知道怎样对她诉说爱情。
他认识多姿多彩的世界，曾在它于变万化的局面里旋风般前进。在那过程中他学会了一种行为准则，大体是：凡是新花样都让别人先动手。这个办法以前曾使他一千次立于不败之地，也培养了他的观察能力。他懂得怎样观察新东西，等待弱点暴露，再抓住突破口冲进去。那跟打架时伺机进攻是一样的。凭他长期的经验，他只要找到了破绽就能抓住不放，穷追猛打。
他也这样观察着等待着露丝，想向她表白却又不敢。他生怕吓坏了她，对自己也不放心。其实若是他知道的话，他的这条路倒是恰如其分。爱情是在它明确表达之前就已来到这世界上的，在它的蓓蕾期就摸索出了种种窍门和办法，从此永远不忘。马丁就是以这种古老的原始的方式向露丝求爱的。起初他并不知道，虽然后来明白过来了。他俩之间手的碰触要比他嘴里的任何话语都有力。他旺盛的精力对她想像力的冲击具有着比典籍上的诗歌和千年万代的情侣们的情话更大的诱惑。他能用舌头表达的东西虽能部分地打动她的判断力；他们手与手的短暂接触却能直接打动她的本能。她的判断力跟她一样年轻，而本能却跟她的种族同样古老，甚至更古老。在爱惜年轻时本能也年轻，可它却比传统舆论和一切新生的东西更聪明。因此露丝便没有运用过她的判断力，因为没有必要。对马丁向她的恋爱本能所发起的进攻她并没有意识到它的威力。而另一方面，马丁对她的爱恋已经像天日一样明白。她看到了他的爱情表现，也意识到自己的欢乐：那燃烧在他眼里的温柔的光，那颤栗的双手，那太阳晒黑的皮肤下到时准会隐隐泛起的红潮。她甚至进一步怯生生地挑引过他，但是依稀隐约，不但没有引起他的怀疑，甚至连她自己也没有意识到。她对自己也几乎不曾怀疑过。她的威力的这种种表现宣布了她已是个女人，这使她激动欢喜。她也把抗磨和玩弄他当作快乐，像夏娃一样。
由于缺乏经验，也由于过分热情，马丁说不出后来。他只能用碰触的方式下意识地笨拙地接近地。他那手的碰触令她感到愉快，甚至美妙。对此马丁并不知道，他只知道她并无反感。并不是说他俩的手除了见面和道别之外也常接触，而是说在摆弄自行车时，在往车上捆扎带上山去的诗集时，在肩并肩玩味着书中的情趣时，他俩的手都有偶然碰到的机会。何况他俩俯身在书页上沉醉于它的美时，她的头发有时也会拂着他的面颊，肩头有时也会碰着他的肩头。有时一种无赖的冲动无端袭来，她还会想去揉乱他的鬈发。这时她便暗自笑了。而他呢，两人读书倦了，也渴望把头放在她的膝头上，闭了眼睛冥想他俩未来的日子。过去他在贝陵公园和帅岑公园野餐也曾多次把头枕在女人膝上，而且总是睡得很香。而那些女人则给他遮太阳，低头看着他，爱他，不明白他为什么那么大架子，对她们的爱情总不在乎。过去把头枕在姑娘膝头上原是最容易不过的事，可现在他却发现露丝的膝头是无法接近的，难以达到的。其实他的追求之所以有力正在他的沉默。因为沉默她便不致受到惊吓。尽管她天性挑剔，胆怯，却不曾意识到两人的交往会有什么危险．于是便微妙地不自觉地向他靠拢，越靠越近。对这种逐渐的亲近他是感觉到的，很想鼓起勇气，却又畏怯。
有一天下午他终于鼓起了勇气。他发现她在昏暗的起坐间里头痛得眼睛发花。
“什么药都不起作用，”她回答他的问题时说，“而且我不能吃头痛粉，霍尔医生不允许。”
“我认为我能治好你的头痛，不用吃药，”马丁回答，“当然，我没有把握，不过我想试一试。很简单，用按摩。我最初是从日本人那儿学的。你知道他们是个按摩师的民族。然后我又从夏威夷人那儿重新学了一遍，有些变化。他们叫它‘罗米罗米’。凡是药物能治的病它都能治；药物不能治的病有些它也能治。”
他的手刚碰到她的头她便深深地叹了一口气。
“舒服极了，”她说。
半小时之后她说话了，问道：“你累不累？”
这问题只是个形式，答案她分明知道。然后她便一边朦胧思考着他的力量所产生的镇痛作用一边开始昏昏欲睡。生命从他的指尖流出，驱赶着（或者说她似乎觉得驱赶着）疼痛，直到它完全消失。她睡着了，他也悄悄走掉了。
那天晚上她给他打电话，表示感谢。
“我一直睡到晚饭才醒，”她说，“你完全治好了我的病，伊登先生，我真不知道该怎么感谢你呢。”
他回答时口头虽结巴，心里却暖和，非常高兴。在整个通话时间里他心里涌动着关于勃朗宁和多病的伊丽莎白·巴瑞特的回忆。做过的事还可以再做；为了露丝·莫尔斯地马丁·伊登能够做而且愿意做。他回到屋里那卷斯宾塞的《社会学》去。那书翻开放在床上，但他没读进去。爱情折磨着他，蹂躏着他的意志。他发现自己违背了自己的决定，坐到了那张有墨水印迹的小桌旁。那天晚上地所写的十四行诗是他此后两个月内写成的五十首爱情组诗的第一百。他写时心里想着《葡萄牙人的爱情十四行诗》。他的诗是在产生伟大作品的最佳条件下写成的：在生活的紧要关头，在他因甜蜜的疯魔而痛苦之际。
没跟露丝见面时他便写《爱情组诗》，在家读书，或是到公共阅览室去。在那儿跟流行杂志保持更密切的接触，明白它们的政策和内容的性质。他跟露丝一起度过的时光给了他希望，却并无结果。两者都急得他发疯。他治好她的病后的一个星期，诺尔曼建议到梅丽特湖上去用对泛舟。这建议得到亚瑟和奥尔尼的赞同。只有马丁会驾船，他被说服接受了任务。露丝坐在船尾跟他一起。三个小伙子在中舱闲聊，为兄弟会的事大发议论，争吵得不可开交。
月亮尚未升起。露丝没有踉马丁说话，只凝视着繁星点点的天空，突然感到孤独。她瞥了他一眼。一阵风吹来，船体倾斜了，水花溅上了甲板。马丁一手掌舵一手操纵主帆，让船轻轻地贴风行驶，同时眺望着前方，要找出不远处的北岸，没有意识到露丝在看他。露丝专注地望着他，驰骋着想像，猜测着是什么力量扭曲了他的灵魂，使得像他那样一个精力过人的青年把时间浪费在写小说和写诗上面，而那是注定了只能平庸或失败的。
她的眼睛沿着他那在星光下依稀可见的结实的喉头往挺立的头部望去。往日的欲望又回来了：她想用双手搂住他的脖子。她所厌恶的旺盛的精力吸引了她。她益发感到了孤独。她疲倦了。船身一倾侧，她那样坐着便感到吃力。她想起了他为她治好的头痛，想起了他所能给她的舒服的休息。而他就坐在自己身边，离得很近。那船也似乎要让她向他歪过身子，她有了一种向他偎依过去的冲动，想靠在他那健壮的身子上。那冲动朦胧依稀，似有若无，没等她想清楚已经支配了她，使她向他偎依了过去。是船体在倾倒么？她不知道，一点也不知道。她只知道自己偎依到了他的身上，获得了舒服轻松的休息，十分美好。也许该怪船吧？可她没打算纠正，只一味轻轻靠在他肩上。他挪了挪身子，让她靠得更舒服一点。她便靠着，继续靠着。
这是疯狂，可她不愿去想。她再也不是她自己，而是个女人，像女人一样需要偎靠。虽然偎靠得很轻很轻，她的需要却似乎得到了满足。她再由不疲倦了。马丁没说话，怕一说话那魔法就会消逝。他在爱情上的沉默延长了魔法。他快乐得昏昏沉沉，晕晕忽忽，不明白发生了什么事。这感觉太美妙，只能是高烧时的幻觉。他压制了丢下船舵和风帆去拥抱她的疯狂冲动。直觉告诉他不能那样做。他高兴风帆和船舵占住了他的手，挡住了这个诱惑。但他驾着船贴风行驶的手却懈怠了，不顾脸面地让风从帆边漏了出去，推迟了到达北岸的时间，因为一到了北岸就得回头，两人就得分开。他巧妙地驶着船，老远便放慢了速度，没有引起几位还在争论不休的人的注意。他在心里原谅了过去的最艰苦的航行，因为它给他带来了这奇妙的夜晚，给了他操纵海浪。船只和风的能力，让她在驾船时坐到了他身边，让她那可爱的身子靠到了他肩上。
初升的月儿的第一缕光线落到了帆上，用它珍珠般的柔辉照亮了小船。露丝从马丁挪开了身子，同时也注意到他也在挪开。原来怕人注意的感觉是共通的。这段插曲默默无言，却秘密而亲切。她挪开了身子，脸烧得通红，但那偎依的作用却震撼了她。她犯了错误，不愿让两个弟弟看见，也不愿让奥尔尼看见。她为什么要这么做？她可是一辈子也不曾做过这样的事。以前她也跟年轻小伙子一起在月下泛过舟，却从没想过这么做。她羞愧得无地自容，为她萌动中的女性要求感到难堪。她偷偷地看了马丁一眼。马丁正忙着改变航向。她是可能怀恨他的，因为他竟使她做出了这样放荡可耻的事。怎么偏偏是他！她母亲也许是对的。他跟她见面太多了。她下定决心不让这样的事再发生，以后要跟他少见面。她还异想天开打算在两人单独会面的时候给他作解释，装作无意的样子撒个谎，说是月亮快出来时她突然感到晕眩，没坐稳身子。可她又回忆起月光快要透出时他们俩互相挪开的事，便明白他会听出那是谎话。
在随后的匆匆逝去的日子里她已经不再是自己，而成了一个满肚子狐疑的陌生人。看问题执拗，瞧不起自我分析，不肯看向未来，不肯考虑自己，也不管自己在往哪儿漂流。一个令人激动的奇迹使她狂热。她时而害怕，时而沉醉，总是迷惆困惑。但是有一点她却坚信不疑，认为她的安全可以保证，只要不让马丁表白爱情。只要能做到这一点她就可以万事大吉。过几天他就出海了。不过就算他表白了也没有问题。不可能有别的，因为她并不爱他。当然，半小时内他会很痛苦，她也会很尴尬，因为那会是她第一次有人求爱。一想到这一点她竟又甜蜜地欢喜起来。她真地成了个女人了，有了男人爱她，向她求婚了。那是对女人的一切天性的诱惑。她生命的机制、她整个的结构都不禁震动、战栗起来。这想法有如被火光吸引的飞蛾在她心里扑腾着。她甚至还设想起马丁求爱的样子，连他要说的话都为他设计好了。她还排练了自己的拒绝。她要用好意把它冲淡，鼓励他做个有志气的男子汉，尤其要戒掉烟——这一点要加以强调。可是不行，决不能让他说出口来，那是她对妈妈的诺言。她满面通红，全身发热，遗憾地驱走了她所设想的场景。她的第一次求婚应当推迟到一个更为吉利的时辰，求婚人也必须更为可取。
Chapter 21
Came a beautiful fall day, warm and languid, palpitant with the hush of the changing season, a California Indian summer day, with hazy sun and wandering wisps of breeze that did not stir the slumber of the air. Filmy purple mists, that were not vapors but fabrics woven of color, hid in the recesses of the hills. San Francisco lay like a blur of smoke upon her heights. The intervening bay was a dull sheen of molten metal, whereon sailing craft lay motionless or drifted with the lazy tide. Far Tamalpais, barely seen in the silver haze, bulked hugely by the Golden Gate, the latter a pale gold pathway under the westering sun. Beyond, the Pacific, dim and vast, was raising on its sky-line tumbled cloud-masses that swept landward, giving warning of the first blustering breath of winter.
The erasure of summer was at hand. Yet summer lingered, fading and fainting among her hills, deepening the purple of her valleys, spinning a shroud of haze from waning powers and sated raptures, dying with the calm content of having lived and lived well. And among the hills, on their favorite knoll, Martin and Ruth sat side by side, their heads bent over the same pages, he reading aloud from the love-sonnets of the woman who had loved Browning as it is given to few men to be loved.
But the reading languished. The spell of passing beauty all about them was too strong. The golden year was dying as it had lived, a beautiful and unrepentant voluptuary, and reminiscent rapture and content freighted heavily the air. It entered into them, dreamy and languorous, weakening the fibres of resolution, suffusing the face of morality, or of judgment, with haze and purple mist. Martin felt tender and melting, and from time to time warm glows passed over him. His head was very near to hers, and when wandering phantoms of breeze stirred her hair so that it touched his face, the printed pages swam before his eyes.
"I don't believe you know a word of what you are reading," she said once when he had lost his place.
He looked at her with burning eyes, and was on the verge of becoming awkward, when a retort came to his lips.
"I don't believe you know either. What was the last sonnet about?"
"I don't know," she laughed frankly. "I've already forgotten. Don't let us read any more. The day is too beautiful."
"It will be our last in the hills for some time," he announced gravely. "There's a storm gathering out there on the sea-rim."
The book slipped from his hands to the ground, and they sat idly and silently, gazing out over the dreamy bay with eyes that dreamed and did not see. Ruth glanced sidewise at his neck. She did not lean toward him. She was drawn by some force outside of herself and stronger than gravitation, strong as destiny. It was only an inch to lean, and it was accomplished without volition on her part. Her shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly touches a flower, and just as lightly was the counter-pressure. She felt his shoulder press hers, and a tremor run through him. Then was the time for her to draw back. But she had become an automaton. Her actions had passed beyond the control of her will - she never thought of control or will in the delicious madness that was upon her. His arm began to steal behind her and around her. She waited its slow progress in a torment of delight. She waited, she knew not for what, panting, with dry, burning lips, a leaping pulse, and a fever of expectancy in all her blood. The girdling arm lifted higher and drew her toward him, drew her slowly and caressingly. She could wait no longer. With a tired sigh, and with an impulsive movement all her own, unpremeditated, spasmodic, she rested her head upon his breast. His head bent over swiftly, and, as his lips approached, hers flew to meet them.
This must be love, she thought, in the one rational moment that was vouchsafed her. If it was not love, it was too shameful. It could be nothing else than love. She loved the man whose arms were around her and whose lips were pressed to hers. She pressed more, tightly to him, with a snuggling movement of her body. And a moment later, tearing herself half out of his embrace, suddenly and exultantly she reached up and placed both hands upon Martin Eden's sunburnt neck. So exquisite was the pang of love and desire fulfilled that she uttered a low moan, relaxed her hands, and lay half-swooning in his arms.
Not a word had been spoken, and not a word was spoken for a long time. Twice he bent and kissed her, and each time her lips met his shyly and her body made its happy, nestling movement. She clung to him, unable to release herself, and he sat, half supporting her in his arms, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the blur of the great city across the bay. For once there were no visions in his brain. Only colors and lights and glows pulsed there, warm as the day and warm as his love. He bent over her. She was speaking.
"When did you love me?" she whispered.
"From the first, the very first, the first moment I laid eye on you. I was mad for love of you then, and in all the time that has passed since then I have only grown the madder. I am maddest, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic, my head is so turned with joy."
"I am glad I am a woman, Martin - dear," she said, after a long sigh.
He crushed her in his arms again and again, and then asked:-
"And you? When did you first know?"
"Oh, I knew it all the time, almost, from the first."
"And I have been as blind as a bat!" he cried, a ring of vexation in his voice. "I never dreamed it until just how, when I - when I kissed you."
"I didn't mean that." She drew herself partly away and looked at him. "I meant I knew you loved almost from the first."
"And you?" he demanded.
"It came to me suddenly." She was speaking very slowly, her eyes warm and fluttery and melting, a soft flush on her cheeks that did not go away. "I never knew until just now when - you put your arms around me. And I never expected to marry you, Martin, not until just now. How did you make me love you?"
"I don't know," he laughed, "unless just by loving you, for I loved you hard enough to melt the heart of a stone, much less the heart of the living, breathing woman you are."
"This is so different from what I thought love would be," she announced irrelevantly.
"What did you think it would be like?"
"I didn't think it would be like this." She was looking into his eyes at the moment, but her own dropped as she continued, "You see, I didn't know what this was like."
He offered to draw her toward him again, but it was no more than a tentative muscular movement of the girdling arm, for he feared that he might be greedy. Then he felt her body yielding, and once again she was close in his arms and lips were pressed on lips.
"What will my people say?" she queried, with sudden apprehension, in one of the pauses.
"I don't know. We can find out very easily any time we are so minded."
"But if mamma objects? I am sure I am afraid to tell her."
"Let me tell her," he volunteered valiantly. "I think your mother does not like me, but I can win her around. A fellow who can win you can win anything. And if we don't - "
"Yes?"
"Why, we'll have each other. But there's no danger not winning your mother to our marriage. She loves you too well."
"I should not like to break her heart," Ruth said pensively.
He felt like assuring her that mothers' hearts were not so easily broken, but instead he said, "And love is the greatest thing in the world."
"Do you know, Martin, you sometimes frighten me. I am frightened now, when I think of you and of what you have been. You must be very, very good to me. Remember, after all, that I am only a child. I never loved before."
"Nor I. We are both children together. And we are fortunate above most, for we have found our first love in each other."
"But that is impossible!" she cried, withdrawing herself from his arms with a swift, passionate movement. "Impossible for you. You have been a sailor, and sailors, I have heard, are - are - "
Her voice faltered and died away.
"Are addicted to having a wife in every port?" he suggested. "Is that what you mean?"
"Yes," she answered in a low voice.
"But that is not love." He spoke authoritatively. "I have been in many ports, but I never knew a passing touch of love until I saw you that first night. Do you know, when I said good night and went away, I was almost arrested."
"Arrested?"
"Yes. The policeman thought I was drunk; and I was, too - with love for you."
"But you said we were children, and I said it was impossible, for you, and we have strayed away from the point."
"I said that I never loved anybody but you," he replied. "You are my first, my very first."
"And yet you have been a sailor," she objected.
"But that doesn't prevent me from loving you the first."
"And there have been women - other women - oh!"
And to Martin Eden's supreme surprise, she burst into a storm of tears that took more kisses than one and many caresses to drive away. And all the while there was running through his head Kipling's line: "AND THE COLONEL'S LADY AND JUDY O'GRADY ARE SISTERS UNDER THEIR SKINS." It was true, he decided; though the novels he had read had led him to believe otherwise. His idea, for which the novels were responsible, had been that only formal proposals obtained in the upper classes. It was all right enough, down whence he had come, for youths and maidens to win each other by contact; but for the exalted personages up above on the heights to make love in similar fashion had seemed unthinkable. Yet the novels were wrong. Here was a proof of it. The same pressures and caresses, unaccompanied by speech, that were efficacious with the girls of the working-class, were equally efficacious with the girls above the working-class. They were all of the same flesh, after all, sisters under their skins; and he might have known as much himself had he remembered his Spencer. As he held Ruth in his arms and soothed her, he took great consolation in the thought that the Colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady were pretty much alike under their skins. It brought Ruth closer to him, made her possible. Her dear flesh was as anybody's flesh, as his flesh. There was no bar to their marriage. Class difference was the only difference, and class was extrinsic. It could be shaken off. A slave, he had read, had risen to the Roman purple. That being so, then he could rise to Ruth. Under her purity, and saintliness, and culture, and ethereal beauty of soul, she was, in things fundamentally human, just like Lizzie Connolly and all Lizzie Connollys. All that was possible of them was possible of her. She could love, and hate, maybe have hysterics; and she could certainly be jealous, as she was jealous now, uttering her last sobs in his arms.
"Besides, I am older than you," she remarked suddenly, opening her eyes and looking up at him, "three years older."
"Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty years older than you, in experience," was his answer.
In truth, they were children together, so far as love was concerned, and they were as naive and immature in the expression of their love as a pair of children, and this despite the fact that she was crammed with a university education and that his head was full of scientific philosophy and the hard facts of life.
They sat on through the passing glory of the day, talking as lovers are prone to talk, marvelling at the wonder of love and at destiny that had flung them so strangely together, and dogmatically believing that they loved to a degree never attained by lovers before. And they returned insistently, again and again, to a rehearsal of their first impressions of each other and to hopeless attempts to analyze just precisely what they felt for each other and how much there was of it.
The cloud-masses on the western horizon received the descending sun, and the circle of the sky turned to rose, while the zenith glowed with the same warm color. The rosy light was all about them, flooding over them, as she sang, "Good-by, Sweet Day." She sang softly, leaning in the cradle of his arm, her hands in his, their hearts in each other's hands.
一个美丽的秋日来临了。暖洋洋世懒洋洋，季节快要变化所带来的平静令人提心吊胆。那是个加利福尼亚州的小阳春日子。太阳的光模糊朦胧，细细的风轻轻吹拂，却吹不醒沉睡的空气。紫红色的薄雾已不是水气，而是用彩色织成的鲛绡，在群山的沟壑里隐约藏匿。旧金山卧在山顶，有如一片模糊的烟霭。其间的海湾发一片融熔的金属的暗淡的光，海湾上的船只有的静静地旋泊，有的随着淡荡的潮水漂流。远处，塔马派斯山在金门旁巍巍矗立，在银色的雾震中依稀可见。西沉的夕阳下的金门是一脉淡金色的水道。再往外，缥缈浩瀚的太平洋升起在天际，驱赶着滚滚云团向大陆袭来，已在声势煊煊地发出寒冬的呼啸的第一道警报。 
夏季马上就会被抹掉，可她却恋恋不肯便走，还在群山里停留，在那里凋零萎谢，把她的丘壑染得越发红紫。现在她正用衰微的力气和过度的欢乐编织着烟霭的尸衣，要怀着不虚此生的平静的满足死去。马丁和露丝正在群山之间他们喜爱的丘陵项上并排坐着，两颗头俯在同一本书上。马丁正朗诵着一个女诗人的十四行诗，那女诗人对勃朗宁的爱是世上的男子绝少得到的。
但那朗诵早已设精打采。他们周围正在消失的美大迷人。辉煌的一年是个全无怨尤的美丽的荡妇，她正在辉煌地死去。空气里弥漫着回忆中的狂欢与满足。那感觉进入了他们心里，情做而迷茫，削弱者意志，也给道德和理智蒙上一层烟霭，一层紫雾。马丁柔情脉脉，不时有股股热力通过全身。他的头跟她的头十分靠近，在幽灵样的清风吹过，把她的头发拣到他脸上时，他眼前的书页便荡漾起来。
“我相信你根本不知道自己在读些什么。”有一次他找不到自己读的地方时，她说。
他用燃烧的眼睛望着她，快要露出窘相，唇边却冒出了一句反驳的话。
“我怕是你也不知道吧。刚才的十四行说的是什么？”
“我也不知道，”她坦然地笑了，“已经忘了。咱们就别读了吧。今天天气真美！”
“这是我们一段时间之内最后一次上山了呢，”他心情沉重地宣布，“海面上已酝酿着风暴。”
书本从他手里滑落到地下。两人默默地闲坐着，用怀着幻梦却还看不见的眼睛望着幻梦样的海湾。露丝瞥了一眼他的脖子。她并没有偎依过去，只是被身外的某种力量吸引了去。那力量比地心引力还强，强大得有如命运。要偎过去只有一英寸距离，她全没有想就偎过去了。她的肩头挨着了他的肩头，轻得像蝴蝶点着花朵。对方的反应也同样轻微。她感到他的肩头靠着了自己，一阵震颤穿过她全身。已是她挪开身子的时候了，可她已成了个机器人，她的动作已不受意志支配——她感到一阵疯狂的迷醉，根本没想到控制或是压抑。他的手臂悄悄地伸到了她背后，搂住了她。一阵欢乐折磨着她，她等着。那手缓缓移动起来。她等着，不知等着什么，喘着气，嘴唇干涸，脉搏急跳，一种期待的狂热弥漫了她的血液。搂着她的手往上移动了，把她接了过去，温存地慢慢地搂了过去。她再也不能等待了。她发出一声疲劳的叹息，主动地，痉挛地，全不思考地靠到了他的胸脯上。他立即低下头去，他的嘴唇刚刚靠近，她的嘴唇早已迎了上来。
这肯定就是爱情，在她获得瞬间的理智时，她想。要不是爱情，就太可耻了。只能是爱情。她爱这个搂着她、吻着她的男人。她扭了扭身子，对他靠得更紧了。过了一会，她突然激动地挣开了他部分的搂抱，伸出胳膊搂住了马丁·伊登那被太阳晒黑了的脖子。爱情和欲望得到了满足，那感觉是那么美妙，她不禁发出了一声低低的呻吟，然后放松了胳膊，半昏迷地躺在了他的怀里。
两人没有说话，很久没有说话。他两次弯过身子亲她，她两次都用嘴唇羞答答迎接他的嘴唇，而且欢喜地往他怀里钻。她偎依着他，无法挪开。他坐着，用两条手臂半托着她，凝望着海湾那边巨大的城市的模糊形象——虽然看不见。这一回他脑子里只有光和色在脉动，没出现幻想，那光与色跟那天天气一样温暖，跟爱情一样火热。他向她俯过身去，她已在说话了。
“你什么时候爱上我的？”她低声问。
“从第一次看见你的时候，就在第一次看见你的时候我就爱上你了。我爱得发狂，那以后更是越爱越狂，而现在是爱得最狂的时候，亲爱的。我差不多成了个狂人。我快活得脑袋都发晕了。”
“我很高兴成了个女人了，马丁——亲爱的。”她长叹了一声，说。
他一次又一次紧紧地拥抱她，然后问道：——
“你呢？你是什么时候开始知道的？”
“啊，我一直都知道，差不多从开始就知道。”
“可我却像个编幅一样没看见！”他叫了起来，带着懊恼的调子。“我连做梦也没想到，直到刚才我——亲了你才算明白过来。”
“我不是那个意思。”她哪开了一点，望着他。“我是说我差不多从开始就知道你在爱我。”
“可你呢，你爱我吗？”他追问。
“我是突然发现的。”她说得很慢，眼睛热烘烘的，闪动着，柔情脉脉，颊上升起了淡淡的红晕，经久不散。“我一直都不知道——是刚才你搂着我我才明白过来的。我从没有想过和你结婚，马丁，刚才以前都没想过。你是用什么办法让我爱上你的？”
“我不知道，”他笑了起来，“办法只是爱吧。因为我太爱你，怕是连石头的心也能融化的，更不用说像你这样活生生的。会呼吸的女人的心了。”
“这跟我想像中的爱情太不一样了。”她转换了话题。
“你想像中的爱情是什么样的呢？”
“我没想到它会是这样。”说时她望着他的眼睛，但随即低下了眼帘，说道，“你看，我就不知道爱情是什么样子。”
他又想把她接过去，却只是让接着她的手臂微微动了一动——他怕自己大贪婪，这时他却感到她的身子依从了。她再一次倒进了他的怀里，嘴唇紧贴到他的嘴唇上。
“我家的人会怎么说呢？”在一次停顿时她突然忧心忡忡地问道。
“我不知道，若是想知道什么时候都可以问的，很容易。”
“可要是妈妈不同意怎么办泥？我真害怕告诉她。”
“我去跟她讲好了，”他自告奋勇说，“我觉得你妈妈不喜欢我，但我可以争取她。能争取到你的人是什么人都能争取到的。即使我们没有争取到——”
“那怎么办？”
“那有什么，我们仍然彼此相爱。不过，要争取你妈妈并不难，她太爱你。”
“我可不愿意伤她的心，”露丝沉吟着说。
他很想向她保证她妈妈不会那么容易就伤心的，却说道：“爱情是世界上最伟大的东西。”
“你知道不，马丁，你有时候真叫我害怕。我现在想起你和你的过去都还害怕呢。你一定要对我非常非常好。你要记住我毕竟还是个孩子，从来没有恋爱过。”
“我也从来没有恋爱过。我们俩都是孩子。我们是最幸运的，因为彼此都是初恋。”
“不可能！”她立即从他怀抱里激动地抽开了身子。“对你是不可能的。你当过水手，而我听说，水手是——是——”
她犹豫了，没说出来。
“水手都有个嗜好，在每个港口有个老婆，是么？”他提示道，“你是这个意思么？”
“是的。”她低声答道。
“可那并不是爱情，”他专断地说，“我去过许多港口，但在那个晚上第一次遇见你之前我一点也没有恋爱过。我跟你分手之后几乎被抓了起来你知道么？”
“抓了起来？”
“真的，警察还以为我喝醉了呢；我那时确实醉了——因为爱上了你。”
“可你说我们还是孩子，而我说你不可能还是个孩子，我们离题了。”
“我说了除了你之外我没有爱过任何人，”他回答，“你是我的初恋，头一个恋人。”
“但你做过水手，”她反驳。
“可那并不能说明我跟你不是初恋。”
“你有过女人——别的女人——啊！”
令马丁·伊登极其意外的是，她忽然泪流满面，大哭起来。他用了许多亲吻和爱抚才叫她平静下去。在劝慰她时他一直想着吉卜林的诗句：“上校的夫人和无论什么贱女，说到底也同是血肉之躯。”他认为这话不错；虽然他读过的小说曾给过他别的看法。那些小说应对他负责的看法是：上流社会只有靠正式求婚才能缔结婚姻，而在他出身的下层，姑娘和小伙子靠身体的接触而互相拥有是正常的事。但若要说上层社会的高雅人物也用同样的方式彼此追求，他就觉得难以想像了。可是小说错了，眼前就有一个证据。默不作声的接触和爱抚对工人阶级的姑娘有效，对高于工人阶级的姑娘也同样有效。她们毕竟也显血肉之躯，骨子里都是姐妹。他若是没忘记他的斯宾塞的话，对这些早就该知道了。在他拥抱着露丝、安慰着她的时候，便不禁想起上校的夫人和无论什么贱女说到底都很相像的话，感到非常安慰。这让露丝跟他更接近了，她不再高不可攀了。她那亲爱的身子也和任何人的身子一样，和他的身子一样。他们的婚姻再没了障碍。唯一的差异是阶级的差异，而阶级是外在的，可以摆脱.他曾读到一个从奴隶上升为罗马穿红着紫的人物的故事。既然如此，他也可以上升到露丝的地位。在她那纯贞、圣洁、有教养、和仙灵一样美丽的灵魂之下，她作为人的基本方面和丽齐·康诺利以及类似的姑娘并没有两样。她们可能做的事地也可能做。她可能爱，可能恨，说不定还可能歇斯底里；她肯定可能护忌，她现在就在他的怀抱里最后抽泣着，妒忌着呢。
“而且，我比你大，”她突然说，睁开眼睛望着他，“大三岁。”
“别闹了，你还是个孩子，要讲经验的话，我比你大四十岁，”他回答。
事实上，就爱情而论，他们俩都是孩子，在表达爱情上也都幼稚，不成熟，尽管她脑子里塞满了从大学学来的知识，他也有满脑子科学的哲学思想和实实在在的生活经验。
两人继续坐着，望着辉煌的景色逐渐暗淡，谈着情人们总要絮叨的情话。他们对爱情的奇迹，对把他们俩那样离奇地撮合到一起的命运感到惊奇，而且武断地认为他俩爱情之深沉是任句情侣也赶不上的。他们反反复复不疲倦地倾谈着对彼此的第一个印象，又全无希望他想准确分析彼此的感情，夸说着它的强烈。
太阳落入了西边地平线上的云阵里，周围的天转成了玫瑰色的一片，连天顶也燃烧着同样的温暖色调。他们四面都是敦瑰色的光，她唱了起来：“再见吧，甜蜜的日子，”那光便泻满了他们全身。她偎在他的怀里，曼声唱着，她的手握在他手里，他俩的心握在彼此手里。
Chapter 22
Mrs. Morse did not require a mother's intuition to read the advertisement in Ruth's face when she returned home. The flush that would not leave the cheeks told the simple story, and more eloquently did the eyes, large and bright, reflecting an unmistakable inward glory.
"What has happened?" Mrs. Morse asked, having bided her time till Ruth had gone to bed.
"You know?" Ruth queried, with trembling lips.
For reply, her mother's arm went around her, and a hand was softly caressing her hair.
"He did not speak," she blurted out. "I did not intend that it should happen, and I would never have let him speak - only he didn't speak."
"But if he did not speak, then nothing could have happened, could it?"
"But it did, just the same."
"In the name of goodness, child, what are you babbling about?" Mrs. Morse was bewildered. "I don't think know what happened, after all. What did happen?"
Ruth looked at her mother in surprise.
"I thought you knew. Why, we're engaged, Martin and I."
Mrs. Morse laughed with incredulous vexation.
"No, he didn't speak," Ruth explained. "He just loved me, that was all. I was as surprised as you are. He didn't say a word. He just put his arm around me. And - and I was not myself. And he kissed me, and I kissed him. I couldn't help it. I just had to. And then I knew I loved him."
She paused, waiting with expectancy the benediction of her mother's kiss, but Mrs. Morse was coldly silent.
"It is a dreadful accident, I know," Ruth recommenced with a sinking voice. "And I don't know how you will ever forgive me. But I couldn't help it. I did not dream that I loved him until that moment. And you must tell father for me."
"Would it not be better not to tell your father? Let me see Martin Eden, and talk with him, and explain. He will understand and release you."
"No! no!" Ruth cried, starting up. "I do not want to be released. I love him, and love is very sweet. I am going to marry him - of course, if you will let me."
"We have other plans for you, Ruth, dear, your father and I - oh, no, no; no man picked out for you, or anything like that. Our plans go no farther than your marrying some man in your own station in life, a good and honorable gentleman, whom you will select yourself, when you love him."
"But I love Martin already," was the plaintive protest.
"We would not influence your choice in any way; but you are our daughter, and we could not bear to see you make a marriage such as this. He has nothing but roughness and coarseness to offer you in exchange for all that is refined and delicate in you. He is no match for you in any way. He could not support you. We have no foolish ideas about wealth, but comfort is another matter, and our daughter should at least marry a man who can give her that - and not a penniless adventurer, a sailor, a cowboy, a smuggler, and Heaven knows what else, who, in addition to everything, is hare- brained and irresponsible."
Ruth was silent. Every word she recognized as true.
"He wastes his time over his writing, trying to accomplish what geniuses and rare men with college educations sometimes accomplish. A man thinking of marriage should be preparing for marriage. But not he. As I have said, and I know you agree with me, he is irresponsible. And why should he not be? It is the way of sailors. He has never learned to be economical or temperate. The spendthrift years have marked him. It is not his fault, of course, but that does not alter his nature. And have you thought of the years of licentiousness he inevitably has lived? Have you thought of that, daughter? You know what marriage means."
Ruth shuddered and clung close to her mother.
"I have thought." Ruth waited a long time for the thought to frame itself. "And it is terrible. It sickens me to think of it. I told you it was a dreadful accident, my loving him; but I can't help myself. Could you help loving father? Then it is the same with me. There is something in me, in him - I never knew it was there until to-day - but it is there, and it makes me love him. I never thought to love him, but, you see, I do," she concluded, a certain faint triumph in her voice.
They talked long, and to little purpose, in conclusion agreeing to wait an indeterminate time without doing anything.
The same conclusion was reached, a little later that night, between Mrs. Morse and her husband, after she had made due confession of the miscarriage of her plans.
"It could hardly have come otherwise," was Mr. Morse's judgment. "This sailor-fellow has been the only man she was in touch with. Sooner or later she was going to awaken anyway; and she did awaken, and lo! here was this sailor-fellow, the only accessible man at the moment, and of course she promptly loved him, or thought she did, which amounts to the same thing."
Mrs. Morse took it upon herself to work slowly and indirectly upon Ruth, rather than to combat her. There would be plenty of time for this, for Martin was not in position to marry.
"Let her see all she wants of him," was Mr. Morse's advice. "The more she knows him, the less she'll love him, I wager. And give her plenty of contrast. Make a point of having young people at the house. Young women and young men, all sorts of young men, clever men, men who have done something or who are doing things, men of her own class, gentlemen. She can gauge him by them. They will show him up for what he is. And after all, he is a mere boy of twenty-one. Ruth is no more than a child. It is calf love with the pair of them, and they will grow out of it."
So the matter rested. Within the family it was accepted that Ruth and Martin were engaged, but no announcement was made. The family did not think it would ever be necessary. Also, it was tacitly understood that it was to be a long engagement. They did not ask Martin to go to work, nor to cease writing. They did not intend to encourage him to mend himself. And he aided and abetted them in their unfriendly designs, for going to work was farthest from his thoughts.
"I wonder if you'll like what I have done!" he said to Ruth several days later. "I've decided that boarding with my sister is too expensive, and I am going to board myself. I've rented a little room out in North Oakland, retired neighborhood and all the rest, you know, and I've bought an oil-burner on which to cook."
Ruth was overjoyed. The oil-burner especially pleased her.
"That was the way Mr. Butler began his start," she said.
Martin frowned inwardly at the citation of that worthy gentleman, and went on: "I put stamps on all my manuscripts and started them off to the editors again. Then to-day I moved in, and to-morrow I start to work."
"A position!" she cried, betraying the gladness of her surprise in all her body, nestling closer to him, pressing his hand, smiling. "And you never told me! What is it?"
He shook his head.
"I meant that I was going to work at my writing." Her face fell, and he went on hastily. "Don't misjudge me. I am not going in this time with any iridescent ideas. It is to be a cold, prosaic, matter-of-fact business proposition. It is better than going to sea again, and I shall earn more money than any position in Oakland can bring an unskilled man."
"You see, this vacation I have taken has given me perspective. I haven't been working the life out of my body, and I haven't been writing, at least not for publication. All I've done has been to love you and to think. I've read some, too, but it has been part of my thinking, and I have read principally magazines. I have generalized about myself, and the world, my place in it, and my chance to win to a place that will be fit for you. Also, I've been reading Spencer's 'Philosophy of Style,' and found out a lot of what was the matter with me - or my writing, rather; and for that matter with most of the writing that is published every month in the magazines."
"But the upshot of it all - of my thinking and reading and loving - is that I am going to move to Grub Street. I shall leave masterpieces alone and do hack-work - jokes, paragraphs, feature articles, humorous verse, and society verse - all the rot for which there seems so much demand. Then there are the newspaper syndicates, and the newspaper short-story syndicates, and the syndicates for the Sunday supplements. I can go ahead and hammer out the stuff they want, and earn the equivalent of a good salary by it. There are free-lances, you know, who earn as much as four or five hundred a month. I don't care to become as they; but I'll earn a good living, and have plenty of time to myself, which I wouldn't have in any position."
"Then, I'll have my spare time for study and for real work. In between the grind I'll try my hand at masterpieces, and I'll study and prepare myself for the writing of masterpieces. Why, I am amazed at the distance I have come already. When I first tried to write, I had nothing to write about except a few paltry experiences which I neither understood nor appreciated. But I had no thoughts. I really didn't. I didn't even have the words with which to think. My experiences were so many meaningless pictures. But as I began to add to my knowledge, and to my vocabulary, I saw something more in my experiences than mere pictures. I retained the pictures and I found their interpretation. That was when I began to do good work, when I wrote 'Adventure,' 'Joy,' 'The Pot,' 'The Wine of Life,' 'The Jostling Street,' the 'Love-cycle,' and the 'Sea Lyrics.' I shall write more like them, and better; but I shall do it in my spare time. My feet are on the solid earth, now. Hack- work and income first, masterpieces afterward. Just to show you, I wrote half a dozen jokes last night for the comic weeklies; and just as I was going to bed, the thought struck me to try my hand at a triolet - a humorous one; and inside an hour I had written four. They ought to be worth a dollar apiece. Four dollars right there for a few afterthoughts on the way to bed."
"Of course it's all valueless, just so much dull and sordid plodding; but it is no more dull and sordid than keeping books at sixty dollars a month, adding up endless columns of meaningless figures until one dies. And furthermore, the hack-work keeps me in touch with things literary and gives me time to try bigger things."
"But what good are these bigger-things, these masterpieces?" Ruth demanded. "You can't sell them."
"Oh, yes, I can," he began; but she interrupted.
"All those you named, and which you say yourself are good - you have not sold any of them. We can't get married on masterpieces that won't sell."
"Then we'll get married on triolets that will sell," he asserted stoutly, putting his arm around her and drawing a very unresponsive sweetheart toward him.
"Listen to this," he went on in attempted gayety. "It's not art, but it's a dollar.
"He came in When I was out, To borrow some tin Was why he came in, And he went without; So I was in And he was out."
The merry lilt with which he had invested the jingle was at variance with the dejection that came into his face as he finished. He had drawn no smile from Ruth. She was looking at him in an earnest and troubled way.
"It may be a dollar," she said, "but it is a jester's dollar, the fee of a clown. Don't you see, Martin, the whole thing is lowering. I want the man I love and honor to be something finer and higher than a perpetrator of jokes and doggerel."
"You want him to be like - say Mr. Butler?" he suggested.
"I know you don't like Mr. Butler," she began.
"Mr. Butler's all right," he interrupted. "It's only his indigestion I find fault with. But to save me I can't see any difference between writing jokes or comic verse and running a type- writer, taking dictation, or keeping sets of books. It is all a means to an end. Your theory is for me to begin with keeping books in order to become a successful lawyer or man of business. Mine is to begin with hack-work and develop into an able author."
"There is a difference," she insisted.
"What is it?"
"Why, your good work, what you yourself call good, you can't sell. You have tried, you know that, - but the editors won't buy it."
"Give me time, dear," he pleaded. "The hack-work is only makeshift, and I don't take it seriously. Give me two years. I shall succeed in that time, and the editors will be glad to buy my good work. I know what I am saying; I have faith in myself. I know what I have in me; I know what literature is, now; I know the average rot that is poured out by a lot of little men; and I know that at the end of two years I shall be on the highroad to success. As for business, I shall never succeed at it. I am not in sympathy with it. It strikes me as dull, and stupid, and mercenary, and tricky. Anyway I am not adapted for it. I'd never get beyond a clerkship, and how could you and I be happy on the paltry earnings of a clerk? I want the best of everything in the world for you, and the only time when I won't want it will be when there is something better. And I'm going to get it, going to get all of it. The income of a successful author makes Mr. Butler look cheap. A 'best-seller' will earn anywhere between fifty and a hundred thousand dollars - sometimes more and sometimes less; but, as a rule, pretty close to those figures."
She remained silent; her disappointment was apparent.
"Well?" he asked.
"I had hoped and planned otherwise. I had thought, and I still think, that the best thing for you would be to study shorthand - you already know type-writing - and go into father's office. You have a good mind, and I am confident you would succeed as a lawyer."
露丝回家时莫尔斯太太不用靠母亲的直觉便看出了挂在她脸上的东西。那羞红不褪的脸已经说明了这个简单的故事，那双水汪汪的大眼睛更雄辩地反映了存在她内心的不容置疑的辉煌。 
“出了什么事了？”莫尔斯太太直等到露丝上了床，才问。
“你知道了？”露丝嘴唇颤抖着问。
妈妈伸出手搂着她，再用一只手轻轻地抚摩她的头发，作为回答。
“他没有提出来，”她突然叫道，“我是不愿意发生这种情况的，也决不愿意他提出——但是他并没有提出。”
“那么，他既然没有提出就不会发生情况了，是么？”
“可情况仍然发生了。”
“天啦，孩子，你在唠叨些什么呀？”莫尔斯太太给弄糊涂了，“我始终不明白出了什么事。究竟怎么啦？”
露丝吃惊地望着妈妈。
“我以为你知道了呢。我们订婚了，马丁和我。”
莫尔斯太太带着不愿相信的烦恼，笑了。
“没有，他没有提出来，”露丝解释说，“他只是爱了我，如此而已。我也跟你一样意外呢。他一个字也没提，只是用胳膊搂住了我，我就——我就身不由己了。他吻了我，我也吻了他。我情不自禁，只能那样。然后我明白了，我爱他。”
她住了口，等待着妈妈带祝福的吻，但是莫尔斯太太却冷冷地保持沉默。
“这是个可怕的意外，我知道。”露丝继续说下去，声音越来越低，“也不知道你怎样才能原谅我。但是我情不自禁。在那以前我做梦也没想到会爱上他。你一定要帮我告诉爸爸。”
“不告诉你爸爸不是更好么？让我见一见马丁吧，让我跟他谈谈，解释一下。他会理解的，会放掉你的。”
“不！不！”露丝大吃一惊，叫了起来，“我不要他放掉我。我爱他，爱情是非常甜蜜的。我要和他结婚——当然，得要你同意。”
“我们给你另有安排，亲爱的露丝，你爸爸和我——啊不，不，不予我们没有给你选择好对象，没有做这一类的事。我们的计划不过是让你嫁给跟你在生活中地位相同的人，一个体面的好人，上等人。到你爱他的时候，由你自己选择。”
“可我已经爱上马丁了！”她痛苦地抗议。
“我们不会以任何方式影响你的选择的；但你是我们的女儿，我们不忍心眼看你嫁给这样一个人。他除了粗鲁野蛮不能给你任何东西，而你给他的却是文雅和贤淑。他无论如何也配不上你，也养不起你。我们对于财富并不抱糊涂观念，但生活要舒适却是另外一回事。我们的女儿至少应该嫁给一个能让她生活得舒适的人，而不是一个不名一文的冒险家、牛仔。水手、走私犯，还有天知道什么。此外，这个人头脑也简单，还缺乏责任感。”
露丝没有作声，她承认妈妈每句话都说得对。
“他把时间浪费在写作上，想做的事只有天才和少数受过大学教育的人才能偶尔做到。一个要想结婚的人总得作结婚准备吧，可他术去作。我说过，也知道你会同意我的意见：他不负责任。他能够不如此吗？水手们都这样的。他根本不懂得节俭和克制。多少年的胡花乱用给他打上了烙印。当然，这不怪他，但不怪他并没有改变他的本性。还有，你想过这些年来他必然有过的下流生活么？你想过这个问题没有，女儿？婚姻的含意你是知道的。”
露丝感到不寒而栗，紧紧地偎到她妈妈怀里。
“我想过。”露丝过了好一会儿才理清了思路。“是可怕。我一想到就恶心。我刚才说了，我爱上了他是个可怕的意外；但是我情不自禁。你能让自己不爱爸爸吗？我也是一样的呀。在我身上，在他身上，都有了某种东西——在今天以前我并不知道——可它一直存在，而且使我爱上了他。我原没有打算爱他的。可你看，我爱上了。”她说完了，带着某种胜利的口气，淡淡的。
两人谈了很久，也没谈出个结果，最后双方同意作无限期的等待，暂不行动。
那天晚上稍迟，莫尔斯太太向她的丈夫恰当地承认了她那落了空的打算，然后两人也达到同样的结论。
“不可能出现别的结局，”莫尔斯先生判断，“这个水手是她眼前接触到的唯一的男性。她早晚会觉醒的。她这回不就觉醒了么．体育！目前这个水手是她唯一能接近的男性，她当然会立即爱上他的，或者说自以为爱上了他的，反正一样。”
莫尔斯太太自告奋勇采取缓慢的迂回战术对待露丝，避免正面交锋。时间肯定是足够的，因为马丁没有结婚的条件。
“让她明白她对他的一切要求，”莫尔斯先生提出办法，“她越是了解他，就越会少爱他，我敢打赌。多让她作些对比，注意多邀请些年轻人到家里来。男的，女的，各种各样的男性，聪明的，有成就的，快要有成就的，她本阶级的男性，上等人。她可以拿他们来衡量衡量地。他们可以让他相形见绌的。毕竟那人只是个二十一岁的娃娃，而露丝也还很幼稚，双方都是雏恋，会渐渐淡忘的。”
于是这事便搁置了下来。在家庭内部大家都承认露丝和马丁订了婚，但并没有宣布。家里人都认为用不着。而且大家有个默契：婚约期会很长。他们没有要求马丁去工作，也没要他放弃写作。他们不打算让他改正错误，而他也给他们那并不友好的打算帮了忙，鼓了劲，因为他最没有想到的事就是去工作。
“我做了一件事，不知道你会不会喜欢片几天以后他对露丝讲，“我已经决定自己单独住，在姐姐那儿吃住太贵。我在北奥克兰租了一间小屋子，环境和一切都很偏僻，你知道，我已经买了一个煤油炉子烧饭。”
露丝喜出望外。煤油炉子叫她特别高兴。
“巴特勒先生就是这样开始的。”她说。
一听她表扬那位大人物马丁便在心里皱眉头。他接着说：“我给我的稿子全都贴上了邮票，又送它们到编辑先生们那儿去了。我今天就搬进去，明天就开始工作。”
“你有工作了！”她叫了起来。她很惊讶，全身都流露出欢乐，更紧地偎着他，捏着他的手笑着。“可你丝毫也没向我透露呢！什么工作？”
他摇摇头。
“我是说我要开始写作了。”她的脸色阴沉下来，他急忙说下去，“不要误会，这一回我可不写那些闪光的东西了。这是个冷静的、平淡无奇的、现实的打算。总比再去出海好些。我要多赚些钱，赚的钱要比一个没有技术的人在奥克兰所能得到的任何工作的收入都多。
“你看，我才度过的这个假期让我看出了方向。我没有拼命干活儿，也没有写作，至少没有为发表面写作。我一共做了两件事，爱你和思考问题。我读过一些东西，但那也只是我思考的问题的一部分，而我主要读的还是杂志。我对我自己、对世界。对我在世界上的地位。对我能争取得到的机会（要能配得上你的地位的机会）都勾了个轮廓。而且，我一直在读斯宾塞的《文体原理》，发现了我的许多毛病——确切地说是我写作上的毛病，也是大部分杂志每个月发表的作品的毛病。
“这一切的结果——我的思考、阅读和恋爱的结果——便是搬到街去。我要把大部头放一放，我要写下锅之作：笑话呀，短评呀，特写呀，俏皮诗呀，交际诗呀，乱七八糟的东西，需求量似乎很大的。还有报刊供稿社，报刊短篇小说供稿社，星期日增刊供稿社。我可以写下去，使劲写他们要的东西，挣的钱抵得上一份优厚的薪水。有的自由撰稿人，你知道，一个月能赚到四五百块呢。我并不想成为他们那样的人，可我要赚一份好生活，能有很多时间归自己，那是什河工作所不能给我的。
“然后我就有时间读书，做真正的工作了。苦苦投稿的同时我要试着写我的杰作，为写杰作读书，作准备。回顾我所走过的路之漫长，我感到惊讶。刚开始写作的时候，我除了一点点可怜的经验设有什么可写，而那些经验我又并不懂得，也不喜欢。我还没有思想，我真地没有思考过，连用来思考的话也不会说。我的经验只是许许多多没有意义的画面。但是在我开始增加知识、加大词汇量的时候，我便能从我的经验里看出更多的东西，不光是画面了。我保留了这些画面，找到了它们的诠释。那就是我开始写出好作品的时候。那时我写了《冒险》、《罐子》、《生命之酒》、《扰攘的街道》、《爱情组诗》和《海上抒情诗》。我还要写那样的作品，还要写得更好，但要利用闲暇去写。现在我得脚踏实地。首先得写下锅之作，赚钱，然后才谈得上杰作。为了给你看看，我昨天晚上给滑稽周刊写了半打笑话；然后正要睡觉，忽然心血来潮想试试‘小三重奏’，一种俏皮诗，不到一个小时写了四首。每首能赚一块钱，上床之前信手拈来就能到手四大枚呢。
“当然，这东西没什么价值，无聊的苦凑合而已；但总比为了每月六十元去记帐，没完没了地算那些没有意思的帐目，直算到呜呼哀哉要有意思些，要好过些。还有，写下锅之作也让我跟文学作品保持接触，给我时间试写更大的作品。”
“可是这些更大的作品，这些杰作，有什么好处？”露丝问，“你又卖不掉它们。”
“啊，我能卖掉的，”他刚开口便被她打断了。
“你刚才说的那些作品，还有你自认为不错的那些作品——你一个也没有卖掉。我们不能靠卖不掉的杰作结婚的。”
“那我们就靠卖得掉的‘小三重奏’结婚吧，”他坚决地说，伸手搂住了她的腰，把一个很不情愿的情人搂了过去。
“听听这个，”他故作高兴地说，“这谈不上艺术，但能值一块钱。
“我已出门去他才进门来，并不为别的，借钱应应急。他刚空手去，我又空手来，我回到家里，他早已拜拜。”
他给这绕口令设置了活泼有趣的旋律，可他念完时脸上却活泼不起来。露丝设有给他丝毫笑脸，只一本正经懊恼地望着他。
“这东西也许值一块钱，”她说，“可那是一块小丑的钱，赏给小花脸的钱。你不觉得么，马丁，这整个儿是堕落。我希望我爱和尊重的人能够比一个写点笑话和打油诗的人高明呢。”
“你希望他像——比如巴特勒先生么？”他提示。
“我知道你不喜欢巴特勒光生。”她开始了。
“巴特勒先生没有错，”他打断了她的话，“我不佩服的是他那消化不良。不过我也可以辩解，我实在看不出写点笑话和俏皮诗跟玩打字机、当记录、管一大堆帐本有什么不同。都不过是达到目的的手段。你的理论是让我从管帐本开始，发展成为一个成功的律师或企业家。我的路却是从写下锅之作开始，发展成为一个有水平的作家。”
“有区别，”她坚持。
“什么区别？”
“还用说么，你那些优秀作品，自以为挺不错的作品，卖不掉。你卖过，——这你知道，——编辑们不要。”
“请给我时间，亲爱的，”他恳求道，“写下锅之作只是权宜之计，我并不把它当回事。给我两年时间，我会成功的，编辑们会喜欢买我的好稿子的。我明白我自己的话的意思，我对自己有信心。我知道自己的能耐。现在我懂得什么叫文学了；我知道一大批小人物稀里哗啦搞出来的那些平庸玩意儿；而且相信两年之后我就会走上成功之路。至于搞企业么，我是决不会成功的。我对它缺乏感情，总觉得它枯燥、愚蠢、惟利是图、诡计多端，怎么也适应不了。我最多能做个店员。靠店员邵几个破钱你跟我怎么能快活呢。我要把世界上一切东西中最好的给你，若是我不要，那它就不是最好的。我能办到的，这一切都能办到。一个成功的作家的收入会把巴特勒先生比得灰头土脑的。一本‘畅销书’总能赚到五至十万块——有时多一点有时少一点；总归不离这个数目。”
她一直没说话；显然很失望。
“怎么样？”他问。
“我有过别的希望和打算。我认为，而且一直认为，你最好还是学速记——你已经会打字了——然后到爸爸的办公室去工作。你有一副优秀的头脑，我满怀信心你能做一个成功的律师的。”
Chapter 23
That Ruth had little faith in his power as a writer, did not alter her nor diminish her in Martin's eyes. In the breathing spell of the vacation he had taken, he had spent many hours in self- analysis, and thereby learned much of himself. He had discovered that he loved beauty more than fame, and that what desire he had for fame was largely for Ruth's sake. It was for this reason that his desire for fame was strong. He wanted to be great in the world's eyes; "to make good," as he expressed it, in order that the woman he loved should be proud of him and deem him worthy.
As for himself, he loved beauty passionately, and the joy of serving her was to him sufficient wage. And more than beauty he loved Ruth. He considered love the finest thing in the world. It was love that had worked the revolution in him, changing him from an uncouth sailor to a student and an artist; therefore, to him, the finest and greatest of the three, greater than learning and artistry, was love. Already he had discovered that his brain went beyond Ruth's, just as it went beyond the brains of her brothers, or the brain of her father. In spite of every advantage of university training, and in the face of her bachelorship of arts, his power of intellect overshadowed hers, and his year or so of self-study and equipment gave him a mastery of the affairs of the world and art and life that she could never hope to possess.
All this he realized, but it did not affect his love for her, nor her love for him. Love was too fine and noble, and he was too loyal a lover for him to besmirch love with criticism. What did love have to do with Ruth's divergent views on art, right conduct, the French Revolution, or equal suffrage? They were mental processes, but love was beyond reason; it was superrational. He could not belittle love. He worshipped it. Love lay on the mountain-tops beyond the valley-land of reason. It was a sublimates condition of existence, the topmost peak of living, and it came rarely. Thanks to the school of scientific philosophers he favored, he knew the biological significance of love; but by a refined process of the same scientific reasoning he reached the conclusion that the human organism achieved its highest purpose in love, that love must not be questioned, but must be accepted as the highest guerdon of life. Thus, he considered the lover blessed over all creatures, and it was a delight to him to think of "God's own mad lover," rising above the things of earth, above wealth and judgment, public opinion and applause, rising above life itself and "dying on a kiss."
Much of this Martin had already reasoned out, and some of it he reasoned out later. In the meantime he worked, taking no recreation except when he went to see Ruth, and living like a Spartan. He paid two dollars and a half a month rent for the small room he got from his Portuguese landlady, Maria Silva, a virago and a widow, hard working and harsher tempered, rearing her large brood of children somehow, and drowning her sorrow and fatigue at irregular intervals in a gallon of the thin, sour wine that she bought from the corner grocery and saloon for fifteen cents. From detesting her and her foul tongue at first, Martin grew to admire her as he observed the brave fight she made. There were but four rooms in the little house - three, when Martin's was subtracted. One of these, the parlor, gay with an ingrain carpet and dolorous with a funeral card and a death-picture of one of her numerous departed babes, was kept strictly for company. The blinds were always down, and her barefooted tribe was never permitted to enter the sacred precinct save on state occasions. She cooked, and all ate, in the kitchen, where she likewise washed, starched, and ironed clothes on all days of the week except Sunday; for her income came largely from taking in washing from her more prosperous neighbors. Remained the bedroom, small as the one occupied by Martin, into which she and her seven little ones crowded and slept. It was an everlasting miracle to Martin how it was accomplished, and from her side of the thin partition he heard nightly every detail of the going to bed, the squalls and squabbles, the soft chattering, and the sleepy, twittering noises as of birds. Another source of income to Maria were her cows, two of them, which she milked night and morning and which gained a surreptitious livelihood from vacant lots and the grass that grew on either side the public side walks, attended always by one or more of her ragged boys, whose watchful guardianship consisted chiefly in keeping their eyes out for the poundmen.
In his own small room Martin 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 type- writing stand. The bed, against the rear wall, occupied two-thirds of the total space of the room. The table was flanked on one side by a gaudy bureau, manufactured for profit and not for service, the thin veneer of which was shed day by day. This bureau stood in the corner, and in the opposite corner, on the table's other flank, was the kitchen - the oil-stove on a dry-goods box, inside of which were dishes and cooking utensils, a shelf on the wall for provisions, and a bucket of water on the floor. Martin had to carry his water from the kitchen sink, there being no tap in his room. On days when there was much steam to his cooking, the harvest of veneer from the bureau was unusually generous. Over the bed, hoisted by a tackle to the ceiling, was his bicycle. At first he had tried to keep it in the basement; but the tribe of Silva, loosening the bearings and puncturing the tires, had driven him out. Next he attempted the tiny front porch, until a howling southeaster drenched the wheel a night-long. Then he had retreated with it to his room and slung it aloft.
A small closet contained his clothes and the books he had accumulated and for which there was no room on the table or under the table. Hand in hand with reading, he had developed the habit of making notes, and so copiously did he make them that there would have been no existence for him in the confined quarters had he not rigged several clothes-lines across the room on which the notes were hung. Even so, he was crowded until navigating the room was a difficult task. He could not open the door without first closing the closet door, and VICE VERSA. It was impossible for him anywhere to traverse the room in a straight line. To go from the door to the head of the bed was a zigzag course that he was never quite able to accomplish in the dark without collisions. Having settled the difficulty of the conflicting doors, he had to steer sharply to the right to avoid the kitchen. Next, he sheered to the left, to escape the foot of the bed; but this sheer, if too generous, brought him against the corner of the table. With a sudden twitch and lurch, he terminated the sheer and bore off to the right along a sort of canal, one bank of which was the bed, the other the table. When the one chair in the room was at its usual place before the table, the canal was unnavigable. When the chair was not in use, it reposed on top of the bed, though sometimes he sat on the chair when cooking, reading a book while the water boiled, and even becoming skilful enough to manage a paragraph or two while steak was frying. Also, so small was the little corner that constituted the kitchen, he was able, sitting down, to reach anything he needed. In fact, it was expedient to cook sitting down; standing up, he was too often in his own way.
In conjunction with a perfect stomach that could digest anything, he possessed knowledge of the various foods that were at the same time nutritious and cheap. Pea-soup was a common article in his diet, as well as potatoes and beans, the latter large and brown and cooked in Mexican style. Rice, cooked as American housewives never cook it and can never learn to cook it, appeared on Martin's table at least once a day. Dried fruits were less expensive than fresh, and he had usually a pot of them, cooked and ready at hand, for they took the place of butter on his bread. Occasionally he graced his table with a piece of round-steak, or with a soup-bone. Coffee, without cream or milk, he had twice a day, in the evening substituting tea; but both coffee and tea were excellently cooked.
There was need for him to be economical. His vacation had consumed nearly all he had earned in the laundry, and he was so far from his market that weeks must elapse before he could hope for the first returns from his hack-work. Except at such times as he saw Ruth, or dropped in to see his sister Gertude, he lived a recluse, in each day accomplishing at least three days' labor of ordinary men. He slept a scant five hours, and only one with a constitution of iron could have held himself down, as Martin did, day after day, to nineteen consecutive hours of toil. He never lost a moment. On the looking-glass were lists of definitions and pronunciations; when shaving, or dressing, or combing his hair, he conned these lists over. Similar lists were on the wall over the oil-stove, and they were similarly conned while he was engaged in cooking or in washing the dishes. New lists continually displaced the old ones. Every strange or partly familiar word encountered in his reading was immediately jotted down, and later, when a sufficient number had been accumulated, were typed and pinned to the wall or looking- glass. He even carried them in his pockets, and reviewed them at odd moments on the street, or while waiting in butcher shop or grocery to be served.
He went farther in the matter. Reading the works of men who had arrived, he noted every result achieved by them, and worked out the tricks by which they had been achieved - the tricks of narrative, of exposition, of style, the points of view, the contrasts, the epigrams; and of all these he made lists for study. He did not ape. He sought principles. He drew up lists of effective and fetching mannerisms, till out of many such, culled from many writers, he was able to induce the general principle of mannerism, and, thus equipped, to cast about for new and original ones of his own, and to weigh and measure and appraise them properly. In similar manner he collected lists of strong phrases, the phrases of living language, phrases that bit like acid and scorched like flame, or that glowed and were mellow and luscious in the midst of the arid desert of common speech. He sought always for the principle that lay behind and beneath. He wanted to know how the thing was done; after that he could do it for himself. He was not content with the fair face of beauty. He dissected beauty in his crowded little bedroom laboratory, where cooking smells alternated with the outer bedlam of the Silva tribe; and, having dissected and learned the anatomy of beauty, he was nearer being able to create beauty itself.
He was so made that he could work only with understanding. He could not work blindly, in the dark, ignorant of what he was producing and trusting to chance and the star of his genius that the effect produced should be right and fine. He had no patience with chance effects. He wanted to know why and how. His was deliberate creative genius, and, before he began a story or poem, the thing itself was already alive in his brain, with the end in sight and the means of realizing that end in his conscious possession. Otherwise the effort was doomed to failure. On the other hand, he appreciated the chance effects in words and phrases that came lightly and easily into his brain, and that later stood all tests of beauty and power and developed tremendous and incommunicable connotations. Before such he bowed down and marvelled, knowing that they were beyond the deliberate creation of any man. And no matter how much he dissected beauty in search of the principles that underlie beauty and make beauty possible, he was aware, always, of the innermost mystery of beauty to which he did not penetrate and to which no man had ever penetrated. He knew full well, from his Spencer, that man can never attain ultimate knowledge of anything, and that the mystery of beauty was no less than that of life - nay, more that the fibres of beauty and life were intertwisted, and that he himself was but a bit of the same nonunderstandable fabric, twisted of sunshine and star-dust and wonder.
In fact, it was when filled with these thoughts that he wrote his essay entitled "Star-dust," in which he had his fling, not at the principles of criticism, but at the principal critics. It was brilliant, deep, philosophical, and deliciously touched with laughter. Also it was promptly rejected by the magazines as often as it was submitted. But having cleared his mind of it, he went serenely on his way. It was a habit he developed, of incubating and maturing his thought upon a subject, and of then rushing into the type-writer with it. That it did not see print was a matter a small moment with him. The writing of it was the culminating act of a long mental process, the drawing together of scattered threads of thought and the final generalizing upon all the data with which his mind was burdened. To write such an article was the conscious effort by which he freed his mind and made it ready for fresh material and problems. It was in a way akin to that common habit of men and women troubled by real or fancied grievances, who periodically and volubly break their long-suffering silence and "have their say" till the last word is said.
虽然露丝对马丁当作家的本领缺乏信心，她在马丁眼中却并无变化，也没有被他小看。在他所度过的短短假期里，马丁花了许多时间作自我分析，对自己了解了许多。他发现自己爱美甚于爱名，而他急于成名又主要是为了露丝——因此他有强烈的成名欲，希望自己在世人眼中了不起，用他自己的话说，是“像模像样”。其目的是为了让他深爱的女人引为自豪，相信他很有出息。 
说到他自己，他对美怀着满腔热情。只要能够为美服务对他已是足够的报偿。而他爱露丝又甚于爱美。他认为爱情是世界上最美好的东西。引起他心里这场革命的正是爱情。是爱情把他从一个粗鲁的水手变成了一个学生，一个艺术家。因此，在他眼里爱情比学问和艺术都伟大，是三者中最伟大的。他已经发现他的脑子比露丝想得更多，正如比她的弟弟和爸爸想得更多一样。尽管她具有大学教育的一切优势，尽管他面对的是她的学士学位，他的智慧的力量依然能使她相形见细。他这一年左右的自学和装备让他深刻地了解了世界、艺术和人生，而那是她万万办不到的。
这一切他都明白。但那并不影响他对露丝的爱，也不影响露丝对他的爱。爱情太美好，太高贵，他又是太忠诚的情人，他不能用批评指责来玷污它。爱清跟露丝对艺术、对正确行为、对法国革命、或是对选举权平等的不同看法能有什么关系？那都是思维的过程，可爱情是高于理智的，驾凌于理智以上。他不能小看了爱情。他崇拜爱情。爱情高卧在峡谷地区以外的山峰之巅，是存在的升华，是生活的极顶，是很少降临人世的。由于他所喜爱的科学哲学家流派，他懂得了爱情的生物学意义；但是通过同样的细致的科学推理他达到了一个结论：人类的生理结构在爱情中达到了最高目标。爱情不容怀疑，只能被接受为生命的最高回报。因此他认为情人是一切生灵中最幸福的人，一想起“颠倒膜拜的恋人”高于世间一切，高于财富和判断，高于舆论和赞美，高于生命本身，高于“一吻便死去”，他便非常快活。
许多这类道理马丁早就明白了，有些道理他后来也明白了。这时他干起了工作，过着斯巴达式的苦行生活，除了去看露丝从不消遣。他从一个葡萄牙女房东租来一个小房间，每月安科两块五毛。房东叫玛利亚·西尔伐，是个利落的寡妇，吃苦耐劳，脾气却精，拉扯着一大群娃娃，不时用一加仑淡薄的酸酒醉却她的疲劳和忧伤——那酒是她花五毛钱从街角的杂货店兼沙龙买来的。马丁起初报讨厌她那肮脏的舌头，后来见到她的勇敢奋斗便不禁生了几分敬意。那小屋只有四间房——除去马丁那间，只有三间。一间是客厅，铺了张彩色地毯，带了几分喜气；却挂了一份讣告和已死去的众多孩子中的一个的遗像，又带了几分忧伤。这间房严格规定只接待客人，百叶窗总是关着，除非有大事，是她那群光脚丫的小宝贝决不许擅入的基地。她在厨房因做饭，一家人在那儿吃饭，除了星期天她也在那里洗衣服，浆在服，熨衣服，因为她的收入主要得靠替她较为兴旺的邻居浆洗衣服。剩f的那间屋就是寝室，跟马丁那间一般大小，她和她那七个孩子都挤在里面睡觉。马丁对她们怎么能挤得下去永远觉得神秘。在薄薄的板壁那边地每天晚上都听见每一个细节：上床、叫喊、争吵、温和的细语和小鸟一样的睡意朦胧的啁啾。玛利亚的另一笔收入来自她的母牛，一共两只，她每人早晚都要从它们身上挤奶。那两条牛是靠偷吃空地和公用道路两边的青草活命的。通常由她一两个衣衫褴楼的娃娃看着，他们总警惕地守望着，主要是担心畜栏管事出现。
马丁就在他这间小房组生活、睡觉。读书、写作、做家务。屋子仅有一扇窗户面对着小小的门廊，窗前是一张厨房里用的桌子，权且充作书桌、图书馆和打字机台。靠后墙的床占据了屋子全部空间的三分之二。桌子一旁是一个花哨的柜子，原是做来赚钱不为实用的。上面的装饰板每天都在脱落。这柜子在屋角，在桌子的另一面，在另一个角落望是厨房——煤油炉放在一个布匹箱上。布匹箱里是婉盏和炊事用品。墙上有个放食物的架子，地面上放一桶水。屋里没有龙头，马丁得到厨房的水槽去取水。在屋里蒸汽很多的日子，从桌上装饰板脱落的碎片便获得特大丰收。他的自行车用辘轳挂在床顶的天花板下。最初他试过把它放在地下室里，可是西尔伐家的娃娃们却把轴承弄松，把轮胎扎破，把他赶了出去。然后他试了试前门那小小的门廊，那兀一场咆哮的东南风又把轮子浸泡了一夜。最后他只好撤退到自己的房里，把它挂到了空中。
一个小橱里放着他的衣服和搜集来的书籍——桌上桌下都放不下了。他在读书时养成了做笔记的习惯，笔记记得太多，若不是在屋里牵了几根洗衣绳把它们全挂了起来，在这有限的空间里他就会容身不下了。即使如此，屋里也太挤，“航行”起来太困难。不关柜橱门就打不开房门，反过来也一样。他无法从任何地方直线穿过屋子。从门口到床头得拐来拐去，很难在黑暗里通过而不碰到东西。在解决了门和门的矛盾之后，他得住右急转，绕开“厨房”。然后又得左拐以免碰上床脚。要是拐得过了分又会撞上桌子脚。等他匆匆一歪一蹶，不再拐弯，便得沿着“运河”再往右弯，“运河”的此岸是床，彼岸是桌子。若是屋里唯一的椅子放在了桌前平常的地点，“运河”航行就会受阻。椅子在不用的时候只好躺在床上，虽然做饭时他有时也坐椅子，一边让水开着一边读书；甚至炸着牛排也能巧妙地读上一两段。构成厨房的那个角落很小，需要什么东西他坐着也能伸手拿到。实际上，坐着做饭反倒方便；要是站着，倒常常会自己挡了自己的路。
他不但有一个无懈可击的胃，什么东西都能消化，而且知道各种既营养又便宜的食物。豌豆汤是他菜谱上的常见莱，还有土豆和蚕豆。蚕豆做成墨西哥口味，大大的，黄褐色。他桌上每天至少有一顿米饭，做法跟美国主妇大不相同，她们也永远学不会。干果要比鲜果便宜，他通常都有一罐，做得好好的，可以随时取用，用它代替黄油涂面包。有时他还买圈牛后腿肉，或是炖汤的骨头给饭桌增添光彩。他每天喝两次咖啡，不加奶油或牛奶，晚上喝代用品茶。咖啡和茶都沏得很美妙。
他需要节省。他的假期差不多花光了在洗衣房挣来的钱。而他距离他的“市场”又很远，他的那些下锅之作希望得到的最早的回音也需要几个礼拜。除了跟露丝见面和去看他姐姐格特露的时间之外，他都过着隐士般的生活，每天至少要完成平常人三天的工作。他只睡短短的五个小时。只有他那种结实得像钢铁一样的人才能有他那种耐力。他每天连续苦读十九个小时，天天如此。他一分一秒也不浪费。镜子上贴着几张发音和定义的单子，刮胡子、穿衣服。或是梳头时都可以默记。煤油炉上方的墙上也钉有类似的单子，做饭或洗碗时一样可以记。不断有新的单子替换旧的。读书时碰见的生词或是不全熟的词都立即记下，积累到一定的数目，就用打字机打出来钉在墙上或贴在镜子上。他甚至把单子塞在口袋里，上街时也抽空复习，在肉店杂货店等着买东西时也复习。
这还不够，他在读成功作家的作品时，总记下他们的每一个成默，分析出他们成功的窍门——叙述的窍门，表达的窍门，风格的窍门，他们的观点，对比手法和警句。把这一切列成单于，加以研究。他并不亦步亦趋，只追求其中的原理。他把有效的、动人的独特格调剂成年干，再把来自诸多作家的独特格调进行归纳，找出一般原则。像这样武装起来之后，他再去寻求自己的独特格调，要与众不同，要新颖出奇，再对它恰当地给以权衡、估量和评价。他也用同样的方法去搜集富有表现力的词语，从生动活泼的语言中出现的词语，能像酸那样咬人。像山那样烧火的词语，或是能在平常语言的荒漠中融融发光、醇厚甘美的词语。他总是寻求着躲在背后和底奥中的原则。他要求知道的是究竟怎么做，以求自己也能做。他不满足于美的漂亮外表。他在他那拥挤的小卧室兼实验室里解剖了美。那屋里炊事的气味跟屋外西尔伐家族疯人院式的吵闹交替出现。在解剖和懂得了美的结构之后，他距离能够创造美自身就近百一步。
只有懂了他才能做，那是他的天性。他不能在黑暗经盲目工作，不知道自己要创造什么，不能碰运气，不能相信自己人才的幸运之星能创造出可取的美好的东西。他对偶然的效果没有耐心。他要求知道原因和做法。他的天才是审慎的创造天才。在他汗始一篇小说或一首诗歌之前，那东西已经活跃在他脑子里。他看得见结尾，心里也明白通向结尾的路。否则那努力就注定了要白费。另一方面他又欣赏轻松自如地出现在他脑子里的字词句的偶然效果。这种效果以后能经得起美和力的种种考验，能产生无法描述的巨大的联想情趣。他可这种现象俯首低头，惊讶莫名。他知道那是任何人所无法有意追求到的。而且无论他为了寻求美的底蕴和使美得以实现的原理曾对美作过多少解剖分析，他也一向明白美的底奥是神秘的，他无法参透，也没有人曾经参透过。通过斯宾塞他懂得人不可能获得对于任何东西的终极知识，美的奥秘并不比生命的奥秘更容易参透——不，更难——美的素质限生命的素质是互相纠结的，他自己也不过是那无法理解的素质的一个部分，是由阳光、星尘和奇迹纠结成的。
事实上他正是在心里充满这种思想时写出了他那篇叫做《星尘》的论文的。在《星尘》里他批评的不是批评的原理而是主要的批评家。这论文精彩、深刻、富于哲理，妙语解颐，能令人哑然失笑。可它没出去历然立即被各家杂志拒绝了。不过在他把这事忘掉之后，又心平气和地前进了。他已养成了这样的习惯，一个问题经过反复思考，逐渐成熟，他便用打字机把它匆匆记下来，并不把没有发表当成多大回事。用打字机写出只是长期心灵活动的结束行为，是对分散的思路的归纳，是对压在心上的种种材料的总结，是一种故意的努力，以便解放心灵，接受新的材料，研究新的问题。那在一定程度上跟普通男女在受到真正的、或是想当然的委屈时候的习惯差不多，他们总要不时地打破长期的沉默，大发牢骚，“畅所欲言”，直到吐尽了苦水为止。
Chapter 24
The weeks passed. Martin ran out of money, and publishers' checks were far away as ever. All his important manuscripts had come back and been started out again, and his hack-work fared no better. His little kitchen was no longer graced with a variety of foods. Caught in the pinch with a part sack of rice and a few pounds of dried apricots, rice and apricots was his menu three times a day for five days hand-running. Then he startled to realize on his credit. The Portuguese grocer, to whom he had hitherto paid cash, called a halt when Martin's bill reached the magnificent total of three dollars and eighty-five cents.
"For you see," said the grocer, "you no catcha da work, I losa da mon'."
And Martin could reply nothing. There was no way of explaining. It was not true business principle to allow credit to a strong- bodied young fellow of the working-class who was too lazy to work.
"You catcha da job, I let you have mora da grub," the grocer assured Martin. "No job, no grub. Thata da business." And then, to show that it was purely business foresight and not prejudice, "Hava da drink on da house - good friends justa da same."
So Martin drank, in his easy way, to show that he was good friends with the house, and then went supperless to bed.
The fruit store, where Martin had bought his vegetables, was run by an American whose business principles were so weak that he let Martin run a bill of five dollars before stopping his credit. The baker stopped at two dollars, and the butcher at four dollars. Martin added his debts and found that he was possessed of a total credit in all the world of fourteen dollars and eighty-five cents. He was up with his type-writer rent, but he estimated that he could get two months' credit on that, which would be eight dollars. When that occurred, he would have exhausted all possible credit.
The last purchase from the fruit store had been a sack of potatoes, and for a week he had potatoes, and nothing but potatoes, three times a day. An occasional dinner at Ruth's helped to keep strength in his body, though he found it tantalizing enough to refuse further helping when his appetite was raging at sight of so much food spread before it. Now and again, though afflicted with secret shame, he dropped in at his sister's at meal-time and ate as much as he dared - more than he dared at the Morse table.
Day by day he worked on, and day by day the postman delivered to him rejected manuscripts. He had no money for stamps, so the manuscripts accumulated in a heap under the table. 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 to San Rafael on a two weeks' visit; and for very shame's sake he could not go to his sister's. To cap misfortune, the postman, in his afternoon round, brought him five returned manuscripts. Then it was that Martin wore his overcoat down into Oakland, and came back without it, but with five dollars tinkling in his pocket. He paid a dollar each on account to the four tradesmen, and in his kitchen fried steak and onions, made coffee, and stewed a large pot of prunes. And having dined, he sat down at his table-desk and completed before midnight an essay which he entitled "The Dignity of Usury." Having typed it out, he flung it under the table, for there had been nothing left from the five dollars with which to buy stamps.
Later on he pawned his watch, and still later his wheel, reducing the amount available for food by putting stamps on all his manuscripts and sending them out. He was disappointed with his hack-work. 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; yet it would not sell. Then he discovered that most of the newspapers printed a great deal of what was called "plate" stuff, and he got the address of the association that furnished it. His own work that he sent in was returned, along with a stereotyped slip informing him that the staff supplied all the copy that was needed.
In one of the great juvenile periodicals he noted whole columns of incident and anecdote. Here was a chance. His paragraphs were returned, and though he tried repeatedly he never succeeded in placing one. Later on, when it no longer mattered, he learned that the associate editors and sub-editors augmented their salaries by supplying those paragraphs themselves. The comic weeklies returned his jokes and humorous verse, and the light society verse he wrote for the large magazines found no abiding-place. Then there was the newspaper storiette. He knew that he could write better ones than were published. Managing to obtain the addresses of two newspaper syndicates, he deluged them with storiettes. When he had written twenty and failed to place one of them, he ceased. And yet, from day to day, he read storiettes in the dailies and weeklies, scores and scores of storiettes, not one of which would compare with his. In his despondency, he concluded that he had no judgment whatever, that he was hypnotized by what he wrote, and that he was a self- deluded pretender.
The inhuman editorial machine ran smoothly as ever. He folded the stamps in with his manuscript, dropped it into the letter-box, and from three weeks to a month afterward the postman came up the steps and handed him the manuscript. Surely there were no live, warm editors at the other end. It was all wheels and cogs and oil-cups - a clever mechanism operated by automatons. He reached stages of despair wherein he doubted if editors existed at all. He had never received a sign of the existence of one, and from absence of judgment in rejecting all he wrote it seemed plausible that editors were myths, manufactured and maintained by office boys, typesetters, and pressmen.
The hours he spent with Ruth were the only happy ones he had, and they were not all happy. He was afflicted always with a gnawing restlessness, more tantalizing than in the old days before he possessed her love; for now that he did possess her love, the possession of her was far away as ever. He had asked for two years; time was flying, and he was achieving nothing. Again, he was always conscious of the fact that she did not approve what he was doing. She did not say so directly. Yet indirectly she let him understand it as clearly and definitely as she could have spoken it. It was not resentment with her, but disapproval; though less sweet-natured women might have resented where she was no more than disappointed. Her disappointment lay in that this man she had taken to mould, refused to be moulded. To a certain extent she had found his clay plastic, then it had developed stubbornness, declining to be shaped in the image of her father or of Mr. Butler.
What was great and strong in him, she missed, or, worse yet, misunderstood. This man, whose clay was so plastic that he could live in any number of pigeonholes of human existence, she thought wilful and most obstinate because she could not shape him to live in her pigeonhole, which was the only one she knew. She could not follow the flights of his mind, and when his brain got beyond her, she deemed him erratic. Nobody else's brain ever got beyond her. She could always follow her father and mother, her brothers and Olney; wherefore, when she could not follow Martin, she believed the fault lay with him. It was the old tragedy of insularity trying to serve as mentor to the universal.
"You worship at the shrine of the established," he told her once, in a discussion they had over Praps and Vanderwater. "I grant that as authorities to quote they are most excellent - the two foremost literary critics in the United States. Every school teacher in the land looks up to Vanderwater as the Dean of American criticism. Yet I read his stuff, and it seems to me the perfection of the felicitous expression of the inane. Why, he is no more than a ponderous bromide, thanks to Gelett Burgess. And Praps is no better. His 'Hemlock Mosses,' for instance is beautifully written. Not a comma is out of place; and the tone - ah! - is lofty, so lofty. He is the best-paid critic in the United States. Though, Heaven forbid! he's not a critic at all. They do criticism better in England.
"But the point is, they sound the popular note, and they sound it so beautifully and morally and contentedly. Their reviews remind me of a British Sunday. They are the popular mouthpieces. They back up your professors of English, and your professors of English back them up. And there isn't an original idea in any of their skulls. They know only the established, - in fact, they are the established. They are weak minded, and the established impresses itself upon them as easily as the name of the brewery is impressed on a beer bottle. And their function is to catch all the young fellows attending the university, to drive out of their minds any glimmering originality that may chance to be there, and to put upon them the stamp of the established."
"I think I am nearer the truth," she replied, "when I stand by the established, than you are, raging around like an iconoclastic South Sea Islander."
"It was the missionary who did the image breaking," he laughed. "And unfortunately, all the missionaries are off among the heathen, so there are none left at home to break those old images, Mr. Vanderwater and Mr. Praps."
"And the college professors, as well," she added.
He shook his head emphatically. "No; the science professors should live. They're really great. But it would be a good deed to break the heads of nine-tenths of the English professors - little, microscopic-minded parrots!"
Which was rather severe on the professors, but which to Ruth was blasphemy. She could not help but measure the professors, neat, scholarly, in fitting clothes, speaking in well-modulated voices, breathing of culture and refinement, with this almost indescribable young fellow whom somehow she loved, whose clothes never would fit him, whose heavy muscles told of damning toil, who grew excited when he talked, substituting abuse for calm statement and passionate utterance for cool self-possession. They at least earned good salaries and were - yes, she compelled herself to face it - were gentlemen; while he could not earn a penny, and he was not as they.
She did not weigh Martin's words nor judge his argument by them. Her conclusion that his argument was wrong was reached - unconsciously, it is true - by a comparison of externals. They, the professors, were right in their literary judgments because they were successes. Martin's literary judgments were wrong because he could not sell his wares. To use his own phrase, they made good, and he did not make good. And besides, it did not seem reasonable that he should be right - he who had stood, so short a time before, in that same living room, blushing and awkward, acknowledging his introduction, looking fearfully about him at the bric-a-brac his swinging shoulders threatened to break, asking how long since Swinburne died, and boastfully announcing that he had read "Excelsior" and the "Psalm of Life."
Unwittingly, Ruth herself proved his point that she worshipped the established. Martin followed the processes of her thoughts, but forbore to go farther. He did not love her for what she thought of Praps and Vanderwater and English professors, and he was coming to realize, with increasing conviction, that he possessed brain-areas and stretches of knowledge which she could never comprehend nor know existed.
In music she thought him unreasonable, and in the matter of opera not only unreasonable but wilfully perverse.
"How did you like it?" she asked him one night, on the way home from the opera.
It was a night when he had taken her at the expense of a month's rigid economizing on food. After vainly waiting for him to speak about it, herself still tremulous and stirred by what she had just seen and heard, she had asked the question.
"I liked the overture," was his answer. "It was splendid."
"Yes, but the opera itself?"
"That was splendid too; that is, the orchestra was, though I'd have enjoyed it more if those jumping-jacks had kept quiet or gone off the stage."
Ruth was aghast.
"You don't mean Tetralani or Barillo?" she queried.
"All of them - the whole kit and crew."
"But they are great artists," she protested.
"They spoiled the music just the same, with their antics and unrealities."
"But don't you like Barillo's voice?" Ruth asked. "He is next to Caruso, they say."
"Of course I liked him, and I liked Tetralani even better. Her voice is exquisite - or at least I think so."
"But, but - " Ruth stammered. "I don't know what you mean, then. You admire their voices, yet say they spoiled the music."
"Precisely that. I'd give anything to hear them in concert, and I'd give even a bit more not to hear them when the orchestra is playing. I'm afraid I am a hopeless realist. Great singers are not great actors. To hear Barillo sing a love passage with the voice of an angel, and to hear Tetralani reply like another angel, and to hear it all accompanied by a perfect orgy of glowing and colorful music - is ravishing, most ravishing. I do not admit it. I assert it. But the whole effect is spoiled when I look at them - at Tetralani, five feet ten in her stocking feet and weighing a hundred and ninety pounds, and at Barillo, a scant five feet four, greasy-featured, with the chest of a squat, undersized blacksmith, and at the pair of them, attitudinizing, clasping their breasts, flinging their arms in the air like demented creatures in an asylum; and when I am expected to accept all this as the faithful illusion of a love-scene between a slender and beautiful princess and a handsome, romantic, young prince - why, I can't accept it, that's all. It's rot; it's absurd; it's unreal. That's what's the matter with it. It's not real. Don't tell me that anybody in this world ever made love that way. Why, if I'd made love to you in such fashion, you'd have boxed my ears."
"But you misunderstand," Ruth protested. "Every form of art has its limitations." (She was busy recalling a lecture she had heard at the university on the conventions of the arts.) "In painting there are only two dimensions to the canvas, yet you accept the illusion of three dimensions which the art of a painter enables him to throw into the canvas. In writing, again, the author must be omnipotent. You accept as perfectly legitimate the author's account of the secret thoughts of the heroine, and yet all the time you know that the heroine was alone when thinking these thoughts, and that neither the author nor any one else was capable of hearing them. And so with the stage, with sculpture, with opera, with every art form. Certain irreconcilable things must be accepted."
"Yes, I understood that," Martin answered. "All the arts have their conventions." (Ruth was surprised at his use of the word. It was as if he had studied at the university himself, instead of being ill-equipped from browsing at haphazard through the books in the library.) "But even the conventions must be real. Trees, painted on flat cardboard and stuck up on each side of the stage, we accept as a forest. It is a real enough convention. But, on the other hand, we would not accept a sea scene as a forest. We can't do it. It violates our senses. Nor would you, or, rather, should you, accept the ravings and writhings and agonized contortions of those two lunatics to-night as a convincing portrayal of love."
"But you don't hold yourself superior to all the judges of music?" she protested.
"No, no, not for a moment. I merely maintain my right as an individual. I have just been telling you what I think, in order to explain why the elephantine gambols of Madame Tetralani spoil the orchestra for me. The world's judges of music may all be right. But I am I, and I won't subordinate my taste to the unanimous judgment of mankind. If I don't like a thing, I don't like it, that's all; and there is no reason under the sun why I should ape a liking for it just because the majority of my fellow-creatures like it, or make believe they like it. I can't follow the fashions in the things I like or dislike."
"But music, you know, is a matter of training," Ruth argued; "and opera is even more a matter of training. May it not be - "
"That I am not trained in opera?" he dashed in.
She nodded.
"The very thing," he agreed. "And I consider I am fortunate in not having been caught when I was young. If I had, I could have wept sentimental tears to-night, and the clownish antics of that precious pair would have but enhanced the beauty of their voices and the beauty of the accompanying orchestra. You are right. It's mostly a matter of training. And I am too old, now. I must have the real or nothing. An illusion that won't convince is a palpable lie, and that's what grand opera is to me when little Barillo throws a fit, clutches mighty Tetralani in his arms (also in a fit), and tells her how passionately he adores her."
Again Ruth measured his thoughts by comparison of externals and in accordance with her belief in the established. Who was he that he should be right and all the cultured world wrong? His words and thoughts made no impression upon her. She was too firmly intrenched in the established to have any sympathy with revolutionary ideas. She had always been used to music, and she had enjoyed opera ever since she was a child, and all her world had enjoyed it, too. Then by what right did Martin Eden emerge, as he had so recently emerged, from his rag-time and working-class songs, and pass judgment on the world's music? She was vexed with him, and as she walked beside him she had a vague feeling of outrage. At the best, in her most charitable frame of mind, she considered the statement of his views to be a caprice, an erratic and uncalled-for prank. But when he took her in his arms at the door and kissed her good night in tender lover-fashion, she forgot everything in the outrush of her own love to him. And later, on a sleepless pillow, she puzzled, as she had often puzzled of late, as to how it was that she loved so strange a man, and loved him despite the disapproval of her people.
And next day Martin Eden cast hack-work aside, and at white heat hammered out an essay to which he gave the title, "The Philosophy of Illusion." A stamp started it on its travels, but it was destined to receive many stamps and to be started on many travels in the months that followed.
几个礼拜过去，马丁的钱用完了。出版社的支票服以前一样杏无音信。他的重要作品全都退回来又送走了。他的“下锅之作”遭遇也并不更妙。小厨房里再也没有种类繁多的食品，他已经山穷水尽，只剩下半袋米和几磅杏子干了。他的菜谱一连五天都是三餐大米加杏子干。然后他开始了赊账。他一向付现金的葡萄牙杂货店老板在他积欠达到三块八毛五的巨额之后就拒绝赊欠了。 
“因为，你看，”杂货店老板说，“你找不到工作，这钱就得我亏。”
马丁无话可说。他没法解释。把东西赊给一个身强力壮却懒得上班的工人阶级小伙子不符合正常的生意原则。
“你找到工作我就给你吃的，”杂货店老板问他保证，“没有工作没有吃的，这是生意经。”接着，为了表现此举全是生意上的远见，而非偏见，他说：“我请你喝一杯吧——咱俩还是朋友。”
马丁轻轻松松喝了酒，表示跟老板还是朋友；然后便上了床，没吃晚饭。
马丁买菜的水果铺是个美国人开的。那人做生意原则性较差，直到马丁的积欠达到五块才停止了赊欠。面包店老板到两块便不赊了，屠户是四块时拒赊的。马丁把大债加起来，发现他在这世界上总共欠了十四元八毛五分。他的打字机租期也满了，但他估计能欠上两个月债。那又是八元。到时候他怕就会弄得赊欠无门了。
从水果店买到的最后的东西是一袋上豆。他就整个礼拜每日三餐净吃土豆——只有土豆，再也没有别的。偶然在露丝家吃顿饭能帮助他保持体力。虽然他见了满桌子的食物便饥肠辘辘，很难控制住自己不再吃下去。他也多次趁吃饭时到姐姐家去，在那儿放开胆子大吃一顿——比在莫尔斯家胆大多了，虽然心里暗自惭愧。
他一天天工作着，邮递员一天天给他送来退稿。他没有钱买邮票了，稿子只好在桌了堆积成了一大堆。有一天地已经是四十个小时没吃东西了。到露丝家去吃已没有希望，因为露丝已到圣拉非尔做客去了。要去两个礼拜。他也不能到姐姐家去，因为太不好意思。最倒霉的是，邮递员下午又给他送回了五份退稿。结果马丁穿了外套去了奥克兰，回来时外套没有了，口袋里叮叮当当多了五块钱。他给每位老板还了一块钱债，又在厨房里煎起了洋葱牛排，煮起了咖啡，还熬了一大罐梅子干。吃完饭他又在他那饭桌兼书桌旁坐了下来，午夜前写完了一篇散文，叫做《高利贷的尊严》，文章用打字机打完之后只好扔到桌下，因为五块钱已经花光，没钱买邮票了。
然后他当掉了手表，接着是自行车，给所有的稿子都贴上邮票，寄了出去，这又减少了所能到手的伙食费。他对写下锅之作感到失望，没有人愿买。他把它踉在报纸、周刊、廉价杂志上找到的东西比较，认为他的作品要比其中中等的作品好，好得多，可就是卖不掉。然后地发现许多报纸都大量出一种叫做“流行版”的东西。他弄到了提供这种稿子的协会的地址，可他送去的东西仍然被退了回来。退稿附有一张印好的条子，说他们全部所需稿件都由自己提供。他在一家大型少年期刊上发现了一整栏一整栏的奇闻轶事，认为是个机会。可他的短文仍然被退了回来。虽然他一再努力往外寄，总是没有用。后来到了他已经不在乎的时候，他才明白，那些副编辑和助理编辑为了增加收入自己就提供那种稿子。滑稽周刊也寄回了他的笑话和俏皮诗。他为大杂志写的轻松社交诗也没有找到出路。然后是报纸上的小小说。他知道自己能写出的小小说要比已经发表的好得多。他设法找到了两家报纸的供稿社地址，送去了一。连串小小说。一共二十篇，却一篇也没有卖掉。他这才不再写了。然而，他仍然每天看见小小说在日报和周刊上发表，成批成批的，没有一篇比得上他。他在绝望之余得到结论，他完全缺乏判断力，只是叫自己的作品催眠了。他看来是个自我陶醉的自封的作家。
没点火气的编辑机器照常油滑运转。他把回程邮票限稿件一起装好送进邮筒，三周到一个月之后邮递员便踏上台阶，把稿件送还给他。看来那一头肯定只有齿轮、螺丝钉和注油杯——一部由机器人操纵的聪明的机器，不存在有热度的活人。他非常失望，曾多次怀疑是否有编辑存在。他从来没有见到过一点点说明编辑存在的迹象。由于他的作品全都没提意见就被退了回来，若说编辑不过是由办公室的听差、排字工和印刷工所捏造出来并加以渲染的神话，也未尝没有道理。
跟露丝一起时是他仅有的欢乐时刻，而在那时双方又未必都快活。他永远感到痛苦：一种不安咬啮着他，比没有获得她的爱情时还要叫他不放心。因为他现在虽然获得了她的爱情，却跟仔何时候一样距离获得她还很远。他曾提出过以两年为期；可时光飞逝着，他却一事无成。何况他还一直意识到她不赞成他的做法——她虽然没有直接提出，却已分敲侧击让他明白了，跟直截了当告诉了他并无两样。她虽然没有怨言，却也没有赞成。性格不那么温和的女人也许会抱怨，她却只是失望，她失望了，她自告奋勇要想改造的这个人现在不接受改造了。她在一定程度上发现他这块泥土具有弹性，而且越变越顽强，拒绝按照她爸爸或是巴特勒先生的形象受到塑造。
她看不见他的伟大和坚强，更糟糕的是，误解了他。其实造成这个人的原料弹性是很大的，凡是人类能生存的鸽子笼里他都能生存，可她却认为他顽固，因为她无法把他塑造得能在她的那个鸽子笼果生存，而那是她所知道的唯一鸽子笼。她无法随着他的思想飞翔。他的思想一超出她的范围，她就断定地反常——从来没有人的思想超出过她的范围。她一向能跟上她爸爸、妈妈、弟弟和奥尔尼的思想。因此只要她跟不上马丁，便相信问题出在马丁身上。这是一个古老的悲剧：目光短浅者偏要充当胸襟辽阔者的导师。
“你是拜倒在现存秩序的神坛下了。”有一次两人讨论普拉卜斯和万德瓦特时，他告诉她，“我承认他们是出人头他的权威，他们的话受到引用——是美国两个最前列的文学批评家。美国的每一个教师都仰望万德瓦特，把他看做批评界的领袖。可是我读了他的东西，却认为那似乎是心灵空虚者的淋漓尽致的。准确不过的自白。你看，在台勒特·贝格斯的笔下，万德瓦特就不过是个傻乎乎的老冬烘。普拉卜斯也不比他高明。比如他的《铁杉苔》就写得很美，一个逗号都没用错，调子也很崇高，啊，崇高之至。他是美国收入最高的评论家。不过，非常遗憾！他根本不是批评家。英国的批评就要好得多。
“问题在于，他们唱的是大众的调子，而且唱得那么美，那么道貌岸然，那么心安理得。他们的观点令我想起英国人过的星期天。他们说的是大家说的话。他们是你们的英语教授的后台，你们的英语教授也是他们的后台。他们脑袋里就没有丝毫的独特见解。他们只知道现存秩序——实际上他们就是现存秩序。他们心灵孱弱，现存秩序在他们身上打上烙印就像啤酒厂在啤酒瓶上贴上标签一样容易。而他们的作用就是抓住上大学的青年，把一切偶然出现的闪光的独创意识从他们脑子里赶出去，给他们贴上现存秩序的标签。”
“我认为，”她回答，“在我站在现存秩序一边时，我比你更接近真理，你真像个南太平洋海岛上大发雷霆的偶像破坏者呢。”
“破坏偶像的是教会，”他大笑，“遗憾的是，所有的教会人员都跑到异教徒那儿去了，家里反而没有人来破坏万德瓦特先生和普拉卜斯先生这两尊古老的偶像。”
“还有大学教授的偶像，”她给他加上。
他使劲摇头：“不，教理科的教授还得要。他们是真正的伟大。但是英语教授的脑袋十分之九都该破一破——是些心眼小得要用显微镜才看得见的小鹦鹉。”
这话对教授们确实刻薄，在露丝看来更是亵读。她忍不住要用那些教授来衡量马丁。教授们一个个文质彬彬，语调控馆，衣着整洁称身，谈吐文明风雅。而马丁呢，是个几乎难以描述的年轻人，而她却不知怎么爱上了他。他的衣着从来就不称身，一身暴突的肌肉说明做过沉重的苦役。一说话就冲动，不是平静地叙述而是咒骂，不是冷静地自律而是激动地放言高论。教授们至少薪水丰厚，是君子——是的，她得强迫自己面对这一事实；而他却一文钱也赚不到，跟他们没法比。
她并不就马丁的话语和论点本身进行衡量，她是从外表的比较断定他的意见不对的——不错，那是无意识的。教授们对文学的判断对，因为他们是成功的人；而马丁对文学的判断不对，因为他的作品没人要。用他自己的话说，他的作品都“像模像样”，而他自己却不像个模样。而且，要说他对也讲不过去——不久以前，就在这起坐间里，他在被人介绍时还脸红，还尴尬，还害怕地望看那些小摆设，生怕他那晃动的肩头会把它们碰下来；还在问史文朋已经死了多久；还在夸耀地宣称他读过《精益求精》和《生命礼赞》。
露丝不知不觉地证明了马丁的论点：她对现存秩序顶礼膜拜。马丁能跟随她的思路，但是不肯再往前走。他不是因为她对普拉卜斯先生、万德瓦特先生和英语教授们的观点而爱她的。他还逐渐意识到，而且越来越坚信，他自己具有的思维空间和知识面是她所无法理解，甚至还不知道的。
她觉得他对音乐的看法没有道理，而对歌剧他就不仅是没有道理，而且是故作奇谈怪论了。
“你觉得怎么样？”有天晚上看完歌剧回来，她问他。
那天夜里地是勒紧了一个月裤带才带她去的。她还在颤抖，还在为刚看见和听见的东西激动。她等着他发表意见，却无反应，这才问了他这个问题。
“我喜欢它的序曲，”他回答，“很精彩。”
“对，可歌剧本身呢？”
“也精彩；我是说，乐队精彩，不过，若是那些蹦蹦跳跳的人索性闭上嘴或是离开舞台我倒会更喜欢的。”
露丝目瞪口呆。
“你不是要特绰兰尼或是巴瑞罗离开舞台吧？”她追问。
“全离开，一股脑儿全下。”
“可他们是伟大的艺术家呀。”她驳斥道。
“他们那些不真实的滑稽表演也一样破坏了音乐。”
“可是你难道不喜欢巴瑞罗的嗓子？”露丝问，“人家说他仅次于卡路索呢。”
“当然喜欢，而且更喜欢特绰兰尼，她的嗓子非常美妙——至少我是这么感觉的。”
“可是，可是——”露丝结巴了，“我不明白你的意思。你既然欣赏他们的嗓子，为什么又说他们破坏了音乐呢？”
“正是这样，若是叫我到音乐会去听他们唱歌，我什么代价都愿意付，可是歌剧乐队一演奏，我就宁可多付点钱让他们别唱。我怕我是个无可救药的现实主义者。伟大的歌唱家未必都是伟大的演员。听巴瑞罗用天使般的嗓子唱一段情歌，再听特绰兰尼像另一个天使那样唱一段回答，还加上色彩绚丽、光彩夺目的音乐伴奏，便是个十全十美的酒神节，简直能叫人沉醉，酩酊大醉。对此，我不光是承认，而是坚信。可是我一看见他们俩，整个效果就破坏了。我看特绰兰尼，两条胖腿，身高五英尺十英寸，体重一百九十磅；再看巴瑞罗，只有可怜的五英尺四英寸，一张油光光的脸，一副铁匠般的胸脯，却矮墩墩，不够尺寸。再看看这一对，装腔作势，抓着胸脯，像疯人院的狂人那样在空中挥舞着两条胳膊，却要我承认那是一个美丽窈窕的公主跟一个英俊潇洒的年轻王子的恋爱场面——嗨，我就是接受不了，只能接受不了。这是胡闹，是荒谬，是虚假。问题就在这儿：虚假。可别告诉我世界上有这么谈恋爱的。嗨，我要是像这样跟你谈恋爱，你准会扇我耳光的。”
“可是你误解了，”露丝抗议道，“每一种艺术都有它的限制。”（她正急着回忆她在大学听到的一个有关艺术传统的演讲。）“一幅画在画布上只有两度空间，但是你能接受三度空间的幻觉。那是画家的艺术在画布上的表现。写作也一样。作者必须无所不能。作者对女主人公的秘密思想所做的描述，你认为是完全合理的。可你也一直知道，女主人公在这样思索的时候是独自一人，无论是作者还是别人都没有可能听见她的话。舞台也如此，雕塑、歌剧和每一种形式的艺术也都如此。我们必须接受某些无可奈何的东西。”
“是的，那我也明白，”马丁回答，“一切艺术都有它的传统。”（露丝听见他用这个词不免感到惊讶，他简直像是上过大学一样，而不是不学无术，随随便便在图书馆找了些书看。）“但讲传统也得讲真实。把画在平面纸板上的树木固定在舞台两边，我们可以看作森林。而海洋的布景就不能看作森林，那是办不到的，它跟我们的感官矛盾。今天晚上那两个疯子的哇里哇啦、扭摆晃动、和痛苦的痉挛你也不会，或者说不应该，看作令人信服的爱情表演的。”
“可是你不会认为自己比音乐批评家更高明吧？”
“不，不，一刻也不。我只不过坚持我个人的权利。我刚才只是告诉你我的感想。目的是解释特绰兰尼夫人那大象式的蹦蹦跳跳为什么在我眼里破坏了歌剧。全世界的音乐评论家们都可能是对的。但我还是我，即使全人类的判断都一致，我也是不会让自己的口味屈从于它的。我不喜欢就是不喜欢，那就完了。在太阳底下就没有任何理由要求我因为我的大部分同胞喜欢它（或是装作喜欢它）而学着去喜欢它。我不能在个人爱好的问题上赶时髦。”
“可是，你知道，音乐是一种需要训练的东西，”露丝辩解道，“而歌剧尤其需要训练。你是不是——”
“我是不是对歌剧少了训练呢？”
她点点头。
“正是这样，”他表示同意，“我倒认为自己没有从小就迷上它是一种幸运，否则我今天晚上就会伤感地哭鼻子，而这两位可贵的小丑般的怪人的嗓子就会显得尤其甜蜜，乐队的伴奏也会显得更加美丽。你说得对，那大体是个训练的问题。而我现在已经太老。我要的就是真实，否则才可不要。没有说服力的幻觉是明显的谎：。在矮小的巴瑞罗感情冲动地搂着胖墩墩的特绰兰尼（她也是感情冲动），而且告诉她他是如何满腔热情地崇拜着她时，我已经明白什么是大歌剧了。”
露丝又一次拿他的外部条件作比较，并按照她对现存秩序的信任来衡量他的思想。他算得什么人物，难道一切有教养的人都错了，而他反倒对了？他的意见和话语都没有给她任何印象。她对现存秩序大迷信，对革命思想毫不同情。她一向习惯于音乐，从儿童时代起就欣赏歌剧，而她周围的人也都欣赏歌剧。马丁·伊登凭什么能从他那爵士乐和工人阶级歌曲中冒出来（他是最近才冒出来的时世界上的音乐品头论足？她为他烦恼。跟他走在一起时她模糊感到受了触犯。在她心里最感到怜惜的时候，她也只把地阐述的论点当作一时的奇谈怪论和毫无来由的俏皮话。但是，在地搂着她来到门口，跟她深情地吻别的时候，她却又热情澎湃，把什么都忘了。然后，当她躺在枕头上久久无法入睡时，便苦苦地思索着（她近来常常苦苦地思索），她怎么会爱上了这么个怪人。家里人都不赞成，她为什么偏偏爱上了他。
第二天马丁抛开了“下锅之作”，激情满怀地写成了一篇论文，名叫《幻觉的哲学》。贴了一张邮票打发它上了旅途。但它已注定了还要在以后的好几个月里贴上许多邮票、多次重上旅途。
第二十四章 
几个礼拜过去，马丁的钱用完了。出版社的支票服以前一样杏无音信。他的重要作品全都退回来又送走了。他的“下锅之作”遭遇也并不更妙。小厨房里再也没有种类繁多的食品，他已经山穷水尽，只剩下半袋米和几磅杏子干了。他的菜谱一连五天都是三餐大米加杏子干。然后他开始了赊账。他一向付现金的葡萄牙杂货店老板在他积欠达到三块八毛五的巨额之后就拒绝赊欠了。
“因为，你看，”杂货店老板说，“你找不到工作，这钱就得我亏。”
马丁无话可说。他没法解释。把东西赊给一个身强力壮却懒得上班的工人阶级小伙子不符合正常的生意原则。
“你找到工作我就给你吃的，”杂货店老板问他保证，“没有工作没有吃的，这是生意经。”接着，为了表现此举全是生意上的远见，而非偏见，他说：“我请你喝一杯吧——咱俩还是朋友。”
马丁轻轻松松喝了酒，表示跟老板还是朋友；然后便上了床，没吃晚饭。
马丁买菜的水果铺是个美国人开的。那人做生意原则性较差，直到马丁的积欠达到五块才停止了赊欠。面包店老板到两块便不赊了，屠户是四块时拒赊的。马丁把大债加起来，发现他在这世界上总共欠了十四元八毛五分。他的打字机租期也满了，但他估计能欠上两个月债。那又是八元。到时候他怕就会弄得赊欠无门了。
从水果店买到的最后的东西是一袋上豆。他就整个礼拜每日三餐净吃土豆——只有土豆，再也没有别的。偶然在露丝家吃顿饭能帮助他保持体力。虽然他见了满桌子的食物便饥肠辘辘，很难控制住自己不再吃下去。他也多次趁吃饭时到姐姐家去，在那儿放开胆子大吃一顿——比在莫尔斯家胆大多了，虽然心里暗自惭愧。
他一天天工作着，邮递员一天天给他送来退稿。他没有钱买邮票了，稿子只好在桌了堆积成了一大堆。有一天地已经是四十个小时没吃东西了。到露丝家去吃已没有希望，因为露丝已到圣拉非尔做客去了。要去两个礼拜。他也不能到姐姐家去，因为太不好意思。最倒霉的是，邮递员下午又给他送回了五份退稿。结果马丁穿了外套去了奥克兰，回来时外套没有了，口袋里叮叮当当多了五块钱。他给每位老板还了一块钱债，又在厨房里煎起了洋葱牛排，煮起了咖啡，还熬了一大罐梅子干。吃完饭他又在他那饭桌兼书桌旁坐了下来，午夜前写完了一篇散文，叫做《高利贷的尊严》，文章用打字机打完之后只好扔到桌下，因为五块钱已经花光，没钱买邮票了。
然后他当掉了手表，接着是自行车，给所有的稿子都贴上邮票，寄了出去，这又减少了所能到手的伙食费。他对写下锅之作感到失望，没有人愿买。他把它踉在报纸、周刊、廉价杂志上找到的东西比较，认为他的作品要比其中中等的作品好，好得多，可就是卖不掉。然后地发现许多报纸都大量出一种叫做“流行版”的东西。他弄到了提供这种稿子的协会的地址，可他送去的东西仍然被退了回来。退稿附有一张印好的条子，说他们全部所需稿件都由自己提供。他在一家大型少年期刊上发现了一整栏一整栏的奇闻轶事，认为是个机会。可他的短文仍然被退了回来。虽然他一再努力往外寄，总是没有用。后来到了他已经不在乎的时候，他才明白，那些副编辑和助理编辑为了增加收入自己就提供那种稿子。滑稽周刊也寄回了他的笑话和俏皮诗。他为大杂志写的轻松社交诗也没有找到出路。然后是报纸上的小小说。他知道自己能写出的小小说要比已经发表的好得多。他设法找到了两家报纸的供稿社地址，送去了一。连串小小说。一共二十篇，却一篇也没有卖掉。他这才不再写了。然而，他仍然每天看见小小说在日报和周刊上发表，成批成批的，没有一篇比得上他。他在绝望之余得到结论，他完全缺乏判断力，只是叫自己的作品催眠了。他看来是个自我陶醉的自封的作家。
没点火气的编辑机器照常油滑运转。他把回程邮票限稿件一起装好送进邮筒，三周到一个月之后邮递员便踏上台阶，把稿件送还给他。看来那一头肯定只有齿轮、螺丝钉和注油杯——一部由机器人操纵的聪明的机器，不存在有热度的活人。他非常失望，曾多次怀疑是否有编辑存在。他从来没有见到过一点点说明编辑存在的迹象。由于他的作品全都没提意见就被退了回来，若说编辑不过是由办公室的听差、排字工和印刷工所捏造出来并加以渲染的神话，也未尝没有道理。
跟露丝一起时是他仅有的欢乐时刻，而在那时双方又未必都快活。他永远感到痛苦：一种不安咬啮着他，比没有获得她的爱情时还要叫他不放心。因为他现在虽然获得了她的爱情，却跟仔何时候一样距离获得她还很远。他曾提出过以两年为期；可时光飞逝着，他却一事无成。何况他还一直意识到她不赞成他的做法——她虽然没有直接提出，却已分敲侧击让他明白了，跟直截了当告诉了他并无两样。她虽然没有怨言，却也没有赞成。性格不那么温和的女人也许会抱怨，她却只是失望，她失望了，她自告奋勇要想改造的这个人现在不接受改造了。她在一定程度上发现他这块泥土具有弹性，而且越变越顽强，拒绝按照她爸爸或是巴特勒先生的形象受到塑造。
她看不见他的伟大和坚强，更糟糕的是，误解了他。其实造成这个人的原料弹性是很大的，凡是人类能生存的鸽子笼里他都能生存，可她却认为他顽固，因为她无法把他塑造得能在她的那个鸽子笼果生存，而那是她所知道的唯一鸽子笼。她无法随着他的思想飞翔。他的思想一超出她的范围，她就断定地反常——从来没有人的思想超出过她的范围。她一向能跟上她爸爸、妈妈、弟弟和奥尔尼的思想。因此只要她跟不上马丁，便相信问题出在马丁身上。这是一个古老的悲剧：目光短浅者偏要充当胸襟辽阔者的导师。
“你是拜倒在现存秩序的神坛下了。”有一次两人讨论普拉卜斯和万德瓦特时，他告诉她，“我承认他们是出人头他的权威，他们的话受到引用——是美国两个最前列的文学批评家。美国的每一个教师都仰望万德瓦特，把他看做批评界的领袖。可是我读了他的东西，却认为那似乎是心灵空虚者的淋漓尽致的。准确不过的自白。你看，在台勒特·贝格斯的笔下，万德瓦特就不过是个傻乎乎的老冬烘。普拉卜斯也不比他高明。比如他的《铁杉苔》就写得很美，一个逗号都没用错，调子也很崇高，啊，崇高之至。他是美国收入最高的评论家。不过，非常遗憾！他根本不是批评家。英国的批评就要好得多。
“问题在于，他们唱的是大众的调子，而且唱得那么美，那么道貌岸然，那么心安理得。他们的观点令我想起英国人过的星期天。他们说的是大家说的话。他们是你们的英语教授的后台，你们的英语教授也是他们的后台。他们脑袋里就没有丝毫的独特见解。他们只知道现存秩序——实际上他们就是现存秩序。他们心灵孱弱，现存秩序在他们身上打上烙印就像啤酒厂在啤酒瓶上贴上标签一样容易。而他们的作用就是抓住上大学的青年，把一切偶然出现的闪光的独创意识从他们脑子里赶出去，给他们贴上现存秩序的标签。”
“我认为，”她回答，“在我站在现存秩序一边时，我比你更接近真理，你真像个南太平洋海岛上大发雷霆的偶像破坏者呢。”
“破坏偶像的是教会，”他大笑，“遗憾的是，所有的教会人员都跑到异教徒那儿去了，家里反而没有人来破坏万德瓦特先生和普拉卜斯先生这两尊古老的偶像。”
“还有大学教授的偶像，”她给他加上。
他使劲摇头：“不，教理科的教授还得要。他们是真正的伟大。但是英语教授的脑袋十分之九都该破一破——是些心眼小得要用显微镜才看得见的小鹦鹉。”
这话对教授们确实刻薄，在露丝看来更是亵读。她忍不住要用那些教授来衡量马丁。教授们一个个文质彬彬，语调控馆，衣着整洁称身，谈吐文明风雅。而马丁呢，是个几乎难以描述的年轻人，而她却不知怎么爱上了他。他的衣着从来就不称身，一身暴突的肌肉说明做过沉重的苦役。一说话就冲动，不是平静地叙述而是咒骂，不是冷静地自律而是激动地放言高论。教授们至少薪水丰厚，是君子——是的，她得强迫自己面对这一事实；而他却一文钱也赚不到，跟他们没法比。
她并不就马丁的话语和论点本身进行衡量，她是从外表的比较断定他的意见不对的——不错，那是无意识的。教授们对文学的判断对，因为他们是成功的人；而马丁对文学的判断不对，因为他的作品没人要。用他自己的话说，他的作品都“像模像样”，而他自己却不像个模样。而且，要说他对也讲不过去——不久以前，就在这起坐间里，他在被人介绍时还脸红，还尴尬，还害怕地望看那些小摆设，生怕他那晃动的肩头会把它们碰下来；还在问史文朋已经死了多久；还在夸耀地宣称他读过《精益求精》和《生命礼赞》。
露丝不知不觉地证明了马丁的论点：她对现存秩序顶礼膜拜。马丁能跟随她的思路，但是不肯再往前走。他不是因为她对普拉卜斯先生、万德瓦特先生和英语教授们的观点而爱她的。他还逐渐意识到，而且越来越坚信，他自己具有的思维空间和知识面是她所无法理解，甚至还不知道的。
她觉得他对音乐的看法没有道理，而对歌剧他就不仅是没有道理，而且是故作奇谈怪论了。
“你觉得怎么样？”有天晚上看完歌剧回来，她问他。
那天夜里地是勒紧了一个月裤带才带她去的。她还在颤抖，还在为刚看见和听见的东西激动。她等着他发表意见，却无反应，这才问了他这个问题。
“我喜欢它的序曲，”他回答，“很精彩。”
“对，可歌剧本身呢？”
“也精彩；我是说，乐队精彩，不过，若是那些蹦蹦跳跳的人索性闭上嘴或是离开舞台我倒会更喜欢的。”
露丝目瞪口呆。
“你不是要特绰兰尼或是巴瑞罗离开舞台吧？”她追问。
“全离开，一股脑儿全下。”
“可他们是伟大的艺术家呀。”她驳斥道。
“他们那些不真实的滑稽表演也一样破坏了音乐。”
“可是你难道不喜欢巴瑞罗的嗓子？”露丝问，“人家说他仅次于卡路索呢。”
“当然喜欢，而且更喜欢特绰兰尼，她的嗓子非常美妙——至少我是这么感觉的。”
“可是，可是——”露丝结巴了，“我不明白你的意思。你既然欣赏他们的嗓子，为什么又说他们破坏了音乐呢？”
“正是这样，若是叫我到音乐会去听他们唱歌，我什么代价都愿意付，可是歌剧乐队一演奏，我就宁可多付点钱让他们别唱。我怕我是个无可救药的现实主义者。伟大的歌唱家未必都是伟大的演员。听巴瑞罗用天使般的嗓子唱一段情歌，再听特绰兰尼像另一个天使那样唱一段回答，还加上色彩绚丽、光彩夺目的音乐伴奏，便是个十全十美的酒神节，简直能叫人沉醉，酩酊大醉。对此，我不光是承认，而是坚信。可是我一看见他们俩，整个效果就破坏了。我看特绰兰尼，两条胖腿，身高五英尺十英寸，体重一百九十磅；再看巴瑞罗，只有可怜的五英尺四英寸，一张油光光的脸，一副铁匠般的胸脯，却矮墩墩，不够尺寸。再看看这一对，装腔作势，抓着胸脯，像疯人院的狂人那样在空中挥舞着两条胳膊，却要我承认那是一个美丽窈窕的公主跟一个英俊潇洒的年轻王子的恋爱场面——嗨，我就是接受不了，只能接受不了。这是胡闹，是荒谬，是虚假。问题就在这儿：虚假。可别告诉我世界上有这么谈恋爱的。嗨，我要是像这样跟你谈恋爱，你准会扇我耳光的。”
“可是你误解了，”露丝抗议道，“每一种艺术都有它的限制。”（她正急着回忆她在大学听到的一个有关艺术传统的演讲。）“一幅画在画布上只有两度空间，但是你能接受三度空间的幻觉。那是画家的艺术在画布上的表现。写作也一样。作者必须无所不能。作者对女主人公的秘密思想所做的描述，你认为是完全合理的。可你也一直知道，女主人公在这样思索的时候是独自一人，无论是作者还是别人都没有可能听见她的话。舞台也如此，雕塑、歌剧和每一种形式的艺术也都如此。我们必须接受某些无可奈何的东西。”
“是的，那我也明白，”马丁回答，“一切艺术都有它的传统。”（露丝听见他用这个词不免感到惊讶，他简直像是上过大学一样，而不是不学无术，随随便便在图书馆找了些书看。）“但讲传统也得讲真实。把画在平面纸板上的树木固定在舞台两边，我们可以看作森林。而海洋的布景就不能看作森林，那是办不到的，它跟我们的感官矛盾。今天晚上那两个疯子的哇里哇啦、扭摆晃动、和痛苦的痉挛你也不会，或者说不应该，看作令人信服的爱情表演的。”
“可是你不会认为自己比音乐批评家更高明吧？”
“不，不，一刻也不。我只不过坚持我个人的权利。我刚才只是告诉你我的感想。目的是解释特绰兰尼夫人那大象式的蹦蹦跳跳为什么在我眼里破坏了歌剧。全世界的音乐评论家们都可能是对的。但我还是我，即使全人类的判断都一致，我也是不会让自己的口味屈从于它的。我不喜欢就是不喜欢，那就完了。在太阳底下就没有任何理由要求我因为我的大部分同胞喜欢它（或是装作喜欢它）而学着去喜欢它。我不能在个人爱好的问题上赶时髦。”
“可是，你知道，音乐是一种需要训练的东西，”露丝辩解道，“而歌剧尤其需要训练。你是不是——”
“我是不是对歌剧少了训练呢？”
她点点头。
“正是这样，”他表示同意，“我倒认为自己没有从小就迷上它是一种幸运，否则我今天晚上就会伤感地哭鼻子，而这两位可贵的小丑般的怪人的嗓子就会显得尤其甜蜜，乐队的伴奏也会显得更加美丽。你说得对，那大体是个训练的问题。而我现在已经太老。我要的就是真实，否则才可不要。没有说服力的幻觉是明显的谎：。在矮小的巴瑞罗感情冲动地搂着胖墩墩的特绰兰尼（她也是感情冲动），而且告诉她他是如何满腔热情地崇拜着她时，我已经明白什么是大歌剧了。”
露丝又一次拿他的外部条件作比较，并按照她对现存秩序的信任来衡量他的思想。他算得什么人物，难道一切有教养的人都错了，而他反倒对了？他的意见和话语都没有给她任何印象。她对现存秩序大迷信，对革命思想毫不同情。她一向习惯于音乐，从儿童时代起就欣赏歌剧，而她周围的人也都欣赏歌剧。马丁·伊登凭什么能从他那爵士乐和工人阶级歌曲中冒出来（他是最近才冒出来的时世界上的音乐品头论足？她为他烦恼。跟他走在一起时她模糊感到受了触犯。在她心里最感到怜惜的时候，她也只把地阐述的论点当作一时的奇谈怪论和毫无来由的俏皮话。但是，在地搂着她来到门口，跟她深情地吻别的时候，她却又热情澎湃，把什么都忘了。然后，当她躺在枕头上久久无法入睡时，便苦苦地思索着（她近来常常苦苦地思索），她怎么会爱上了这么个怪人。家里人都不赞成，她为什么偏偏爱上了他。
第二天马丁抛开了“下锅之作”，激情满怀地写成了一篇论文，名叫《幻觉的哲学》。贴了一张邮票打发它上了旅途。但它已注定了还要在以后的好几个月里贴上许多邮票、多次重上旅途。
Chapter 25
Maria Silva was poor, and all the ways of poverty were clear to her. Poverty, to Ruth, was a word signifying a not-nice condition of existence. That was her total knowledge on the subject. She knew Martin was poor, and his condition she associated in her mind with the boyhood of Abraham Lincoln, of Mr. Butler, and of other men who had become successes. Also, while aware that poverty was anything but delectable, she had a comfortable middle-class feeling that poverty was salutary, that it was a sharp spur that urged on to success all men who were not degraded and hopeless drudges. So that her knowledge that Martin was so poor that he had pawned his watch and overcoat did not disturb her. She even considered it the hopeful side of the situation, believing that sooner or later it would arouse him and compel him to abandon his writing.
Ruth never read hunger in Martin's face, which had grown lean and had enlarged the slight hollows in the cheeks. In fact, she marked the change in his face with satisfaction. It seemed to refine him, to remove from him much of the dross of flesh and the too animal- like vigor that lured her while she detested it. Sometimes, when with her, she noted an unusual brightness in his eyes, and she admired it, for it made him appear more the poet and the scholar - the things he would have liked to be and which she would have liked him to be. But Maria Silva read a different tale in the hollow cheeks and the burning eyes, and she noted the changes in them from day to day, by them following the ebb and flow of his fortunes. She saw him leave the house with his overcoat and return without it, though the day was chill and raw, and promptly she saw his cheeks fill out slightly and the fire of hunger leave his eyes. In the same way she had seen his wheel and watch go, and after each event she had seen his vigor bloom again.
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. And she was surprised to behold that the less food he had, the harder he worked. On occasion, in a casual sort of way, when she thought hunger pinched hardest, she would send him in a loaf of new baking, awkwardly covering the act with banter to the effect that it was better than he could bake. And again, she would send one of her toddlers in to him with a great pitcher of hot soup, debating inwardly the while whether she was justified in taking it from the mouths of her own flesh and blood. Nor was Martin ungrateful, knowing as he did the lives of the poor, and that if ever in the world there was charity, this was it.
On a day when she had filled her brood with what was left in the house, Maria invested her last fifteen cents in a gallon of cheap wine. Martin, coming into her kitchen to fetch water, was invited to sit down and drink. He drank her very-good health, and in return she drank his. Then she drank to prosperity in his undertakings, and he drank to the hope that James Grant would show up and pay her for his washing. James Grant was a journeymen carpenter who did not always pay his bills and who owed Maria three dollars.
Both Maria and Martin drank the sour new wine on empty stomachs, and it went swiftly to their heads. Utterly differentiated creatures that they were, they were lonely in their misery, and though the misery was tacitly ignored, it was the bond that drew them together. Maria was amazed to learn that he had been in the Azores, where she had lived until she was eleven. She was doubly amazed that he had been in the Hawaiian Islands, whither she had migrated from the Azores with her people. But her amazement passed all bounds when he told her he had been on Maui, the particular island whereon she had attained womanhood and married. Kahului, where she had first met her husband, - he, Martin, had been there twice! Yes, she remembered the sugar steamers, and he had been on them - well, well, it was a small world. And Wailuku! That place, too! Did he know the head-luna of the plantation? Yes, and had had a couple of drinks with him.
And so they reminiscenced and drowned their hunger in the raw, sour wine. To Martin the future did not seem so dim. Success trembled just before him. He was on the verge of clasping it. Then he studied the deep-lined face of the toil-worn woman before him, remembered her soups and loaves of new baking, and felt spring up in him the warmest gratitude and philanthropy.
"Maria," he exclaimed suddenly. "What would you like to have?"
She looked at him, bepuzzled.
"What would you like to have now, right now, if you could get it?"
"Shoe alla da roun' for da childs - seven pairs da shoe."
"You shall have them," he announced, while she nodded her head gravely. "But I mean a big wish, something big that you want."
Her eyes sparkled good-naturedly. He was choosing to make fun with her, Maria, with whom few made fun these days.
"Think hard," he cautioned, just as she was opening her mouth to speak.
"Alla right," she answered. "I thinka da hard. I lika da house, dis house - all mine, no paya da rent, seven dollar da month."
"You shall have it," he granted, "and in a short time. Now wish the great wish. Make believe I am God, and I say to you anything you want you can have. Then you wish that thing, and I listen."
Maria considered solemnly for a space.
"You no 'fraid?" she asked warningly.
"No, no," he laughed, "I'm not afraid. Go ahead."
"Most verra big," she warned again.
"All right. Fire away."
"Well, den - " She drew a big breath like a child, as she voiced to the uttermost all she cared to demand of life. "I lika da have one milka ranch - good milka ranch. Plenty cow, plenty land, plenty grass. I lika da have near San Le-an; my sister liva dere. I sella da milk in Oakland. I maka da plentee mon. Joe an' Nick no runna da cow. Dey go-a to school. Bimeby maka da good engineer, worka da railroad. Yes, I lika da milka ranch."
She paused and regarded Martin with twinkling eyes.
"You shall have it," he answered promptly.
She nodded her head and touched her lips courteously to the wine- glass and to the giver of the gift she knew would never be given. His heart was right, and in her own heart she appreciated his intention as much as if the gift had gone with it.
"No, Maria," he went on; "Nick and Joe won't have to peddle milk, and all the kids can go to school and wear shoes the whole year round. It will be a first-class milk ranch - everything complete. There will be a house to live in and a stable for the horses, and cow-barns, of course. There will be chickens, pigs, vegetables, fruit trees, and everything like that; and there will be enough cows to pay for a hired man or two. Then you won't have anything to do but take care of the children. For that matter, if you find a good man, you can marry and take it easy while he runs the ranch."
And from such largess, dispensed from his future, Martin turned and took his one good suit of clothes to the pawnshop. His plight was desperate for him to do this, for it cut him off from Ruth. He had no second-best suit that was presentable, and though he could go to the butcher and the baker, and even on occasion to his sister's, it was beyond all daring to dream of entering the Morse home so disreputably apparelled.
He toiled on, miserable and well-nigh hopeless. It began to appear to him that the second battle was lost and that 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. He was two months behind with his type-writer, and the agency was clamoring for payment or for the return of the machine. In desperation, all but ready to surrender, to make a truce with fate until he could get a fresh start, he took the civil service examinations for the Railway Mail. To his surprise, he passed first. The job was assured, though when the call would come to enter upon his duties nobody knew.
It was at this time, at the lowest ebb, that the smooth-running editorial machine broke down. A cog must have slipped or an oil- cup run dry, for 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, the sinking feeling accompanied by a strange trembling of the knees. He staggered into his room and sat down on the bed, the envelope still unopened, and in that moment came understanding to him how people suddenly fall dead upon receipt of extraordinarily good news.
Of course this was good news. There was no manuscript in that thin envelope, therefore it was an acceptance. He knew the story in the hands of the TRANSCONTINENTAL. It was "The Ring of Bells," one of his horror stories, and it was an even five thousand words. And, since first-class magazines always paid on acceptance, there was a check inside. Two cents a word - twenty dollars a thousand; the check must be a hundred dollars. One hundred dollars! As he tore the envelope open, every item of all his debts surged in his brain - $3.85 to the grocer; butcher $4.00 flat; baker, $2.00; fruit store, $5.00; total, $14.85. Then there was room rent, $2.50; another month in advance, $2.50; two months' type-writer, $8.00; a month in advance, $4.00; total, $31.85. And finally to be added, his pledges, plus interest, with the pawnbroker - watch, $5.50; overcoat, $5.50; wheel, $7.75; suit of clothes, $5.50 (60 % interest, but what did it matter?) - grand total, $56.10. He saw, as if visible in the air before him, in illuminated figures, the whole sum, and the subtraction that followed and that gave a remainder of $43.90. When he had squared every debt, redeemed every pledge, he would still have jingling in his pockets a princely $43.90. And on top of that he would have a month's rent paid in advance on the type-writer and on the room.
By this time he had drawn the single sheet of type-written letter out and spread it open. There was no check. He peered into the envelope, held it to the light, but could not trust his eyes, and in trembling haste tore the envelope apart. There was no check. He read the letter, skimming it line by line, dashing through the editor's praise of his story to the meat of the letter, the statement why the check had not been sent. He found no such statement, but he did find that which made him suddenly wilt. The letter slid from his hand. His eyes went lack-lustre, and he lay back on the pillow, pulling the blanket about him and up to his chin.
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 had praised it, too. And he would receive the check when the story was published. Then it was all poppycock, two cents a word for minimum rate and payment upon acceptance. It was a lie, and it had led him astray. He would never have attempted to write had he known that. He would have gone to work - to work for Ruth. He went back to the day he first attempted to write, and was appalled at the enormous waste of time - and all for ten words for a cent. And the other high rewards of writers, that he had read about, must be lies, too. His second-hand ideas of authorship were wrong, for here was the proof of it.
The TRANSCONTINENTAL sold for twenty-five cents, and its dignified and artistic cover proclaimed it as among the first-class magazines. It was a staid, respectable magazine, and it had been published continuously since long before he was born. Why, on the outside cover were printed every month the words of one of the world's great writers, words proclaiming the inspired mission of the TRANSCONTINENTAL by a star of literature whose first coruscations had appeared inside those self-same covers. And the high and lofty, heaven-inspired TRANSCONTINENTAL paid five dollars for five thousand words! The great writer had recently died in a foreign land - in dire poverty, Martin remembered, which was not to be wondered at, considering the magnificent pay authors receive.
Well, he had taken the bait, the newspaper lies about writers and their pay, and he had wasted two years over it. But he would disgorge the bait now. Not another line would he ever write. He would do what Ruth wanted him to do, what everybody wanted him to do - get a job. The thought of going to work reminded him of Joe - Joe, tramping through the land of nothing-to-do. Martin heaved a great sigh of envy. The reaction of nineteen hours a day for many days was strong upon him. But then, Joe was not in love, had none of the responsibilities of love, and he could afford to loaf through the land of nothing-to-do. He, Martin, had something to work for, and go to work he would. He would start out early next morning to hunt a job. And he would let Ruth know, too, that he had mended his ways and was willing to go into her father's office.
Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, the market price for art. The disappointment of it, the lie of it, the infamy of it, were uppermost in his thoughts; and under his closed eyelids, in fiery figures, burned the "$3.85" he owed the grocer. 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. And beneath the brows, planted under his lids, was the merciless "$3.85." He opened his eyes to escape it, but the white light of the room seemed to sear the balls and forced him to close his eyes, when the "$3.85" confronted him again.
Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent - that particular thought took up its residence in his brain, and he could no more escape it than he could the "$3.85" under his eyelids. A change seemed to come over the latter, and he watched curiously, till "$2.00" burned in its stead. Ah, he thought, that was the baker. The next sum that appeared was "$2.50." It puzzled him, and he pondered it as if life and death hung on the solution. He owed somebody two dollars and a half, that was certain, but who was it? To find it was the task set him by an imperious and malignant universe, and he wandered through the endless corridors of his mind, opening all manner of lumber rooms and chambers stored with odds and ends of memories and knowledge as he vainly sought the answer. After several centuries it came to him, easily, without effort, that it was Maria. With a great relief he turned his soul to the screen of torment under his lids. He had solved the problem; now he could rest. But no, the "$2.50" faded away, and in its place burned "$8.00." Who was that? He must go the dreary round of his mind again and find out.
How long he was gone on this quest he did not know, but after what seemed an enormous lapse of time, he was called back to himself by a knock at the door, and by Maria's asking if he was sick. He replied in a muffled voice he did not recognize, saying that he was merely taking a nap. He was surprised when he noted the darkness of night in the room. He had received the letter at two in the afternoon, and he realized that he was sick.
Then the "$8.00" began to smoulder under his lids again, and he returned himself to servitude. But he grew cunning. There was no need for him to wander through his mind. He had been a fool. He pulled a lever and made his mind revolve about him, a monstrous wheel of fortune, a merry-go-round of memory, a revolving sphere of wisdom. Faster and faster it revolved, until its vortex sucked him in and he was flung whirling through black chaos.
Quite naturally he found himself at a mangle, feeding starched cuffs. But as he fed he noticed figures printed in the cuffs. It was a new way of marking linen, he thought, until, looking closer, he saw "$3.85" on one of the cuffs. Then it came to him that it was the grocer's bill, and that these were his bills flying around on the drum of the mangle. A crafty idea came to him. He would throw the bills on the floor and so escape paying them. No sooner thought than done, and he crumpled the cuffs spitefully as he flung them upon an unusually dirty floor. Ever the heap grew, and though each bill was duplicated a thousand times, he found only one for two dollars and a half, which was what he owed Maria. That meant that Maria would not press for payment, and he resolved generously that it would be the only one he would pay; so he began searching through the cast-out heap for hers. He sought it desperately, for ages, and was still searching when the manager of the hotel entered, the fat Dutchman. His face blazed with wrath, and he shouted in stentorian tones that echoed down the universe, "I shall deduct the cost of those cuffs from your wages!" The pile of cuffs grew into a mountain, and Martin knew that he was doomed to toil for a thousand years to pay for them. Well, there was nothing left to do but kill the manager and burn down the laundry. But the big Dutchman frustrated him, seizing him by the nape of the neck and dancing him up and down. He danced him over the ironing tables, the stove, and the mangles, and out into the wash-room and over the wringer and washer. Martin was danced until his teeth rattled and his head ached, and he marvelled that the Dutchman was so strong.
And then he found himself before the mangle, this time receiving the cuffs an editor of a magazine was feeding from the other side. Each cuff was a check, and Martin went over them anxiously, in a fever of expectation, but they were all blanks. He stood there and received the blanks for a million years or so, never letting one go by for fear it might be filled out. At last he found it. With trembling fingers he held it to the light. It was for five dollars. "Ha! Ha!" laughed the editor across the mangle. "Well, then, I shall kill you," Martin said. He went out into the wash- room to get the axe, and found Joe starching manuscripts. He tried to make him desist, then swung the axe for him. But the weapon remained poised in mid-air, for Martin found himself back in the ironing room in the midst of a snow-storm. No, it was not snow that was falling, but checks of large denomination, the smallest not less than a thousand dollars. He began to collect them and sort them out, in packages of a hundred, tying each package securely with twine.
He looked up from his task and saw Joe standing before him juggling flat-irons, starched shirts, and manuscripts. Now and again he reached out and added a bundle of checks to the flying miscellany that soared through the roof and out of sight in a tremendous circle. Martin struck at him, but he seized the axe and added it to the flying circle. Then he plucked Martin and added him. Martin went up through the roof, clutching at manuscripts, so that by the time he came down he had a large armful. But no sooner down than up again, and a second and a third time and countless times he flew around the circle. From far off he could hear a childish treble singing: "Waltz me around again, Willie, around, around, around."
He recovered the axe in the midst of the Milky Way of checks, starched shirts, and manuscripts, and prepared, when he came down, to kill Joe. But he did not come down. Instead, 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.
玛利亚·西尔伐很穷。她理解贫穷生活的种种艰辛。可对露丝说来贫穷只是不舒适的生活环境而且。她对贫穷的全部知识不过如此。她知道马丁穷，却把他的环境限亚伯拉罕·林肯、巴特勒先生和其他发了迹的人物的童年等量齐观。而且，她一方面意识到贫穷绝不轻松，一方面又有一种中产阶级泰然处之的感觉：认为贫穷是福。它对一切不肯堕落的人、不肯绝望的苦力都是一种强烈的激励，能促使他们去取得胜利。因此在她听说马丁穷得当掉了手表和外衣时，并不难受，甚至认为有了希望，它早晚会催他奋起，放弃写作的。 
露丝从没有在马丁脸上读出饥饿。实际上她在见到他面颊消瘦、凹陷加深的时候反而感到满意。他好像变得清秀了。他脸上以前叫她嫌恶却也吸引过她的肌肉和带暴戾意味的活力大大减少了。他俩在一起时她还会偶然注意到他眼里闪出的不寻常的光，那也叫她崇拜，因为他更像个诗人或学者了——而那正是他想做而她也乐意他做的人。但是玛利亚·西尔伐从他那凹陷的双颊和燃烧的目光中读出的却是另外一种消息。她看到他每天的变化，并从中看出他命运的消涨。她看到他穿了外衣离家却没穿外衣回来，尽管天气又冷又阴沉。然后她便看到他的面颊略为丰满了一点，饥饿之火也离开了他的眼睛。同样，她又看到他的手表和自行车消失了，而每一次有东西消失，他都会洋溢出些活力。
她同样注意到了他的刻苦。她知道他晚上要熬夜到什么时候。那是在工作！她知道他比她还要辛苦，虽然他的工作是另一种性质。她还注意到他吃得越是少干得越是多。有时见他饿得厉害，她也仿佛偶然地给他送一大块刚出炉的面包去，并开玩笑说她烤的面包要比他做的好吃，作为一种拙劣的掩饰。有时她也叫她的小娃娃给他送一大罐热气腾腾的菜汤去，虽然心率也前咕着像这样从自己的亲骨肉口中夺食是否应该。马丁也并非不感谢，他明白穷人的苦，也知道世界上若有慈悲心肠，这就是慈悲心肠。
有一天她在用屋里剩下的东西喂饱了那群孩子之后，拿她最后的一毛五分钱买了一加仑便宜啤酒。正好马丁到她厨房取水，她便邀他坐下一起喝。他为她的健康于杯，她也为他的健康于杯，然后她又祝福地事业兴旺，而他则祝福她找到詹姆士·格兰特，收到地欠下的洗衣费。詹姆士·格兰特是个常常欠债的流浪木匠，欠着玛利亚三块钱没给。
玛利亚和马丁都是空肚子喝着新酿的酒，酒力立即进了脑袋。他们俩虽是完全不同的人，在痛苦中却同样孤独。尽管不声不响，没有当回事，孤独却成了联系他俩的纽带。玛利亚听说他到过亚速尔群岛大吃了一惊：她是在那儿长到十一岁的。她听说他到过夏威夷群岛时更是加倍吃惊了：她跟她一家人就是从亚速尔群岛迁到夏威夷群岛去的呢。而到他告诉她他曾去过毛伊岛时，她简直就惊讶得无以复加了。毛伊岛可是她长大成人遇见她丈夫井和他结婚的地方。而马丁意去过两次！是的，她还记得运糖的船，而他就在那上面干过活——哎呀，这世界可真小。还有瓦伊路库！他认识种植园的总管么？认识，还跟他喝过两杯呢。
他们俩就像这样怀着旧，用酸味的新啤酒淹没着饥饿。未来在马丁面前并不太暗淡。成功在他眼前颤抖，他差不多要抓住了。他审视着面前这个备受折磨的妇女郎满是皱纹的脸，想起了她的菜汤和新出炉的面包，一种最为温暖的感激和悲悯之情便在他心里油然而生。
“玛利亚，”他突然叫了起来，“你想要个什么东西？”
玛利亚莫名其妙地望着他。
“现在你想要个什么东西，现在，如果你能得到的话？”
“给孩子们每人一双鞋——七双。”
“我给你七双鞋，”他宣布，她郑重其事地点点头，“可我指的是大的愿望，你想要什么大东西。”
她的眼睛随和地闪着光。原来他是在跟她玛利亚开玩笑呀，现在已经很少人跟她开玩笑了。
“好好想想，”她正张开嘴要说话，他提醒她。
“那好，”她回答，“我好好想想，我想要房于，就是这房子吧。整幢都归我．不用付每月七块钱房租。”
“房子你准会有的，”他同意了，“不久就会有。现在要个大的吧。假定我是上帝，已经告诉你你想要什么便能得到什么。你就要那种东西吧，我听着。”
玛利亚郑重其事地想了一会儿。
“你不怕？”她警告他。
“不怕，不怕，”他笑了，“我不怕。说吧。”
“可大得了不得呢，”她又警告说。
“没问题。尽管讲。”
“那么——”她像个孩子一样吸了一口长气，鼓足了劲，提出了她对生活的最大愿望。“我想有个奶牛场——一个最好的奶牛场。有许多的牛，许多的土地，许多的草。我喜欢它靠近圣利安；我妹妹就住在那儿。我可以到奥克兰去卖牛奶，赚许多钱。乔和尼克不用放牛，可以去上学，以后当个好工程师，在铁路上工作。对。我想要个奶牛场。”
她住了口，眼里闪着光，望着马丁。
“你会有的。”他立即回答。
她点点头，恭恭敬敬用嘴唇碰了碰杯子，向送她礼物的人示意——虽然她知道那礼物她是永远也得不到的。他的心是好的，她打心眼里欣赏这番好意，仿佛礼物已随着许诺送到她手里。
“是的，玛利亚，”他继续说，“尼克和乔不用去卖牛奶了，孩子们全都上学，一年四季都有鞋穿。一个头等奶场——设备齐全。一幢房子住人，一个马厩喂马，当然还有奶牛场。有鸡，有猪，有菜，有果树，诸如此类。牛还要多，能养得起一两个雇工。那时候你就甭管别的，一心一意带孩子。说起来，你若是能找到一个合适的人，还可以结婚，让他管奶场，你自己过轻松日子。”
马丁赠送了这份将来才能兑现的礼物之后，转身便把他仅有的一套漂亮衣服送进了当铺。他这样做是出于无奈，因为处境太糟。而当掉了衣服他和露丝就不能见面了。他再也没有第二套漂亮衣服能够见客——尽管见卖肉的和烤面包的还可以，有时还可以去见他姐姐。但要叫他穿得那么寒酸踏进莫尔斯的住宅，他却是连梦也不敢做的。
他继续刻苦地干着，很难受，差不多已没了希望。他开始感到第二次战役也失败了，他已非去工作不可。他一去工作各方面都会满意的——杂货店老板，他姐姐，露丝，甚至玛利亚都会满意。他已经久了玛利亚一个月房租；打字机租金也欠了两个月，代理人已经叫喊若是再不付租金就得收回打字机。他已经穷途末路，差不多要投降了。他打算暂时跟命运休战，直到有新机会的时候。他去参加了铁道邮务署的文职人员考试。令他意外的是，竟然以第一名被录取了。工作是有把握了，尽管什么时候能通知他上班还没有人知道。
就在这个时候，在他山穷水尽的时候，那油滑运转的编辑机器偏偏出了故障。大概是一个齿轮打了滑，或是油杯没了油吧，总之有天早上邮递员给他送来了一个薄薄的短信封。马丁瞒了一眼左角，读到了《跨越大陆月刊》的名字和地址，他的心便猛地跳了一下。他突然感到一阵晕旋，双膝发起抖来，身子也往下沉。他歪歪倒倒进了屋子，在床上坐了下来。信还没有拆开，在那个瞬间他明白了一个道理：为什么有的人会因为突然得到不寻常的好消息而死去。
这当然是好消息，薄薄的信封里没有稿子，因此便是采用通知。他知道寄给《跨越大陆》的是什么故事，那是《钟声激越》，一篇恐怖小说，足足有五千字。既然第一流杂志都是一采用稿件便付稿酬的，里面便应该是支票。一个字两分钱——一千字二十元：支票一定是一百元！一百元！他撕开信封时，脑子里便门出了他所欠的每一笔帐——杂货店老板$3.85；肉店老板$4.00；面包店老板$2.00；水果店老板$5.00；总共$14.85。然后是房租$2.5O；再预付一个月$2．50；两个月打字机租金$8.00；预付一个月$4.OO；总共$31．85。最后是赎取典当的东西，加上当铺老板的利息：表$5.50；外衣$5.50；自行车$7.75；衣服$5.50（利息60％，那算得什么？）——几笔帐总计$56.10。他仿佛在他面前的空中看到了闪着光的数字：先是那个整数，然后是减去开支算出的余数，是$43.90。还清了帐目，赎回了东西，他口袋还会叮叮当当响着一笔阔绰的数字$43.90，而且已经预付了一个月房租和一个月打字机租金。
这时他已抽出那张用打字机打出的信，展开了。没有支票，他往信封里瞄了瞄，又把那信对着光线看了看。他不能相信他的眼睛。他颤抖着急忙撕开了信封：没有支票。他一行行地匆匆读去，掠过了编辑对他作品的赞美之词，要想找到主题：何以没有进支票，却没有找到。他终于找到了，可他却突然垮了。信从他手上落下，他的两眼失去了光泽。他躺回到枕头上，拉过毯子盖住身体，直盖到下巴。
《钟声激越》的稿费是五块钱——五块钱五千字！不是两分钱一个字，而是一分钱十个字！而编辑还赞美写得好。而且支票要到作品发表之后才能收到。原来这一切都是胡扯：什么最低稿费两分钱一个字呀，稿件一采用就付稿酬呀，统统是假话，骗得他上了当。他要是早知道是决不会作写作的打算的。他老早就会去工作了——为露丝去工作了。他回想起自己刚开始打算写作的时候，不禁为自己所浪费的那么多时间痛心疾首。最终落了个一分钱十个字！他所读到的关于别的作家的高稿酬的事看来也准是假话。他关于写作的第二手资料是错误的，这里便是证据。
《跨越大陆》每份定价二毛五。它那庄重高雅的封面表明它属于第一流杂志，是份郑重的值得尊敬的杂志。它在他出生之前就已经连续出版了多少年。你看，在每一期封面上都印有一个世界驰名的伟大作家的话，宣布了《跨越大陆》的天赋使命，而那位文坛巨星最初就是在这个杂志的篇幅里绽放异彩的。可是这份崇高、风雅。从上天获得灵感的杂志鹏越大陆》所付出的稿酬竟然是五块钱五千字！而那伟大的作家最近也在国外穷愁潦倒地死去了。此事马丁记得，也不以为奇，试看作家那堂皇的稿酬就明白了。
唉，他上了别人的钩了。报纸上关于作家和稿酬的瞎话使他浪费了两年时光。现在他要把嘴里的钩吐出来。他是一行也不会再写作的了。他要按露丝的要求去做——那也是每个人的要求——找一份工作。一想到工作他便想到乔——那个在游手好闲的天地里漂泊的乔。马丁长长地叹了一口气，心里很羡慕。那是每天十九小时连续多少日子的劳动对乔所产生的激烈后果。但是乔没有恋爱，没有爱情的责任，他可以在游手好闲的天地里漂泊。而他马丁却有奋斗的目标。他要去工作。明天一大早他就要去找工作，他还要让露丝知道他已经幡然悔悟，愿意进入她爸爸的办公室了。
五千字五块钱，十个字一分钱，这就是艺术在市场上的价格。那失望，那虚假，那无耻总浮动在他思想里。在他合拢的眼帘下燃烧着他欠杂货店的$3.85，是几个火一样的数字。他发起抖来，骨头里感到疼痛。腰尤其痛。头也在痛，头顶也在痛，后脑勺也在痛，脑袋里脑髓也在痛，而且似乎在膨胀，而前额则痛得无法忍受。额头下、眼皮里总是那个无情的数字：$3.85。他张开眼想躲避，屋里白亮的光似乎烧灼着眼球，逼得他闭上了眼。可一闭上眼那数字$3.85又逼到了他面前。
五千字五块钱，十个字一分钱——那特别的念头在他的脑子里扎下根来，再也摆脱不了，跟摆脱不了眼帘下那个$3.85一样。那数字似乎有了变化，他好奇地望了望，在那儿燃烧的已是$2.00了。啊，他想起来了，那是面包店的帐.接下来出现的数字是$2.5那.那数字叫他迷惑，他使劲地想，仿佛是个生死攸关的问题。他欠了别人两块五，肯定没错，可欠了谁的呢？这已是那威严的、恶意的宇宙给他的任务。他在他心灵的无尽的走廊里信步走着，打开了各式各样堆满破烂的房屋，其中满是七零八碎的知识和记忆，寻求着答案，却无结果。过了好多个世纪，那答案出来了，却并不费力，原来是玛利亚。他这才如释重负，让灵魂转到眼皮底下的痛苦的屏幕前。问题解决了；他现在可以休息了。可是不，那$2.50又淡了开去，出现了一个$8.00。那又是谁的帐呢？他还得在心灵的凄凉的路上重新走一遍，把它找出来。
他不知道自己找了多久，只是似乎在很久很久之后被敲门声惊醒了。玛利亚在问他是不是病了。他含含糊糊地说他山不清楚，他只是睡了个午觉。等他注意到屋里已经黑了下来，才吃了一惊。他接信时是下午两点。他明白自己病了。
然后$8.00又在他的眼帘下微微燃烧，他又被迫回去寻找。但是他狡猾起来了。他刚才太傻，他其实不必要在心灵里去转悠。他拉动一根杠杆，让心灵绕着自己转了起来。那是一个硕大无朋的命运之轮，一个记忆的旋转木马，一个智慧的滚动圆球。他越转越快，卷进了旋涡，被急旋着扔进了一片漆黑的混饨。
他飘飘然发现自己已在一个热轧滚筒旁，正在往滚筒里喂袖口。喂看喂着发现袖口上印着数字。他以为那是给衣服做记号的新办法，可仔细一看，却在一个袖口上认出了$3.85。这才想起那是杂货店的发票。见他的发票都在热轧滚筒上飞速地旋转，他产生了一个巧妙的念头：把发票全扔到地板上，便可以逃避计帐。刚这么一想地便干了起来。他把袖口轻蔑地揉成一团团，扔到极其肮脏的地位上。袖口越堆越高，虽然每一张发票都变成了一千份，他却只看到他欠玛利亚的那张。那就是说玛利亚无法催他还债了。于是他慷慨决定只还玛利亚的债。他到扔出的大堆袖日里去寻找玛利亚的发票。他拼命地找呀找呀，找了不知多少年，正在找时那荷兰胜经理送来了，脸上气得发出白炽的光，大喊大叫，叫得惊天动地。“我要从你们的工资里扣掉袖口钱！”这时袖口已经堆成了一座山。马丁明白他已注定要做一千年苦工才能还完债了。完了，没有办法了，只有杀了经理，放把火烧掉洗衣间。但是那肥胖的荷兰人却打败了他。那荷兰人一把抓住了他的脖颈，把他上上下下地晃动起来，让他在熨衣台上晃，在炉子上晃，在热轧滚筒上晃，晃到外面的洗衣间里，晃到绞干机和洗衣机上。直晃得他牙齿答答地响，脑袋生疼。他没想到那荷兰胖子竟有这么大的力气。
然后他发现自己来到了热轧滚筒面前。这一回是在接袖口，一个杂志编辑在另一面喂。每一张袖口都是一张支票，马丁怀着急切的希望检查着。可全是空白支票。他站在那儿收着空白支票，大约收了一百万年，一张也不让错过，怕漏掉签了字的。他终于找到了。他用颤抖的手指拿起那支票对着光。是五块钱的支票。“哈！哈！”编辑隔着热轧滚筒大笑起来。“哼，我要杀了你，”马丁叫道。他走了出去，到洗衣房去取斧头，却看见乔在给手稿上浆。他想叫他住手，挥起斧头向地砍去。可是那武器却在半空中停住动不了了，因为马丁已发现自己在一场暴风雪中回到了熨烫车间。不，那飘落的不是雪花，而是大额支票。最小的也不少于一千元。他开始收集支票整理起来，把一百张合成一扎，一扎扎用绳捆牢。
他捆着捆着抬头一看，看见乔站在他面前像玩杂技一样抛掷着熨今。上了浆的衬衫、和稿子，还不时伸手加一扎支票到飞旋的行列中去。那些东西穿出房顶，飞成一个极大的圆圈消失了。马丁向乔一斧砍去，却叫他夺走了斧头，也扔进了飞旋的行列。他又抓住马丁也扔了上去。马丁穿出房顶去抓稿件，落下时手里已拖了一大抱。可他刚一落下又飞了起来，然后便一次二次无数次地随着圆圈飞旋。他听见一个尖细的重声在歌唱：“带我跳华尔兹吧，威利，一圈一圈又一圈地跳呀。”
他在支票、熨好的衬衫和稿件的银河里找到了斧头，打算下去杀掉乔。可是他并没有下去。倒是玛利亚在凌晨两点隔着板壁听见了他的呻吟，走进了他的房间，用热熨斗在他身上做起了热敷，又用湿布贴在了他疼痛的眼睛上。
Chapter 26
Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning. It was late afternoon before he came out of his delirium and gazed with aching eyes about the room. Mary, one of the tribe of Silva, eight years old, keeping watch, raised a screech at sight of his returning consciousness. Maria hurried into the room from the kitchen. She put her work-calloused hand upon his hot forehead and felt his pulse.
"You lika da eat?" she asked.
He shook his head. Eating was farthest from his desire, and he wondered that he should ever have been hungry in his life.
"I'm sick, Maria," he said weakly. "What is it? Do you know?"
"Grip," she answered. "Two or three days you alla da right. Better you no eat now. Bimeby plenty can eat, to-morrow can eat maybe."
Martin was not used to sickness, and when Maria and her little girl left him, he essayed to get up and dress. By a supreme exertion of will, with rearing brain and eyes that ached so that he could not keep them open, he managed to get out of bed, only to be left stranded by his senses upon the table. Half an hour later he managed to regain the bed, where he was content to lie with closed eyes and analyze his various pains and weaknesses. Maria came in several times to change the cold cloths on his forehead. Otherwise she left him in peace, too wise to vex him with chatter. This moved him to gratitude, and he murmured to himself, "Maria, you getta da milka ranch, all righta, all right."
Then he remembered his long-buried past of yesterday.
It seemed a life-time since he had received that letter from the TRANSCONTINENTAL, a life-time since it was all over and done with and a new page turned. He had shot his bolt, and shot it hard, and now he was down on his back. If he hadn't starved himself, he wouldn't have been caught by La Grippe. He had been run down, and he had not had the strength to throw off the germ of disease which had invaded his system. This was what resulted.
"What does it profit a man to write a whole library and lose his own life?" he demanded aloud. "This is no place for me. No more literature in mine. Me for the counting-house and ledger, the monthly salary, and the little home with Ruth."
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.
"You read for me, Maria," he said. "Never mind the big, long letters. Throw them under the table. Read me the small letters."
"No can," was the answer. "Teresa, she go to school, she can."
So Teresa Silva, aged nine, opened his letters and read them to him. He listened absently to a long dun from the type-writer people, his mind busy with ways and means of finding a job. Suddenly he was shocked back to himself.
"'We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in 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 was unaware of the pain of the action. It was the WHITE MOUSE that was offering him forty dollars, and the story was "The Whirlpool," another of his early horror stories. He read the letter through again and again. The editor told him plainly that he had not handled the idea properly, but that it was the idea they were buying because it was original. If they could cut the story down one-third, they would take it and send him forty dollars on receipt of his answer.
He called for pen and ink, and told the editor he could cut the story down three-thirds if he wanted to, and to send the forty dollars right along.
The letter despatched to the letter-box by Teresa, Martin lay back and thought. It wasn't a lie, after all. The WHITE MOUSE paid on acceptance. There were three thousand words in "The Whirlpool." Cut down a third, there would be two thousand. At forty dollars that would be two cents a word. Pay on acceptance and two cents a word - the newspapers had told the truth. And he had thought the WHITE MOUSE a third-rater! It was evident that he did not know the magazines. He had deemed the TRANSCONTINENTAL a first-rater, and it paid a cent for ten words. He had classed the WHITE MOUSE as of no account, and it paid twenty times as much as the TRANSCONTINENTAL and also had paid on acceptance.
Well, there was one thing certain: when he got well, he would not go out looking for a job. There were more stories in his head as good as "The Whirlpool," and at forty dollars apiece he could earn far more than in any job or position. Just when he thought the battle lost, it was won. He had proved for his career. The way was clear. Beginning with the WHITE MOUSE he would add magazine after magazine to his growing list of patrons. Hack-work could be put aside. For that matter, it had been wasted time, for it had not brought him a dollar. He would devote himself to work, good work, and he would pour out the best that was in him. He wished Ruth was there to share in his joy, and when he went over the letters left lying on his bed, he found one from her. It was sweetly reproachful, wondering what had kept him away for so dreadful a length of time. He reread the letter adoringly, dwelling over her handwriting, loving each stroke of her pen, and in the end kissing her signature.
And when he answered, he told her recklessly that he had not been to see her because his best clothes were in pawn. He told her that he had been sick, but was once more nearly well, and that inside ten days or two weeks (as soon as a letter could travel to New York City and return) he would redeem his clothes and be with her.
But Ruth did not care to wait ten days or two weeks. Besides, her lover was sick. The next afternoon, accompanied by Arthur, she arrived in the Morse carriage, to the unqualified delight of the Silva tribe and of all the urchins on the street, and to the consternation of Maria. She boxed the ears of the Silvas who crowded about the visitors on the tiny front porch, and in more than usual atrocious English tried to apologize for her appearance. Sleeves rolled up from soap-flecked arms and a wet gunny-sack around her waist told of the task at which she had been caught. So flustered was she by two such grand young people asking for her lodger, that she forgot to invite them to sit down in the little parlor. To enter Martin's room, they passed through the kitchen, warm and moist and steamy from the big washing in progress. Maria, in her excitement, jammed the bedroom and bedroom-closet doors together, and for five minutes, through the partly open door, clouds of steam, smelling of soap-suds and dirt, poured into the sick chamber.
Ruth succeeded in veering right and left and right again, and in running the narrow passage between table and bed to Martin's side; but Arthur veered too wide and fetched up with clatter and bang of pots and pans in the corner where Martin did his cooking. Arthur did not linger long. Ruth occupied the only chair, and having done his duty, he went outside and stood by the gate, the centre of seven marvelling Silvas, who watched him as they would have watched a curiosity in a side-show. All about the carriage were gathered the children from a dozen blocks, waiting and eager for some tragic and terrible denouement. Carriages were seen on their street only for weddings and funerals. Here was neither marriage nor death: therefore, it was something transcending experience and well worth waiting for.
Martin had been wild to see Ruth. His was essentially a love- nature, and he possessed more than the average man's need for sympathy. He was starving for sympathy, which, with him, meant intelligent understanding; and he had yet to learn that Ruth's sympathy was largely sentimental and tactful, and that it proceeded from gentleness of nature rather than from understanding of the objects of her sympathy. So it was while Martin held her hand and gladly talked, that her love for him prompted her to press his hand in return, and that her eyes were moist and luminous at sight of his helplessness and of the marks suffering had stamped upon his face.
But while he told her of his two acceptances, of his despair when he received the one from the TRANSCONTINENTAL, and of the corresponding delight with which he received the one from the WHITE MOUSE, she did not follow him. She heard the words he uttered and understood their literal import, but she was not with him in his despair and his delight. She could not get out of herself. She was not interested in selling stories to magazines. What was important to her was matrimony. She was not aware of it, however, any more than she was aware that her desire that Martin take a position was the instinctive and preparative impulse of motherhood. She would have blushed had she been told as much in plain, set terms, and next, she might have grown indignant and asserted that her sole interest lay in the man she loved and her desire for him to make the best of himself. So, while Martin poured out his heart to her, elated with the first success his chosen work in the world had received, she paid heed to his bare words only, gazing now and again about the room, shocked by what she saw.
For the first time Ruth gazed upon the sordid face of poverty. Starving lovers had always seemed romantic to her, - but she had had no idea how starving lovers lived. She had never dreamed it could be like this. Ever her gaze shifted from the room to him and back again. The steamy smell of dirty clothes, which had entered with her from the kitchen, was sickening. Martin must be soaked with it, Ruth concluded, if that awful woman washed frequently. Such was the contagiousness of degradation. When she looked at Martin, she seemed to see the smirch left upon him by his surroundings. She had never seen him unshaven, and the three days' growth of beard on his face was repulsive to her. Not alone did it give him the same dark and murky aspect of the Silva house, inside and out, but it seemed to emphasize that animal-like strength of his which she detested. And here he was, being confirmed in his madness by the two acceptances he took such pride in telling her about. A little longer and he would have surrendered and gone to work. Now he would continue on in this horrible house, writing and starving for a few more months.
"What is that smell?" she asked suddenly.
"Some of Maria's washing smells, I imagine," was the answer. "I am growing quite accustomed to them."
"No, no; not that. It is something else. A stale, sickish smell."
Martin sampled the air before replying.
"I can't smell anything else, except stale tobacco smoke," he announced.
"That's it. It is terrible. Why do you smoke so much, Martin?"
"I don't know, except that I smoke more than usual when I am lonely. And then, too, it's such a long-standing habit. I learned when I was only a youngster."
"It is not a nice habit, you know," she reproved. "It smells to heaven."
"That's the fault of the tobacco. I can afford only the cheapest. But wait until I get that forty-dollar check. I'll use a brand that is not offensive even to the angels. But that wasn't so bad, was it, two acceptances in three days? That forty-five dollars will pay about all my debts."
"For two years' work?" she queried.
"No, for less than a week's work. Please pass me that book over on the far corner of the table, the account book with the gray cover." He opened it and began turning over the pages rapidly. "Yes, I was right. Four days for 'The Ring of Bells,' two days for 'The Whirlpool.' That's forty-five dollars for a week's work, one hundred and eighty dollars a month. That beats any salary I can command. And, besides, I'm just beginning. A thousand dollars a month is not too much to buy for you all I want you to have. A salary of five hundred a month would be too small. That forty-five dollars is just a starter. Wait till I get my stride. Then watch my smoke."
Ruth misunderstood his slang, and reverted to cigarettes.
"You smoke more than enough as it is, and the brand of tobacco will make no difference. It is the smoking itself that is not nice, no matter what the brand may be. You are a chimney, a living volcano, a perambulating smoke-stack, and you are a perfect disgrace, Martin dear, you know you are."
She leaned toward him, entreaty in her eyes, and as he looked at her delicate face and into her pure, limpid eyes, as of old he was struck with his own unworthiness.
"I wish you wouldn't smoke any more," she whispered. "Please, for - my sake."
"All right, I won't," he cried. "I'll do anything you ask, dear love, anything; you know that."
A great temptation assailed her. In an insistent way she had caught glimpses of the large, easy-going side of his nature, and she felt sure, if she asked him to cease attempting to write, that he would grant her wish. In the swift instant that elapsed, the words trembled on her lips. But she did not utter them. She was not quite brave enough; she did not quite dare. Instead, she leaned toward him to meet him, and in his arms murmured:-
"You know, it is really not for my sake, Martin, but for your own. I am sure smoking hurts you; and besides, it is not good to be a slave to anything, to a drug least of all."
"I shall always be your slave," he smiled.
"In which case, I shall begin issuing my commands."
She looked at him mischievously, though deep down she was already regretting that she had not preferred her largest request.
"I live but to obey, your majesty."
"Well, then, my first commandment is, Thou shalt not omit to shave every day. Look how you have scratched my cheek."
And so it ended in caresses and love-laughter. But she had made one point, and she could not expect to make more than one at a time. She felt a woman's pride in that she had made him stop smoking. Another time she would persuade him to take a position, for had he not said he would do anything she asked?
She left his side to explore the room, examining the clothes-lines of notes overhead, learning the mystery of the tackle used for suspending his wheel under the ceiling, and being saddened by the heap of manuscripts under the table which represented to her just so much wasted time. The oil-stove won her admiration, but on investigating the food shelves she found them empty.
"Why, you haven't anything to eat, you poor dear," she said with tender compassion. "You must be starving."
"I store my food in Maria's safe and in her pantry," he lied. "It keeps better there. No danger of my starving. Look at that."
She had come back to his side, and she saw him double his arm at the elbow, the biceps crawling under his shirt-sleeve and swelling into a knot of muscle, heavy and hard. The sight repelled her. Sentimentally, she disliked it. But her pulse, her blood, every fibre of her, loved it and yearned for it, and, in the old, inexplicable way, she leaned toward him, not away from him. And in the moment that followed, when he crushed her in his arms, the brain of her, concerned with the superficial aspects of life, was in revolt; while the heart of her, the woman of her, concerned with life itself, exulted triumphantly. It was in moments like this that she felt to the uttermost the greatness of her love for Martin, for it was almost a swoon of delight to her to feel his strong arms about her, holding her tightly, hurting her with the grip of their fervor. At such moments she found justification for her treason to her standards, for her violation of her own high ideals, and, most of all, for her tacit disobedience to her mother and father. They did not want her to marry this man. It shocked them that she should love him. It shocked her, too, sometimes, when she was apart from him, a cool and reasoning creature. With him, she loved him - in truth, at times a vexed and worried love; but love it was, a love that was stronger than she.
"This La Grippe is nothing," he was saying. "It hurts a bit, and gives one a nasty headache, but it doesn't compare with break-bone fever."
"Have you had that, too?" she queried absently, intent on the heaven-sent justification she was finding in his arms.
And so, with absent queries, she led him on, till suddenly his words startled her.
He had had the fever in a secret colony of thirty lepers on one of the Hawaiian Islands.
"But why did you go there?" she demanded.
Such royal carelessness of body seemed criminal.
"Because I didn't know," he answered. "I never dreamed of lepers. When I deserted the schooner and landed on the beach, I headed inland for some place of hiding. For three days I lived off guavas, OHIA-apples, and bananas, all of which grew wild in the jungle. On the fourth day I found the trail - a mere foot-trail. It led inland, and it led up. It was the way I wanted to go, and it showed signs of recent travel. At one place it ran along the crest of a ridge that was no more than a knife-edge. The trail wasn't three feet wide on the crest, and on either side the ridge fell away in precipices hundreds of feet deep. One man, with plenty of ammunition, could have held it against a hundred thousand.
"It was the only way in to the hiding-place. Three hours after I found the trail I was there, in a little mountain valley, a pocket in the midst of lava peaks. The whole place was terraced for taro- patches, fruit trees grew there, and there were eight or ten grass huts. But as soon as I saw the inhabitants I knew what I'd struck. One sight of them was enough."
"What did you do?" Ruth demanded breathlessly, listening, like any Desdemona, appalled and fascinated.
"Nothing for me to do. Their leader was a kind old fellow, pretty far gone, but he ruled like a king. He had discovered the little valley and founded the settlement - all of which was against the law. But he had guns, plenty of ammunition, and those Kanakas, trained to the shooting of wild cattle and wild pig, were dead shots. No, there wasn't any running away for Martin Eden. He stayed - for three months."
"But how did you escape?"
"I'd have been there yet, if it hadn't been for a girl there, a half-Chinese, quarter-white, and quarter-Hawaiian. She was a beauty, poor thing, and well educated. Her mother, in Honolulu, was worth a million or so. Well, this girl got me away at last. Her mother financed the settlement, you see, so the girl wasn't afraid of being punished for letting me go. But she made me swear, first, never to reveal the hiding-place; and I never have. This is the first time I have even mentioned it. The girl had just the first signs of leprosy. The fingers of her right hand were slightly twisted, and there was a small spot on her arm. That was all. I guess she is dead, now."
"But weren't you frightened? And weren't you glad to get away without catching that dreadful disease?"
"Well," he confessed, "I was a bit shivery at first; but I got used to it. I used to feel sorry for that poor girl, though. That made me forget to be afraid. She was such a beauty, in spirit as well as in appearance, and she was only slightly touched; yet she was doomed to lie there, living the life of a primitive savage and rotting slowly away. Leprosy is far more terrible than you can imagine it."
"Poor thing," Ruth murmured softly. "It's a wonder she let you get away."
"How do you mean?" Martin asked unwittingly.
"Because she must have loved you," Ruth said, still softly. "Candidly, now, didn't she?"
Martin's sunburn had been bleached by his work in the laundry and by the indoor life he was living, while the hunger and the sickness had made his face even pale; and across this pallor flowed the slow wave of a blush. He was opening his mouth to speak, but Ruth shut him off.
"Never mind, don't answer; it's not necessary," she laughed.
But it seemed to him there was something metallic in her laughter, and that the light in her eyes was cold. On the spur of the moment it reminded him of a gale he had once experienced in the North Pacific. And for the moment the apparition of the gale rose before his eyes - a gale at night, with a clear sky and under a full moon, the huge seas glinting coldly in the moonlight. Next, he saw the girl in the leper refuge and remembered it was for love of him that she had let him go.
"She was noble," he said simply. "She gave me life."
That was all of the incident, but he heard Ruth muffle a dry sob in her throat, and noticed that she turned her face away to gaze out of the window. When she turned it back to him, it was composed, and there was no hint of the gale in her eyes.
"I'm such a silly," she said plaintively. "But I can't help it. I do so love you, Martin, I do, I do. I shall grow more catholic in time, but at present I can't help being jealous of those ghosts of the past, and you know your past is full of ghosts."
"It must be," she silenced his protest. "It could not be otherwise. And there's poor Arthur motioning me to come. He's tired waiting. And now good-by, dear."
"There's some kind of a mixture, put up by the druggists, that helps men to stop the use of tobacco," she called back from the door, "and I am going to send you some."
The door closed, but opened again.
"I do, I do," she whispered to him; and this time she was really gone.
Maria, with worshipful eyes that none the less were keen to note the texture of Ruth's garments and the cut of them (a cut unknown that produced an effect mysteriously beautiful), saw her to the carriage. The crowd of disappointed urchins stared till the carriage disappeared from view, then transferred their stare to Maria, who had abruptly become the most important person on the street. But it was one of her progeny who blasted Maria's reputation by announcing that the grand visitors had been for her lodger. After that Maria dropped back into her old obscurity and Martin began to notice the respectful manner in which he was regarded by the small fry of the neighborhood. As for Maria, Martin rose in her estimation a full hundred per cent, and had the Portuguese grocer witnessed that afternoon carriage-call he would have allowed Martin an additional three-dollars-and-eighty-five- cents' worth of credit.
早上马丁·伊登没有出去找工作。等他从昏迷中醒来，用疼痛的眼睛望着屋子时已经是下半晌。西尔伐家一个八岁的孩子玛丽在守着他，一见他醒来便尖声大叫。玛利亚急忙从国房赶来，用她长满了老茧的手摸了摸地滚烫的前额，还把了把他的脉。 
“想吃东西么？”她问。
他摇摇头。他毫无食欲，仿佛不知道自己这辈子什么时候肚子饿过。
“我病了，玛利亚，”他有气没力地说，“你知道是什么病么？”
“流感，”她回答，“两三天就会好的。现在你最好别吃东西，慢慢地就可以多吃了。也许明天吧。”
马丁不习惯于害病。玛利亚和她的小姑娘一离开地使试着站起来穿衣服。却脑袋发昏，眼睛也痛得睁不开。他凭着最大的意志力才挣扎着下了床，却一阵晕旋靠在桌上昏了过去。半小时之后才又挣扎着回到床上，老老实实躺着，闭着眼睛去体会各种痛苦和疲惫。玛利亚进来过几次，给他换额头上的冷敷。然后便让他静静躺着。她很知趣，不去哈叨，打扰他。这叫他激动，也很感谢。他自言自语地喃喃说：“玛利亚，你会得到牛奶场的。一定，一定。”
于是他回忆起了他昨天已埋葬的过去。自从他接到《跨越大陆》的通知以后，似乎已过了一辈子。一切都完了，一切都放弃了，他已翻开了新的一页。他曾竭尽全力作过斗争，可现在躺下了。他若没有让自己挨饿是不会染上流感的。他被打败了。连细菌进入了他的肌体也没有力气赶出去。这就是他的下场。
“一个人即使写了一图书馆的书，却死掉了，又有什么好处呢？”他大声地问，“这不是我的世界。我心里再也没有文学了。我要到会计室去管帐簿，拿月薪，跟露丝建立小家庭。”
两天以后，他吃了两个鸡蛋，两片面包，喝了一杯茶；便问起邮件，却发现眼睛还痛得无法读信。
“你给我读读吧，玛利亚，”他说，“那些厚信、长信都别管，全扔到桌子底下去，只给我读薄信。”
“我不识字，”她回答，“特利莎在上学，她识字。”
于是九岁的特利莎·西尔代便拆开信读给他听。他心不在焉地听着打字机店的一封催款的长信，心里忙着考虑找工作的种种办法，却突然一震，清醒过来。
“我们愿给你四十块钱，购买你故事的连载权，”特利莎吃力地拼读着，“只要你同意我们提出的修改方案。”
“那是什么杂志？”马丁叫道，“这儿，给我！”
现在他能看得见了，行动也不疼痛了。提出给他四十元的是《白鼠》杂志，那故事是《漩涡》，是他早期的一个恐怖故事。他把那信反复地读。编辑坦率地告诉他他对主题处理不当，而他们要买的恰好是主题，因为它别致。若是能砍掉故事的三分之一他们就准备采用，得到他同意的信后立即给他汇四十元来。
他要来了笔和墨水，告诉编辑只要他需要，可以砍去三分之一，并要他们立即把四十元汇来。
打发特利莎送信到邮简去之后，马丁又躺下来想看。毕竟没有撒谎，《白鼠》确是一经采用立即付酬的。《漩涡》有三千字，砍掉三分之一是两千字，四十元是两分钱一个字。每字两分，一经采用立即付酬——报纸说的是真话。可他却把《白鼠》看作是三流杂志！他显然对杂志并不内行。他曾把《跨越大陆》看作一流杂志，可它的稿酬却是一分钱十个字；他也曾认为《白鼠》无足轻重，可它付的稿酬却是《跨越大陆》的二十倍，而且一经采用立即付酬。
好了，有一点可以肯定了：他病好之后是不会去找工作的了。他脑子里还有许多像《漩涡》那样的好故事呢。按四十元一篇计算，他能赚到的钱比任何工作或职位都多得多。他以为失败了，没想到却胜利了。他的事业已得到证明，道路已经清楚。从《白鼠》开始他要不断增加接受他稿件的杂志。下锅之作可以休矣。那简直是浪费时间，一块钱也没有给他挣来过。他要写出作品来，优秀的作品，要让心里最优秀的东西滔滔不绝地流泻。他真希望露丝也在那儿和他共享欢乐。他检查床上剩下的信，却发现有一封正是露丝写的。那信委婉地批评了他，不知道出了什么事，他竟然那么久没有来看她——久得可怕呢。他满怀崇拜他重读了她的信，端详着她的手迹，钟爱看她的一笔一划，最后还亲吻了她的签名。
他回信时坦率地告诉露丝他之所以无法去看她是因为他最好的衣服已送进了当铺。他也告诉她地病了，但已差不多痊愈，在十天或两个礼拜之内（也就是信件去纽约一个来回的时间里）赎回了衣服就可以来看她。
但是露丝却不能等十天或两个礼拜，何况她爱的人还在生病。第二天下午，她就由亚瑟陪同，坐着莫尔斯家的马车到达了。这叫西尔伐家的孩子们和街道上的顽童们说不出地欢喜，却叫玛利亚大吃了一惊。在小小的前门门廊边西尔伐家的孩子往客人身边乱挤，她就扇他们耳光，然后又以可怕得出奇的英语为自己的外表致歉。她的袖子卷了起来，露出了挂着肥皂泡的胳膊，腰上还系着一根湿漉漉的麻布口袋，表明了她正在从事的工作。两位这么体面的年轻人来问起她的房客，弄得她不知所措，忘了请他们在小客厅里坐下。客人要进马丁的房间得从那暖烘烘、湿准流雳气腾腾、正在大洗其衣服的厨房里经过。马利亚一激动又让寝室门跟厕所门挂住了。于是阵阵带着肥皂泡沫和污物昧的水气便涌入了房间，达五分钟之久。
露丝成功地拐完了之字拐，穿过了桌子跟床之间的狭窄通道，来到了马丁身边。但是亚瑟的弯却拐得太大，在马丁做饭的角落里碰到了他的盆盆罐罐，弄出了一片叮当之声。亚瑟没有多逗留。露丝占了唯一的椅子，他只好在完成仔务之后退了出来，站到门口，成了西尔伐家七个孩子的中心。孩子们望着他像看什么新鲜玩意。十来个街区的孩子们都围到了马车旁边，急切地等着看什么悲惨可怕的结局。在他们的街道上马车只是用于婚礼或葬礼。可这儿并没有婚礼或葬礼，超出了他们的经验之外，因此很值得等着看个究竟。
马丁一直急于见到露丝。他本质上原是个多情种子，而又比平常人更需要同情——他渴望同情，那对于地意味着思想上的理解。可他还不了解露丝的同清大体是情绪上的，礼貌上的，与其说是出于对对象的理解，毋宁说是出于她温柔的天性。因此，在马丁抓住她的手向她倾诉时，她出于对他的爱便也握着他的手。一见他那孤苦伶订的样子和脸上受苦的迹象她的眼里便湿润了，闪出了泪花。
但是在他告诉她他有两篇作品被采用，又告诉她他在接到《跨越大陆》的通知时的失望和接《白鼠》的通知时的欢欣时，她却没有跟上他的情绪。她听见他说的话，知道那表面的意思，却不懂得它蕴涵的意义和他的失望和欢乐。她无法摆脱自己。她对卖稿子给杂志不感兴趣，她感到重要的是结婚，但她并没有意识到——那正如她不明白自己希望马丁找工作是一种本能的冲动，是替当妈妈作准备。若是有人把这话直截了当告诉了她，她是会脸红的，而且会生气，会坚持说她唯一的兴趣是希望她所爱的人能充分施展他的才能。因此，尽管马丁为自己在世上所选择的工作的第一次成功而兴高采烈，向她倾诉心曲的时候，她听见的也只是词语。她眼睛正望着屋子，为眼前的景象惊呆了。
露丝是第一次细看到贫穷的肮脏面貌。在她眼里饿肚子的情人似乎永远是浪漫的，却不知道饿肚子的情人究竟怎样生活。她做梦也没有想到会是这样。她的眼睛望望他，又望望屋子，然后又望回来。跟着她送到屋里的水蒸气里的脏衣服味儿叫人恶心。露丝认为若是那可怕的女人经常洗衣服的话，马丁准是泡在了那味儿里的。堕落怕就是这样传染开的吧。她望着马丁，仿佛看到周围环境在他身上留下的脏污。她从没有见过他没刮胡子的样子，他那三天没刮的胡子令她反感，不但给了她阴沉黑暗的印象，跟西尔代家里里外外相同，而且似乎突出了那种她所抵触的粗野的力。而现在他还在走火火魔，得意洋洋地向她讲述着他的两篇作品被采用的事。再受几天苦他原是可以投降，走向工作的，现在怕是又得在这个可怕的屋子里过下去，饿着肚子再写上几个月了。
“那是什么味呀？”她突然问道。
“玛利亚的有些衣服是有味道的，我猜想。我已经很习惯了。”
“不，不，不是那味儿，是另外的什么，一种叫人恶心的腐败味儿。”
“除了陈旧的烟草味，我没有闻到什么。”他宣布。
“就是烟草，太难闻了。你为什么抽那么多烟，马丁？”
“不知道，只是孤独时就想多抽。抽烟时间太长了。我是从少年时代就抽起的。”
“那可不是好习惯，你知道，”她责备他，“简直臭气熏天。”
“那是烟的毛病，我只能买最便宜的。你等着，等我拿到那四十元的支票，找要买一种连天使也不会讨厌的牌子。不过，三天之内就有两篇稿子被采用，不能算坏吧？四十块钱差不多可以还清我的全部欠债了呢。”
“那是两年的工作报酬吧？”她问。
“不，是不到一周工作的报酬。请把桌子那边那个本子递给我，那个灰皮的帐本。”他打开帐本迅速地翻了起来。“对，我没有错。《钟声激越》写了四天，《漩涡》写了两天。就是说一周的工作得了四十五块钱，每月一百八十块。比我所能得到的任何工作的报酬都高。而且这才是开头。我要想给你买的东西就是每月花一千块也不算多；每月五百块太少。四十五块不过是起步而已。等着看我大踏步前进吧。那时候我还要腾云驾雾呢。”
腾云驾雾是句俗话，露丝不懂，她又想到抽烟上去了。
“像现在这样你已经抽得太多，牌子造成的差别并不大，有害的是抽烟本身，不管牌子如何。你是个烟囱、活火山、会走路的烟筒子呢，简直丢脸透了，亲爱的马丁，你知道你是的。”
她带着请求的眼神向他便了过去。他望着她那娇嫩的脸儿，看着她那清澈纯洁的眼睛，又像过去一样感到自己配不上她了。
“我希望你别再抽了，”她细声地说，“我求你了，为了——我。”
“好，我不抽了，”他叫道，“你要我做什么都行，李爱的宝口，你知道的。”
她受到一种巨大的诱惑。她多次一厢情愿地曾见过他那宽厚随和的天性，因而认为若是她要求他放弃写作，他也准会答应。刹邵门话语已在她嘴唇上颤抖，她却忍住了。她不够勇敢，有几分胆怯，反倒迎着他靠了过去，倒在他的怀里喃喃地说：
“确实不是为了我，而是为了你自己呢，马丁。而且，做奴隶总不是好事，尤其是做毒品的奴隶。”
“可我却永远是你的奴隶呢。”他笑了。
“那，我就要颁布命令了。”
她调皮地望着他，虽然心里因为没有提出最大的要求而懊悔。
“服从乃是小臣的天职，陛下。”
“那么，朕的第一戒乃是：勿忘每日刮胡子。你看你把我脸都扎了。”
随之而来的是男欢女爱的调笑和爱抚。可是她已经提出了一个要求，不能一次提得太多。因为让他戒了烟，她感到一种女性的骄傲。下一回他就要要求他找工作了，他不是说过为了她他什么事都愿意做么？
她离开了他身边，去看了看房间。她检查了挂在头顶洗衣绳上的笔记，明白了用以把自行车吊在天花板下的辘轳的秘密，也为桌下那一大堆稿子感到难受——她认为那不知浪费了他多少时间。煤油炉子倒使她欣慰，可一看食品架，却空空如也。
“怎么啦，可怜的宝贝，你没有东西吃了？”她带着温柔的同情说，“你准是饿肚子了。”
“我把我的食物放在玛利亚的柜橱和储藏室里，”他撒了个谎，“在那儿保存得更好。我没有挨饿的危险的，你看这儿。”
她已经回到他的身边，看见他弯过的手肘，袖子底下二头肌滚动起来，结成了一块隆起的肌肉，又大又结实。从感情上讲，她并不喜欢它，但她的脉搏、血液，全身上下都爱它，都渴望着它。因此她便像过去一样不是避开他，而是无法解释地向他靠了过去。在随之而来的时刻里，在他紧紧拥抱着她的时候，她那关心着生活表面现象的脑子虽感到抵触，她的心，她那关心着生命本身的女性的心却因胜利而心花怒放。她正是在这种时候最深刻地感到了自己对马丁的刻骨铭心的爱的。因为在她感到他那健壮的胳膊伸过来，搂紧她，由于狂热楼得她生疼时，她已快乐得几乎要晕了过去。在这个时刻她找到了背叛自己的原则和崇高理想的根据，尤其是不作声地违背了父母意愿的根据。他们不愿意她嫁给这个人，因为她爱上了这个人而惊讶；就连她自己有时也惊讶——那是在她不在他身边、头脑冷静、能够思考的时候。可跟他在一起她便要爱他。那有时确实是一种令人烦恼、痛苦的爱情。但毕竟是爱情，比她要强有力的爱情。
“流感算不了什么，”他说，“有点痛苦，脑袋痛得难受，但跟登格热却不能比。”
“你也害过登格热么？”她心不在焉地问道，陶醉于躺在他怀里所得到的那种天赐的自我辩解。
她就这样心不在焉地引着他说着话儿。突然，他说出的话竟叫她大吃了一惊。
原来他是在一个秘密的麻风寨里得的登格热，那是在夏威夷群岛的一个小岛上，寨里有三十个麻风病人。
“你为什么会到那儿去？”她问。
对自己身子这种大大咧咧的忽视几乎是犯罪。
“因为我并不知道，”他回答，“我做梦也没有想到会有麻风病人。我脱离帆船之后从海滩上了岸，便往内陆跑，想找个地方躲起来。连续三天我都靠丛林中野生的芭拉果、奥夏苹果和香蕉过日子。第四天我找到了路——脚步踏出的通向内陆高处的路。那正是找要找的路，上面有新鲜的脚迹。它在有个地方通向一道山脊之顶，那儿窄得像刀刃，最高处还不到一英尺宽，两面都是几百英尺深的悬崖峭壁。只要有足够的武器弹药，一个人是可以在那儿堵住十万大军的。
“那是通向那隐藏他的唯一的路。在找到那路后三小时我已到达了那儿。那是一道山谷，是个火山熔岩的峰峦围成的口袋。全部修成了梯田，种着芋艿，也有水果。有八或十间草屋。但是我现到居民便知道闯到了什么地方。真是一目了然。”
“那你怎么办呢？”露丝像个苔丝德梦娜，及恐怖又入迷，喘不过气来。
“我什么办法都没有。他们的首领是个慈祥的老人，病相当重，却像个国王一样统治着。是他发现了这个小山谷，建立了这个麻风寨的——全都违法，可他们有枪，有大量的军火，而卡那卡人又是有名的神枪手，经受过打野牛野猪的训练的。没有办法，马丁·伊登进不了。他留下了——一留三个月。”
“后来你是怎么逃掉的？”
“要不是那儿有一个姑娘，我可能至今还在那儿。那姑娘有一半中国血统，四分之一白人血统，四分之一夏威夷人血统。可怜的人儿，很美丽的，而且受过良好的教育，她妈妈有檀香山有一百万左右的家产。好了，这个姑娘最终把我放掉了。他的妈妈资助着这麻风寨，她放了我不怕受到处分。可她让我发誓决不泄露这隐藏他的秘密。我也没有泄露过。这还是我第一次谈起呢。那姑娘刚开始出现麻风的症状，右手指头有些弯曲，手臂上有一个红色的斑点，如此而已。我估计她现在已经死了。”
“可你害怕不？你能逃出来而没有染上那可怕的病你高兴不？”
“害怕，”他承认，“我开头有点心惊胆战；后来也习惯了。不过我一直为那个可怜的姑娘感到难过。那也让我忘了害怕。那姑娘确实很美，外形美，精神也美，而巨只受到轻微的感染；可她却注定了要留在那儿，过着野蛮人的原始生活，慢慢烂掉。麻风病要比你想像的可怕多了。”
“可怜的姑娘，”露丝低声喃喃地说，“她竟然能让你去掉，真是个奇迹。”
“你是什么意思？”他不明白，问道。
“因为她一定是爱上你了，”露丝仍然低声地说，“现在，坦率地说吧，是不是？”
因为在洗衣店里工作过，现在又过着室内的生活，加上疾病和饥饿，马丁被太阳晒黑的脸已经褪色，甚至有些苍白。一阵红晕慢慢从苍白中透了出来。他正要开口说话，却被露丝打断了。
“没有关系，不必回答，没有必要，”她笑出了声。
但他仿佛觉得那笑声里有着某种生硬的东西，眼里的光芒也冷冷的。在那个瞬间他突然想起了自己在北太平洋经历的一次狂风。那风的幻影立即在他眼前升起——风起之前是个万里无云满月高照的夜，浩瀚的大海在月光下闪着冷冰冰的金属般的光。然后他看见了麻风寨的那个姑娘，记起她是因为爱上了他才让他逃掉的。
“她很高贵，”他简单地说，“是她给了我生命。”
关于这件事他只谈到这儿为止，但他却已听见露丝压抑住喉咙里一声嘶哑的呜咽，注意到她转过脸去对着窗户。再转过脸来时她已平静如初，眼里已没有了暴风雨的痕迹。
“我真傻，”她伤心地说，“可是我忍不住。我太爱你了，马丁，太爱了，太爱了，我会慢慢宽宏大量起来的，可是现在我却忍不住要嫉妒过去的幻影。而你知道你的过去里充满了幻影。
“肯定如此，”她不让他辩解，“不可能不如此。可怜的亚瑟已在向我做手势，要我走了。他等得太累了。现在再见吧，亲爱的。
“有药剂师推出了一种合剂，可以帮助戒烟，”她到了门口又回过头来，说，“我给你送一点来。”
门刚关上，又打开了。
“我非常爱你，爱你。”她悄悄对他说。这一次才真走掉了。
玛利亚用崇拜的眼光送她上了马车。她目光敏锐，注意到了露丝衣服的料子和剪裁。那是一种从没有见过的款式，有一种神秘的美。顽童们很失望，眼巴巴望着马车走掉了，然后回过头来望着玛利亚——她突然变成了街面上最显要的人物。可是她的一个孩子却破坏了她的威望，说那些体面的客人是来看他们家房客的。于是玛利亚又归于原先的默默无闻，而马丁却突然发现附近的娃娃们对自己肃然起敬了。在玛利亚心里马丁的身价也足足提高了十倍。那杂货店的葡萄牙老板怕也会同意再赊给马万三块八毛五的货品的，若是他亲眼看见了坐马车来的客人的话。
Chapter 27
The sun of Martin's good fortune rose. The day after Ruth's visit, he received a check for three dollars from a New York scandal weekly in payment for three of his triolets. Two days later a newspaper published in Chicago accepted his "Treasure Hunters," promising to pay ten dollars for it on publication. The price was small, but it was the first article he had written, his very first attempt to express his thought on the printed page. To cap everything, the adventure serial for boys, his second attempt, was accepted before the end of the week by a juvenile monthly calling itself YOUTH AND AGE. It was true the serial was twenty-one thousand words, and they offered to pay him sixteen dollars on publication, which was something like seventy-five cents a thousand words; but it was equally true that it was the second thing he had attempted to write and that he was himself thoroughly aware of its clumsy worthlessness.
But even his earliest efforts were not marked with the clumsiness of mediocrity. What characterized them was the clumsiness of too great strength - the clumsiness which the tyro betrays when he crushes butterflies with battering rams and hammers out vignettes with a war-club. So it was that Martin was glad to sell his early efforts for songs. He knew them for what they were, and it had not taken him long to acquire this knowledge. What he pinned his faith to was his later work. He had striven to be something more than a mere writer of magazine fiction. He had sought to equip himself with the tools of artistry. On the other hand, he had not sacrificed strength. His conscious aim had been to increase his strength by avoiding excess of strength. Nor had he departed from his love of reality. His work was realism, though he had endeavored to fuse with it the fancies and beauties of imagination. What he sought was an impassioned realism, shot through with human aspiration and faith. What he wanted was life as it was, with all its spirit-groping and soul-reaching left in.
He had discovered, in the course of his reading, two schools of fiction. One treated of man as a god, ignoring his earthly origin; the other treated of man as a clod, ignoring his heaven-sent dreams and divine possibilities. Both the god and the clod schools erred, in Martin's estimation, and erred through too great singleness of sight and purpose. There was a compromise that approximated the truth, though it flattered not the school of god, while it challenged the brute-savageness of the school of clod. It was his story, "Adventure," which had dragged with Ruth, that Martin believed had achieved his ideal of the true in fiction; and it was in an essay, "God and Clod," that he had expressed his views on the whole general subject.
But "Adventure," and all that he deemed his best work, still went begging among the editors. His early work counted for nothing in his eyes except for the money it brought, and his horror stories, two of which he had sold, he did not consider high work nor his best work. To him they were frankly imaginative and fantastic, though invested with all the glamour of the real, wherein lay their power. This investiture of the grotesque and impossible with reality, he looked upon as a trick - a skilful trick at best. Great literature could not reside in such a field. Their artistry was high, but he denied the worthwhileness of artistry when divorced from humanness. The trick had been to fling over the face of his artistry a mask of humanness, and this he had done in the half-dozen or so stories of the horror brand he had written before he emerged upon the high peaks of "Adventure," "Joy," "The Pot," and "The Wine of Life."
The three dollars he received for the triolets he used to eke out a precarious existence against the arrival of the WHITE MOUSE check. He cashed the first check with the suspicious Portuguese grocer, paying a dollar on account and dividing the remaining two dollars between the baker and the fruit store. Martin was not yet rich enough to afford meat, and he was on slim allowance when the WHITE MOUSE check arrived. He was divided on the cashing of it. He had never been in a bank in his life, much less been in one on business, and he had a naive and childlike desire to walk into one of the big banks down in Oakland and fling down his indorsed check for forty dollars. On the other hand, practical common sense ruled that he should cash it with his grocer and thereby make an impression that would later result in an increase of credit. Reluctantly Martin yielded to the claims of the grocer, paying his bill with him in full, and receiving in change a pocketful of jingling coin. Also, he paid the other tradesmen in full, redeemed his suit and his bicycle, paid one month's rent on the type-writer, and paid Maria the overdue month for his room and a month in advance. This left him in his pocket, for emergencies, a balance of nearly three dollars.
In itself, this small sum seemed a fortune. Immediately on recovering his clothes he had gone to see Ruth, and on the way he could not refrain from jingling the little handful of silver in his pocket. He had been so long without money that, like a rescued starving man who cannot let the unconsumed food out of his sight, Martin could not keep his hand off the silver. He was not mean, nor avaricious, but the money meant more than so many dollars and cents. It stood for success, and the eagles stamped upon the coins were to him so many winged victories.
It came to him insensibly that it was a very good world. It certainly appeared more beautiful to him. For weeks it had been a very dull and sombre world; but now, with nearly all debts paid, three dollars jingling in his pocket, and in his mind the consciousness of success, the sun shone bright and warm, and even a rain-squall that soaked unprepared pedestrians seemed a merry happening to him. When he starved, his thoughts had dwelt often upon the thousands he knew were starving the world over; but now that he was feasted full, the fact of the thousands starving was no longer pregnant in his brain. He forgot about them, and, being in love, remembered the countless lovers in the world. Without deliberately thinking about it, MOTIFS for love-lyrics began to agitate his brain. Swept away by the creative impulse, he got off the electric car, without vexation, two blocks beyond his crossing.
He found a number of persons in the Morse home. Ruth's two girl- cousins were visiting her from San Rafael, and Mrs. Morse, under pretext of entertaining them, was pursuing her plan of surrounding Ruth with young people. The campaign had begun during Martin's enforced absence, and was already in full swing. She was making a point of having at the house men who were doing things. Thus, in addition to the cousins Dorothy and Florence, Martin encountered two university professors, one of Latin, the other of English; a young army officer just back from the Philippines, one-time school- mate of Ruth's; a young fellow named Melville, private secretary to Joseph Perkins, head of the San Francisco Trust Company; and finally of the men, a live bank cashier, Charles Hapgood, a youngish man of thirty-five, graduate of Stanford University, member of the Nile Club and the Unity Club, and a conservative speaker for the Republican Party during campaigns - in short, a rising young man in every way. Among the women was one who painted portraits, another who was a professional musician, and still another who possessed the degree of Doctor of Sociology and who was locally famous for her social settlement work in the slums of San Francisco. But the women did not count for much in Mrs. Morse's plan. At the best, they were necessary accessories. The men who did things must be drawn to the house somehow.
"Don't get excited when you talk," Ruth admonished Martin, before the ordeal of introduction began.
He bore himself a bit stiffly at first, oppressed by a sense of his own awkwardness, especially of his shoulders, which were up to their old trick of threatening destruction to furniture and ornaments. Also, he was rendered self-conscious by the company. He had never before been in contact with such exalted beings nor with so many of them. Melville, the bank cashier, fascinated him, and he resolved to investigate him at the first opportunity. For underneath Martin's awe lurked his assertive ego, and he felt the urge to measure himself with these men and women and to find out what they had learned from the books and life which he had not learned.
Ruth's eyes roved to him frequently to see how he was getting on, and she was surprised and gladdened by the ease with which he got acquainted with her cousins. He certainly did not grow excited, while being seated removed from him the worry of his shoulders. Ruth knew them for clever girls, superficially brilliant, and she could scarcely understand their praise of Martin later that night at going to bed. But he, on the other hand, a wit in his own class, a gay quizzer and laughter-maker at dances and Sunday picnics, had found the making of fun and the breaking of good- natured lances simple enough in this environment. And on this evening success stood at his back, patting him on the shoulder and telling him that he was making good, so that he could afford to laugh and make laughter and remain unabashed.
Later, Ruth's anxiety found justification. Martin and Professor Caldwell had got together in a conspicuous corner, and though Martin no longer wove the air with his hands, to Ruth's critical eye he permitted his own eyes to flash and glitter too frequently, talked too rapidly and warmly, grew too intense, and allowed his aroused blood to redden his cheeks too much. He lacked decorum and control, and was in decided contrast to the young professor of English with whom he talked.
But Martin was not concerned with appearances! He had been swift to note the other's trained mind and to appreciate his command of knowledge. Furthermore, Professor Caldwell did not realize Martin's concept of the average English professor. Martin wanted him to talk shop, and, though he seemed averse at first, succeeded in making him do it. For Martin did not see why a man should not talk shop.
"It's absurd and unfair," he had told Ruth weeks before, "this objection to talking shop. For what reason under the sun do men and women come together if not for the exchange of the best that is in them? And the best that is in them is what they are interested in, the thing by which they make their living, the thing they've specialized on and sat up days and nights over, and even dreamed about. Imagine Mr. Butler living up to social etiquette and enunciating his views on Paul Verlaine or the German drama or the novels of D'Annunzio. We'd be bored to death. I, for one, if I must listen to Mr. Butler, prefer to hear him talk about his law. It's the best that is in him, and life is so short that I want the best of every man and woman I meet."
"But," Ruth had objected, "there are the topics of general interest to all."
"There, you mistake," he had rushed on. "All persons in society, all cliques in society - or, rather, nearly all persons and cliques - ape their betters. Now, who are the best betters? The idlers, the wealthy idlers. They do not know, as a rule, the things known by the persons who are doing something in the world. To listen to conversation about such things would mean to be bored, wherefore the idlers decree that such things are shop and must not be talked about. Likewise they decree the things that are not shop and which may be talked about, and those things are the latest operas, latest novels, cards, billiards, cocktails, automobiles, horse shows, trout fishing, tuna-fishing, big-game shooting, yacht sailing, and so forth - and mark you, these are the things the idlers know. In all truth, they constitute the shop-talk of the idlers. And the funniest part of it is that many of the clever people, and all the would-be clever people, allow the idlers so to impose upon them. As for me, I want the best a man's got in him, call it shop vulgarity or anything you please."
And Ruth had not understood. This attack of his on the established had seemed to her just so much wilfulness of opinion.
So Martin contaminated Professor Caldwell with his own earnestness, challenging him to speak his mind. As Ruth paused beside them she heard Martin saying:-
"You surely don't pronounce such heresies in the University of California?"
Professor Caldwell shrugged his shoulders. "The honest taxpayer and the politician, you know. Sacramento gives us our appropriations and therefore we kowtow to Sacramento, and to the Board of Regents, and to the party press, or to the press of both parties."
"Yes, that's clear; but how about you?" Martin urged. "You must be a fish out of the water."
"Few like me, I imagine, in the university pond. Sometimes I am fairly sure I am out of water, and that I should belong in Paris, in Grub Street, in a hermit's cave, or in some sadly wild Bohemian crowd, drinking claret, - dago-red they call it in San Francisco, - dining in cheap restaurants in the Latin Quarter, and expressing vociferously radical views upon all creation. Really, I am frequently almost sure that I was cut out to be a radical. But then, there are so many questions on which I am not sure. I grow timid when I am face to face with my human frailty, which ever prevents me from grasping all the factors in any problem - human, vital problems, you know."
And as he talked on, Martin became aware that to his own lips had come the "Song of the Trade Wind":-
"I am strongest at noon, But under the moon I stiffen the bunt of the sail."
He was almost humming the words, and it dawned upon him that the other reminded him of the trade wind, of the Northeast Trade, steady, and cool, and strong. He was equable, he was to be relied upon, and withal there was a certain bafflement about him. Martin had the feeling that he never spoke his full mind, just as he had often had the feeling that the trades never blew their strongest but always held reserves of strength that were never used. Martin's trick of visioning was active as ever. His brain was a most accessible storehouse of remembered fact and fancy, and its contents seemed ever ordered and spread for his inspection. Whatever occurred in the instant present, Martin's mind immediately presented associated antithesis or similitude which ordinarily expressed themselves to him in vision. It was sheerly automatic, and his visioning was an unfailing accompaniment to the living present. Just as Ruth's face, in a momentary jealousy had called before his eyes a forgotten moonlight gale, and as Professor Caldwell made him see again the Northeast Trade herding the white billows across the purple sea, so, from moment to moment, not disconcerting but rather identifying and classifying, new memory- visions rose before him, or spread under his eyelids, or were thrown upon the screen of his consciousness. These visions came out of the actions and sensations of the past, out of things and events and books of yesterday and last week - a countless host of apparitions that, waking or sleeping, forever thronged his mind.
So it was, as he listened to Professor Caldwell's easy flow of speech - the conversation of a clever, cultured man - that Martin kept seeing himself down all his past. He saw himself when he had been quite the hoodlum, wearing a "stiff-rim" Stetson hat and a square-cut, double-breasted coat, with a certain swagger to the shoulders and possessing the ideal of being as tough as the police permitted. He did not disguise it to himself, nor attempt to palliate it. At one time in his life he had been just a common hoodlum, the leader of a gang that worried the police and terrorized honest, working-class householders. But his ideals had changed. He glanced about him at the well-bred, well-dressed men and women, and breathed into his lungs the atmosphere of culture and refinement, and at the same moment the ghost of his early youth, in stiff-rim and square-cut, with swagger and toughness, stalked across the room. This figure, of the corner hoodlum, he saw merge into himself, sitting and talking with an actual university professor.
For, after all, he had never found his permanent abiding place. He had fitted in wherever he found himself, been a favorite always and everywhere by virtue of holding his own at work and at play and by his willingness and ability to fight for his rights and command respect. But he had never taken root. He had fitted in sufficiently to satisfy his fellows but not to satisfy himself. He had been perturbed always by a feeling of unrest, had heard always the call of something from beyond, and had wandered on through life seeking it until he found books and art and love. And here he was, in the midst of all this, the only one of all the comrades he had adventured with who could have made themselves eligible for the inside of the Morse home.
But such thoughts and visions did not prevent him from following Professor Caldwell closely. And as he followed, comprehendingly and critically, he noted the unbroken field of the other's knowledge. As for himself, from moment to moment the conversation showed him gaps and open stretches, whole subjects with which he was unfamiliar. Nevertheless, thanks to his Spencer, he saw that he possessed the outlines of the field of knowledge. It was a matter only of time, when he would fill in the outline. Then watch out, he thought - 'ware shoal, everybody! He felt like sitting at the feet of the professor, worshipful and absorbent; but, as he listened, he began to discern a weakness in the other's judgments - a weakness so stray and elusive that he might not have caught it had it not been ever present. And when he did catch it, he leapt to equality at once.
Ruth came up to them a second time, just as Martin began to speak.
"I'll tell you where you are wrong, or, rather, what weakens your judgments," he said. "You lack biology. It has no place in your scheme of things. - Oh, I mean the real interpretative biology, from the ground up, from the laboratory and the test-tube and the vitalized inorganic right on up to the widest aesthetic and sociological generalizations."
Ruth was appalled. She had sat two lecture courses under Professor Caldwell and looked up to him as the living repository of all knowledge.
"I scarcely follow you," he said dubiously.
Martin was not so sure but what he had followed him.
"Then I'll try to explain," he said. "I remember reading in Egyptian history something to the effect that understanding could not be had of Egyptian art without first studying the land question."
"Quite right," the professor nodded.
"And it seems to me," Martin continued, "that knowledge of the land question, in turn, of all questions, for that matter, cannot be had without previous knowledge of the stuff and the constitution of life. How can we understand laws and institutions, religions and customs, without understanding, not merely the nature of the creatures that made them, but the nature of the stuff out of which the creatures are made? Is literature less human than the architecture and sculpture of Egypt? Is there one thing in the known universe that is not subject to the law of evolution? - Oh, I know there is an elaborate evolution of the various arts laid down, but it seems to me to be too mechanical. The human himself is left out. The evolution of the tool, of the harp, of music and song and dance, are all beautifully elaborated; but how about the evolution of the human himself, the development of the basic and intrinsic parts that were in him before he made his first tool or gibbered his first chant? It is that which you do not consider, and which I call biology. It is biology in its largest aspects.
"I know I express myself incoherently, but I've tried to hammer out the idea. It came to me as you were talking, so I was not primed and ready to deliver it. You spoke yourself of the human frailty that prevented one from taking all the factors into consideration. And you, in turn, - or so it seems to me, - leave out the biological factor, the very stuff out of which has been spun the fabric of all the arts, the warp and the woof of all human actions and achievements."
To Ruth's amazement, Martin was not immediately crushed, and that the professor replied in the way he did struck her as forbearance for Martin's youth. Professor Caldwell sat for a full minute, silent and fingering his watch chain.
"Do you know," he said at last, "I've had that same criticism passed on me once before - by a very great man, a scientist and evolutionist, Joseph Le Conte. But he is dead, and I thought to remain undetected; and now you come along and expose me. Seriously, though - and this is confession - I think there is something in your contention - a great deal, in fact. I am too classical, not enough up-to-date in the interpretative branches of science, and I can only plead the disadvantages of my education and a temperamental slothfulness that prevents me from doing the work. I wonder if you'll believe that I've never been inside a physics or chemistry laboratory? It is true, nevertheless. Le Conte was right, and so are you, Mr. Eden, at least to an extent - how much I do not know."
Ruth drew Martin away with her on a pretext; when she had got him aside, whispering:-
"You shouldn't have monopolized Professor Caldwell that way. There may be others who want to talk with him."
"My mistake," Martin admitted contritely. "But I'd got him stirred up, and he was so interesting that I did not think. Do you know, he is the brightest, the most intellectual, man I have ever talked with. And I'll tell you something else. I once thought that everybody who went to universities, or who sat in the high places in society, was just as brilliant and intelligent as he."
"He's an exception," she answered.
"I should say so. Whom do you want me to talk to now? - Oh, say, bring me up against that cashier-fellow."
Martin talked for fifteen minutes with him, nor could Ruth have wished better behavior on her lover's part. Not once did his eyes flash nor his cheeks flush, while the calmness and poise with which he talked surprised her. But in Martin's estimation the whole tribe of bank cashiers fell a few hundred per cent, and for the rest of the evening he labored under the impression that bank cashiers and talkers of platitudes were synonymous phrases. The army officer he found good-natured and simple, a healthy, wholesome young fellow, content to occupy the place in life into which birth and luck had flung him. On learning that he had completed two years in the university, Martin was puzzled to know where he had stored it away. Nevertheless Martin liked him better than the platitudinous bank cashier.
"I really don't object to platitudes," he told Ruth later; "but what worries me into nervousness is the pompous, smugly complacent, superior certitude with which they are uttered and the time taken to do it. Why, I could give that man the whole history of the Reformation in the time he took to tell me that the Union-Labor Party had fused with the Democrats. Do you know, he skins his words as a professional poker-player skins the cards that are dealt out to him. Some day I'll show you what I mean."
"I'm sorry you don't like him," was her reply. "He's a favorite of Mr. Butler's. Mr. Butler says he is safe and honest - calls him the Rock, Peter, and says that upon him any banking institution can well be built."
"I don't doubt it - from the little I saw of him and the less I heard from him; but I don't think so much of banks as I did. You don't mind my speaking my mind this way, dear?"
"No, no; it is most interesting."
"Yes," Martin went on heartily, "I'm no more than a barbarian getting my first impressions of civilization. Such impressions must be entertainingly novel to the civilized person."
"What did you think of my cousins?" Ruth queried.
"I liked them better than the other women. There's plenty of fun in them along with paucity of pretence."
"Then you did like the other women?"
He shook his head.
"That social-settlement woman is no more than a sociological poll- parrot. I swear, if you winnowed her out between the stars, like Tomlinson, there would be found in her not one original thought. As for the portrait-painter, she was a positive bore. She'd make a good wife for the cashier. And the musician woman! I don't care how nimble her fingers are, how perfect her technique, how wonderful her expression - the fact is, she knows nothing about music."
"She plays beautifully," Ruth protested.
"Yes, she's undoubtedly gymnastic in the externals of music, but the intrinsic spirit of music is unguessed by her. I asked her what music meant to her - you know I'm always curious to know that particular thing; and she did not know what it meant to her, except that she adored it, that it was the greatest of the arts, and that it meant more than life to her."
"You were making them talk shop," Ruth charged him.
"I confess it. And if they were failures on shop, imagine my sufferings if they had discoursed on other subjects. Why, I used to think that up here, where all the advantages of culture were enjoyed - " He paused for a moment, and watched the youthful shade of himself, in stiff-rim and square-cut, enter the door and swagger across the room. "As I was saying, up here I thought all men and women were brilliant and radiant. But now, from what little I've seen of them, they strike me as a pack of ninnies, most of them, and ninety percent of the remainder as bores. Now there's Professor Caldwell - he's different. He's a man, every inch of him and every atom of his gray matter."
Ruth's face brightened.
"Tell me about him," she urged. "Not what is large and brilliant - I know those qualities; but whatever you feel is adverse. I am most curious to know."
"Perhaps I'll get myself in a pickle." Martin debated humorously for a moment. "Suppose you tell me first. Or maybe you find in him nothing less than the best."
"I attended two lecture courses under him, and I have known him for two years; that is why I am anxious for your first impression."
"Bad impression, you mean? Well, here goes. He is all the fine things you think about him, I guess. At least, he is the finest specimen of intellectual man I have met; but he is a man with a secret shame."
"Oh, no, no!" he hastened to cry. "Nothing paltry nor vulgar. What I mean is that he strikes me as a man who has gone to the bottom of things, and is so afraid of what he saw that he makes believe to himself that he never saw it. Perhaps that's not the clearest way to express it. Here's another way. A man who has found the path to the hidden temple but has not followed it; who has, perhaps, caught glimpses of the temple and striven afterward to convince himself that it was only a mirage of foliage. Yet another way. A man who could have done things but who placed no value on the doing, and who, all the time, in his innermost heart, is regretting that he has not done them; who has secretly laughed at the rewards for doing, and yet, still more secretly, has yearned for the rewards and for the joy of doing."
"I don't read him that way," she said. "And for that matter, I don't see just what you mean."
"It is only a vague feeling on my part," Martin temporized. "I have no reason for it. It is only a feeling, and most likely it is wrong. You certainly should know him better than I."
From the evening at Ruth's Martin brought away with him strange confusions and conflicting feelings. He was disappointed in his goal, in the persons he had climbed to be with. On the other hand, he was encouraged with his success. The climb had been easier than he expected. He was superior to the climb, and (he did not, with false modesty, hide it from himself) he was superior to the beings among whom he had climbed - with the exception, of course, of Professor Caldwell. About life and the books he knew more than they, and he wondered into what nooks and crannies they had cast aside their educations. He did not know that he was himself possessed of unusual brain vigor; nor did he know that the persons who were given to probing the depths and to thinking ultimate thoughts were not to be found in the drawing rooms of the world's Morses; nor did he dream that such persons were as lonely eagles sailing solitary in the azure sky far above the earth and its swarming freight of gregarious life.
马丁的好运的太阳升了起来。露丝走后的第二天他收到了纽约一家流言蜚语周刊寄给他的一张三块钱的支票，作为他三篇小三重奏的稿费。两天以后芝加哥出版的一家报纸又采用了他的《探宝者》，答应发表后给他十块钱。报酬虽不高，但那却是他的第一篇作品，他第一次想变作铅印的试作。尤其叫他高兴的是，他的第二篇试作，一篇为孩子们写的连载冒险故事，也在周末前为一家名叫《青年与时代》的月刊所采用。不错，那篇东西有二万一千字，而他们只答应在发表后给他十六块钱，差不多只有七毛五分钱一千字；可还有一点也是事实：那是他试笔的第二篇东西，他完全明白那东西很拙劣，没有价值。 
他最早的作品尽管拙劣，却不平庸。它们拙劣的特点是过人——是初出茅庐者那种用撞城锤砸蝴蝶、用大棒描花样的拙劣。因此能把自己早期的作品用低价卖掉他仍然感到高兴。他明白它们的价值——写出后不久就明白了。他把信心寄托在后来的作品上。他曾努力要超出杂志小说家的水平；力求用种种富于艺术性的手段武装自己。另一方面他也不愿因此削弱作品的力量。他有意识地从避免过火中提高作品的力度。他也没有偏离自己对现实的爱。他的作品是现实主义的，但他也努力把它跟幻想和想像中的美融合在一起。他追求的是一种冷静的现实主义，充满了人类的理想和信念。他所要求的是生香暮色的生活，其中融会了生活中的全部精神探索和灵魂成就。
在阅读过程中他发现了两种小说流派。一派把人当作天神，忽略了人原是来自人间；另一派把人当作傻瓜，忽略了他天赋的梦想和神圣的潜力。在马丁看来，两派都有错误，原因在于视角和目的太单一。有一种折中办法较为接近真实，虽然它一方面非难了傻瓜派的禽兽式的野蛮，一方面也不吹嘘天神派。马丁觉得他那篇叫露丝觉得冗长的故事《冒险》就体现了小说真实的理想。他在一篇叫做《天神与傻瓜》的论文里对这个问题作了全面的阐述。
但是他的帽险》和其他自以为得意的作品却还在编辑们门前乞讨。他早期的作品在他眼里除了给他带来报酬之外毫无意义。尽管他的恐怖故事卖掉了两个，他也并不认为它们是高雅之作，更不是最好的作品。他认为这些东西显然都是彰明较著的想当然和想入非非之作，尽管也杂读了真实事物的种种魅力——那是它们力量的源泉。他把这种荒诞离奇与现实的杂揉只认作是一种技巧——最多是一种聪明的技巧。伟大的文学作品是不可能在这样的东西里存在的。它们技巧颇高，但他并不承认脱离了人性的技巧会有什么价值。它们只是给技巧戴上人性的面具而已。他在他的六七部恐怖小说里就是这样做的。那是在他达到《冒险》、《欢乐》、《罐子》和《生命之酒》的高度之前的事。
他拿三篇小三重奏的三块钱凑合着应付到了《白鼠》的支票到达。他在杂货店那信他不过的葡萄牙老板那儿兑现了第一张支票，还了他一块钱，另外两块分别还给了面包店和水果店。马丁还吃不起肉，《白鼠》的支票到达时他一直在捉襟见肘。对第二张支票的兑现他拿不定主意。他一辈子也没有进过银行，更不用说去取钱了。他有一种孩子气的天真愿望：大踏步走进奥克兰一家大银行，把已经背书好的四十元支票往柜台上一扔。可另一方面讲求实效的常识却告诉他，还是在他的杂货商那儿兑现的好，那可以给杂货商一个印象，以后可以多赊点帐。他不情愿地满足了杂货商的要求，还清了他的债，找回了一口袋叮叮当当的硬币。然后还清了其他商人的债，赎回了他的衣服和自行车，预付了一个月打字机租金，还了玛利亚一个月欠租，还预付了一个月。这一来他兜里只剩下差不多三块钱以备不时之需了。
这小小的进项似乎成了一笔大财产。他把衣服一赎回来便立即去看露丝，路上忍不住在口袋里拨拉着几块银币叮当作响。他穷得太久。像一个快要饿死而被救活的人舍不得放开没吃完的食物一样，他那手就是舍不得离开几个银币。他并不小气，也不贪婪，但那钱不光意味着银洋和角于，它代表了成功，银币上的几个鹰徽对他来说就是几个长了翅膀的胜利之神。
他朦胧中感到这个世界非常美好，确实比平常美好多了。许多个礼拜以来世界都是非常郁闷的，严峻的；可现在，在他几乎还清了所有的债务，口袋里还叮叮当当响着王块钱，心里满是成功的喜悦的时候，阳光便明亮而温暖起来。这时忽然下了一场急雨，把毫无准备的行入淋了个透湿，可他仍然感到高兴。他挨饿时心里老想着他所知道的世界上无数挨饿的人，可现在他吃饱了，脑子里那无数挨饿的人便消失了，忘掉了。他自己在恋爱，便也想起了世界上无数恋爱的人。爱情抒情诗的主题不知不觉已开始在他脑子里活跃。他受到创作激情的左右，下电车时已错过了两段路，也不觉烦恼。
他在莫尔斯家见到许多人。露丝的两个表姐妹从圣拉非水来看她，莫尔斯太太便以招待她俩为由执行起用年轻人包围露丝的计划。在马丁无法出面的时候这计划已经开始，现在正进行得热火朝天。她把邀请有作为的男性作为重点。于是除了陶乐赛和佛罗伦斯两姐妹之外，马丁在那里还见到了两位大学教授（一个教拉丁文，一个教英文）；一个刚从菲律宾回来的青年军官，以前曾是露丝的同学；一个叫梅尔维尔的人，是旧金山信托公司总裁约塞夫·相金斯的私人秘书。最后，还有一个男性是一个精力旺盛的银行经理，查理·哈外古德，斯坦福大学的毕业生，三十五岁了却还年轻，尼罗俱乐部和团结俱乐部的成员，在竞选时是共和党稳妥的发言人——总之在各个方面都正在扶摇直上。女性之中有一个女肖像画家，一个职业音乐家，还有一个社会学博士，因为她在旧金山贫民窟的社会服务工作而在那一带小有名气。但是女性在莫尔斯太太的计划里并不重要，充其量是些必不可少的附属品。有所作为的男性总是要设法吸引来的。
“你谈话时别激动。”在考验性的介绍开始之前露丝叮嘱马丁。
马丁因为自己的笨拙感到压抑，开始时有些拘谨，尤其害怕自己的肩膀会出毛病，威胁到家具和摆设的安全。这一群人还让他忐忑不安。这样高层的人士他以前从没见过，何况人数又那么多。银行经理哈外古德很引起他的兴趣，他决定有了机会就研究他一下。因为在他的惶惑之下还隐藏着一个自信的自我。他急于用这些纳士淑女对照自己，看他们从书本和生活中学会了一些什么他所不知道的东西。
露丝的眼睛不时地瞄着他，看他应付得如何，见他轻轻松松便跟她的表姐妹认识了，不禁感到又吃惊又高兴。他肯定没有激动，坐下之后也不再担心肩膀闯祸了。露丝知道两个表姐妹都是聪明人——浅薄，但是敏锐。（那天晚上睡觉时两人都称赞马丁，她却几乎不明白她们的意思。）在那一方面，马丁也觉得在这样的环境里开开玩笑、无饬大雅地斗斗嘴其实轻而易举，因为他在自己的阶级里原本是个机智风趣的人，在舞会和星期天的野宴上惯会挖苦说笑，调皮逗乐。而那天晚上成功又还支持着他，拍着他的肩膀告诉他地干得不错。因此他不但能够让自己高兴也能够让别人高兴，毫无窘涩之感。
后来露丝的担心却有了道理。马丁跟考德威尔教授在一个显眼的角落里交谈起来。对露丝那挑剔的眼光说来，虽然马丁没有在空中挥舞手臂，却仍然太容易激动，眼睛太频繁地闪出光芒，谈话也太快太热烈，太容易紧张，也太频繁地容许激动的血液涨红了面颊。他缺乏彬彬有礼的风度和涵养，跟和他谈话的年青英文教授形成了鲜明的对比。
但是马丁对外表却满不在乎2他很快就注意到了对方那训练有素的心智，欣赏起他的渊博。而考德威尔教授却不了解马丁对一般英文教授的看法。因为马丁不明白为什么不应该谈本行，便要求教授谈本行，教授虽然开始时似乎不乐意，后来还是照办了。
“反对谈本行是荒谬而不公平的，”几个礼拜以前马丁曾对露丝说过，“当男男女女欢聚一堂之时，在太阳底下有什么理由不让他们交流自己最好的东西呢？他们最好的东西正是他们最感兴趣的、他们赖以生存的东西，他们日以继夜地专门干着、研究着、甚至连做梦也想着的东西。你想想看，若是让巴特勒先生出于社交礼仪而大谈其保尔·魏尔伦、德国戏剧、或是邓南遮，岂不是要闷死人吗？如果我非要听巴特勒先生谈话不可，我就宁愿听他谈他的法律。那才是他最好的东西。生命太短促，我想听到的是我所遇到的人的精华。”
“可是，”露丝反对道，“大家都感兴趣的话题是有的。”
“那你就错了，”他匆匆说下去，“社会上的每一个人和每一个集团——一或者说，几乎每一个人和每一个集团——都要拿比他们强的人做榜样。那么谁是最好的榜样呢？无所事事的人，有钱的闲人。这些人一般不知道世界上做事的人所知道的东西。听他们谈自己所从事的事业他们感到沉闷。因此他们便宣布这类东西叫做本行，不宜谈论。同样他们还确定什么东西不算本行。可以谈论。于是可以谈论的东西就成了最近演出的歌剧、最新出版的小说、打扑克、打弹子、鸡尾酒、汽车、马展、钓鲜鱼、钓金枪鱼、大野兽狩猎、驾游艇和诸如此类的东西——注意，这些都不过是闲人们熟悉的东西。说穿了，是他们决定了他们自己的本行话题。而最有趣的是：他们把这类意见强加给别人，而许多聪明人和全部可能聪明的人都欣然接受。至于我么，我总是想听见别人的精华，无论你把它叫做失礼的本行话或是别的什么都可以。”
露丝没有明白他的道理，只觉得他对于现存秩序的攻击太意气用事。
这样，马丁以他急切的心情感染了考德威尔教授，逼着他说出了心里话。露丝从他身边走过时正听见马丁在说：——
“这种离经叛道之论你在加州大学肯定是不会发表的吧？”
考德威尔教授耸耸肩。“这是诚实的纳税人应付政客的办法，你知道，萨克拉门托给我们拨款，我们只好向萨克拉门托磕头。我们还得向大学董事会磕头，向党报磕头，向两个党的党报都磕头。”
“对，这很清楚，可你呢？”马丁追问，“你看来是一条离开了水的鱼呢！”
“我看，在大学这个池子里像我这样的鱼并不多。有时我真觉得自己是条离开了水的鱼。我应当到巴黎去，到贫民窟去，到隐士的洞窟里去，或是跟贫苦放荡的流浪艺人在一起。我应当跟他们一起喝红葡萄酒——在旧金山叫做‘南欧红’。我应当在法国拉丁区廉价的饭店里吃饭，对上帝创造的一切发表激烈的言论，慷慨激昂。的确，我几乎经常确认自己是个天生的极端分子。可我有许多问题仍旧没有把握。在我面对着自己人性的弱点时，我便怯懦起来。这常常使我对任何问题都难以纵览全局——人的问题，事关重大的，你知道。”
他一边谈着，马丁却意识到自己的唇边出现了《贸易风之歌》——“我最强劲时虽在正午，可等到夜里月儿透出，我也能吹得帆地鼓鼓。”
他几乎哼出声来，却忽然发现原来教授今他想起了贸易风——东北贸易风。那风稳定、冷静、有力。这位教授心平气和，值得信赖，可仍叫他捉摸不透：说话总有所保留，宛如马丁心中的贸易风：浩荡强劲，却留有余地，决不横流放肆。马丁又浮想联翩了。他的脑子是一个极容易展开的仓库，装满了记忆中的事实和幻象，似乎永远对他整整齐齐排开，让他查阅，在他眼前发生的一切都可以引起对比的或类比的联想，而且往往以幻影的形态出现——它总是随着眼前鲜活的事物飘然而来。例如：露丝的脸上暂时表现嫉妒时，他眼前便出现了久已遗忘的月光下的狂风场景；又如听考德威尔教授讲话时他眼前便重新出现了东北贸易风驱赶着白色的浪花越过紫红色的海面的场景。这样，新的回忆镜头往往在他面前出现，在他眼帘前展开，或是投射到他的脑海里。它们并不让他难堪，反倒使他认识了自己，明白了自己的类属。它们源出于往日的行为与感受，源出于昨天和上个礼拜的情况、事件、和书本——源出于不计其数的幻影，无论是他睡着还是醒着总在他心里翻腾的幻影。
在他听着考德威尔教授轻松流畅的谈话（那是个有教养有头脑的人的谈话）时，便是这样。他不断地看到过去的自己。那时他还是个十足的流氓，戴一项“硬边的”斯泰森大檐帽，穿一件双排扣方襟短外衣，得意洋洋地晃动着肩膀，他的最高理想是粗野到警察管不到的程度——而对这些他并不打算掩饰或淡化。他在生活里有一段时间的确是个平常的流氓，一个叫警察头痛的、威胁着诚实的工人阶级居民的团伙头子。可是他的理想已经改变。现在他满眼是衣冠楚楚、门第高贵的红男绿女，肺里吸进的是教养与风雅的空气，而同时他早年那个戴硬边帽、穿方襟短外衣、神气十足、粗鲁野蛮的青年的幻影也在这屋里出没。他看见那街角的流氓的形象跟自己合而为一，正跟一个货真价实的大学教授并坐交谈。
他毕竟还没有找到自己持久的地位。他到哪儿都能随遇而安，到哪儿都永远受人欢迎，因为他工作认真，愿意并也能够为自己的权利而斗争，因此别人对他不能不尊敬。但是他却不曾扎下根来。他有足够的能力满足伙伴们的需要，却不能满足自己的需要。一种不安的情绪永远困扰着他，他永远听见远处有什么东西在召唤，他一辈子都在前进，都在憧憬着它，直到他发现了书本、艺术和爱情。于是他来到了这里，来到这一切之间。在他所有共过患难的同志们之中他是唯一被接纳入莫尔斯家的人。
可这一切思想和幻影并没有影响他跟随考德威尔教授的谈话。在他怀着理解和批判的眼光听着他时，他注意到了对方知识的完整性，也不时地发现着自己知识的漏洞和大片大片的空白，那是许多地完全不熟悉的话题。然而，谢谢斯宾塞，他发现自己对于知识已有了一个总的轮廓。按照这个轮廓去填补材料只是时间的问题。邓时候你再看吧，他想——注意，暗礁！他感到自己仿佛是坐在教授脚边，满怀景仰地吸取着知识；但他也渐渐发现了对方判断中的漏洞——那漏洞闪烁不定，很难捉摸，若不是一直出现他是难于把捉到的。他终于把捉住了，一跃而上，与对方平起平坐了。
马丁开始谈话时，露丝第二次来到了他们身边。
“我要指出你的错误，或者说那削弱着你的判断的东西，”他说，“你缺少了生物学。你的体系之中没有生物学的地位。我指的是如实地诠释着生命的生物学，从基础开始，从实验室、试管和获得了生命的无机物开始直到美学和社会学的广泛结论的生物学。”
露丝感到惶恐。她曾听过考德威尔教授两n课，她崇拜他，是把他看作活的知识宝库的。
“我不太明白你的意思。”教授含糊地说。
马丁却多少觉得他其实明白他的意思。
“我来解释一下看，”他说，“我记得读埃及史的时候曾读到这样的意思：不光研究埃及的土地问题就无法研究埃及的艺术。”
“很对，”教授点点头。
“因此我似乎觉得，”马丁说下去，“既然在一切事物之中没有事先了解生命的本质和构成生命的元素就无法了解土地问题，那么，如果我们连创制法律、制度。宗教和风俗的生灵的本质和他的构成元素都不了解，又怎么能谈得上了解法律、制度、宗教和风俗本身呢？难道文学还不如埃及的建筑和雕刻更能反映人性么？在我们所知道的世界中有什么东西能不受进化规律的支配呢——啊，我知道，对于各种艺术的进化过程已经有人神精竭虑作过阐述，但我总觉得它们先于机械，把人本身漏掉了。对于工具、竖琴、音乐、歌曲和舞蹈的进化过程已有了美妙精彩的阐述，可对于人本身的进化过程呢？对创造出第一个工具和唱出第一首歌曲之前的人类本身的基本的、内在的部分的进比过程呢？你没有思考的正是这个东西，我把它叫做生物学——最广义的生物学。
“我知道我的阐述不够连贯，但我已经尽力表达了我的意思。那是在你谈话时我才想到的，因此考虑得不成熟，讲得也不清楚。你刚才谈到人的脆弱，因此无法考虑到所有的因素。于是你就漏掉了生物学这个因素——我觉得似乎是这样的——而所有的艺术却是依靠这个因素编织出来的，它是编织人类一切行为和成就的经纬线呢。”
令露丝大吃一惊的是，马丁的理论没有立即被粉碎，她觉得教授的回答宽容了马丁的不成熟。考德威尔教授摸弄着他的表链，一言不发，坐了足有一分钟。
“你知道不？”他终于说话了，“以前也有人这样批评过我——那是个非常伟大的人，一个科学家，进化论者，约瑟夫·勒孔特。他已经过世，我以为不会有人再发觉我这个问题了河你来了，揭露了我。不过，郑重地说，我承认错误，我认为你的意见是有道理的——实际上很有道理。我太古典，在解释性的学科分支方面我的知识已经落后。我只能以我所受到的不利教育和我拖沓的性格来做解释，是它们阻止了我。你相不相信我从来没有进过物理实验室和化学实验室？可那是事实。勒孔特说得不错，你也不错，伊登先生，至少在一定程度上不错——我有许多东西都不知道。”
露丝找了个借口拉走了马丁。她把他带到一边，悄悄说道：——
“你不应该像那样垄断了考德威尔教授。可能有别的人也想跟他谈话呢。”
“我错了，”马丁后悔了，承认，“可是你知道么？我激动了他，而他也很引起我的兴趣，于是我就忘了想到别人。他是我平生与之交谈过的最聪明、最育用头脑的人。我还要告诉你另一件事。我以前以为凡是上过大学或是处于社会上层的人都跟他一样有头脑，一样聪明呢。”
“他可是个非凡的人。”露丝回答。
“我也这么想。现在你要我跟谁谈话呢？——啊，对了，让我跟那个银行经理见一见面吧。”
马丁跟银行经理谈了大约十五分钟，露丝不可能要求她的情人态度更好了。他的眼睛从不闪光，面颊也从不泛红。他说话时的平静、稳重使她惊奇。但银行经理这类人在马丁的评价里却是一落千丈。那天晚上剩下的时间里他一直在跟一个印象作斗争：银行经理跟满D陈词滥调的人是同义语。他发现那个军官性情温和，单纯质朴，是个身体不错头脑也健全的小伙子，满足于家世和幸运在生活中分配给他的地位。在听说他也上过两年大学之后，马丁感到纳闷：他把大学学到的东西藏到哪儿去了？然而比起那位满口陈词滥调的银行经理马丁毕竟觉得他可爱得多.
“的确，我并不反对陈词滥调，”后来他告诉露丝，“可折磨得我受不了的是，他搬出那些陈词滥调时那神气十足、志得意满、高人一等的态度，和他所占用的时间。他用来告诉我统一劳工党跟民主党合并所花去的时间，我已经可以用来给他讲一部宗教改革史了。你知道么？他在字句上玩花头用去的时间跟职业赌徒拿手里的牌玩花头的时间差不多。有了时间我再跟你详谈吧。”
“我很抱歉你不喜欢他，”她回答，“他可是巴特勒先生的一个红火。巴特勒先生说他忠实可靠，坚如磐石，称他为‘彼得’，认为银行的一切机制只要建立在他身上便都牢实可靠。”
“从我在他身上所见到的那一点东西和我听见他说出的更少的东西看来，对此我并不怀疑；但我现在对银行的估价已经大不如前。我这样坦率奉告你不会介意吧？”
“不，不，挺有意思的。”
“那就好，”马丁快活地说下去，“这不过是我这个野蛮人第一次窥见文明世界时的印象。对于文明人来说我这种印象也一定有趣得惊人吧。”
“你对我的两个表姐妹作何感想？”露丝问道。
“比起其他的妇女我倒更喜欢她俩。两人都非常风趣，而且从不装腔作势。”
“那么你也喜欢别的女人么？”
他摇摇头。
“那位搞社会救济的妇女谈起社会问题来只会胡扯。我敢发誓，如果把她用明星（比如汤姆林森）的思想进行一番簸扬，她是一点独创的意见都没有的。至于肖像画家么，简直是个十足的讨厌鬼。她做银行经理的老婆倒也珠联壁合。对那位女音乐家，不管她那抬头有多灵活，技巧有多高明，表现又是多么美妙，我都没有兴趣——事实上她对音乐是一窍不通。”
“她演奏得很美妙的。”露丝反对。
“不错，她在音乐的外部表现上无疑操练有素，可对音乐的内在精神她却把捉不住。我问过她，音乐对她是什么意义——你知道我对这个特殊问题一向感兴趣；可她并不知道它对她有什么意义，只知道她崇拜音乐，音乐是最伟大的艺术，对于她比生命都重要。”
“你又让她们谈本行了。”露丝责备说。
“这我承认。不过可以想像，既然她们连本行都谈不出个道理来，谈别的可不更叫我头痛么？我一向以为这儿的人具有着文化上的一切优势，——”他暂时住了嘴，仿佛看到他年轻时那幻影戴着硬边大檐帽，穿着方襟短外衣进了门，大摇大摆地穿过了屋子。“我刚才说了，我以为在社会上层人们都是聪明睿智的，都闪着光芒。可现在，在我跟他们作了短暂的接触之后，他们给我的印象却是：大部分都是笨蛋，剩下的人中百分之九十都是讨厌鬼。只有考德威尔教授例外。他倒是个十足的人，每一寸都是的，他脑髓的灰白质里每一个原子都是的。”
露丝的脸闪出了光芒。
“谈谈他吧，”她怂恿他，“用不着谈他的长处和聪明，那我很清楚。谈谈反面的东西吧，我急着想听。”
“我也许会说不清楚，”马丁幽默地争辩了一下，“倒不如你先跟我说说他的问题。说不定你看他全身都是精华呢。”
“我听过他两门课，认识他已经两年；因此急于知道你对他的第一印象。”
“你是说坏印象？好了，是这样的。我估计他确实如你所想，具有一切优秀的品质，他至少属于我所遇见过的最优秀的知识分子之列，可他有一种秘密的耻辱感。
“啊，不，不！”他急忙叫道，“没有什么肮脏或粗俗的事。我的意思是他给我这样的印象：作为一个洞明世事的人，他害怕他所洞见到的情况，因此便假装没有看见。这种说法也许不清楚，可以换一个说法。他是这样的一个人，发现了通向隐秘的庙堂的路却没有沿着那路走下去。他可能瞥见了庙堂，事后却努力劝说自己：那不过是海市蜃楼中的绿洲而已。再换个说法，他原是个大有作为的人，却觉得那样做没有意义，而在内心深处又一直懊悔没有去做；他秘密地嘲笑那样做可能得到的回报，然而，更秘密的是，他也渴望着那回报和那么做时的欢乐。”
“我可不这么分析他，”她说，“我不明白你刚才这话的意思O”
“这只不过是我的一种模糊感觉，”马丁敷衍道，“提不出理由的。感觉而已，很可能是错的。你对他肯定应当比我更了解。”
马丁从露丝家的晚会带回的是奇怪的混乱和矛盾的感受。他达到了目的却失望了。为了跟那些人来往他往上爬，可一交往却失望了。另一方面他也为自己的胜利所鼓舞。他的攀登要比预期的容易。他超越了攀登，而且比高处的人们更优秀（对此他并不用虚伪的谦逊向自己掩饰）——当然考德威尔教授除外。无论讲生活还是讲书本马丁都比他们知道得多。他真不知道这些人把他们的教育扔到什么旮旯里去了。他并不知道自己的脑力特别强大，也不知道在世界上像莫尔斯家这样的客厅里是找不到献身于探索着事物的底奥和思考着终被问题的人的。他做梦也没有想到，那样的人有加孤独的雄鹰，只能独自翎翔在蔚蓝的天空里，远离开尘世和其间的扰攘纷坛的生活。
Chapter 28
But success had lost Martin's address, and her messengers no longer came to his door. For twenty-five days, working Sundays and holidays, he toiled on "The Shame of the Sun," a long essay of some thirty thousand words. It was a deliberate attack on the mysticism of the Maeterlinck school - an attack from the citadel of positive science upon the wonder-dreamers, but an attack nevertheless that retained much of beauty and wonder of the sort compatible with ascertained fact. It was a little later that he followed up the attack with two short essays, "The Wonder-Dreamers" and "The Yardstick of the Ego." And on essays, long and short, he began to pay the travelling expenses from magazine to magazine.
During the twenty-five days spent on "The Shame of the Sun," he sold hack-work to the extent of six dollars and fifty cents. A joke had brought in fifty cents, and a second one, sold to a high- grade comic weekly, had fetched a dollar. Then two humorous poems had earned two dollars and three dollars respectively. As a result, having exhausted his credit with the tradesmen (though he had increased his credit with the grocer to five dollars), his wheel and suit of clothes went back to the pawnbroker. The type- writer people were again clamoring for money, insistently pointing out that according to the agreement rent was to be paid strictly in advance.
Encouraged by his several small sales, Martin went back to hack- work. Perhaps there was a living in it, after all. Stored away under his table were the twenty storiettes which had been rejected by the newspaper short-story syndicate. He read them over in order to find out how not to write newspaper storiettes, and so doing, reasoned out the perfect formula. He found that the newspaper storiette should never be tragic, should never end unhappily, and should never contain beauty of language, subtlety of thought, nor real delicacy of sentiment. Sentiment it must contain, plenty of it, pure and noble, of the sort that in his own early youth had brought his applause from "nigger heaven" - the "For-God-my- country-and-the-Czar" and "I-may-be-poor-but-I-am-honest" brand of sentiment.
Having learned such precautions, Martin consulted "The Duchess" for tone, and proceeded to mix according to formula. The formula consists of three parts: (1) a pair of lovers are jarred apart; (2) by some deed or event they are reunited; (3) marriage bells. The third part was an unvarying quantity, but the first and second parts could be varied an infinite number of times. Thus, the pair of lovers could be jarred apart by misunderstood motives, by accident of fate, by jealous rivals, by irate parents, by crafty guardians, by scheming relatives, and so forth and so forth; they could be reunited by a brave deed of the man lover, by a similar deed of the woman lover, by change of heart in one lover or the other, by forced confession of crafty guardian, scheming relative, or jealous rival, by voluntary confession of same, by discovery of some unguessed secret, by lover storming girl's heart, by lover making long and noble self-sacrifice, and so on, endlessly. It was very fetching to make the girl propose in the course of being reunited, and Martin discovered, bit by bit, other decidedly piquant and fetching ruses. But marriage bells at the end was the one thing he could take no liberties with; though the heavens rolled up as a scroll and the stars fell, the wedding bells must go on ringing just the same. In quantity, the formula prescribed twelve hundred words minimum dose, fifteen hundred words maximum dose.
Before he got very far along in the art of the storiette, Martin worked out half a dozen stock forms, which he always consulted when constructing storiettes. These forms were like the cunning tables used by mathematicians, which may be entered from top, bottom, right, and left, which entrances consist of scores of lines and 
dozens of columns, and from which may be drawn, without reasoning or thinking, thousands of different conclusions, all unchallengably precise and true. Thus, in the course of half an hour with his forms, Martin could frame up a dozen or so storiettes, which he put aside and filled in at his convenience. He found that he could fill one in, after a day of serious work, in the hour before going to bed. As he later confessed to Ruth, he could almost do it in his sleep. The real work was in constructing the frames, and that was merely mechanical.
He had no doubt whatever of the efficacy of his formula, and for once he knew the editorial mind when he said positively to himself that the first two he sent off would bring checks. And checks they brought, for four dollars each, at the end of twelve days.
In the meantime he was making fresh and alarming discoveries concerning the magazines. Though the TRANSCONTINENTAL had published "The Ring of Bells," no check was forthcoming. Martin needed it, and he wrote for it. An evasive answer and a request for more of his work was all he received. He had gone hungry two days waiting for the reply, and it was then that he put his wheel back in pawn. He wrote regularly, twice a week, to the TRANSCONTINENTAL for his five dollars, though it was only semi- occasionally that he elicited a reply. He did not know that the TRANSCONTINENTAL had been staggering along precariously for years, that it was a fourth-rater, or tenth-rater, without standing, with a crazy circulation that partly rested on petty bullying and partly on patriotic appealing, and with advertisements that were scarcely more than charitable donations. Nor did he know that the TRANSCONTINENTAL was the sole livelihood of the editor and the business manager, and that they could wring their livelihood out of it only by moving to escape paying rent and by never paying any bill they could evade. Nor could he have guessed that the particular five dollars that belonged to him had been appropriated by the business manager for the painting of his house in Alameda, which painting he performed himself, on week-day afternoons, because he could not afford to pay union wages and because the first scab he had employed had had a ladder jerked out from under him and been sent to the hospital with a broken collar-bone.
The ten dollars for which Martin had sold "Treasure Hunters" to the Chicago newspaper did not come to hand. The article had been published, as he had ascertained at the file in the Central Reading-room, but no word could he get from the editor. His letters were ignored. To satisfy himself that they had been received, he registered several of them. It was nothing less than robbery, he concluded - a cold-blooded steal; while he starved, he was pilfered of his merchandise, of his goods, the sale of which was the sole way of getting bread to eat.
YOUTH AND AGE was a weekly, and it had published two-thirds of his twenty-one-thousand-word serial when it went out of business. With it went all hopes of getting his sixteen dollars.
To cap the situation, "The Pot," which he looked upon as one of the best things he had written, was lost to him. In despair, casting about frantically among the magazines, he had sent it to THE BILLOW, a society weekly in San Francisco. His chief reason for submitting it to that publication was that, having only to travel across the bay from Oakland, a quick decision could be reached. Two weeks later he was overjoyed to see, in the latest number on the news-stand, his story printed in full, illustrated, and in the place of honor. He went home with leaping pulse, wondering how much they would pay him for one of the best things he had done. Also, the celerity with which it had been accepted and published was a pleasant thought to him. That the editor had not informed him of the acceptance made the surprise more complete. After waiting a week, two weeks, and half a week longer, desperation conquered diffidence, and he wrote to the editor of THE BILLOW, suggesting that possibly through some negligence of the business manager his little account had been overlooked.
Even if it isn't more than five dollars, Martin thought to himself, it will buy enough beans and pea-soup to enable me to write half a dozen like it, and possibly as good.
Back came a cool letter from the editor that at least elicited Martin's admiration.
"We thank you," it ran, "for your excellent contribution. All of us in the office enjoyed it immensely, and, as you see, it was given the place of honor and immediate publication. We earnestly hope that you liked the illustrations.
"On rereading your letter it seems to us that you are laboring under the misapprehension that we pay for unsolicited manuscripts. This is not our custom, and of course yours was unsolicited. We assumed, naturally, when we received your story, that you understood the situation. We can only deeply regret this unfortunate misunderstanding, and assure you of our unfailing regard. Again, thanking you for your kind contribution, and hoping to receive more from you in the near future, we remain, etc."
There was also a postscript to the effect that though THE BILLOW carried no free-list, it took great pleasure in sending him a complimentary subscription for the ensuing year.
After that experience, Martin typed at the top of the first sheet of all his manuscripts: "Submitted at your usual rate."
Some day, he consoled himself, they will be submitted at MY usual rate.
He discovered in himself, at this period, a passion for perfection, under the sway of which he rewrote and polished "The Jostling Street," "The Wine of Life," "Joy," the "Sea Lyrics," and others of his earlier work. As of old, nineteen hours of labor a day was all too little to suit him. He wrote prodigiously, and he read prodigiously, forgetting in his toil the pangs caused by giving up his tobacco. Ruth's promised cure for the habit, flamboyantly labelled, he stowed away in the most inaccessible corner of his bureau. Especially during his stretches of famine he suffered from lack of the weed; but no matter how often he mastered the craving, it remained with him as strong as ever. He regarded it as the biggest thing he had ever achieved. Ruth's point of view was that he was doing no more than was right. She brought him the anti- tobacco remedy, purchased out of her glove money, and in a few days forgot all about it.
His machine-made storiettes, though he hated them and derided them, were successful. By means of them he redeemed all his pledges, paid most of his bills, and bought a new set of tires for his wheel. The storiettes at least kept the pot a-boiling and gave him time for ambitious work; while the one thing that upheld him was the forty dollars he had received from THE WHITE MOUSE. He anchored his faith to that, and was confident that the really first-class magazines would pay an unknown writer at least an equal rate, if not a better one. But the thing was, how to get into the first-class magazines. His best stories, essays, and poems went begging among them, and yet, each month, he read reams of dull, prosy, inartistic stuff between all their various covers. If only one editor, he sometimes thought, would descend from his high seat of pride to write me one cheering line! No matter if my work is unusual, no matter if it is unfit, for prudential reasons, for their pages, surely there must be some sparks in it, somewhere, a few, to warm them to some sort of appreciation. And thereupon he would get out one or another of his manuscripts, such as "Adventure," and read it over and over in a vain attempt to vindicate the editorial silence.
As the sweet California spring came on, his period of plenty came to an end. For several weeks he had been worried by a strange silence on the part of the newspaper storiette syndicate. Then, one day, came back to him through the mail ten of his immaculate machine-made storiettes. They were accompanied by a brief letter to the effect that the syndicate was overstocked, and that some months would elapse before it would be in the market again for manuscripts. Martin had even been extravagant m the strength of those on ten storiettes. Toward the last the syndicate had been paying him five dollars each for them and accepting every one he sent. So he had looked upon the ten as good as sold, and he had lived accordingly, on a basis of fifty dollars in the bank. So it was that he entered abruptly upon a lean period, wherein he continued selling his earlier efforts to publications that would not pay and submitting his later work to magazines that would not buy. Also, he resumed his trips to the pawn-broker down in Oakland. A few jokes and snatches of humorous verse, sold to the New York weeklies, made existence barely possible for him. It was at this time that he wrote letters of inquiry to the several great monthly and quarterly reviews, and learned in reply that they rarely considered unsolicited articles, and that most of their contents were written upon order by well-known specialists who were authorities in their various fields.
但是成功女神弄丢了马丁的地址，她的使者再也不上马丁的门了。他辛辛苦苦写了二十五天，完成了一篇专门攻击梅特林克的神秘主义学派的论文：《太阳的耻辱》，大约有三万字，假日和星期日也没有休息，从实证科学的高度抨击了奇迹梦想者，但并未波及与确切的科学事实并不矛盾的许多美感经验与奇迹。以后不久他又写了两篇短文：《奇迹梦想者》和《自我的尺度》，继续进行攻击。于是他又开始为论文付旅费，把它们往一家一家杂志寄出。 
在写作《太阳的耻辱》的二十五天里，他的一些下锅之作又卖了六块五毛钱。一个笑话给了他五毛，另一篇投给一个高级滑稽周刊，赚来了一元，还有两首俏皮诗，分别得到两元和三元。结果是，在一些商家拒绝赊欠之后他的自行车和见客服装又回到当铺里去了，同时他在杂货铺的赊欠能力却提高到了五元。打字机店的人又在吵着要他交费了，说要严格照合同办事，要求预付租金。
几篇下锅之作卖掉，马丁受到鼓舞，又写起这类东西来。说不定可以靠它维持生活呢！报纸小故事供稿社退回的那二十来篇小故事还塞在桌子底下，他又翻出来读了一遍，想找出写作失败的原因。他从其中研究出了一个可靠的公式。他发现报纸小故事不能是悲剧，必须有大团圆结局；语言不必美，思想不必细致，感情也不必微妙，但一定要有感情，而且要丰富，要纯洁高贵，要是他少年时在剧院廉价座位上为之大喝其彩的那种感情——那种“为了上帝、祖国和国王”的感情，“穷归穷，要穷得志气”的感情。
有了这些必备知识，马丁又参考了《公爵夫人》杂志，学着它的调子，按照药方如法炮制，那药方包含三个部分：（1）一对情人生生被拆散；（2）两人因某一行为或事件而言归于好；（3）婚礼钟声。第三部分是一个不变量，第一、二部分可以变化无穷。比如两人拆散的原因可以是对对方动机的误解；可以是命运的意外；可以是妒忌；可以是父母的反对，监护人的狡猾，亲戚的干扰，如此等等。两人的团圆可以是由于男方的英勇行为；女方的英勇行为；一方的回心转意；狡猾的监护人或蓄意破坏的亲戚或情敌被迫承认错误；某种意外机密的发现；男方激动了女方的感情；情人做了长期的高贵的自我牺牲，或诸如此类，可以变化无穷。在双方团圆的过程中由女方追求更为动人，马丁一点一滴地发现了许多能吊人胃口、引人入胜的窍门；但结尾时的婚礼钟声是绝对不能更改的，哪怕天空像卷轴一样卷了起来，星星漫天散落，婚礼的钟声也必须响起。这个公式是写一千二百到一千五百字的小故事的诀窍。
研究小故事写作技巧后不久，马丁搞出了华打固定的模式，常常用来作编写参考。这些模式像巧妙的数学表格，可以从上面、下面。左面。右面切入，每道人口都有几十个横栏，几十个坚栏，从这些表格里不需要思考或推理就可以推导出千千万万不同的结果，每一个结果都准确可靠，经得起推敲。这样，使用了他的表格，不要半个小时便可以勾勒出几十个小故事的轮廓。他把它们放到一边，等那天严肃的工作结束，要上床了，闲空了，再填充完成。后来他还向露丝坦白，说他几乎连睡着了也能写出那样的东西来。真正的工作是设计轮廓；而设计轮廓是机械的工作。
他毫不怀疑他那公式的效率。这时他第一次明白了编辑的心理。他对自己肯定说他寄出去的头两篇作品准会带给他支票。果然，十二天之后支票来了，每篇四元。
与此同时他还对杂志有了惊人的新发现。《跨越大陆》虽然发表了他的《钟声激越》，却老不寄支票来。马丁需要钱，写信去问，回信却避而不谈，反而要他寄别的作品。因为等回信他已经饿了两天肚子，只好把自行车也送进了当铺。尽管回信很少，他每月仍固定发两封信，向《跨越大陆》讨那五块钱。他并不知道《跨越大陆》已经多年风雨飘摇，是个四流杂志，十流杂志，没有根基，发行量很不稳定，部分地靠小小的恐吓，部分地靠爱国情绪和几乎是施舍性的广告维持。他也不知道《跨越大陆》是编辑和经理的唯一饭碗，而他们挤出生活费用的办法就是搬家以逃避房租和躲掉一切躲得掉的开支。他也不知道他那五块钱早给经理挪用去油漆他在阿拉密达的房子了——那是利用上班日的下午自己油漆的，因为他付不起工会所规定的工资，也因为他雇佣的第一个不按规定要价的工人从梯子上掉下来，摔断了肩胛骨，送进了医院。
马丁·伊登卖给芝加哥新闻的《探宝者》的稿酬也没有到手。他在中央阅览室的文件里查明，作品已经发了，但是编辑一个字也没有写给他。他写信去问，仍然没有人理。为了肯定他的信已经收到，他把几封信寄了挂号。他的结论是：对方的做法简直就是抢劫——冷血的强盗。他在挨饿，而他们却还偷他的东西，抢他的货物——而卖货物换面包是他唯一的生路。
《青年与时代》是一个周刊，发表了他那二万一千字的连载故事的三分之二便倒闭了，得到那十六块钱的希望也就随之破灭。
最糟糕的是，他自认为是最佳作品之一的《罐子》也失掉了。原来他在绝望中，气急败坏地向各杂志乱投递时，把它寄给了旧金山的社交周刊《波涛》。他那样寄，是因为从奥克兰只需要过了海湾就能到达，很快就可以得到回音。两周以后他却喜出望外地在报摊发现：他的作品全文刊载在那个杂志最新一期的显要位置，而且配了插图。他心里怦怦跳着回到家里，盘算着他这最好的作品能得到多少报酬。那作品接受很快，出版迅速，令他很高兴。编辑们连通知都没来得及便发表了，这份惊喜更让他踌躇满志。他等待了一周，两周，又等待了半周，铤而走险战胜了胆小畏怯，他给《波涛》的编辑写了一封信，暗示说也许业务经理出于大意，把他那笔帐忽略了。
他想，即使不到五块钱，也还能买到足够的黄豆和豌豆熬汤，让他再写出六七篇那样的作品，说不定跟那一篇同样好呢。
编辑回了一封冷冰冰的信，可它至少也能令马丁佩服。
那信说：“尊稿早收到。谨谢赐稿，我部同人对该稿皆至为欣赏，并立即以显要地位刊登，想早奉清览。其插图谅能邀先生青睐。
“拜读来翰，先生似有所误会，以为我处对未约写之稿亦付稿酬。按，我处实无此规定，而尊稿显然未经约写，此事收稿时以为先生所素知也。对此不幸误会，同仁等深以为憾，谨对先生再申敬佩之忱，并致谢意。短期内如能再赐大作则更幸甚，专此奉复……”
下面还有一则附言，说《波涛》虽不赠阅，仍很乐意免费赠送一年。
有了那次经验，马丁便在他每一篇手稿的第一页上注明：“请按贵刊常规付酬。”
有时他自我安慰说：总有一天会按我的常规付酬的。
这个阶段他发现自己有了一种追求完美的热情。在那种情绪支配之下，他修改了、润色了他早期写作的《扰攘的街道》、《生命之酒》、《欢乐》、《海上抒情诗》和一些别的作品。他仍然跟过去一样，不要命地写作和读书；一天工作十九小时还嫌不够；在百忙之中连戒烟的痛苦也忘掉了。露丝带来的包装花哨的戒烟药被他塞到了抽屉最偏僻的角落里。在饥饿的时候，他尤其想抽烟，想得难受；无论多少次忍住烟瘾，那瘾总跟过去一样，十分强烈。他把戒烟认为是他最大的成就，可露丝却只觉得他不过做了件本该做的事而已。她给他带来了用自己的军用钱买的戒烟药，过两天就忘记了。
他那些机械制造的小故事倒很成功，尽管为他所不喜欢，也瞧不起。它们给他赎回了当掉的东西，偿付了大部分欠债，给他的自行车买了一副新轮胎，还使他免于断炊之虞，给了他时间写作雄心勃勃的作品。不过给了他信心的仍然是《白鼠》带给他的那四十元，那是他的信念之所寄托。他相信真正的第一流杂志是会给予一个无名作家同样的稿酬的，即使不能更多。问题在怎样打进第一流杂志。他最好的小说。论文和诗歌都在那些杂志间沿门乞讨；而他每个月都要在那些杂志不同的封面与封底之间读到无数篇沉闷、乏味、没有艺术性的玩意。他有时想：哪怕有一个编辑从他那傲慢的高位上给我写来一行鼓励的话也是好的。即使我的作品和别的作品不同，不够谨慎，不合需要，不能刊用，可其中总还有某些地方能闪出一星星火花，让他们温暖，博得他们一丝赞赏的吧！这样一想他又拿出自己的稿子，比如《冒险》，反复地研读起来，想探索出编辑们一直沉默的道理。
加利福尼亚州芬芳馥郁的春天到来了，可他的宽裕日子却结束了。很奇怪，报纸小故事供应社一连几个星期默不作声，令他十分烦恼。然后有一天邮局送回了他十篇机械制造的、天衣无缝的小故事。还附了一封简短的信，大意是供应社稿挤，几个月之内不会再接受外搞。可马丁却早已仗恃那十篇小故事过起了阔绰的生活。到最近为止，协会对他的稿子一直是每篇五元，来者不拒的，因此他便把那十个故事当作已经卖掉，仿佛在银行已有了五十元存款，并据此安排了生活。这样，他便于突然之间堕入了一段困顿，在这段时间里他老向那些并不付酬的报刊兜售他早期的作品，向那些并不想买他稿子的杂志兜售他近来的作品。同时他又开始到奥克兰上当铺了。卖给纽约几家周刊的几个笑话和几首俏皮诗使他得以苟延残喘。他在这个时期内向几家大型月刊和季刊发出了询问信，得到的回信是，它们很少考虑接受外搞，它们的大部分内容都是约稿，作者都是有名的专家，在各自领域里的权威。
Chapter 29
It was a hard summer for Martin. Manuscript readers and editors were away on vacation, and publications that ordinarily returned a decision in three weeks now retained his manuscript for three months or more. The consolation he drew from it was that a saving in postage was effected by the deadlock. Only the robber- publications seemed to remain actively in business, and to them Martin disposed of all his early efforts, such as "Pearl-diving," "The Sea as a Career," "Turtle-catching," and "The Northeast Trades." For these manuscripts he never received a penny. It is true, after six months' correspondence, he effected a compromise, whereby he received a safety razor for "Turtle-catching," and that THE ACROPOLIS, having agreed to give him five dollars cash and five yearly subscriptions: for "The Northeast Trades," fulfilled the second part of the agreement.
For a sonnet on Stevenson he managed to wring two dollars out of a Boston editor who was running a magazine with a Matthew Arnold taste and a penny-dreadful purse. "The Peri and the Pearl," a clever skit of a poem of two hundred lines, just finished, white hot from his brain, won the heart of the editor of a San Francisco magazine published in the interest of a great railroad. When the editor wrote, offering him payment in transportation, Martin wrote back to inquire if the transportation was transferable. It was not, and so, being prevented from peddling it, he asked for the return of the poem. Back it came, with the editor's regrets, and Martin sent it to San Francisco again, this time to THE HORNET, a pretentious monthly that had been fanned into a constellation of the first magnitude by the brilliant journalist who founded it. But THE HORNET'S light had begun to dim long before Martin was born. The editor promised Martin fifteen dollars for the poem, but, when it was published, seemed to forget about it. Several of his letters being ignored, Martin indicted an angry one which drew a reply. It was written by a new editor, who coolly informed Martin that he declined to be held responsible for the old editor's mistakes, and that he did not think much of "The Peri and the Pearl" anyway.
But THE GLOBE, a Chicago magazine, gave Martin the most cruel treatment of all. He had refrained from offering his "Sea Lyrics" for publication, until driven to it by starvation. After having been rejected by a dozen magazines, they had come to rest in THE GLOBE office. There were thirty poems in the collection, and he was to receive a dollar apiece for them. The first month four were published, and he promptly received a cheek for four dollars; but when he looked over the magazine, he was appalled at the slaughter. In some cases the titles had been altered: "Finis," for instance, being changed to "The Finish," and "The Song of the Outer Reef" to "The Song of the Coral Reef." In one case, an absolutely different title, a misappropriate title, was substituted. In place of his own, "Medusa Lights," the editor had printed, "The Backward Track." But the slaughter in the body of the poems was terrifying. Martin groaned and sweated and thrust his hands through his hair. Phrases, lines, and stanzas were cut out, interchanged, or juggled about in the most incomprehensible manner. Sometimes lines and stanzas not his own were substituted for his. He could not believe that a sane editor could be guilty of such maltreatment, and his favorite hypothesis was that his poems must have been doctored by the office boy or the stenographer. Martin wrote immediately, begging the editor to cease publishing the lyrics and to return them to him.
He wrote again and again, begging, entreating, threatening, but his letters were ignored. Month by month the slaughter went on till the thirty poems were published, and month by month he received a check for those which had appeared in the current number.
Despite these various misadventures, the memory of the WHITE MOUSE forty-dollar check sustained him, though he was driven more and more to hack-work. He discovered a bread-and-butter field in the agricultural weeklies and trade journals, though among the religious weeklies he found he could easily starve. At his lowest ebb, when his black suit was in pawn, he made a ten-strike - or so it seemed to him - in a prize contest arranged by the County Committee of the Republican Party. There were three branches of the contest, and he entered them all, laughing at himself bitterly the while in that he was driven to such straits to live. His poem won the first prize of ten dollars, his campaign song the second prize of five dollars, his essay on the principles of the Republican Party the first prize of twenty-five dollars. Which was very gratifying to him until he tried to collect. Something had gone wrong in the County Committee, and, though a rich banker and a state senator were members of it, the money was not forthcoming. While this affair was hanging fire, he proved that he understood the principles of the Democratic Party by winning the first prize for his essay in a similar contest. And, moreover, he received the money, twenty-five dollars. But the forty dollars won in the first contest he never received.
Driven to shifts in order to see Ruth, and deciding that the long walk from north Oakland to her house and back again consumed too much time, he kept his black suit in pawn in place of his bicycle. The latter gave him exercise, saved him hours of time for work, and enabled him to see Ruth just the same. A pair of knee duck trousers and an old sweater made him a presentable wheel costume, so that he could go with Ruth on afternoon rides. Besides, he no longer had opportunity to see much of her in her own home, where Mrs. Morse was thoroughly prosecuting her campaign of entertainment. The exalted beings he met there, and to whom he had looked up but a short time before, now bored him. They were no longer exalted. He was nervous and irritable, what of his hard times, disappointments, and close application to work, and the conversation of such people was maddening. He was not unduly egotistic. He measured the narrowness of their minds by the minds of the thinkers in the books he read. At Ruth's home he never met a large mind, with the exception of Professor Caldwell, and Caldwell he had met there only once. As for the rest, they were numskulls, ninnies, superficial, dogmatic, and ignorant. It was their ignorance that astounded him. What was the matter with them? What had they done with their educations? They had had access to the same books he had. How did it happen that they had drawn nothing from them?
He knew that the great minds, the deep and rational thinkers, existed. He had his proofs from the books, the books that had educated him beyond the Morse standard. And he knew that higher intellects than those of the Morse circle were to be found in the world. He read English society novels, wherein he caught glimpses of men and women talking politics and philosophy. And he read of salons in great cities, even in the United States, where art and intellect congregated. Foolishly, in the past, he had conceived that all well-groomed persons above the working class were persons with power of intellect and vigor of beauty. Culture and collars had gone together, to him, and he had been deceived into believing that college educations and mastery were the same things.
Well, he would fight his way on and up higher. And he would take Ruth with him. Her he dearly loved, and he was confident that she would shine anywhere. As it was clear to him that he had been handicapped by his early environment, so now he perceived that she was similarly handicapped. She had not had a chance to expand. The books on her father's shelves, the paintings on the walls, the music on the piano - all was just so much meretricious display. To real literature, real painting, real music, the Morses and their kind, were dead. And bigger than such things was life, of which they were densely, hopelessly ignorant. In spite of their Unitarian proclivities and their masks of conservative broadmindedness, they were two generations behind interpretative science: their mental processes were mediaeval, while their thinking on the ultimate data of existence and of the universe struck him as the same metaphysical method that was as young as the youngest race, as old as the cave-man, and older - the same that moved the first Pleistocene ape-man to fear the dark; that moved the first hasty Hebrew savage to incarnate Eve from Adam's rib; that moved Descartes to build an idealistic system of the universe out of the projections of his own puny ego; and that moved the famous British ecclesiastic to denounce evolution in satire so scathing as to win immediate applause and leave his name a notorious scrawl on the page of history.
So Martin thought, and he thought further, till it dawned upon him that the difference between these lawyers, officers, business men, and bank cashiers he had met and the members of the working class he had known was on a par with the difference in the food they ate, clothes they wore, neighborhoods in which they lived. Certainly, in all of them was lacking the something more which he found in himself and in the books. The Morses had shown him the best their social position could produce, and he was not impressed by it. A pauper himself, a slave to the money-lender, he knew himself the superior of those he met at the Morses'; and, when his one decent suit of clothes was out of pawn, he moved among them a lord of life, quivering with a sense of outrage akin to what a prince would suffer if condemned to live with goat-herds.
"You hate and fear the socialists," he remarked to Mr. Morse, one evening at dinner; "but why? You know neither them nor their doctrines."
The conversation had been swung in that direction by Mrs. Morse, who had been invidiously singing the praises of Mr. Hapgood. The cashier was Martin's black beast, and his temper was a trifle short where the talker of platitudes was concerned.
"Yes," he had said, "Charley Hapgood is what they call a rising young man - somebody told me as much. And it is true. He'll make the Governor's Chair before he dies, and, who knows? maybe the United States Senate."
"What makes you think so?" Mrs. Morse had inquired.
"I've heard him make a campaign speech. It was so cleverly stupid and unoriginal, and also so convincing, that the leaders cannot help but regard him as safe and sure, while his platitudes are so much like the platitudes of the average voter that - oh, well, you know you flatter any man by dressing up his own thoughts for him and presenting them to him."
"I actually think you are jealous of Mr. Hapgood," Ruth had chimed in.
"Heaven forbid!"
The look of horror on Martin's face stirred Mrs. Morse to belligerence.
"You surely don't mean to say that Mr. Hapgood is stupid?" she demanded icily.
"No more than the average Republican," was the retort, "or average Democrat, either. They are all stupid when they are not crafty, and very few of them are crafty. The only wise Republicans are the millionnaires and their conscious henchmen. They know which side their bread is buttered on, and they know why."
"I am a Republican," Mr. Morse put in lightly. "Pray, how do you classify me?"
"Oh, you are an unconscious henchman."
"Henchman?"
"Why, yes. You do corporation work. You have no working-class nor criminal practice. You don't depend upon wife-beaters and pickpockets for your income. You get your livelihood from the masters of society, and whoever feeds a man is that man's master. Yes, you are a henchman. You are interested in advancing the interests of the aggregations of capital you serve."
Mr. Morse's face was a trifle red.
"I confess, sir," he said, "that you talk like a scoundrelly socialist."
Then it was that Martin made his remark:
"You hate and fear the socialists; but why? You know neither them nor their doctrines."
"Your doctrine certainly sounds like socialism," Mr. Morse replied, while Ruth gazed anxiously from one to the other, and Mrs. Morse beamed happily at the opportunity afforded of rousing her liege lord's antagonism.
"Because I say Republicans are stupid, and hold that liberty, equality, and fraternity are exploded bubbles, does not make me a socialist," Martin said with a smile. "Because I question Jefferson and the unscientific Frenchmen who informed his mind, does not make me a socialist. Believe me, Mr. Morse, you are far nearer socialism than I who am its avowed enemy."
"Now you please to be facetious," was all the other could say.
"Not at all. I speak in all seriousness. You still believe in equality, and yet you do the work of the corporations, and the corporations, from day to day, are busily engaged in burying equality. And you call me a socialist because I deny equality, because I affirm just what you live up to. The Republicans are foes to equality, though most of them fight the battle against equality with the very word itself the slogan on their lips. In the name of equality they destroy equality. That was why I called them stupid. As for myself, I am an individualist. I believe the race is to the swift, the battle to the strong. Such is the lesson I have learned from biology, or at least think I have learned. As I said, I am an individualist, and individualism is the hereditary and eternal foe of socialism."
"But you frequent socialist meetings," Mr. Morse challenged.
"Certainly, just as spies frequent hostile camps. How else are you to learn about the enemy? Besides, I enjoy myself at their meetings. They are good fighters, and, right or wrong, they have read the books. Any one of them knows far more about sociology and all the other ologies than the average captain of industry. Yes, I have been to half a dozen of their meetings, but that doesn't make me a socialist any more than hearing Charley Hapgood orate made me a Republican."
"I can't help it," Mr. Morse said feebly, "but I still believe you incline that way."
Bless me, Martin thought to himself, he doesn't know what I was talking about. He hasn't understood a word of it. What did he do with his education, anyway?
Thus, in his development, Martin found himself face to face with economic morality, or the morality of class; and soon it became to him a grisly monster. Personally, he was an intellectual moralist, and more offending to him than platitudinous pomposity was the morality of those about him, which was a curious hotchpotch of the economic, the metaphysical, the sentimental, and the imitative.
A sample of this curious messy mixture he encountered nearer home. His sister Marian had been keeping company with an industrious young mechanic, of German extraction, who, after thoroughly learning the trade, had set up for himself in a bicycle-repair shop. Also, having got the agency for a low-grade make of wheel, he was prosperous. Marian had called on Martin in his room a short time before to announce her engagement, during which visit she had playfully inspected Martin's palm and told his fortune. On her next visit she brought Hermann von Schmidt along with her. Martin did the honors and congratulated both of them in language so easy and graceful as to affect disagreeably the peasant-mind of his sister's lover. This bad impression was further heightened by Martin's reading aloud the half-dozen stanzas of verse with which he had commemorated Marian's previous visit. It was a bit of society verse, airy and delicate, which he had named "The Palmist." He was surprised, when he finished reading it, to note no enjoyment in his sister's face. Instead, her eyes were fixed anxiously upon her betrothed, and Martin, following her gaze, saw spread on that worthy's asymmetrical features nothing but black and sullen disapproval. The incident passed over, they made an early departure, and Martin forgot all about it, though for the moment he had been puzzled that any woman, even of the working class, should not have been flattered and delighted by having poetry written about her.
Several evenings later Marian again visited him, this time alone. Nor did she waste time in coming to the point, upbraiding him sorrowfully for what he had done.
"Why, Marian," he chided, "you talk as though you were ashamed of your relatives, or of your brother at any rate."
"And I am, too," she blurted out.
Martin was bewildered by the tears of mortification he saw in her eyes. The mood, whatever it was, was genuine.
"But, Marian, why should your Hermann be jealous of my writing poetry about my own sister?"
"He ain't jealous," she sobbed. "He says it was indecent, ob - obscene."
Martin emitted a long, low whistle of incredulity, then proceeded to resurrect and read a carbon copy of "The Palmist."
"I can't see it," he said finally, proffering the manuscript to her. "Read it yourself and show me whatever strikes you as obscene - that was the word, wasn't it?"
"He says so, and he ought to know," was the answer, with a wave aside of the manuscript, accompanied by a look of loathing. "And he says you've got to tear it up. He says he won't have no wife of his with such things written about her which anybody can read. He says it's a disgrace, an' he won't stand for it."
"Now, look here, Marian, this is nothing but nonsense," Martin began; then abruptly changed his mind.
He saw before him an unhappy girl, knew the futility of attempting to convince her husband or her, and, though the whole situation was absurd and preposterous, he resolved to surrender.
"All right," he announced, tearing the manuscript into half a dozen pieces and throwing it into the waste-basket.
He contented himself with the knowledge that even then the original type-written manuscript was reposing in the office of a New York magazine. Marian and her husband would never know, and neither himself nor they nor the world would lose if the pretty, harmless poem ever were published.
Marian, starting to reach into the waste-basket, refrained.
"Can I?" she pleaded.
He nodded his head, regarding her thoughtfully as she gathered the torn pieces of manuscript and tucked them into the pocket of her jacket - ocular evidence of the success of her mission. She reminded him of Lizzie Connolly, though there was less of fire and gorgeous flaunting life in her than in that other girl of the working class whom he had seen twice. But they were on a par, the pair of them, in dress and carriage, and he smiled with inward amusement at the caprice of his fancy which suggested the appearance of either of them in Mrs. Morse's drawing-room. The amusement faded, and he was aware of a great loneliness. This sister of his and the Morse drawing-room were milestones of the road he had travelled. And he had left them behind. He glanced affectionately about him at his few books. They were all the comrades left to him.
"Hello, what's that?" he demanded in startled surprise.
Marian repeated her question.
"Why don't I go to work?" He broke into a laugh that was only half-hearted. "That Hermann of yours has been talking to you."
She shook her head.
"Don't lie," he commanded, and the nod of her head affirmed his charge.
"Well, you tell that Hermann of yours to mind his own business; that when I write poetry about the girl he's keeping company with it's his business, but that outside of that he's got no say so. Understand?
"So you don't think I'll succeed as a writer, eh?" he went on. "You think I'm no good? - that I've fallen down and am a disgrace to the family?"
"I think it would be much better if you got a job," she said firmly, and he saw she was sincere. "Hermann says - "
"Damn Hermann!" he broke out good-naturedly. "What I want to know is when you're going to get married. Also, you find out from your Hermann if he will deign to permit you to accept a wedding present from me."
He mused over the incident after she had gone, and once or twice broke out into laughter that was bitter as he saw his sister and her betrothed, all the members of his own class and the members of Ruth's class, directing their narrow little lives by narrow little formulas - herd-creatures, flocking together and patterning their lives by one another's opinions, failing of being individuals and of really living life because of the childlike formulas by which they were enslaved. He summoned them before him in apparitional procession: Bernard Higginbotham arm in arm with Mr. Butler, Hermann von Schmidt cheek by jowl with Charley Hapgood, and one by one and in pairs he judged them and dismissed them - judged them by the standards of intellect and morality he had learned from the books. Vainly he asked: Where are the great souls, the great men and women? He found them not among the careless, gross, and stupid intelligences that answered the call of vision to his narrow room. He felt a loathing for them such as Circe must have felt for her swine. When he had dismissed the last one and thought himself alone, a late-comer entered, unexpected and unsummoned. Martin watched him and saw the stiff-rim, the square-cut, double-breasted coat and the swaggering shoulders, of the youthful hoodlum who had once been he.
"You were like all the rest, young fellow," Martin sneered. "Your morality and your knowledge were just the same as theirs. You did not think and act for yourself. Your opinions, like your clothes, were ready made; your acts were shaped by popular approval. You were cock of your gang because others acclaimed you the real thing. You fought and ruled the gang, not because you liked to, - you know you really despised it, - but because the other fellows patted you on the shoulder. You licked Cheese-Face because you wouldn't give in, and you wouldn't give in partly because you were an abysmal brute and for the rest because you believed what every one about you believed, that the measure of manhood was the carnivorous ferocity displayed in injuring and marring fellow-creatures' anatomies. Why, you whelp, you even won other fellows' girls away from them, not because you wanted the girls, but because in the marrow of those about you, those who set your moral pace, was the instinct of the wild stallion and the bull-seal. Well, the years have passed, and what do you think about it now?"
As if in reply, the vision underwent a swift metamorphosis. The stiff-rim and the square-cut vanished, being replaced by milder garments; the toughness went out of the face, the hardness out of the eyes; and, the face, chastened and refined, was irradiated from an inner life of communion with beauty and knowledge. The apparition was very like his present self, and, as he regarded it, he noted the student-lamp by which it was illuminated, and the book over which it pored. He glanced at the title and read, "The Science of AEsthetics." Next, he entered into the apparition, trimmed the student-lamp, and himself went on reading "The Science of AEsthetics."
那个夏天马丁过得很艰难。审稿人和编辑们都放假走掉了。报刊杂志平时三个礼拜就能回信，现在一拖三个月，有时更久。他感到安慰的是邮费倒是因为这僵局而省掉了。出版仍然活跃的是那些强盗报刊。马丁把他早期的作品如《潜水采珠》、《海上生涯》、《捕鳖》、《东北季候风》全寄给了它们，没有从这些稿子得到分文稿酬。不过，在六个月书信往返之后他取得了一项折中：从《捕鳖》得到了一把刮胡刀；刊登他的《东北季候风》的《卫城》则同意给他五元现金和五年赠阅——后来只执行了协议的第二部分。 
他把一首咏史蒂文森的十四行诗卖给了波士顿一个编辑，从那儿挤出了两元钱。那编辑办的杂志虽饶有马修·阿诺德风格，钱袋子却攥得极紧。他新写成的一首二百行的巧妙的讽刺诗《仙女与珍珠》，刚从脑子里热腾腾出笼，得到了旧金山一家杂志编辑的青睐。那杂志是为一条大铁路办的。杂志编辑写信问他是否可以用免费乘车证代替稿费，他回信问那乘车证可否转让，回答是不能转让。既然不能转让他只好要求退稿。稿子退了回来，编辑表示遗憾，马丁又把它寄到旧金山，给了《大黄蜂》，一家神气十足的杂志，是一个精明的报人一手创办并吹嘘成最辉煌的明星杂志的。但是《大黄蜂》的光芒在马丁出世以前早已暗淡。编辑同意给马丁十五元钱买那首诗，不过在刊出之后却似乎忘了寄稿费的事。马丁去了几封信都没有回音，便写去了一封措辞尖刻的信，算是引来了回答。那是一个新任编辑写的，冷冰冰地告诉马丁他不能对他前任编辑的错误负责。而且他认为《仙女与珍珠》也并不怎么样。
但是给予马丁最残酷打击的却是一家芝加哥的杂志《环球》。马丁一直不肯把他的《海上抒情诗》送出去发表，实在是因为太饿才终于改变了初衷。在遭到十多家杂志拒绝之后，那稿子来到了《环球》的办公室。那集子里一共有三十首诗，一首诗能给他一块钱。第一个月发表了四首，他立即得到了四块钱支票。但是一看杂志，他却为那屠杀式的窜改气得发疯。连标题都改了，《结局》给改成了《完》；《外礁之歌》给改成了《珊瑚礁之歌》；还有一处标题改得文不对题，《美杜莎的目光》被改成了《倒退的轨迹》。诗歌本身的胡涂乱改更是可怕。马丁嗷嗷叫着，满身冷汗，揪着头发。用词、诗行和小节都被莫名其妙地划掉了、交换了、颠倒了、混淆了。有时又凭空飞来些诗节，代替了他的原作。他很难相信一个头脑清醒的编辑竟会这样横行霸道。若是说那诗是叫一个跑街小厮或是速记员动了手术，他倒比较相信。马丁立即去信请求原诗退回，别再发表。他一封又一封地写信，要求，央告，乞请，威胁，都没有回音。那蹂躏屠杀一个月一个月地继续下去，直到他的三十首诗一一发表完毕。支票倒是每月作品一发就寄来的。
尽管有这些倒霉的事，关于《白鼠》的那四十元支票的记忆仍然支持着他，只是他不得不越来越多地写下锅之作。他在农业周刊和行业刊物里找到了奶油面包，也发现靠宗教周刊容易饿饭。在他最倒霉、连那套黑色礼服也进了当辅以后，却在共和党县委组织的一次有奖比赛里得了个满分——或者是自以为如此。竞赛分作三项，他全参加了——他不禁对自己苦笑，竟弄到了这种山穷水尽的地步！他的诗歌得了一等奖，十元；他的竞选歌曲得了二等奖，五元；他的论述共和党原则的论文得了一等奖，二十五元。这叫他心满意足，可到他去领奖时才发现还有问题。原来县委内部出了差错，尽管县委里有一个有钱的银行家和一个州参议员，奖金却迟迟没有发了来。这个问题还悬而未决，他又在另一项论文竞赛里得了个一等奖，不但证明了自己也懂得民主党的原则，而且到手了二十五元奖金。不过共和党竞赛的那四十元却泡了汤。
他不得不设计和露丝见面的办法。考虑到从北奥克兰步行到露丝家再走回来路程太远，他决定把黑色礼服送进了当铺，以保留自行车。自行车照样能让他跟露丝见面，却又能锻炼身材，而且能省下时间来工作。他只须穿上一条细帆布齐膝短裤和一件旧毛线衣，也能算有了过得去的骑车装，下午便能够和露丝一起骑车兜风了。而且，他在她家里见到她的机会也不多，因为莫尔斯太太正全力以赴推行她的请客计划。他在那儿见到的不久前还叫他莫测高深的上流人士现在已叫他生厌。他们再也不神气了。他因为自己日子过得艰难，屡遭挫折，工作又太辛苦，本来就敏感易怒，而他们的谈吐又总惹他生气。他的这种自满未始没有道理。他用自己在书上读到的思想家作尺度来衡量那些人狭隘的心灵，除却考德威尔教授以外，他在露丝家就没有遇见过一个心灵博大的人，而考德威尔教授他也只见过一次。其他的人全都是些蠢材，笨蛋，又浅薄，又武断，又无知。最叫他吃惊的是他们的无知。他们是怎么了？他们受过的教育到哪儿去了？他读过的书他们都是读过的，可是为什么他们从那些书里就什么都没有学到？
他知道世界上确实有博大的心灵和深沉合理的思想。这是他从书本上验证过的。那些书本给他的教育超过了莫尔斯家的标准。他也明白世上有高于莫尔斯圈子的聪明才智。他阅读英国的社交小说，在其中瞥见过一些讨论政治和哲学的绅士淑女。他也读到过大都会里的沙龙，艺术和聪明都在那里会集，而这种沙龙美国也有。他过去曾愚昧地以为：高踞于工人阶级以上的衣冠楚楚的人们全都智慧过人，情操优美。他曾以为文化总伴随着白领；他曾受过骗，以为大学教育就是博学多才。
是的，他要奋斗，要向上，还要把露丝留在身边。他对她一往情深，深信她所到之处都一路光辉。他明白自己少时的环境限制过自己；也明白露丝的环境也会限制她。她没有发展的机会。她父亲架上的书、墙上的画和钢琴上的乐曲至多也不过是些平庸的装饰。莫尔斯一家和类似的人对真正的文学、绘画和音乐全都迟钝，而生活却比那一切宏伟多了。他们对生活愚昧得无可救药。尽管他们倾向于唯一神教，戴了一副具有保守开明思想的面具，实际上他们已落后于解释世界的科学两代之久。他们的思想还处在中世纪阶段。同时，他也感到，他们看待生命和宇宙的终极事实的方法还是形而上学的，那种看法阻地球上最年轻的种族的看法一样幼稚；也跟穴居人的看法一样古老，甚至更古老——那看法使第一个更新世的猿人害怕黑暗；使第一个匆促的希伯来野蛮人用亚当的肋骨造成了夏娃；使笛卡尔通过反射渺小的自我建立了唯心主义的宇宙体系；使那有名的英格兰传教士用尖刻的讽刺来谴责进化论，并立即博得了喝彩，从而在历史的篇章里草草留下了一个臭名。
马丁想着，又想了开去。他终于明白过来，他所见过的这些律师。军官、商人和银行经理跟他所认识的工人阶级成员们之间的差异是跟他们的食物、服装和人事环境一致的。他们每个人都肯定缺少了某种东西，而那东西他在书本里和自己具上已经找到。莫尔斯一家向他展示了他们的社会地位所能提供的最佳事物，可他并不觉得那些事物有什么了不起。他一贫如洗，成了放债人的奴隶。可他明白自己要比在莫尔斯家见到的那些人高明。他只要把他那身见客服装赎出来，就能像生命的主宰一样周旋在他们之间，带着受到侮辱的战栗，其感受有如被罢黜到牧羊人中间的王子。
“你仇恨而且害怕社会主义者，”有一天晚餐时他对莫尔斯先生说，“可那是为什么？你并不认识社会主义者，也不懂得他们的学说。”
话头是由莫尔斯太太引起的。她一直在令人厌烦地歌颂着哈外古德先生。那银行家在马丁心目中是一匹黑色的野兽，一提起那个满口陈词滥调的家伙他就免不了要生气。
“是的，”他说，“查理·哈补占德是所谓的扶摇直上的青年——有人这么说。这话不错，他也许在去世之前能当上州长，说不定还能进合众国的参议院，谁也说不准。”
“你凭什么这么想？”莫尔斯太太问。
“我听他发表过竞选演说。愚蠢得非常聪明，尤其擅长人云亦云，还很有说服力。当头头的准会认为他安全可靠。他的陈词滥调跟普通的投票人的陈词滥调非常相似——不错，你知道，只要你能把任何人的话美化一番，再送还给他，你准保能得到他的欢心。”
“我的确认为你是妒忌哈扑古德先生。”露丝插话说。
“上天不允许！”
马丁脸上的厌恶之情挑起了莫尔斯太大的敌对情绪。
“你肯定不是说哈扑古德先生愚蠢吧？”她冷冷地质问。
“并不比一般的共和党人更愚蠢，”他针锋相对，“或者说，也不比民主党人更愚蠢。他们不耍手腕时都很愚蠢，而他们之中善于要手腕的并不多。聪明的共和党人是那些百万富翁们和他们的自觉的仆从们。他们明白自己的利害所在，也深知此中的奥妙。”
“我就是个共和党，”莫尔斯先生不动声色地插了一句，“请问，你把我归于哪一类？”
“哦，你是个不自觉的仆从。”
“仆从？”
“不错，不过那也没什么。你在公司工作，你不替工人打官司，也不打刑事官司；你的律师收入不靠打老婆的穷人，也不靠扒手。你从主宰着社会的人讨生活——谁养活别人，谁就是别人的主宰。不错，你就是个仆从。你只对如何增进资本集团的利益感到兴趣。”
莫尔斯先生涨红了脸。
“我得承认，先生，”他说，“你的话跟流氓式的社会主义者差不多。”
这时马丁回答的就是上面那句话：——
“你仇恨而且害怕社会主义者，可那是为什么？你并不认识社会主义者，也不知道他们的学说。”
‘你的学说听起来就像社会主义。”莫尔斯先生回答。这时露丝焦急地望着他们俩，而莫尔斯太太则快活得满脸放光，因为她终于找到了机会，挑起了老爷子的不满。
“不能因为我说共和党人愚蠢，认为自由平等博爱已经成了破灭的肥皂泡，就把我算成社会主义者。”马丁望尔一笑，说，“我虽对杰怫逊和那些向他提供材料的不科学的法国人提出怀疑，却不能算是社会主义者。请相信我，莫尔斯先生，你比我还要接近社会主义得多，反之，我倒是社会主义的死敌。”
“现在你倒有心思开玩笑。”对方无可奈何地说。
“一点也不开玩笑。我说话可是一本正经的。你还相信平等，可你为公司干活，而公司是每天都在埋葬着平等的。你因为我否认平等，揭穿了你的所作所为的实质就说我是社会主义者。共和党人是平等的敌人，虽然他们大部分人嘴上都挂着平等的口号在进行着反对平等的斗争。他们其实是在以平等的名义摧毁着平等。因此我说他们愚昧。至于我自己，我是个个人主义者，我相信赛跑是腿脚快的得奖，打架是力气大的获胜。这就是我从生物学学到的，至少是自以为学到的东西。我说过我是个个人主义者，而个人主义天生就是社会主义的敌人，永远的敌人。”
“但是你参加社会主义的聚会，”莫尔斯先生反驳道。
“当然，正如间谍要打入敌人营垒里去一样，否则你怎么能知道敌人呢？何况我参加他们的集会还感到快活。他们是优秀的战士，而且，无论他们是否正确，他们都读过书。他们中的任何一个人所懂得的社会学和别的学问也比一般企业老板多得多。是的，我参加过他们六七次会议，但那也不能把我变成社会主义者，正如听了查理·哈外古德的讲演并不能把我变成共和党人一样。”
“我是情不自禁产生这种想法的，”莫尔斯先生冷冷地说，“我仍然觉得你倾向于社会主义。”
上帝保佑，马丁心想，他不懂我的意思，我的话他一句话也没有听懂。他当初那教育是怎么受的？马丁就像这样在发展之中让自己面对了经济地位所形成的道德观，也就是阶级的道德，那东西在他面前很快就化作了一个狰狞的怪物。他本人是个理性的道德家，而在他眼里他周围这些人的道德观却比大言不惭的陈词监调更为可厌，那是一种经济道德、形而上学道德、伤感主义道德跟人云亦云的道德的妙不盯言的大杂烩。
他在自己的家里就尝到了一口这种离奇的混合道德的美味。他的妹妹茉莉安和一个年轻勤奋的德国血统技工有了来往。那人在学会了全部技术之后开了一家自行车修理铺，站住了脚跟。以后他又获得了一种低级牌子的自行车的代销权，于是富了起来。茉莉安前不久到马丁那小屋来看他，告诉了他她订婚的事。那时她还开玩笑，给马丁看了看手相。第二次她来时带来了赫尔曼·冯·史密特。马丁表示欢迎，并用了很为流畅优美的言辞向两人祝贺，可那却引起工妹妹的情人那农民心灵的抵触。马丁又朗诵了他为纪念跟茉莉安上次的见面所写的六七小节诗，却加深了恶劣的印象。那是些社交诗，巧妙精美，他把它叫做《手相家》。他朗诵完毕，却没有见到妹妹脸上有高兴的表情出现，不禁感到吃惊。相反，妹妹的眼睛却盯住了她的未婚夫。马丁跟随她的目光看去，却在那位重要人物歪扭的脸上看见了阴沉、慢怒的不以为然的神气。这事过去了，客人很早就离开了，马丁也把它全忘了。不过，他一时总觉得奇怪，即使是工人阶级的妇女，别人为她写诗，能有什么叫她不得意、不高兴的呢？
几天以后，茉莉安又来看他，这回是一个人来的。他倒是开门见山，没有浪费时间就痛苦地责备起他的行为来。
“怎么啦，茉莉安，”他也责备她，“你说话那样子好像为你的亲人，至少是为你哥哥感到丢脸似的。”
“我的确感到丢脸。”她爆发了出来。
马丁在她的眼里看到了屈辱的泪水，感到莫名其妙。可无论那是什么情绪，却是真实的。
“可是茉莉安，我为我的亲妹妹写诗，赫尔文凭什么嫉妒呀？”
“他不是嫉妒，”她抽抽搭搭地哭了起来，“他说那诗不正经，下——流。”
马丁低吹了一声长长的口哨，表示难以置信，回过神来之后，又读了读《手相家》的复写稿。
“我可看不出诗里有什么下流之处，”他终于说，把稿子递给了她。“你自己看看，再告诉我你觉得是什么地方下流——他用的是这个词吧。”
“那是他说的，他总该知道，”妹妹回答，带着厌恶的表情一挥手，推开了稿子。“他说你应该把它撕掉。他说，他不要这样的老婆，叫人写这样的话，还要去让人家读。他说那太丢脸，他不能忍受。”
“听着，茉莉安，他这是胡说八道。”马丁刚开口，随即改变了主意。
他看见了眼前这个伤心的姑娘，他明白要说服她和她的丈夫是不可能的。尽管事情整个儿地荒唐可笑，他仍然决定投降。
“好了好了，”他宣布，把手稿撕成了五六片，扔进了字纸篓。
他心里别有安慰，他知道那时他的打字稿已经躺在纽约一家杂志社的办公室里。这是茉莉安和她的丈夫都不会知道的。而且，即使那无害的诗发表了，也不会妨害他自己、茉莉安夫妇或任何人。
茉莉安向字纸篓伸了伸手，却忍住了。
“我可以吗？”她请求。
他点了点头。她把那些手稿破片收拾起来，塞进了短衫口袋——那是她任务完成的物证。他沉思地望着她。她叫他想起了丽齐·康诺利，虽然茉莉安没有他只见过两面的那个工人阶级姑娘那么火热、耀眼、精力充沛，但她们的服装和姿态是一样的，她们是一对。他又设想若是这两个姑娘之一在莫尔斯太太的厅堂里出现，又会怎么样。这一想，他又不禁心里一乐，笑了起来。笑意淡去，他又感到了孤独。他的这个妹妹和莫尔斯太太家的厅堂是他生命旅途上的两个里程碑。他已经把两者都扔到了身后。他深情地环视着他的那几本书。那是他现在仅有的志同道合者了。
“啊，什么？”他吃了一惊，问道。
茉莉安把她的问题再说了一遍。
“我为什么不去干活？”他有心没肠地笑了起来。“你的那位赫尔曼教训了你吧。”
她摇摇头。
“别撒谎。”他命令道，她点了点头，承认了他的判断。
“好了，你告诉你那位赫尔曼，还是多为自己的事操点心吧。我为他的女朋友写诗可以算得是他的事，但对此外的问题他是没有发言权的。明白了么？”
“你说我想当作家是办不到的么，呢？”他继续说，“你认为我不行么？——认为我倒了霉，给家庭丢了脸，是么？”
“我认为你若是有了工作就会好得多，”她理直气壮地说，他明白那话是出于至诚。“赫尔曼说——”
“滚你耶赫尔曼的蛋吧！”他叫了起来，态度却挺好，“我想知道你们什么时候结婚。还有，请征求征求你那位赫尔曼的意见，可否委屈地同意你接受我一个礼物。”
妹妹离开之后他考虑了一下这事，不禁一再苦笑。他看见妹妹和她的未婚夫、工人阶级的全部成员、还有露丝那阶级的全部成员，人人都按照自己渺小的公式过着自己的狭隘生活——他们是过着集体生活的群居动物，他们用彼此的舆论塑造着彼此的生活。他们受到那些奴役着他们的幼稚公式的控制，都不再是单个的个人，也都过不到真正的生活。马丁把他们像幽灵队伍一样召唤到了自己面前。和巴特勒先生手牵着手的是伯纳德·希金波坦；和查理·哈扑古德胜贴着脸的是赫尔曼·冯·史密特。他把他们一个一个，一对一对作了评判，然后全部打发掉。他用书本上学来的智慧和道德标准对他们作了评判，然后茫然地问道：那些伟大的灵魂、伟大的人到哪里去了？他在响应他幻觉的号召来到他小屋里的轻浮、粗野、愚昧的聪明人中寻找，一个也没有找到。他厌恶这群人，女巫喀耳刻也一定像他一样厌恶着她那群猪的。等到他把最后一个幼象都赶走，觉得自己已是单独一人时，却来了一个迟到者，这人不期而至，是个不速之客。马丁望着他，看见了那硬檐帽，方襟双排扣短外衣和大摇大摆的肩头，他看见了那个流氓，当年的他。
“你也和这些人是一路货色，小年青，”马丁冷笑说，“你那道德和知识水平当初也跟他们一模一样。你并不按照自己的本意去思想和行动。你的思想和你的衣服一样，都是预先做好的。大家的赞许规定了你的行为。你是你那帮人的头头，因为别人说你有种，为你喝彩。你打架，你指挥别人，并不是因为你喜欢那样做——你知道实际上你讨厌那样做——而是因为别人拍你的肩膀表示赞许。你打垮了干酪脸是因为你不肯认输。而你不肯认输则一部分是因为你好勇斗狠，一部分是因为你相信着你身边的人相信的东西，认为男子汉的本领就在敢于残酷凶狠地伤害和折磨别人的肉体。哼，兔意于，你甚至抢走伙伴的女朋友，并不因为你想要那些姑娘，而只是因为你身边的人在骨髓里存在的就是野蛮的公马和雄海豹的本能，而你的道德规范又由他们决定。好了，那样的年代过去了，你现在对它是怎么看的？”
转瞬之间那幻影改变了，好像作出了回答。硬檐帽和方襟短外衣不见了，为较为平和的装束所代替。脸上的蛮横之气，眼里的粗野之光也不见了；因为受到熏陶磨练，脸上闪出了心灵跟美和知识契合无间的光芒。那幻影非常像他现在的自己。他打量着幻影，看见了那映照着幻影的台灯和灯光照耀的书本。他瞥了一眼那书名，读道：《美的科学》，然后便进入幻影，挑亮台灯，读起《美的科学》来。
Chapter 30
On a beautiful fall day, a day of similar Indian summer to that which had seen their love declared the year before, Martin read his "Love-cycle" to Ruth. It was in the afternoon, and, as before, they had ridden out to their favorite knoll in the hills. Now and again she had interrupted his reading with exclamations of pleasure, and now, as he laid the last sheet of manuscript with its fellows, he waited her judgment.
She delayed to speak, and at last she spoke haltingly, hesitating to frame in words the harshness of her thought.
"I think they are beautiful, very beautiful," she said; "but you can't sell them, can you? You see what I mean," she said, almost pleaded. "This writing of yours is not practical. Something is the matter - maybe it is with the market - that prevents you from earning a living by it. And please, dear, don't misunderstand me. I am flattered, and made proud, and all that - I could not be a true woman were it otherwise - that you should write these poems to me. But they do not make our marriage possible. Don't you see, Martin? Don't think me mercenary. It is love, the thought of our future, with which I am burdened. A whole year has gone by since we learned we loved each other, and our wedding day is no nearer. Don't think me immodest in thus talking about our wedding, for really I have my heart, all that I am, at stake. Why don't you try to get work on a newspaper, if you are so bound up in your writing? Why not become a reporter? - for a while, at least?"
"It would spoil my style," was his answer, in a low, monotonous voice. "You have no idea how I've worked for style."
"But those storiettes," she argued. "You called them hack-work. You wrote many of them. Didn't they spoil your style?"
"No, the cases are different. The storiettes were ground out, jaded, at the end of a long day of application to style. But a reporter's work is all hack from morning till night, is the one paramount thing of life. And it is a whirlwind life, the life of the moment, with neither past nor future, and certainly without thought of any style but reportorial style, and that certainly is not literature. To become a reporter now, just as my style is taking form, crystallizing, would be to commit literary suicide. As it is, every storiette, every word of every storiette, was a violation of myself, of my self-respect, of my respect for beauty. I tell you it was sickening. I was guilty of sin. And I was secretly glad when the markets failed, even if my clothes did go into pawn. But the joy of writing the 'Love-cycle'! The creative joy in its noblest form! That was compensation for everything."
Martin did not know that Ruth was unsympathetic concerning the creative joy. She used the phrase - it was on her lips he had first heard it. She had read about it, studied about it, in the university in the course of earning her Bachelorship of Arts; but she was not original, not creative, and all manifestations of culture on her part were but harpings of the harpings of others.
"May not the editor have been right in his revision of your 'Sea Lyrics'?" she questioned. "Remember, an editor must have proved qualifications or else he would not be an editor."
"That's in line with the persistence of the established," he rejoined, his heat against the editor-folk getting the better of him. "What is, is not only right, but is the best possible. The existence of anything is sufficient vindication of its fitness to exist - to exist, mark you, as the average person unconsciously believes, not merely in present conditions, but in all conditions. It is their ignorance, of course, that makes them believe such rot - their ignorance, which is nothing more nor less than the henidical mental process described by Weininger. They think they think, and such thinkless creatures are the arbiters of the lives of the few who really think."
He paused, overcome by the consciousness that he had been talking over Ruth's head.
"I'm sure I don't know who this Weininger is," she retorted. "And you are so dreadfully general that I fail to follow you. What I was speaking of was the qualification of editors - "
"And I'll tell you," he interrupted. "The chief qualification of ninety-nine per cent of all editors is failure. They have failed as writers. Don't think they prefer the drudgery of the desk and the slavery to their circulation and to the business manager to the joy of writing. They have tried to write, and they have failed. And right there is the cursed paradox of it. Every portal to success in literature is guarded by those watch-dogs, the failures in literature. The editors, sub-editors, associate editors, most of them, and the manuscript-readers for the magazines and book- publishers, most of them, nearly all of them, are men who wanted to write and who have failed. And yet they, of all creatures under the sun the most unfit, are the very creatures who decide what shall and what shall not find its way into print - they, who have proved themselves not original, who have demonstrated that they lack the divine fire, sit in judgment upon originality and genius. And after them come the reviewers, just so many more failures. Don't tell me that they have not dreamed the dream and attempted to write poetry or fiction; for they have, and they have failed. Why, the average review is more nauseating than cod-liver oil. But you know my opinion on the reviewers and the alleged critics. There are great critics, but they are as rare as comets. If I fail as a writer, I shall have proved for the career of editorship. There's bread and butter and jam, at any rate."
Ruth's mind was quick, and her disapproval of her lover's views was buttressed by the contradiction she found in his contention.
"But, Martin, if that be so, if all the doors are closed as you have shown so conclusively, how is it possible that any of the great writers ever arrived?"
"They arrived by achieving the impossible," he answered. "They did such blazing, glorious work as to burn to ashes those that opposed them. They arrived by course of miracle, by winning a thousand-to- one wager against them. They arrived because they were Carlyle's battle-scarred giants who will not be kept down. And that is what I must do; I must achieve the impossible."
"But if you fail? You must consider me as well, Martin."
"If I fail?" He regarded her for a moment as though the thought she had uttered was unthinkable. Then intelligence illumined his eyes. "If I fail, I shall become an editor, and you will be an editor's wife."
She frowned at his facetiousness - a pretty, adorable frown that made him put his arm around her and kiss it away.
"There, that's enough," she urged, by an effort of will withdrawing herself from the fascination of his strength. "I have talked with father and mother. I never before asserted myself so against them. I demanded to be heard. I was very undutiful. They are against you, you know; but I assured them over and over of my abiding love for you, and at last father agreed that if you wanted to, you could begin right away in his office. And then, of his own accord, he said he would pay you enough at the start so that we could get married and have a little cottage somewhere. Which I think was very fine of him - don't you?"
Martin, with the dull pain of despair at his heart, mechanically reaching for the tobacco and paper (which he no longer carried) to roll a cigarette, muttered something inarticulate, and Ruth went on.
"Frankly, though, and don't let it hurt you - I tell you, to show you precisely how you stand with him - he doesn't like your radical views, and he thinks you are lazy. Of course I know you are not. I know you work hard."
How hard, even she did not know, was the thought in Martin's mind.
"Well, then," he said, "how about my views? Do you think they are so radical?"
He held her eyes and waited the answer.
"I think them, well, very disconcerting," she replied.
The question was answered for him, and so oppressed was he by the grayness of life that he forgot the tentative proposition she had made for him to go to work. And she, having gone as far as she dared, was willing to wait the answer till she should bring the question up again.
She had not long to wait. Martin had a question of his own to propound to her. He wanted to ascertain the measure of her faith in him, and within the week each was answered. Martin precipitated it by reading to her his "The Shame of the Sun."
"Why don't you become a reporter?" she asked when he had finished. "You love writing so, and I am sure you would succeed. You could rise in journalism and make a name for yourself. There are a number of great special correspondents. Their salaries are large, and their field is the world. They are sent everywhere, to the heart of Africa, like Stanley, or to interview the Pope, or to explore unknown Thibet."
"Then you don't like my essay?" he rejoined. "You believe that I have some show in journalism but none in literature?"
"No, no; I do like it. It reads well. But I am afraid it's over the heads of your readers. At least it is over mine. It sounds beautiful, but I don't understand it. Your scientific slang is beyond me. You are an extremist, you know, dear, and what may be intelligible to you may not be intelligible to the rest of us."
"I imagine it's the philosophic slang that bothers you," was all he could say.
He was flaming from the fresh reading of the ripest thought he had expressed, and her verdict stunned him.
"No matter how poorly it is done," he persisted, "don't you see anything in it? - in the thought of it, I mean?"
She shook her head.
"No, it is so different from anything I have read. I read Maeterlinck and understand him - "
"His mysticism, you understand that?" Martin flashed out.
"Yes, but this of yours, which is supposed to be an attack upon him, I don't understand. Of course, if originality counts - "
He stopped her with an impatient gesture that was not followed by speech. He became suddenly aware that she was speaking and that she had been speaking for some time.
"After all, your writing has been a toy to you," she was saying. "Surely you have played with it long enough. It is time to take up life seriously - OUR life, Martin. Hitherto you have lived solely your own."
"You want me to go to work?" he asked.
"Yes. Father has offered - "
"I understand all that," he broke in; "but what I want to know is whether or not you have lost faith in me?"
She pressed his hand mutely, her eyes dim.
"In your writing, dear," she admitted in a half-whisper.
"You've read lots of my stuff," he went on brutally. "What do you think of it? Is it utterly hopeless? How does it compare with other men's work?"
"But they sell theirs, and you - don't."
"That doesn't answer my question. Do you think that literature is not at all my vocation?"
"Then I will answer." She steeled herself to do it. "I don't think you were made to write. Forgive me, dear. You compel me to say it; and you know I know more about literature than you do."
"Yes, you are a Bachelor of Arts," he said meditatively; "and you ought to know."
"But there is more to be said," he continued, after a pause painful to both. "I know what I have in me. No one knows that so well as I. I know I shall succeed. I will not be kept down. I am afire with what I have to say in verse, and fiction, and essay. I do not ask you to have faith in that, though. I do not ask you to have faith in me, nor in my writing. What I do ask of you is to love me and have faith in love."
"A year ago I believed for two years. One of those years is yet to run. And I do believe, upon my honor and my soul, that before that year is run I shall have succeeded. You remember what you told me long ago, that I must serve my apprenticeship to writing. Well, I have served it. I have crammed it and telescoped it. With you at the end awaiting me, I have never shirked. Do you know, I have forgotten what it is to fall peacefully asleep. A few million years ago I knew what it was to sleep my fill and to awake naturally from very glut of sleep. I am awakened always now by an alarm clock. If I fall asleep early or late, I set the alarm accordingly; and this, and the putting out of the lamp, are my last conscious actions."
"When I begin to feel drowsy, I change the heavy book I am reading for a lighter one. And when I doze over that, I beat my head with my knuckles in order to drive sleep away. Somewhere I read of a man who was afraid to sleep. Kipling wrote the story. This man arranged a spur so that when unconsciousness came, his naked body pressed against the iron teeth. Well, I've done the same. I look at the time, and I resolve that not until midnight, or not until one o'clock, or two o'clock, or three o'clock, shall the spur be removed. And so it rowels me awake until the appointed time. That spur has been my bed-mate for months. I have grown so desperate that five and a half hours of sleep is an extravagance. I sleep four hours now. I am starved for sleep. There are times when I am light-headed from want of sleep, times when death, with its rest and sleep, is a positive lure to me, times when I am haunted by Longfellow's lines:
"'The sea is still and deep; All things within its bosom sleep; A single step and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.'
"Of course, this is sheer nonsense. It comes from nervousness, from an overwrought mind. But the point is: Why have I done this? For you. To shorten my apprenticeship. To compel Success to hasten. And my apprenticeship is now served. I know my equipment. I swear that I learn more each month than the average college man learns in a year. I know it, I tell you. But were my need for you to understand not so desperate I should not tell you. It is not boasting. I measure the results by the books. Your brothers, to- day, are ignorant barbarians compared with me and the knowledge I have wrung from the books in the hours they were sleeping. Long ago I wanted to be famous. I care very little for fame now. What I want is you; I am more hungry for you than for food, or clothing, or recognition. I have a dream of laying my head on your breast and sleeping an aeon or so, and the dream will come true ere another year is gone."
His power beat against her, wave upon wave; and in the moment his will opposed hers most she felt herself most strongly drawn toward him. The strength that had always poured out from him to her was now flowering in his impassioned voice, his flashing eyes, and the vigor of life and intellect surging in him. And in that moment, and for the moment, she was aware of a rift that showed in her certitude - a rift through which she caught sight of the real Martin Eden, splendid and invincible; and as animal-trainers have their moments of doubt, so she, for the instant, seemed to doubt her power to tame this wild spirit of a man.
"And another thing," he swept on. "You love me. But why do you love me? The thing in me that compels me to write is the very thing that draws your love. You love me because I am somehow different from the men you have known and might have loved. I was not made for the desk and counting-house, for petty business squabbling, and legal jangling. Make me do such things, make me like those other men, doing the work they do, breathing the air they breathe, developing the point of view they have developed, and you have destroyed the difference, destroyed me, destroyed the thing you love. My desire to write is the most vital thing in me. Had I been a mere clod, neither would I have desired to write, nor would you have desired me for a husband."
"But you forget," she interrupted, the quick surface of her mind glimpsing a parallel. "There have been eccentric inventors, starving their families while they sought such chimeras as perpetual motion. Doubtless their wives loved them, and suffered with them and for them, not because of but in spite of their infatuation for perpetual motion."
"True," was the reply. "But there have been inventors who were not eccentric and who starved while they sought to invent practical things; and sometimes, it is recorded, they succeeded. Certainly I do not seek any impossibilities - "
"You have called it 'achieving the impossible,'" she interpolated.
"I spoke figuratively. I seek to do what men have done before me - to write and to live by my writing."
Her silence spurred him on.
"To you, then, my goal is as much a chimera as perpetual motion?" he demanded.
He read her answer in the pressure of her hand on his - the pitying mother-hand for the hurt child. And to her, just then, he was the hurt child, the infatuated man striving to achieve the impossible.
Toward the close of their talk she warned him again of the antagonism of her father and mother.
"But you love me?" he asked.
"I do! I do!" she cried.
"And I love you, not them, and nothing they do can hurt me." Triumph sounded in his voice. "For I have faith in your love, not fear of their enmity. All things may go astray in this world, but not love. Love cannot go wrong unless it be a weakling that faints and stumbles by the way."
那是个美丽的秋日，小阳春天气又来了。去年此时他俩表白了彼此的爱情，马丁向露丝朗诵了他的媛清组诗人这一天午后，两人又像以前那样骑车来到了他们喜爱的群山中的丘陵。她不时地以欢快的惊呼打断了他的朗诵。现在他把最后一负手稿和别的手稿也到了一起，等待着听她的意见。 
她迟迟没有说话。然后便吞吞吐吐地汗始了，犹豫着，想用恰当的语言表达难堪的意思。
“我觉得这些诗都很美，美极了，”她说，“但是你卖不掉，是不是？你懂得我的意思的。”她说，几乎是在请求。“你的写作并不现实，是有什么地方出了问题——也许是市场吧——使你无法靠写作过日子。我求你，亲爱的，你为我写了这些诗，我感到得意，也感到骄傲和如此等等。要不然我就不是真正的女人了。可是诗歌并不能让我们结婚。你明白么，马丁？不要以为我贪财。我打心里感到沉重，我是为了爱情和我俩的未来。我们知道彼此相爱已经一年了，可我们结婚的日子依旧遥远。我像这样谈着结婚，不要以为我不顾廉耻，因为实际上我是拿我的心和我的一切在下赌注。你既然那么醉心于写作，为什么不到一家报纸去工作呢？为什么不去当个记者？——做一段时间至少是可以的吧？”
“那会破坏了我的风格的，”他闷闷不乐地低声回答，“你不知道我为风格下了多少功夫。”
“可那些小故事，”她辩解说，“你吧它们称作下锅之作的，你倒写了不少。它们又是否破坏了你的风格呢？”
“不，情况不同。小故事是在一天漫长的考究风格的工作完毕，我已经筋疲力尽时才去琢磨写出的。而记者工作却要从早到晚卖文为生，写稿成了生活里唯一的也是至高无上的工作。而且生活像旋风一样，只有那一刻，没有过去，也没有将来。肯定不会考虑风格，有的只是记者风格，而记者风格绝对不是文学。我正处在风格逐渐结晶形成的时期，却去做记者，简直是文学上的自杀。现在的情况是，每一个小故事，小故事里的每一个词语都伤害着我，伤害着我的自尊和我对美的尊重。告诉你，写小故事叫我恶心，我在犯罪。小故事没了市场，我内心深处反倒高兴，尽管我的礼服又进了当铺。可是我在写《爱情组诗》的时候是多么美妙快活呀！那是最高贵的创造的欢乐！是对一切一切的报偿。”
马丁不知道，其实露丝对他的“创造的欢乐”并无体会。这个词她用过——他就是从她的嘴唇上第一次听见的。露丝在大学攻读学士学位时读到过，也研究过，可是她并无创造性，不会创作，她一身的文化气息不过是从人云亦云中得来的。
“编辑修改你的《海上抒情诗》难道也错了？”她问，“请记住，没有审查合格证明，编辑是不能上岗的。”
“那正跟现存秩序所坚持的说法合拍，”他回答，自己对编辑之流的怒火左右了他。“现存的不但是正确的，而且是最好的。任何事物的存在本身都足以证明它适于存在——请注意，一般人往往下意识地认为，它不但适于在现有条件下存在，也适于在一切条件下存在。当然，他们之所以相信这种废话是因为愚昧，这种想法大体跟魏宁格所描写的模糊心灵活动不相上下。这些人自以为有思想。而对少数真正进行思考的人下着判断的偏偏就是这类没有思想的家伙。”
他住了口，意识到自己的话已在露丝的理解力之外。
“我相信我不知道这位魏宁格是什么人，”她反驳说，“而你讲起话来又概括得可怕，叫我跟不上。我谈的是编辑资格的问题——”
“我要告诉你，”他插嘴说，“编辑们有百分之九十九主要条件都不合格。他们作为作家都是失败的。不要以为他们愿意放弃写作的欢乐去干那些沉重的伏案工作，或者去做发行或者业务经理的奴隶。他们写作过，但是失败了，于是出现了该死的怪圈：文学的失意者成了看门狗，把守着每一道通向文学成就的大门。编辑、副编辑、编辑助理，为杂志和出版家审查稿件的大部分或几乎全部的人都是想写作而又失败了的人。而决定作品应当或不应当出版的偏偏是他们，偏偏是这些阳光之下芙美众生里最不合格的人——坐在那儿评判着独创性和天才的是他们，是这些已经证明缺少创造性和圣火的人。然后还有评论家，也都是些失败者。别以为他们没有做过梦，没有打算写诗或小说。他们做过的，但是失败了。嗨，平庸的批评比鱼肝油还恶心。不过我对书评家和所谓的评论家的意见是知道的。伟大的评论家是有的，但是像彗星一样稀罕。我若是写作失败了，我可以证明自己从事编辑事业的能力。那里毕竟还有奶油面包，还有果酱。”
露丝机灵，听出了他话里的矛盾，反对起来就更振振有辞了。
“可是马丁，既然那样，既然所有的门都像你所下的结论那样关闭了，伟大的作家又是怎么取得成功的呢？”
“他们做到了别人做不到的事，”他回答，“他们的作品太灿烂，太炽烈，反对的人都叫它们烧成了灰烬。他们是通过奇迹的路成功的，是以一比一手的赌注赌赢了的。他们成功是因为他们是卡莱尔笔下那种遍体鳞伤却不肯低头的巨人。那就是我要做的事。我要做出别人做不到的事。”
“可你要是失败了呢？你还得想到我呀，马丁。”
“我要是失败了？”他盯着她望了一会儿，仿佛她那想法不可思议。然后眼里闪出了聪明的光。“我要是失败，我就去做编辑，让你做编辑的老婆。”
她见他在调皮，眉头便皱了起来——那样子又美丽又可爱，他不禁楼过她就亲吻，吻得她不再皱眉头。
“好了，够了，”她求他，他的阳刚之气迷醉了她，她靠了意志力才挣扎了出来。“我已经跟爸爸妈妈说了。我以前从没坚持自己的意见巨对过他们，这次我可要求他们接受我的意见，我很不孝顺。你知道他们不同意你，但是我一再向他们保证说我永远爱你，爸爸终于同意了。只要你愿意你可以从他的事务所开始。他还主动提出，你一上班他就给你足够的薪水，让我们俩不仅能够结婚，而且能在什么地方有一套住房。我觉得他够体贴的了——你觉得呢？”
马丁心里一阵钝痛，感到失望。他机械地伸出手去，想取烟草和纸——可他再也不带那东西了。他只含糊地回答了一句，露丝说了下去：——
“不过，坦率地说，我不愿意伤害你——我告诉你这话，是想让你知道爸爸对你的印象——他不喜欢你过激的观点，而且认为你懒。当然，我知道你不懒，相反倒是很刻苦。”
马丁心里却明白，自己有多么刻苦就连她也不知道。
“好了，那么，”他说，“对于我的观点呢？你以为我过激，是么？”
他盯着她的眼睛，等着回答。
“我认为你的观点叫人不安，”她回答。
问题已经得到了回答。灰色的生活阻挡了他，使他忘却了她在试图要求他去工作，而她呢，既已说明了想法，冒了险，也愿意等下一次再要求回答。
她不用等多久。马丁自己也向她提出了问题，想衡量一下她对他的信心。还没满一周双方都得到了回答。马丁向她朗诵了他的《太阳的耻辱》，于是形势急转直下。
“你为什么不肯去做记者？”听完朗诵，她问道，“你这么喜欢写作，我相信你会成功的。你可以在新闻事业上出人头地，享有盛名的。有许多了不起的特约通讯员，薪水很高，全世界就是他们的天地。他们被派到世界各地去，比如斯坦利，他就被派到非洲的腹地，派去采访教皇，派到无人知道的西藏。”
“那么你是不喜欢我的论文么？”他问，“你相信我写新闻还可以，搞文学却不行么？”
“不，不，我喜欢你的文学作品，读起来很有意思。但是我担心有的读者跟不上。至少我跟不上。听起来挺美，可是我不懂得。你的科学词汇我弄不清楚。你是个极端分子，你知道，亲爱的。你明白的东西我们别的人可不明白。”
“我估计叫你不明白的是那些哲学术语，”他能说的就是这句话。
他刚朗读了他所写成的最成熟的思想，情绪火热，听了她的断语不禁目瞪口呆。
“不管写得多么糟糕，”他坚持，“你从中看到了什么东西么？——我指的是思想？”
她摇摇头。
“没有，它和我读过的东西都非常不同。我读过梅特林克，懂得他——”
“他的神秘主义，你懂得？”马丁爆发了出来。
“懂，但是你的话我不懂，看来你是攻击他的。当然，要是强调独创性的话——”
他做了个不耐烦的手势，打断了她的话，自己却没有说什么。他突然意识到她正在说话，已经说了一会儿。
“说到底你是在玩写作，”她在说，“你确实玩得太久了。已经到了严肃地面对生活——面对我们的生活的时候了，马丁。到目前为止，你只是一个人在生活。”
“你是要想我去工作么？”他问。
“是的，爸爸已经提出——”
“那些我都明白，”他叫了起来，“可我想知道的是你对我是否失去了信心？”
她默默地捏住他的手，眼神迷茫。
“失去了对你写作的信心，亲爱的。”她低声说。
“你读过我许多东西，”他粗野地说下去，“你有什么看法？完全没有希望么？和别人的东西比怎么样？”
“可是别人的作品卖掉了，你的——没有。”
“那并没有回答我的问题。你认为我不能从事文学么？”
‘那我就回答你吧。”她鼓起了勇气回答；“我认为你不是搞写作的料。请原谅我，亲爱的。是你逼我说的；而你知道我比你更懂得文学。”
“是的，你是个文学学土，”他沉吟着说，“你应该懂得。”
“但是我还有别的话要说，”两人痛苦地沉默了一会儿，他说了下去，“我知道我心里有些什么，没有别人比我更了解。我知道我会成功的。我不愿意受到压抑。我想要用诗歌、小说。散文的形式表现的东西燃烧着我。不过我不要求你对它有信心。我并不要求你对我有信心，对我的写作有信心。我要求你的只是爱我，对于爱情有信心。
“一年以前我要求了两年，还有一年没有到期。而我以我的荣誉和灵魂发誓，相信这一年没有过完我就会成功的。你记得很久以前告诉过我的话，我学写作还有个学徒阶段。是的，我的学徒阶段已经过去。我已经把它塞满了，压缩了。你在前面等着我，我从来没有偷过懒。你知道么，我已经忘记平平静静地入睡是怎么回事了。睡得心满意足，然后高高兴兴地自然醒来对我已是几百万年以前的事了。我现在总是叫闹钟闹醒，早睡也好，晚睡也好，闹钟总上好的。这个动作，关灯，是我的最后的有意识的动作。
“我感到疲倦了便把费力的书换成轻松点的。我打瞌睡，便用指关节敲我的脑袋，把睡意赶走。我曾读到一个害怕睡觉的人。故事是吉卜林写的。那人为防止打瞌睡，弄了一根铁刺，人一迷糊他的光身子就扎到铁刺上。我就弄了这么个东西。我看准了时间，决定不到一点、两点、三点那刺决不撤掉。它就像这样在预定时间以前总扎醒我。好多个月以来那铁刺都是陪着我睡觉的。我不要命了，五小时半的睡眠已是奢侈品。我现在只睡四小时。我渴望睡眠。有时候我因为缺少睡眠把头脑弄得很清醒，有时能带来休息和睡眠的死亡对我成了严重的诱惑，那时朗赛罗的诗总京回在我的脑际：——“‘大海是那样平静幽邃，怀里的一切都沉沉安睡；向前一步便一了百了，一跳，一串泡，万事全消。’
“当然，这是瞎说，是因为太紧张，精神负担过重才这样说的。问题还在：我为什么要这样做？那是为了你，为了缩短学徒期，强迫成功早日来到。现在我的学徒期已经满了，我知道我的学识，我发誓我一个月之内学到的东西要比普通的大学生一年还多。这我明白，我告诉你。但是如果不是迫切地需要你的理解，我是不会说的。这不是夸耀。我用书本来检验成绩。今天你的几个弟兄跟我和我在他们睡大觉时在书本中所取得的知识一比，简直就是无知的野蛮人。很久以前我想成名，可现在已没有那意思了。我想要的只有你。我渴望你，比吃饭穿衣和受到承认更渴望。我做梦也想把我的头枕在你的胸口睡一辈子。而这个梦再过一年左右就可以实现了。”
他的强力一浪又一浪地冲击着她。在他的意志和她的意志碰撞最严重的时候，也正是她最强烈地感到他的吸引力的时候。他那一向向她流泻的力量在他那激动的声音和炯炯的目光里开出了花朵，在澎湃于他体内的生命和智慧的活力里开出了花朵。在那时，也只在那时，她意识到了她的信心出现了一道裂缝——通过那裂缝她瞥见了那真正的马丁·伊登，灿烂的，不可战胜的马丁·伊登。有如驯兽师有时也会犹豫一样，她一时也怀疑自己是否有力量驯服这个精灵般的野蛮人。
“还有一件事，”他滔滔不绝地说下去，“你爱我，可你为什么爱我？吸引你的爱情的正是在我心里强迫我写作的东西。你爱我，正因为我跟你所认识的人，可能爱的人，有所不同。我不是坐办公桌和会计室的料，不是凭嘴劲谈生意，上法庭玩条文的料。叫我于这种事，把我变成别的人，做他们的工作，呼吸他们的空气，发挥他们的论点，你就毁灭了我和他们的差异，也毁灭了我，毁灭了你所爱的东西。我对写作的渴望对我是最举足轻重的东西。我如果是块顽石，我就不会想写作，你也就不会要我做丈夫了。”
“但是你忘了，”她插嘴道，她心灵的敏捷的外层瞥见了一个类似的东西。“过去有过古怪的发明家，为了追求永动机这种奇特玩意让全家人忍饥挨饿。他们的妻子们无疑是爱他们的，为了他们和他们一起受苦，可并不是因为对永动机的迷醉而是不计较他们那迷醉。”
“说得对，”回答是，“可是也有并不奇特的发明家，他们在追求现实的发明时也挨饿。而有时他们却成功了，这是有记录的，我并没有想入非非——”
“可你说过，‘要做做不到的事’。”她打断了他的话。
“我那是打比喻。我追求的是前人成功了的事——写作，靠写作为生。”
她保持沉默，这又逼得他说了下去。
“那么，你认为我的目标是跟永动机一样的怪物么？”他问。
她捏了捏他的手，他明白了她的意思——那是怜爱的母亲在捏受伤的孩子的手。那时他对她不过是个受伤的孩子。是一个着了迷的人，在追求着不可能的东西。
两人谈话快结束时她再次提醒他她父母的反对。
“可是你爱我么？”
“我爱你！爱你！”她叫了起来。
“我爱的是你，不是他们，他们无论做什么都伤害不了我。”他的声音里震响着胜利。“因为我对你的爱有信心，也不怕他们的反对。在这个世界上，一切都可能迷路，爱情是决不会迷路的。只要爱情不是个弱者，一路畏畏缩缩，磕磕绊绊，就不会走错。”
Chapter 31
Martin had encountered his sister Gertrude by chance on Broadway - as it proved, a most propitious yet disconcerting chance. Waiting on the corner for a car, she had seen him first, and noted the eager, hungry lines of his face and the desperate, worried look of his eyes. In truth, he was desperate and worried. He had just come from a fruitless interview with the pawnbroker, from whom he had tried to wring an additional loan on his wheel. The muddy fall weather having come on, Martin had pledged his wheel some time since and retained his black suit.
"There's the black suit," the pawnbroker, who knew his every asset, had answered. "You needn't tell me you've gone and pledged it with that Jew, Lipka. Because if you have - "
The man had looked the threat, and Martin hastened to cry:-
"No, no; I've got it. But I want to wear it on a matter of business."
"All right," the mollified usurer had replied. "And I want it on a matter of business before I can let you have any more money. You don't think I'm in it for my health?"
"But it's a forty-dollar wheel, in good condition," Martin had argued. "And you've only let me have seven dollars on it. No, not even seven. Six and a quarter; you took the interest in advance."
"If you want some more, bring the suit," had been the reply that sent Martin out of the stuffy little den, so desperate at heart as to reflect it in his face and touch his sister to pity.
Scarcely had they met when the Telegraph Avenue car came along and stopped to take on a crowd of afternoon shoppers. Mrs. Higginbotham divined from the grip on her arm as he helped her on, that he was not going to follow her. She turned on the step and looked down upon him. His haggard face smote her to the heart again.
"Ain't you comin'?" she asked
The next moment she had descended to his side.
"I'm walking - exercise, you know," he explained.
"Then I'll go along for a few blocks," she announced. "Mebbe it'll do me good. I ain't ben feelin' any too spry these last few days."
Martin glanced at her and verified her statement in her general slovenly appearance, in the unhealthy fat, in the drooping shoulders, the tired face with the sagging lines, and in the heavy fall of her feet, without elasticity - a very caricature of the walk that belongs to a free and happy body.
"You'd better stop here," he said, though she had already come to a halt at the first corner, "and take the next car."
"My goodness! - if I ain't all tired a'ready!" she panted. "But I'm just as able to walk as you in them soles. They're that thin they'll bu'st long before you git out to North Oakland."
"I've a better pair at home," was the answer.
"Come out to dinner to-morrow," she invited irrelevantly. "Mr. Higginbotham won't be there. He's goin' to San Leandro on business."
Martin shook his head, but he had failed to keep back the wolfish, hungry look that leapt into his eyes at the suggestion of dinner.
"You haven't a penny, Mart, and that's why you're walkin'. Exercise!" She tried to sniff contemptuously, but succeeded in producing only a sniffle. "Here, lemme see."
And, fumbling in her satchel, she pressed a five-dollar piece into his hand. "I guess I forgot your last birthday, Mart," she mumbled lamely.
Martin's hand instinctively closed on the piece of gold. In the same instant he knew he ought not to accept, and found himself struggling in the throes of indecision. That bit of gold meant food, life, and light in his body and brain, power to go on writing, and - who was to say? - maybe to write something that would bring in many pieces of gold. Clear on his vision burned the manuscripts of two essays he had just completed. He saw them under the table on top of the heap of returned manuscripts for which he had no stamps, and he saw their titles, just as he had typed them - "The High Priests of Mystery," and "The Cradle of Beauty." He had never submitted them anywhere. They were as good as anything he had done in that line. If only he had stamps for them! Then the certitude of his ultimate success rose up in him, an able ally of hunger, and with a quick movement he slipped the coin into his pocket.
"I'll pay you back, Gertrude, a hundred times over," he gulped out, his throat painfully contracted and in his eyes a swift hint of moisture.
"Mark my words!" he cried with abrupt positiveness. "Before the year is out I'll put an even hundred of those little yellow-boys into your hand. I don't ask you to believe me. All you have to do is wait and see."
Nor did she believe. Her incredulity made her uncomfortable, and failing of other expedient, she said:-
"I know you're hungry, Mart. It's sticking out all over you. Come in to meals any time. I'll send one of the children to tell you when Mr. Higginbotham ain't to be there. An' Mart - "
He waited, though he knew in his secret heart what she was about to say, so visible was her thought process to him.
"Don't you think it's about time you got a job?"
"You don't think I'll win out?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Nobody has faith in me, Gertrude, except myself." His voice was passionately rebellious. "I've done good work already, plenty of it, and sooner or later it will sell."
"How do you know it is good?"
"Because - " He faltered as the whole vast field of literature and the history of literature stirred in his brain and pointed the futility of his attempting to convey to her the reasons for his faith. "Well, because it's better than ninety-nine per cent of what is published in the magazines."
"I wish't you'd listen to reason," she answered feebly, but with unwavering belief in the correctness of her diagnosis of what was ailing him. "I wish't you'd listen to reason," she repeated, "an' come to dinner to-morrow."
After Martin had helped her on the car, he hurried to the post- office and invested three of the five dollars in stamps; and when, later in the day, on the way to the Morse home, he stopped in at the post-office to weigh a large number of long, bulky envelopes, he affixed to them all the stamps save three of the two-cent denomination.
It proved a momentous night for Martin, for after dinner he met Russ Brissenden. How he chanced to come there, whose friend he was or what acquaintance brought him, Martin did not know. Nor had he the curiosity to inquire about him of Ruth. In short, Brissenden struck Martin as anaemic and feather-brained, and was promptly dismissed from his mind. An hour later he decided that Brissenden was a boor as well, what of the way he prowled about from one room to another, staring at the pictures or poking his nose into books and magazines he picked up from the table or drew from the shelves. Though a stranger in the house he finally isolated himself in the midst of the company, huddling into a capacious Morris chair and reading steadily from a thin volume he had drawn from his pocket. As he read, he abstractedly ran his fingers, with a caressing movement, through his hair. Martin noticed him no more that evening, except once when he observed him chaffing with great apparent success with several of the young women.
It chanced that when Martin was leaving, he overtook Brissenden already half down the walk to the street.
"Hello, is that you?" Martin said.
The other replied with an ungracious grunt, but swung alongside. Martin made no further attempt at conversation, and for several blocks unbroken silence lay upon them.
"Pompous old ass!"
The suddenness and the virulence of the exclamation startled Martin. He felt amused, and at the same time was aware of a growing dislike for the other.
"What do you go to such a place for?" was abruptly flung at him after another block of silence.
"Why do you?" Martin countered.
"Bless me, I don't know," came back. "At least this is my first indiscretion. There are twenty-four hours in each day, and I must spend them somehow. Come and have a drink."
"All right," Martin answered.
The next moment he was nonplussed by the readiness of his acceptance. At home was several hours' hack-work waiting for him before he went to bed, and after he went to bed there was a volume of Weismann waiting for him, to say nothing of Herbert Spencer's Autobiography, which was as replete for him with romance as any thrilling novel. Why should he waste any time with this man he did not like? was his thought. And yet, it was not so much the man nor the drink as was it what was associated with the drink - the bright lights, the mirrors and dazzling array of glasses, the warm and glowing faces and the resonant hum of the voices of men. That was it, it was the voices of men, optimistic men, men who breathed success and spent their money for drinks like men. He was lonely, that was what was the matter with him; that was why he had snapped at the invitation as a bonita strikes at a white rag on a hook. Not since with Joe, at Shelly Hot Springs, with the one exception of the wine he took with the Portuguese grocer, had Martin had a drink at a public bar. Mental exhaustion did not produce a craving for liquor such as physical exhaustion did, and he had felt no need for it. But just now he felt desire for the drink, or, rather, for the atmosphere wherein drinks were dispensed and disposed of. Such a place was the Grotto, where Brissenden and he lounged in capacious leather chairs and drank Scotch and soda.
They talked. They talked about many things, and now Brissenden and now Martin took turn in ordering Scotch and soda. Martin, who was extremely strong-headed, marvelled at the other's capacity for liquor, and ever and anon broke off to marvel at the other's conversation. He was not long in assuming that Brissenden knew everything, and in deciding that here was the second intellectual man he had met. But he noted that Brissenden had what Professor Caldwell lacked - namely, fire, the flashing insight and perception, the flaming uncontrol of genius. Living language flowed from him. His thin lips, like the dies of a machine, stamped out phrases that cut and stung; or again, pursing caressingly about the inchoate sound they articulated, the thin lips shaped soft and velvety things, mellow phrases of glow and glory, of haunting beauty, reverberant of the mystery and inscrutableness of life; and yet again the thin lips were like a bugle, from which rang the crash and tumult of cosmic strife, phrases that sounded clear as silver, that were luminous as starry spaces, that epitomized the final word of science and yet said something more - the poet's word, the transcendental truth, elusive and without words which could express, and which none the less found expression in the subtle and all but ungraspable connotations of common words. He, by some wonder of vision, saw beyond the farthest outpost of empiricism, where was no language for narration, and yet, by some golden miracle of speech, investing known words with unknown significances, he conveyed to Martin's consciousness messages that were incommunicable to ordinary souls.
Martin forgot his first impression of dislike. Here was the best the books had to offer coming true. Here was an intelligence, a living man for him to look up to. "I am down in the dirt at your feet," Martin repeated to himself again and again.
"You've studied biology," he said aloud, in significant allusion.
To his surprise Brissenden shook his head.
"But you are stating truths that are substantiated only by biology," Martin insisted, and was rewarded by a blank stare. "Your conclusions are in line with the books which you must have read."
"I am glad to hear it," was the answer. "That my smattering of knowledge should enable me to short-cut my way to truth is most reassuring. As for myself, I never bother to find out if I am right or not. It is all valueless anyway. Man can never know the ultimate verities."
"You are a disciple of Spencer!" Martin cried triumphantly.
"I haven't read him since adolescence, and all I read then was his 'Education.'"
"I wish I could gather knowledge as carelessly," Martin broke out half an hour later. He had been closely analyzing Brissenden's mental equipment. "You are a sheer dogmatist, and that's what makes it so marvellous. You state dogmatically the latest facts which science has been able to establish only by E POSTERIORI reasoning. You jump at correct conclusions. You certainly short- cut with a vengeance. You feel your way with the speed of light, by some hyperrational process, to truth."
"Yes, that was what used to bother Father Joseph, and Brother Dutton," Brissenden replied. "Oh, no," he added; "I am not anything. It was a lucky trick of fate that sent me to a Catholic college for my education. Where did you pick up what you know?"
And while Martin told him, he was busy studying Brissenden, ranging from a long, lean, aristocratic face and drooping shoulders to the overcoat on a neighboring chair, its pockets sagged and bulged by the freightage of many books. Brissenden's face and long, slender hands were browned by the sun - excessively browned, Martin thought. This sunburn bothered Martin. It was patent that Brissenden was no outdoor man. Then how had he been ravaged by the sun? Something morbid and significant attached to that sunburn, was Martin's thought as he returned to a study of the face, narrow, with high cheek-bones and cavernous hollows, and graced with as delicate and fine an aquiline nose as Martin had ever seen. There was nothing remarkable about the size of the eyes. They were neither large nor small, while their color was a nondescript brown; but in them smouldered a fire, or, rather, lurked an expression dual and strangely contradictory. Defiant, indomitable, even harsh to excess, they at the same time aroused pity. Martin found himself pitying him he knew not why, though he was soon to learn.
"Oh, I'm a lunger," Brissenden announced, offhand, a little later, having already stated that he came from Arizona. "I've been down there a couple of years living on the climate."
"Aren't you afraid to venture it up in this climate?"
"Afraid?"
There was no special emphasis of his repetition of Martin's word. But Martin saw in that ascetic face the advertisement that there was nothing of which it was afraid. The eyes had narrowed till they were eagle-like, and Martin almost caught his breath as he noted the eagle beak with its dilated nostrils, defiant, assertive, aggressive. Magnificent, was what he commented to himself, his blood thrilling at the sight. Aloud, he quoted:-
"'Under the bludgeoning of Chance My head is bloody but unbowed.'"
"You like Henley," Brissenden said, his expression changing swiftly to large graciousness and tenderness. "Of course, I couldn't have expected anything else of you. Ah, Henley! A brave soul. He stands out among contemporary rhymesters - magazine rhymesters - as a gladiator stands out in the midst of a band of eunuchs."
"You don't like the magazines," Martin softly impeached.
"Do you?" was snarled back at him so savagely as to startle him.
"I - I write, or, rather, try to write, for the magazines," Martin faltered.
"That's better," was the mollified rejoinder. "You try to write, but you don't succeed. I respect and admire your failure. I know what you write. I can see it with half an eye, and there's one ingredient in it that shuts it out of the magazines. It's guts, and magazines have no use for that particular commodity. What they want is wish-wash and slush, and God knows they get it, but not from you."
"I'm not above hack-work," Martin contended.
"On the contrary - " Brissenden paused and ran an insolent eye over Martin's objective poverty, passing from the well-worn tie and the saw-edged collar to the shiny sleeves of the coat and on to the slight fray of one cuff, winding up and dwelling upon Martin's sunken cheeks. "On the contrary, hack-work is above you, so far above you that you can never hope to rise to it. Why, man, I could insult you by asking you to have something to eat."
Martin felt the heat in his face of the involuntary blood, and Brissenden laughed triumphantly.
"A full man is not insulted by such an invitation," he concluded.
"You are a devil," Martin cried irritably.
"Anyway, I didn't ask you."
"You didn't dare."
"Oh, I don't know about that. I invite you now."
Brissenden half rose from his chair as he spoke, as if with the intention of departing to the restaurant forthwith.
Martin's fists were tight-clenched, and his blood was drumming in his temples.
"Bosco! He eats 'em alive! Eats 'em alive!" Brissenden exclaimed, imitating the SPIELER of a locally famous snake-eater.
"I could certainly eat you alive," Martin said, in turn running insolent eyes over the other's disease-ravaged frame.
"Only I'm not worthy of it?"
"On the contrary," Martin considered, "because the incident is not worthy." He broke into a laugh, hearty and wholesome. "I confess you made a fool of me, Brissenden. That I am hungry and you are aware of it are only ordinary phenomena, and there's no disgrace. You see, I laugh at the conventional little moralities of the herd; then you drift by, say a sharp, true word, and immediately I am the slave of the same little moralities."
"You were insulted," Brissenden affirmed.
"I certainly was, a moment ago. The prejudice of early youth, you know. I learned such things then, and they cheapen what I have since learned. They are the skeletons in my particular closet."
"But you've got the door shut on them now?"
"I certainly have."
"Sure?"
"Sure."
"Then let's go and get something to eat."
"I'll go you," Martin answered, attempting to pay for the current Scotch and soda with the last change from his two dollars and seeing the waiter bullied by Brissenden into putting that change back on the table.
Martin pocketed it with a grimace, and felt for a moment the kindly weight of Brissenden's hand upon his shoulder.
马丁在大马路碰巧遇见了他的姐姐格特露——后来证明是个非常幸运而又尴尬的巧遇。她是在一个转弯处等车，首先看见了他，并注意到了他脸上那急切的饥饿的皱纹和眼里那绝望的焦急的神色。实际上他的确已是山穷水尽，着急万分。他刚刚和一个当铺的老板谈判下来。他想从他当掉的自行车再挤出几个钱来，却没有成功。泥泞的秋天已经到了，马丁早当掉了自行车，保留了黑色礼服。 
“你还有一套黑衣服，”当铺的办事员了解他的家底，回答说，“你别告诉我说你已经当给了犹太人李扑卡。因为你要是去了——”
那人眼里露出威胁，马丁急忙叫道：——
“没有，没有，我没有当。但是要留着办事时穿。”
“行了，”放高利贷的人的口气软了，说，“我要衣服也是办事，拿衣服就给你钱。你以为我借钱给人是为了祝自己健康么？”
“可那是一部状况良好的自行车，值四十元呢，”马丁争辩过，“你才当给了我七块钱，不，还不到七块钱。六块二毛五，预扣了利息。”
“还要钱就拿衣服来，”打发马丁离开那气闷的洞窟的就是这句回答。他心里的严重绝望反映到了他脸上，姐姐见了不禁难受。
姐弟俩刚见面，电报路的班车就到了，停车上了一批下午的客人。希金波坦太太从他扶着她的胳膊帮她上车的握法感到马丁不打算跟她一起走。她在踏板上转过身来看着他，心里又为他那谁忙的样子难过了。
“你不来么？”她问。
她随即下了车，来到了他的身边。
“我走路，锻炼身体，你知道。”他解释。
“那我也走几段路，”她宣布，“也许对我有好处。我这几天正觉得不清爽呢。”
马丁瞥了她一眼，她那样子证实了她的说法。她衣着邋遢，体态臃肿，两肩搭拉着，脸上的皱纹下垂，显得疲倦；步伐也沉重，缺少弹性——活脱脱是幅对自由快活的步伐的讽刺画。
“你最好就走到这儿，”他说，虽然她到第一个街口就已停了步，“在这儿塔下一班车。”
“天呀！——我怎么就累成这个样！”她喘着气说，“如果我的鞋是你那样的底，我走路也能像你的。可你那鞋底太薄，离北奥克兰很远就会破的。”
“我家里还有一双更好的。”他回答。
“明天出来吃晚饭吧，”她转变话题邀请，“希金波坦先生不在家。他要到圣利安德罗会办事。”
马丁摇摇头，但是他听见吃饭时眼里所流露出的饿狼般的馋相，却无法掩饰。
“你已经腰无半文，马，所以才走路的，还说什么锻炼呢！”她打算嘲笑他，却忍住了，只苦笑了一声。“来，我来看看。”
她在提包里摸了一会，把一个五块钱的金币塞到他手里。“我好像忘了你上次的生日了，马。”她嘟哝出了一个站不住脚的理由。
马丁的手本能地捏住了金币，同时也明白他不该接受，于是犹豫不决，陷入了痛苦。那一块金币意味着食物、生活。身体与头脑的光明，和继续写作的力气，而且说不定能写出点东西来再赚好多个金币呢，谁说得清？他在幻觉里清清楚楚燃烧着他刚完成的两篇文章；他看见它们放在桌下一堆退还的稿件顶上。那是他没有邮票寄出的。他还看见了它们的题目：《奇迹的大祭师》和《美的摇篮》。是还没有寄出去过的。那是他在那个问题上所写出的最佳之作。要是有邮票就好了！此时最后成功的把握在他心里升起，那是饥饿的有力的同盟军。他立即把那块金币塞进了口袋。
“我会还你的，格特露，一百倍地还你，”他大口地喘着气，说。他的喉咙痛苦地抽搐，眼睛也迅速闪出泪光。
“记住我的话！”他突然坚决叫道，“不到一年工夫我一定要拿整整一百个这种小玩意放到你手里。我不求你相信，只要你等着瞧。”
她并不相信。她的怀疑叫她感到内疚。她找不到方便的话讲，只好说道：——
“我知道你肚子饿，马。你满脸饿相，来吃饭吧，什么时候来都可以。希金波坦先生不在我就叫个孩子去叫你。还有，马——”
他等着，虽然他心里秘密知道她会说什么，她的思想过程他看得清清楚楚。
“你不觉得是应该找个工作的时候了么？”
“你相信我会成功么？”他问。
她摇摇头。
“谁都对我没有信心，格特露，除了我自己之外。”他的口气很激动，很反抗，“我已经写出了很好的东西。而且很多，早晚会卖出去的。”
“你咋知道你的东西就好？”
“因为——”他犹豫了。整个广袤无边的文学和文学史天地在他的头脑里悸动，它告诉他不可能跟她说清他为什么会有信心。“因为在杂志上发表的东西百分之九十九都不如它们。”
“我希望你能听得进道理，”她说话声音虽小，信念却不动摇。她相信自己对他那病的诊断。“有道理的话我希望你听得进，”她又说了一遍，“明儿个来吃晚饭！”
马丁帮助她上了车，便匆匆忙忙赶到邮局，那五块钱他用三块买了邮票；然后，在那天晚些时候去莫尔斯家的路上在邮局呆了很久，把一大堆厚重的长信封称了重量，贴上了全部的邮票，只剩下了三张两分的。
那天晚上对马丁很为重要，因为他晚饭后遇见了罗司·布里森登。布里森登是怎么偶然到那儿去的，是谁的朋友，是什么熟人带去的，他全不知道，也没有兴趣去向露丝打听。简单地说，布里森登给马丁的印象是贫血，没有头脑，而且马上就把他忘掉了。一个小时以后他又觉得布里森登是个粗野汉子。那多少是因为他一间房一间房地乱逛，瞪大了眼睛看着画，或是从桌上、书架上乱抓书籍杂志，然后把鼻子伸进去。尽管他在这屋里是个生人，最后却缩到一张巨大的莫里斯安乐椅上，让自己脱离人群一心一意读起一本他从自己口袋里抽出的小册子。他读得出神，手指头在头发里揉来操去。那个晚上马丁没有再留心他。只有一回注意到他踉几个年轻妇女开着玩笑，显然非常成功。
马丁离开时却偶然赶上了布里森登，他已经走了通向大街的便道的一半。
“啊，是你呀？”马丁说。
对方不客气地哼了一声，算是回答，却转身过来和他一起走。马丁没有再努力搭腔，两人一声不响走完了几段路。
“神气十足的老笨蛋！”
那一声叫喊又突然又刻薄，把马丁吓了一大跳。他忍俊不禁，更加不喜欢那人了。
“你到这地方去干什么？”又走了一段路，那人突然向他抛出了这么一句话。
“你呢？”马丁反击。
“上帝保佑，我不知道，”回答是，“至少这是我第一次粗心大意。每天有二十四小时，总得很过去的。跟我来喝点什么吧。”
“好的，”马丁回答。
他随即感到为难了，怎么会答应得那么痛快。家里还有几小时的下锅之作等着他在睡觉前完成，躺上床还要读一卷惠斯曼，更不要说斯宾塞自传了。他觉得那自传充满浪漫情节，不亚于任何惊险小说。他干吗要和一个他并不喜欢的火舌浪费时间呢？他想。但叫他同意的并不是那人、饮料。或与饮料有关的一切，而是那明亮的灯光、镜子、一排排耀眼的玻璃杯，还有温暖快活的面孔和热烈的喧闹。是的，是人的声音，乐观的人，呼吸着成功的人，像男人一样花钱买饮料的人。他感到寂寞，他看中的是这一切。因此，他一听见邀请就同意了，像条连钩上的白布条也想咬的红鱼。自从在雪莉温泉和乔对饮之后马丁除了跟杂货店的葡萄牙老板喝过之外就再也没有在酒店喝过酒。脑力劳动不像体力劳动，疲倦了并不渴望喝酒。他不曾想过喝酒。可刚才他却想喝酒了，确切地说，是渴望着那传林连盏、豪饮浅酌的气氛。“洞窟酒吧”就是这样一个地方，布里森登和他此刻就躺在“洞窟”的大皮椅上喝着威士忌苏打。
两人闲谈着，谈了许多问题。两人轮换着叫酒，一会儿是布里森登，一会儿是马丁。马丁酒量大，对方的酒量却也叫他绝倒。而对方的谈吐更不时地叫他吃惊，停杯谛听。没有多久马丁就发现市里森登无所不知，是他所遇见的第二个有思想的人。他还意识到布里森登有着考德威尔教授所缺少的东西——火焰，炽亮闪光的洞见力，蓬勃燃烧的无法抑制的天才。鲜活的语言从他口里伯伯奔流，他那薄薄的嘴唇像机器上的冲模，冲出的话又犀利又惊人。有时他又温柔地咂起嘴来，抚弄着日里刚清晰吐出的声音。她那薄薄的嘴唇发送出温柔的、天鹅绒般的声音，美在那微光融融、强光煜煜的词句之上萦绕徘徊，那是震响着生命的神秘和奥妙的成熟的词句。他那薄薄的嘴唇却又像支号角，宇宙的撞击与骚乱在其间震响，词句像银子一样清脆，星空一样灿烂，概括了科学的终极理论却又有余不尽——那是诗人的语言，超脱的真理，捉摸不定，难以言传，却仍然为他的微妙的几乎难以理解的平常词句所委婉表达了出来。他以某种想像力的奇迹看到了经验主义最辽远的前沿以外，那是没有语言可以表达的，可是他靠了他辉煌的语言奇迹，赋予了熟知的词语以崭新的意义，从而把一般的灵魂难以领悟的意义送进了马丁的意识。
马丁忘却了他最初的讨厌印象。书本知识的精华在这地变作了现实。这儿就是个智慧的精灵，一个值得他崇拜的凡人。“我在你脚下的泥污之中。”马丁心里一再这样说。
“你研究过生物学，”马丁别有所指地大声说。
出乎他意料之外，布里森登摇了摇头。
“可你讲的真理却是只有生物学才能充分证明的，”马丁坚持，对方却茫然地瞪了他一眼。“你的结论总得和你读过的书一致吧。”
“我很高兴听见这话，”回答是，“我这一点知识能让我找到了通向真理的捷径，真叫人安慰。至于我自己，我从来不在乎我自己对还是不对。因为对不对都全无价值。人类是永远不会知道终极真理的。”
“你是个斯宾塞的信徒！”马丁得意地叫道。
“我从少年以后就再也没有读过斯宾塞了，当初我也只读过他的《教育论》。”
“我希望也能像你一样漫不经心地吸取知识，”马丁半小时以后插嘴道。他一直在仔细分析着布里森登的知识结构。“你是个完全武断的人，因此非常神奇。你武断地提出的东西是科学靠演绎推理新近才确认的道理。你是跳进正确的结论的。你肯定是拼命找寻着捷径，靠某种超理智的程序，以光的速度摸索着真理的。”
“是的，约瑟夫神甫和达顿修土也准是为此烦恼过的，”布里森登回答，“啊不，”他接下去，“我算不上什么。只是命运的幸运的拨弄送我上了一个天主教神学院去接受了教育。你的知识是从什么地方来的？”
马丁回答时也打量着布里森登，从他那贵族味的瘦长的脸、下垂的双肩直到放在旁边椅子上的大衣、大衣口袋里鼓鼓囊囊塞满了的书。布里森登的脸和细长的双手都叫太阳晒黑了——太黑了，马丁想，黑得叫马丁纳闷。布里森登显然不是在户外干活的人。那他为什么叫太阳晒得那么厉害？那晒黑的皮肤上有某种病态的东西，令人纳闷，马丁回头再研究他的面部时想。那脸瘦瘦的，颧骨隆起，面颊凹陷，配上一个马丁从没有见过的那类精致漂亮的鹰钩鼻，眼睛的大小毫不奇特。不大，也不小，一种难以描述的棕红色，其中燃烧着一种火焰，更准确地说是隐藏了一种双重的表情，矛盾得出奇。挑战的，不屈的，甚至极其粗野的，却又引人怜悯的表情。不知为什么，马丁已经怜悯起他来，不过他马上就明白了。
“哦，我有肺病，”惊里森登先说他从亚利桑纳州来，接着便顺带宣布说，“我到那儿过了两年，靠那儿的气候养病。”
“你到这种气候里来不怕冒险么？”
“怕？”
他重复马丁这话并不特别着重，但马丁看出那张苦行僧式的脸上标明了并无畏惧。说那话时他眼睛咪细得像鹰隼一样，鹰钩鼻子鼻翼张开，带着蔑视、自信。咄咄逼人的神态，马丁一见，几乎连大气也不敢出。气派，马丁在心里评价；一见他那样子自己的血液也沸腾了。他大声引用了两句诗；——“‘尽管遭到无常的棍棒的打击，我的头并未低下，虽然鲜血淋漓。’”
“你喜欢读亨雷；”布里森登说，他的表情立刻变得宽厚慈祥，和蔼可亲了。“当然，我对你不会期望别的。啊，亨雷！勇敢的英雄！他在同时代凑韵的人——在杂志上凑韵的人当中崭露头角，有如站在一群阉人中的格斗士。”
“你不喜欢杂志介马丁温和地责难他。
“你喜欢么？”回答气势汹汹而且武断，吓了他一跳。
“我——我写东西，或者说试着给杂志写点东西。”马丁犹豫着回答。
“那还好，”口气缓和了些，“你试着写过，但是没有成功。我尊重也佩服你的失败。我知道你写的东西。我半睁一只眼也能看见。它们被关在杂志大门之外了，其中有一个因素，就是内容。你那种特别的商品杂志是无法派用场的。它们要的是没盐没味、无病呻吟的东西，无知道，那些东西它们能弄到，可不是从你那儿。”
“我写的也不过是下锅之作。”马丁辩解说。
“相反，”布里森登住了嘴，不客气地打量了一眼马丁那明显的贫穷。从旧领带到锯齿状的衣领，到磨光了的外衣肘部，再到有一处已经绽线的袖日，到未了又细细打量了一下马丁那凹陷的双颊。“相反，下锅之作你是写不出来的。它大高，你永远望尘莫及。你看，老兄，我只须说请你吃饭，你准会生气！”
马丁脸上发起烧来，只觉得血往上涌。布里森登胜利地哈哈大笑。
“肚子吃饱了的人是不会因为这种邀请生气的。”那是他的结论。
“你是个魔鬼！”马丁气冲冲地叫了起来。
“我毕竟没有请你吃饭。”
“你怕是不敢。”
“啊，这我倒还不知道。我现在就请你好了。”
布里森登说话时半欠起了身子，好像打算马上去餐厅。
马丁捏紧了拳头，太阳穴里血液腾腾地乱跳。
“哇噻！活嚼了！活嚼了！”布里森登学着当地一个有名的吹捧吃蛇表演的牛皮匠大叫起来。
“我可真能把你活嚼了！”马丁说，回报的眼光也不客气，他打量着对手那病怄诉的身子。
“只不过是因为我不够资格么？”
“相反，”马丁思考着，“是因为这东西还不够资格叫你给吃掉。”他哈哈大笑，很痛快，很真诚。“我承认上了你一当，布里森登。我饿了，叫你感觉到了，这也是平常现象，说不上侮辱。你看，我嘲笑着人群里的这些琐碎的道德信条，可是你一来，说了一句尖刻的真话，我立即成了那些小气琐碎的道德信条的奴隶。”
“你觉得是受了侮辱。”布里森登肯定。
“确实如此，不过已经过去。那是早年的偏见，你知道。我是在那时学到这类东西的，它们使我以后学到的东西贬值，是我的一种思想包袱。”
“那包袱你现在卸掉了没有？”
“肯定卸掉了。”
“真的？”
“真的。”
“那咱俩就去吃点东西。”
“我请客，”马丁回答，他打算用那找补下的两块钱付眼前的威士忌苏打帐，却眼看着布里森登气势汹汹地逼着传者把那钱放回到桌上。
马丁苦笑了一下，把钱收回了腰包，感到布里森登的手亲切地按在他的肩头上。
Chapter 32
Promptly, the next afternoon, Maria was excited by Martin's second visitor. But she did not lose her head this time, for she seated Brissenden in her parlor's grandeur of respectability.
"Hope you don't mind my coming?" Brissenden began.
"No, no, not at all," Martin answered, shaking hands and waving him to the solitary chair, himself taking to the bed. "But how did you know where I lived?"
"Called up the Morses. Miss Morse answered the 'phone. And here I am." He tugged at his coat pocket and flung a thin volume on the table. "There's a book, by a poet. Read it and keep it." And then, in reply to Martin's protest: "What have I to do with books? I had another hemorrhage this morning. Got any whiskey? No, of course not. Wait a minute."
He was off and away. Martin watched his long figure go down the outside steps, and, on turning to close the gate, noted with a pang the shoulders, which had once been broad, drawn in now over, the collapsed ruin of the chest. Martin got two tumblers, and fell to reading the book of verse, Henry Vaughn Marlow's latest collection.
"No Scotch," Brissenden announced on his return. "The beggar sells nothing but American whiskey. But here's a quart of it."
"I'll send one of the youngsters for lemons, and we'll make a toddy," Martin offered.
"I wonder what a book like that will earn Marlow?" he went on, holding up the volume in question.
"Possibly fifty dollars," came the answer. "Though he's lucky if he pulls even on it, or if he can inveigle a publisher to risk bringing it out."
"Then one can't make a living out of poetry?"
Martin's tone and face alike showed his dejection.
"Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes. There's Bruce, and Virginia Spring, and Sedgwick. They do very nicely. But poetry - do you know how Vaughn Marlow makes his living? - teaching in a boys' cramming-joint down in Pennsylvania, and of all private little hells such a billet is the limit. I wouldn't trade places with him if he had fifty years of life before him. And yet his work stands out from the ruck of the contemporary versifiers as a balas ruby among carrots. And the reviews he gets! Damn them, all of them, the crass manikins!"
"Too much is written by the men who can't write about the men who do write," Martin concurred. "Why, I was appalled at the quantities of rubbish written about Stevenson and his work."
"Ghouls and harpies!" Brissenden snapped out with clicking teeth. "Yes, I know the spawn - complacently pecking at him for his Father Damien letter, analyzing him, weighing him - "
"Measuring him by the yardstick of their own miserable egos," Martin broke in.
"Yes, that's it, a good phrase, - mouthing and besliming the True, and Beautiful, and Good, and finally patting him on the back and saying, 'Good dog, Fido.' Faugh! 'The little chattering daws of men,' Richard Realf called them the night he died."
"Pecking at star-dust," Martin took up the strain warmly; "at the meteoric flight of the master-men. I once wrote a squib on them - the critics, or the reviewers, rather."
"Let's see it," Brissenden begged eagerly.
So Martin unearthed a carbon copy of "Star-dust," and during the reading of it Brissenden chuckled, rubbed his hands, and forgot to sip his toddy.
"Strikes me you're a bit of star-dust yourself, flung into a world of cowled gnomes who cannot see," was his comment at the end of it. "Of course it was snapped up by the first magazine?"
Martin ran over the pages of his manuscript book. "It has been refused by twenty-seven of them."
Brissenden essayed a long and hearty laugh, but broke down in a fit of coughing.
"Say, you needn't tell me you haven't tackled poetry," he gasped. "Let me see some of it."
"Don't read it now," Martin pleaded. "I want to talk with you. I'll make up a bundle and you can take it home."
Brissenden departed with the "Love-cycle," and "The Peri and the Pearl," returning next day to greet Martin with:-
"I want more."
Not only did he assure Martin that he was a poet, but Martin learned that Brissenden also was one. He was swept off his feet by the other's work, and astounded that no attempt had been made to publish it.
"A plague on all their houses!" was Brissenden's answer to Martin's volunteering to market his work for him. "Love Beauty for its own sake," was his counsel, "and leave the magazines alone. Back to your ships and your sea - that's my advice to you, Martin Eden. What do you want in these sick and rotten cities of men? You are cutting your throat every day you waste in them trying to prostitute beauty to the needs of magazinedom. What was it you quoted me the other day? - Oh, yes, 'Man, the latest of the ephemera.' Well, what do you, the latest of the ephemera, want with fame? If you got it, it would be poison to you. You are too simple, took elemental, and too rational, by my faith, to prosper on such pap. I hope you never do sell a line to the magazines. Beauty is the only master to serve. Serve her and damn the multitude! Success! What in hell's success if it isn't right there in your Stevenson sonnet, which outranks Henley's 'Apparition,' in that 'Love-cycle,' in those sea-poems?
"It is not in what you succeed in doing that you get your joy, but in the doing of it. You can't tell me. I know it. You know it. Beauty hurts you. It is an everlasting pain in you, a wound that does not heal, a knife of flame. Why should you palter with magazines? Let beauty be your end. Why should you mint beauty into gold? Anyway, you can't; so there's no use in my getting excited over it. You can read the magazines for a thousand years and you won't find the value of one line of Keats. Leave fame and coin alone, sign away on a ship to-morrow, and go back to your sea."
"Not for fame, but for love," Martin laughed. "Love seems to have no place in your Cosmos; in mine, Beauty is the handmaiden of Love."
Brissenden looked at him pityingly and admiringly. "You are so young, Martin boy, so young. You will flutter high, but your wings are of the finest gauze, dusted with the fairest pigments. Do not scorch them. But of course you have scorched them already. It required some glorified petticoat to account for that 'Love-cycle,' and that's the shame of it."
"It glorifies love as well as the petticoat," Martin laughed.
"The philosophy of madness," was the retort. "So have I assured myself when wandering in hasheesh dreams. But beware. These bourgeois cities will kill you. Look at that den of traitors where I met you. Dry rot is no name for it. One can't keep his sanity in such an atmosphere. It's degrading. There's not one of them who is not degrading, man and woman, all of them animated stomachs guided by the high intellectual and artistic impulses of clams - "
He broke off suddenly and regarded Martin. Then, with a flash of divination, he saw the situation. The expression on his face turned to wondering horror.
"And you wrote that tremendous 'Love-cycle' to her - that pale, shrivelled, female thing!"
The next instant Martin's right hand had shot to a throttling clutch on his throat, and he was being shaken till his teeth rattled. But Martin, looking into his eyes, saw no fear there, - naught but a curious and mocking devil. Martin remembered himself, and flung Brissenden, by the neck, sidelong upon the bed, at the same moment releasing his hold.
Brissenden panted and gasped painfully for a moment, then began to chuckle.
"You had made me eternally your debtor had you shaken out the flame," he said.
"My nerves are on a hair-trigger these days," Martin apologized. "Hope I didn't hurt you. Here, let me mix a fresh toddy."
"Ah, you young Greek!" Brissenden went on. "I wonder if you take just pride in that body of yours. You are devilish strong. You are a young panther, a lion cub. Well, well, it is you who must pay for that strength."
"What do you mean?" Martin asked curiously, passing aim a glass. "Here, down this and be good."
"Because - " Brissenden sipped his toddy and smiled appreciation of it. "Because of the women. They will worry you until you die, as they have already worried you, or else I was born yesterday. Now there's no use in your choking me; I'm going to have my say. This is undoubtedly your calf love; but for Beauty's sake show better taste next time. What under heaven do you want with a daughter of the bourgeoisie? Leave them alone. Pick out some great, wanton flame of a woman, who laughs at life and jeers at death and loves one while she may. There are such women, and they will love you just as readily as any pusillanimous product of bourgeois sheltered life."
"Pusillanimous?" Martin protested.
"Just so, pusillanimous; prattling out little moralities that have been prattled into them, and afraid to live life. They will love you, Martin, but they will love their little moralities more. What you want is the magnificent abandon of life, the great free souls, the blazing butterflies and not the little gray moths. Oh, you will grow tired of them, too, of all the female things, if you are unlucky enough to live. But you won't live. You won't go back to your ships and sea; therefore, you'll hang around these pest-holes of cities until your bones are rotten, and then you'll die."
"You can lecture me, but you can't make me talk back," Martin said. "After all, you have but the wisdom of your temperament, and the wisdom of my temperament is just as unimpeachable as yours."
They disagreed about love, and the magazines, and many things, but they liked each other, and on Martin's part it was no less than a profound liking. Day after day they were together, if for no more than the hour Brissenden spent in Martin's stuffy room. Brissenden never arrived without his quart of whiskey, and when they dined together down-town, he drank Scotch and soda throughout the meal. He invariably paid the way for both, and it was through him that Martin learned the refinements of food, drank his first champagne, and made acquaintance with Rhenish wines.
But Brissenden was always an enigma. With the face of an ascetic, he was, in all the failing blood of him, a frank voluptuary. He was unafraid to die, bitter and cynical of all the ways of living; and yet, dying, he loved life, to the last atom of it. He was possessed by a madness to live, to thrill, "to squirm my little space in the cosmic dust whence I came," as he phrased it once himself. He had tampered with drugs and done many strange things in quest of new thrills, new sensations. As he told Martin, he had once gone three days without water, had done so voluntarily, in order to experience the exquisite delight of such a thirst assuaged. Who or what he was, Martin never learned. He was a man without a past, whose future was the imminent grave and whose present was a bitter fever of living.
紧接着玛利亚在第二天下午又因马丁的第二个客人而激动了。这一次她不再手忙脚乱，因为她把布里森登请到她那接待贵宾的豪华客厅里坐下了。 
“我来拜访你不会介意吧？”布里森登说道。
“不，不，一点也不，”马丁一面和他握手一面回答，然后挥手请他在唯一的椅子上坐了下来。自己坐在了床上。“你是怎么知道我的地址的？”
“给莫尔斯家打了电话，莫尔斯小姐回了话，我就来了。”他从外衣口袋里扯出一本薄薄的书扔在桌上。“有一个诗人的集子。读一读吧，送给你了。”接着，他回答马丁的抗议道：“我拿书有什么用？今天早上我又吐了一次血。有威士忌么？没有，当然。等一等。”
他转身便走掉了。马丁望着他那瘦长的身影蜇下了外面的台阶，发现在他转身关门时那原本宽阔的肩膀已在塔拉的胸膛两边垂落，不禁感到心酸。马丁拿出了两个酒杯，开始读起那诗集，那是亨利·伏恩·马罗最新的集于。
“没有苏格兰威士忌，”布里森登回来说，“那叫花子除了美国威士忌什么也没有。只好买了一夸脱。”
“我打发一个小家伙去买点柠檬，我们做柠檬威士忌甜酒喝，”马丁建议。
“我不知道像这样一本书能给马罗带来什么？”马丁拿起诗集说下去。
“也许五十元吧，”回答是，“如果他能收支平衡，或是能骗到个出版家冒险给他出版，就算是万幸的了。”
“那么说，靠写诗吃饭是不行的了？”
马丁的口气和脸色都显得沮丧。
“当然不行，哪个傻瓜会那么想呢？凑凑韵能吃饭，比如布路斯、弗吉尼亚·斯普玲，还有塞季成克。要写诗么，你知道伏恩·马罗靠什么过日于？——靠远在宾夕法尼亚州一个填鸭式的男校教书。在所有私立的小地狱里这种地方是最糟糕的。哪怕他还能活五十年我也不愿意跟他交换地位。但是他的作品在同时代的凑韵诗人里可是有如胡萝卜堆里的红宝石。但是对他的评论呢！全他妈的扯谈，一批愚蠢的休儒写的！”
“是些不知道怎样评论作品的人写的，这种人太多了，”马丁表示赞成。“研究史蒂文森和他的作品的卑劣之作就太多，多得叫我害怕。”
“吃死人的僵尸，女身鸟爪怪！”布里森登咬牙切齿地叫道，“是的，我知道这帮妖精。因为他为达米安神甫写的那封信就得意扬扬地啄他的肉，撕扯他，折磨他——”
“以小人之心度君子之腹。”马丁插嘴说。
‘对，这话正好不过——满嘴真善美却糟蹋着真善美，最后还拍拍真善美它的肩膀说，‘好狗好狗，忠心耿耿。’滚吧！理查·瑞尔夫弥留那天晚上把他们叫做：喳喳叫的小乌鸦，叫对了。”
“在大师们流星一般迅速地飞翔时，”马丁热情地接下话头，“专跟星尘找茬的家伙。我写过一篇文章讽刺他们——那些找茬专家，亦称书评家。”
“让我看看。”布里森登兴致勃勃地提出要求。
于是马丁翻找出一份复写的《星尘》，布里森登一边读一边格格地笑，搓着手，忘掉了威士忌甜苏打。
“我的印象是：你就是一个坠落到凡间的星尘，被扔进一群戴了风帽的没有眼睛的作儒之间。”他看完稿子说，“当然，第一家杂志就会叼住它不放的。”
马丁翻了翻自己的稿件记录本。
“已经被二十七家杂志退了稿。”
布里森登开怀大笑，笑了许久，却痛苦地呛咳起来。
“喂，你用不着告诉我说你没有写过诗，”他喘着大气说，“拿几首来看看。”
“现在先别看，”马丁请求，“我还想和你谈谈。我把诗扎成一扎，你带回去看。”
布级森登带走了《爱情组诗》和《仙女与珍珠》，第二天地回来了，对马丁提出：——
“再给我一点。”
他肯定马丁是个诗人，也让马丁知道了他也是个诗人。马丁被他的作品弄得神魂颠倒，却大吃了一惊，原来他根本没有打算拿它们去发表。
“让那些出版社滚蛋吧！”马丁主动要求帮他投稿，他却回答。“为美而爱美吧，”他劝告说，“别去找杂志社了。回到你的船上去，海上去——这是我对你的忠告，马丁·伊登。你在把日于一天一天地浪费，想把美当婊子出卖，去满足杂志王国的要求。那只是在割自己的脖子而已。你那天对我引用过的话是谁说的？——哦，对了，‘人呀，最后的蜉蝣。’你这个‘最后的蜉蝣’拿名气来干什么？你要是出了名，反倒会中毒的。照我看你太年纯，太本色，太理智，靠这种东西是好不起来的。我倒希望你一行也没有法子卖给杂志。你要侍奉的唯一主人就是美。侍奉他吧，让苦芙众生下地狱去！成功！你的成功已经在你的《爱情组诗种为斯蒂文森写的那首十四行诗里了，已经在你那些海洋诗里了。那不是成功是什么？那比亨雷的《幽灵》还要好呢。
“你获得欢乐不在取得成功，而在写作本身。你不会告诉我，可我明白，你也知道美煎熬着你，使你永远痛苦，是个无法痊愈的伤口，是一把烈焰熊熊的利剑。你干吗去和杂志打交道？就把美当作你的目标好了，为什么要把它变作黄金？好在你做不到，我倒不必激动。读上一千年杂志，你发现的价值也比不上一行济慈的诗。丢开金钱和名誉吧，明天就签合同上船去，回到你的大海去。”
“不是为了名誉，而是为了爱情，”马丁哈哈大笑，“在你的宇宙里似乎没有爱情的地位；可在我的宇宙里，美不过是爱情的婢女。”
布里森登怜悯地也佩服地望望他。“你这么年轻，马丁孩子，这么年轻。你想高飞，可是你的翅膀是最精致的薄绍做的，画上了最美丽的颜色。可别让它们给烧焦了，当然，你已经把它们烧焦了。要解释那些爱情诗需要找一个打扮得光彩照人的小姐，丢脸的地方就在这儿。”
“让小见光彩照人，也让爱情光彩照人。”马丁哈哈大笑。
“疯狂的哲学，”对方驳斥道，“我在那些风魔的梦里也拿这话安慰过自己。可你要小心，这些资产阶级的城市是会杀死你的。你看看那个生意人的南吧，我是在那里遇见你的。说它腐朽是不够的，在它那气氛里人就清醒不了，它叫人堕落，没有一个人不堕落，男的，女的，全都是些行尸走肉，指引他们的是跟蚌亮一样的聪明和艺术冲动——”
他突然住了嘴，望了望马丁，然后灵机一动，明白过来。脸上的表情变作了惶惑的恐怖。
“你那惊人之作《爱情组诗》原来是为她写的，为那个苍白、干瘪的女人写的！”
转瞬之间马丁的右手已经伸出，紧紧攫住了布里森登的喉头，直摇得他的牙齿答答作响。可是马丁在他的服服却没有看见丝毫畏惧——除了一副惊奇与嘲弄的魔鬼表情之外什么也没有。马丁这才回过神来，揪住脖子一把把布里森登横摔在床上，才放了手。
布里森登痛苦地、大口大口地喘了一会地气，格格地笑了/
“你若是把我那点火焰摇灭了，我可要永远感谢你了。”他说。
“我这些日子烦得快要爆炸了，”马丁道歉说，“希望没有伤害了你。来，让我新调一杯甜威士忌苏打吧。”
“啊，好个棒小伙！”布里森登说了下去，“我不知道你是否以你那副身坯为骄傲。体壮得像个魔鬼，是只小豹子，小狮子。好了好了，你得为你那身力气付出代价的。”
“你是什么意思？”马丁好奇地问，递给他一杯饮料。“喝了吧，以后乖乖的。”
“因为——”布里森登啜着甜酒，很欣赏，微笑了。“因为女人。她们会缠住你，直到把你缠死。她们已经缠过你了，要不然我就算是昨天才出世的奶娃。你把我掐死也没有用；我有话还得说。毫无疑问这是你的童稚之恋；为了美的缘故，下一回回味可要高一点。你拿一个资产阶级小姐有什么用？别沾她们的边。找一个嘲笑生活。戏弄死亡、说爱就爱、火一样燃烧的了不起的女人去爱吧，这样的女人有的是，她们会爱你，不亚于任何一个资产阶级闺阁里培养出的娇小姐。”
“娇小姐？”马丁抗议。
“对，就是娇，娇娇滴滴地说些从别人那里听来的道德信条，害怕生活。她们会爱你，马丁，但是她们会更爱她们那些琐碎的道德信条。你需要的是痛快淋漓不受压抑的生活，是伟大的自由的灵魂，是绚烂的蝴蝶，而不是灰色的小飞蛾。哦，所有那些女人都会叫你厌烦的，如果你倒了霉，老是不死的话。不过你不肯生活，不肯回到你的海洋和船上去；因此就绕着城市里这些瘟疫的洞窟转，等到你腐败到骨头里的时候，你就会死去。”
“你可以训斥我，但是你无法让我跟你辩论，”马丁说，“归根到底你的见解来自你的性格，而我这来自我自己性格的见解也和你的一样无懈可击。”
两人在对待爱情、杂志和许多问题上的看法都有分歧，但是两人彼此却很喜欢，而马丁的喜欢又很深沉。他们俩天天见面，尽管有时只是布里森登在马丁那令人气闷的屋里呆上一小时。布里森登每一次未必要带一夸脱酒，两人在市中心吃饭时他从头到尾总喝威士忌苏打。他总是付两人的车费，马丁是通过他才明白了食物的美妙的。他喝到了第一杯香按，也见识了莱因葡萄酒。
但是布里森登永远是个谜。他一脸苦行僧相，体质也越来越弱，可他却是个毫不讳言的酒色之徒。他不畏惧死，对种种生活方式都辛辣尖刻，愤世嫉俗，但是他虽然快要死去，却仍然热爱生命，丝毫不放。一种要活下去、要快活地活下去的狂热攫住了他。他要“在我所从来的宇宙尘埃的空间里玩个够。”他有一次这么说。为了追求新的刺激和感受，他玩过毒品，做过许多古怪的事。他还告诉马丁他曾经三天不喝水。那是自愿的，为了要体验极端的口渴解除时的奇妙的欢乐。马丁从来不知道他是什么人，从哪儿来。他是个没有过去的人；他的未来是即将出现的坟墓；而他的现在就是生活里这苦涩的狂热。
Chapter 33
Martin was steadily losing his battle. Economize as he would, the earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses. Thanksgiving found him with his black suit in pawn and unable to accept the Morses' invitation to dinner. Ruth was not made happy by his reason for not coming, and the corresponding effect on him was one of desperation. He told her that he would come, after all; that he would go over to San Francisco, to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office, collect the five dollars due him, and with it redeem his suit of clothes.
In the morning he borrowed ten cents from Maria. He would have borrowed it, by preference, from Brissenden, but that erratic individual had disappeared. Two weeks had passed since Martin had seen him, and he vainly cudgelled his brains for some cause of offence. The ten cents carried Martin across the ferry to San Francisco, and as he walked up Market Street he speculated upon his predicament in case he failed to collect the money. There would then be no way for him to return to Oakland, and he knew no one in San Francisco from whom to borrow another ten cents.
The door to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office was ajar, and Martin, in the act of opening it, was brought to a sudden pause by a loud voice from within, which exclaimed:- "But that is not the question, Mr. Ford." (Ford, Martin knew, from his correspondence, to be the editor's name.) "The question is, are you prepared to pay? - cash, and cash down, I mean? I am not interested in the prospects of the TRANSCONTINENTAL and what you expect to make it next year. What I want is to be paid for what I do. And I tell you, right now, the Christmas TRANSCONTINENTAL don't go to press till I have the money in my hand. Good day. When you get the money, come and see me."
The door jerked open, and the man flung past Martin, with an angry countenance and went down the corridor, muttering curses and clenching his fists. Martin decided not to enter immediately, and lingered in the hallways for a quarter of an hour. Then he shoved the door open and walked in. It was a new experience, the first time he had been inside an editorial office. Cards evidently were not necessary in that office, for the boy carried word to an inner room that there was a man who wanted to see Mr. Ford. Returning, the boy beckoned him from halfway across the room and led him to the private office, the editorial sanctum. Martin's first impression was of the disorder and cluttered confusion of the room. Next he noticed a bewhiskered, youthful-looking man, sitting at a roll-top desk, who regarded him curiously. Martin marvelled at the calm repose of his face. It was evident that the squabble with the printer had not affected his equanimity.
"I - I am Martin Eden," Martin began the conversation. ("And I want my five dollars," was what he would have liked to say.)
But this was his first editor, and under the circumstances he did not desire to scare him too abruptly. To his surprise, Mr. Ford leaped into the air with a "You don't say so!" and the next moment, with both hands, was shaking Martin's hand effusively.
"Can't say how glad I am to see you, Mr. Eden. Often wondered what you were like."
Here he held Martin off at arm's length and ran his beaming eyes over Martin's second-best suit, which was also his worst suit, and which was ragged and past repair, though the trousers showed the careful crease he had put in with Maria's flat-irons.
"I confess, though, I conceived you to be a much older man than you are. Your story, you know, showed such breadth, and vigor, such maturity and depth of thought. A masterpiece, that story - I knew it when I had read the first half-dozen lines. Let me tell you how I first read it. But no; first let me introduce you to the staff."
Still talking, Mr. Ford led him into the general office, where he introduced him to the associate editor, Mr. White, a slender, frail little man whose hand seemed strangely cold, as if he were suffering from a chill, and whose whiskers were sparse and silky.
"And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden. Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know."
Martin found himself shaking hands with a cranky-eyed, bald-headed man, whose face looked youthful enough from what little could be seen of it, for most of it was covered by a snow-white beard, carefully trimmed - by his wife, who did it on Sundays, at which times she also shaved the back of his neck.
The three men surrounded Martin, all talking admiringly and at once, until it seemed to him that they were talking against time for a wager.
"We often wondered why you didn't call," Mr. White was saying.
"I didn't have the carfare, and I live across the Bay," Martin answered bluntly, with the idea of showing them his imperative need for the money.
Surely, he thought to himself, my glad rags in themselves are eloquent advertisement of my need. Time and again, whenever opportunity offered, he hinted about the purpose of his business. But his admirers' ears were deaf. They sang his praises, told him what they had thought of his story at first sight, what they subsequently thought, what their wives and families thought; but not one hint did they breathe of intention to pay him for it.
"Did I tell you how I first read your story?" Mr. Ford said. "Of course I didn't. I was coming west from New York, and when the train stopped at Ogden, the train-boy on the new run brought aboard the current number of the TRANSCONTINENTAL."
My God! Martin thought; you can travel in a Pullman while I starve for the paltry five dollars you owe me. A wave of anger rushed over him. The wrong done him by the TRANSCONTINENTAL loomed colossal, for strong upon him were all the dreary months of vain yearning, of hunger and privation, and his present hunger awoke and gnawed at him, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since the day before, and little enough then. For the moment he saw red. These creatures were not even robbers. They were sneak-thieves. By lies and broken promises they had tricked him out of his story. Well, he would show them. And a great resolve surged into his will to the effect that he would not leave the office until he got his money. He remembered, if he did not get it, that there was no way for him to go back to Oakland. He controlled himself with an effort, but not before the wolfish expression of his face had awed and perturbed them.
They became more voluble than ever. Mr. Ford started anew to tell how he had first read "The Ring of Bells," and Mr. Ends at the same time was striving to repeat his niece's appreciation of "The Ring of Bells," said niece being a school-teacher in Alameda.
"I'll tell you what I came for," Martin said finally. "To be paid for that story all of you like so well. Five dollars, I believe, is what you promised me would be paid on publication."
Mr. Ford, with an expression on his mobile features of mediate and happy acquiescence, started to reach for his pocket, then turned suddenly to Mr. Ends, and said that he had left his money home. That Mr. Ends resented this, was patent; and Martin saw the twitch of his arm as if to protect his trousers pocket. Martin knew that the money was there.
"I am sorry," said Mr. Ends, "but I paid the printer not an hour ago, and he took my ready change. It was careless of me to be so short; but the bill was not yet due, and the printer's request, as a favor, to make an immediate advance, was quite unexpected."
Both men looked expectantly at Mr. White, but that gentleman laughed and shrugged his shoulders. His conscience was clean at any rate. He had come into the TRANSCONTINENTAL to learn magazine- literature, instead of which he had principally learned finance. The TRANSCONTINENTAL owed him four months' salary, and he knew that the printer must be appeased before the associate editor.
"It's rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape," Mr. Ford preambled airily. "All carelessness, I assure you. But I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll mail you a check the first thing in the morning. You have Mr. Eden's address, haven't you, Mr. Ends?"
Yes, Mr. Ends had the address, and the check would be mailed the first thing in the morning. Martin's knowledge of banks and checks was hazy, but he could see no reason why they should not give him the check on this day just as well as on the next.
"Then it is understood, Mr. Eden, that we'll mail you the check to- morrow?" Mr. Ford said.
"I need the money to-day," Martin answered stolidly.
"The unfortunate circumstances - if you had chanced here any other day," Mr. Ford began suavely, only to be interrupted by Mr. Ends, whose cranky eyes justified themselves in his shortness of temper.
"Mr. Ford has already explained the situation," he said with asperity. "And so have I. The check will be mailed - "
"I also have explained," Martin broke in, "and I have explained that I want the money to-day."
He had felt his pulse quicken a trifle at the business manager's brusqueness, and upon him he kept an alert eye, for it was in that gentleman's trousers pocket that he divined the TRANSCONTINENTAL'S ready cash was reposing.
"It is too bad - " Mr. Ford began.
But at that moment, with an impatient movement, Mr. Ends turned as if about to leave the room. At the same instant Martin sprang for him, clutching him by the throat with one hand in such fashion that Mr. Ends' snow-white beard, still maintaining its immaculate trimness, pointed ceilingward at an angle of forty-five degrees. To the horror of Mr. White and Mr. Ford, they saw their business manager shaken like an Astrakhan rug.
"Dig up, you venerable discourager of rising young talent!" Martin exhorted. "Dig up, or I'll shake it out of you, even if it's all in nickels." Then, to the two affrighted onlookers: "Keep away! If you interfere, somebody's liable to get hurt."
Mr. Ends was choking, and it was not until the grip on his throat was eased that he was able to signify his acquiescence in the digging-up programme. All together, after repeated digs, its trousers pocket yielded four dollars and fifteen cents.
"Inside out with it," Martin commanded.
An additional ten cents fell out. Martin counted the result of his raid a second time to make sure.
"You next!" he shouted at Mr. Ford. "I want seventy-five cents more."
Mr. Ford did not wait, but ransacked his pockets, with the result of sixty cents.
"Sure that is all?" Martin demanded menacingly, possessing himself of it. "What have you got in your vest pockets?"
In token of his good faith, Mr. Ford turned two of his pockets inside out. A strip of cardboard fell to the floor from one of them. He recovered it and was in the act of returning it, when Martin cried:-
"What's that? - A ferry ticket? Here, give it to me. It's worth ten cents. I'll credit you with it. I've now got four dollars and ninety-five cents, including the ticket. Five cents is still due me."
He looked fiercely at Mr. White, and found that fragile creature in the act of handing him a nickel.
"Thank you," Martin said, addressing them collectively. "I wish you a good day."
"Robber!" Mr. Ends snarled after him.
"Sneak-thief!" Martin retorted, slamming the door as he passed out.
Martin was elated - so elated that when he recollected that THE HORNET owed him fifteen dollars for "The Peri and the Pearl," he decided forthwith to go and collect it. But THE HORNET was run by a set of clean-shaven, strapping young men, frank buccaneers who robbed everything and everybody, not excepting one another. After some breakage of the office furniture, the editor (an ex-college athlete), ably assisted by the business manager, an advertising agent, and the porter, succeeded in removing Martin from the office and in accelerating, by initial impulse, his descent of the first flight of stairs.
"Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at him from the landing above.
Martin grinned as he picked himself up.
"Phew!" he murmured back. "The TRANSCONTINENTAL crowd were nanny- goats, but you fellows are a lot of prize-fighters."
More laughter greeted this.
"I must say, Mr. Eden," the editor of THE HORNET called down, "that for a poet you can go some yourself. Where did you learn that right cross - if I may ask?"
"Where you learned that half-Nelson," Martin answered. "Anyway, you're going to have a black eye."
"I hope your neck doesn't stiffen up," the editor wished solicitously: "What do you say we all go out and have a drink on it - not the neck, of course, but the little rough-house?"
"I'll go you if I lose," Martin accepted.
And robbers and robbed drank together, amicably agreeing that the battle was to the strong, and that the fifteen dollars for "The Peri and the Pearl" belonged by right to THE HORNET'S editorial staff. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
Martin was steadily losing his battle. Economize as he would, the earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses. Thanksgiving found him with his black suit in pawn and unable to accept the Morses' invitation to dinner. Ruth was not made happy by his reason for not coming, and the corresponding effect on him was one of desperation. He told her that he would come, after all; that he would go over to San Francisco, to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office, collect the five dollars due him, and with it redeem his suit of clothes.
In the morning he borrowed ten cents from Maria. He would have borrowed it, by preference, from Brissenden, but that erratic individual had disappeared. Two weeks had passed since Martin had seen him, and he vainly cudgelled his brains for some cause of offence. The ten cents carried Martin across the ferry to San Francisco, and as he walked up Market Street he speculated upon his predicament in case he failed to collect the money. There would then be no way for him to return to Oakland, and he knew no one in San Francisco from whom to borrow another ten cents.
The door to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office was ajar, and Martin, in the act of opening it, was brought to a sudden pause by a loud voice from within, which exclaimed:- "But that is not the question, Mr. Ford." (Ford, Martin knew, from his correspondence, to be the editor's name.) "The question is, are you prepared to pay? - cash, and cash down, I mean? I am not interested in the prospects of the TRANSCONTINENTAL and what you expect to make it next year. What I want is to be paid for what I do. And I tell you, right now, the Christmas TRANSCONTINENTAL don't go to press till I have the money in my hand. Good day. When you get the money, come and see me."
The door jerked open, and the man flung past Martin, with an angry countenance and went down the corridor, muttering curses and clenching his fists. Martin decided not to enter immediately, and lingered in the hallways for a quarter of an hour. Then he shoved the door open and walked in. It was a new experience, the first time he had been inside an editorial office. Cards evidently were not necessary in that office, for the boy carried word to an inner room that there was a man who wanted to see Mr. Ford. Returning, the boy beckoned him from halfway across the room and led him to the private office, the editorial sanctum. Martin's first impression was of the disorder and cluttered confusion of the room. Next he noticed a bewhiskered, youthful-looking man, sitting at a roll-top desk, who regarded him curiously. Martin marvelled at the calm repose of his face. It was evident that the squabble with the printer had not affected his equanimity.
"I - I am Martin Eden," Martin began the conversation. ("And I want my five dollars," was what he would have liked to say.)
But this was his first editor, and under the circumstances he did not desire to scare him too abruptly. To his surprise, Mr. Ford leaped into the air with a "You don't say so!" and the next moment, with both hands, was shaking Martin's hand effusively.
"Can't say how glad I am to see you, Mr. Eden. Often wondered what you were like."
Here he held Martin off at arm's length and ran his beaming eyes over Martin's second-best suit, which was also his worst suit, and which was ragged and past repair, though the trousers showed the careful crease he had put in with Maria's flat-irons.
"I confess, though, I conceived you to be a much older man than you are. Your story, you know, showed such breadth, and vigor, such maturity and depth of thought. A masterpiece, that story - I knew it when I had read the first half-dozen lines. Let me tell you how I first read it. But no; first let me introduce you to the staff."
Still talking, Mr. Ford led him into the general office, where he introduced him to the associate editor, Mr. White, a slender, frail little man whose hand seemed strangely cold, as if he were suffering from a chill, and whose whiskers were sparse and silky.
"And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden. Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know."
Martin found himself shaking hands with a cranky-eyed, bald-headed man, whose face looked youthful enough from what little could be seen of it, for most of it was covered by a snow-white beard, carefully trimmed - by his wife, who did it on Sundays, at which times she also shaved the back of his neck.
The three men surrounded Martin, all talking admiringly and at once, until it seemed to him that they were talking against time for a wager.
"We often wondered why you didn't call," Mr. White was saying.
"I didn't have the carfare, and I live across the Bay," Martin answered bluntly, with the idea of showing them his imperative need for the money.
Surely, he thought to himself, my glad rags in themselves are eloquent advertisement of my need. Time and again, whenever opportunity offered, he hinted about the purpose of his business. But his admirers' ears were deaf. They sang his praises, told him what they had thought of his story at first sight, what they subsequently thought, what their wives and families thought; but not one hint did they breathe of intention to pay him for it.
"Did I tell you how I first read your story?" Mr. Ford said. "Of course I didn't. I was coming west from New York, and when the train stopped at Ogden, the train-boy on the new run brought aboard the current number of the TRANSCONTINENTAL."
My God! Martin thought; you can travel in a Pullman while I starve for the paltry five dollars you owe me. A wave of anger rushed over him. The wrong done him by the TRANSCONTINENTAL loomed colossal, for strong upon him were all the dreary months of vain yearning, of hunger and privation, and his present hunger awoke and gnawed at him, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since the day before, and little enough then. For the moment he saw red. These creatures were not even robbers. They were sneak-thieves. By lies and broken promises they had tricked him out of his story. Well, he would show them. And a great resolve surged into his will to the effect that he would not leave the office until he got his money. He remembered, if he did not get it, that there was no way for him to go back to Oakland. He controlled himself with an effort, but not before the wolfish expression of his face had awed and perturbed them.
They became more voluble than ever. Mr. Ford started anew to tell how he had first read "The Ring of Bells," and Mr. Ends at the same time was striving to repeat his niece's appreciation of "The Ring of Bells," said niece being a school-teacher in Alameda.
"I'll tell you what I came for," Martin said finally. "To be paid for that story all of you like so well. Five dollars, I believe, is what you promised me would be paid on publication."
Mr. Ford, with an expression on his mobile features of mediate and happy acquiescence, started to reach for his pocket, then turned suddenly to Mr. Ends, and said that he had left his money home. That Mr. Ends resented this, was patent; and Martin saw the twitch of his arm as if to protect his trousers pocket. Martin knew that the money was there.
"I am sorry," said Mr. Ends, "but I paid the printer not an hour ago, and he took my ready change. It was careless of me to be so short; but the bill was not yet due, and the printer's request, as a favor, to make an immediate advance, was quite unexpected."
Both men looked expectantly at Mr. White, but that gentleman laughed and shrugged his shoulders. His conscience was clean at any rate. He had come into the TRANSCONTINENTAL to learn magazine- literature, instead of which he had principally learned finance. The TRANSCONTINENTAL owed him four months' salary, and he knew that the printer must be appeased before the associate editor.
"It's rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape," Mr. Ford preambled airily. "All carelessness, I assure you. But I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll mail you a check the first thing in the morning. You have Mr. Eden's address, haven't you, Mr. Ends?"
Yes, Mr. Ends had the address, and the check would be mailed the first thing in the morning. Martin's knowledge of banks and checks was hazy, but he could see no reason why they should not give him the check on this day just as well as on the next.
"Then it is understood, Mr. Eden, that we'll mail you the check to- morrow?" Mr. Ford said.
"I need the money to-day," Martin answered stolidly.
"The unfortunate circumstances - if you had chanced here any other day," Mr. Ford began suavely, only to be interrupted by Mr. Ends, whose cranky eyes justified themselves in his shortness of temper.
"Mr. Ford has already explained the situation," he said with asperity. "And so have I. The check will be mailed - "
"I also have explained," Martin broke in, "and I have explained that I want the money to-day."
He had felt his pulse quicken a trifle at the business manager's brusqueness, and upon him he kept an alert eye, for it was in that gentleman's trousers pocket that he divined the TRANSCONTINENTAL'S ready cash was reposing.
"It is too bad - " Mr. Ford began.
But at that moment, with an impatient movement, Mr. Ends turned as if about to leave the room. At the same instant Martin sprang for him, clutching him by the throat with one hand in such fashion that Mr. Ends' snow-white beard, still maintaining its immaculate trimness, pointed ceilingward at an angle of forty-five degrees. To the horror of Mr. White and Mr. Ford, they saw their business manager shaken like an Astrakhan rug.
"Dig up, you venerable discourager of rising young talent!" Martin exhorted. "Dig up, or I'll shake it out of you, even if it's all in nickels." Then, to the two affrighted onlookers: "Keep away! If you interfere, somebody's liable to get hurt."
Mr. Ends was choking, and it was not until the grip on his throat was eased that he was able to signify his acquiescence in the digging-up programme. All together, after repeated digs, its trousers pocket yielded four dollars and fifteen cents.
"Inside out with it," Martin commanded.
An additional ten cents fell out. Martin counted the result of his raid a second time to make sure.
"You next!" he shouted at Mr. Ford. "I want seventy-five cents more."
Mr. Ford did not wait, but ransacked his pockets, with the result of sixty cents.
"Sure that is all?" Martin demanded menacingly, possessing himself of it. "What have you got in your vest pockets?"
In token of his good faith, Mr. Ford turned two of his pockets inside out. A strip of cardboard fell to the floor from one of them. He recovered it and was in the act of returning it, when Martin cried:-
"What's that? - A ferry ticket? Here, give it to me. It's worth ten cents. I'll credit you with it. I've now got four dollars and ninety-five cents, including the ticket. Five cents is still due me."
He looked fiercely at Mr. White, and found that fragile creature in the act of handing him a nickel.
"Thank you," Martin said, addressing them collectively. "I wish you a good day."
"Robber!" Mr. Ends snarled after him.
"Sneak-thief!" Martin retorted, slamming the door as he passed out.
Martin was elated - so elated that when he recollected that THE HORNET owed him fifteen dollars for "The Peri and the Pearl," he decided forthwith to go and collect it. But THE HORNET was run by a set of clean-shaven, strapping young men, frank buccaneers who robbed everything and everybody, not excepting one another. After some breakage of the office furniture, the editor (an ex-college athlete), ably assisted by the business manager, an advertising agent, and the porter, succeeded in removing Martin from the office and in accelerating, by initial impulse, his descent of the first flight of stairs.
"Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at him from the landing above.
Martin grinned as he picked himself up.
"Phew!" he murmured back. "The TRANSCONTINENTAL crowd were nanny- goats, but you fellows are a lot of prize-fighters."
More laughter greeted this.
"I must say, Mr. Eden," the editor of THE HORNET called down, "that for a poet you can go some yourself. Where did you learn that right cross - if I may ask?"
"Where you learned that half-Nelson," Martin answered. "Anyway, you're going to have a black eye."
"I hope your neck doesn't stiffen up," the editor wished solicitously: "What do you say we all go out and have a drink on it - not the neck, of course, but the little rough-house?"
"I'll go you if I lose," Martin accepted.
And robbers and robbed drank together, amicably agreeing that the battle was to the strong, and that the fifteen dollars for "The Peri and the Pearl" belonged by right to THE HORNET'S editorial staff.
马丁的战斗节节败退。他尽量节省，可下锅之作的进项仍然入不敷出。感恩节时他的黑色拜客服又进了当铺，无法接受莫尔斯家的邀请去参加宴会。他不能参加宴会的理由使露丝很不高兴，这就逼得他破釜沉舟了。他告诉她他归根到底是准定会去的。他要到旧金山的《跨越大陆》杂志社去讨还他们欠他的五块钱，拿那钱去赎衣服。 
早上他向玛利亚借了一毛钱——他倒愿意从布里森登借，但是那怪人却失踪了。马丁上次见他之后已经两个礼拜，他绞尽脑计要想出在什么地方得罪了他，却没有结果。那一毛钱让马丁过了轮渡，到了旧金山。在地沿着市场街走着的时候，心里考虑着要是收不到钱自己的狼狈处境。那他就无法回奥克兰了，而他在旧金山又没有熟人，没有地方再借一毛钱。
《跨越大陆》办公室的门虚掩着，马丁正打算开门，屋里突然高叫了起来，他急忙住了手。那声音在说：——
“可是问题不在这儿，福特先生！”（马丁从信函来往知道福特是编辑的名字。）问题在你们是否打算给钱？——现钱，现付，我的意思是。我对《跨越大陆》的远景和你打算明年把它办成什么样子不感兴趣。我要的是干工作得付报酬。而且我告诉你，现在就要。钱不到我手里，圣诞节这期《跨越大陆》就不开印。再见，有了钱再来找我。”
门猛地打开了，那人满脸怒气从马丁身边擦过，沿着走廊走去，嘴里骂着，擤着拳头。马丁决定暂不进去，他在门厅里逗留了半小时，这才推门进入。那是个新的体验，他是第一次进入一家编辑室。在那个办公室里显然用不着名片，因为那小厮到一间里屋去通报了有人要见福特先生，回来时半路就招呼他过去，然后引他进了那间个人办公室——编辑的专用房间。马丁的第一个印象是那屋子杂乱无章。然后他看见了一个长连鬓胡子的、相貌年轻的编辑坐在一张带卷边桌面的办公桌边，好奇地打量着他。马丁为他脸上的平静安详感到惊讶。和印刷商的吵闹显然没有扰乱他的方寸。
“找——我是马丁·伊登，”马丁开始了谈话。（他恨不得马上就悦：“我要我的那五块钱。”但这是他见到的第一个编辑，在当时情况下他不愿太意外地惊扰他。可令他大吃一惊的是，福特先生却跳了起来，叫道：“难道真是你么！”而且立即双手摸住他，和他热情洋溢地握起了来。
“见了你真有说不出的高兴，伊登先生。我常常在猜想你是个什么样子呢！”
此时他伸直手推开他，用喜气洋洋的眼睛打量起他那套次好的服装，也就是最差的服装来。那衣服褴褛得无法修补，虽然他用玛利亚的熨斗把裤子仔细熨出了棱角。
“不过，我得承认，找把你的年龄估计得大了许多。你的小说表现了］”阔的胸怀、气魄和成熟，还有思维的深度，是一部杰作——我只读了五六行就看出来了。让我来告诉你我最初是怎么读到的吧。不过，别忙，让我先介绍你和我的同事们认识。”
福特先生说着话领他进了大办公室，把他介绍给了副编辑怀传先生，一个细瘦的衰弱的小个于，手仿佛在发寒病，冷得奇特，稀稀落落的连鬓胡闪着丝一样的光。
“还有恩孜先生，这是伊登先生。恩孜先生是我们的业务经理，你知道。”
马丁发现和自己握手的是一个目光闪烁不定的秃头。那人脸上看得见的部分显得年轻——大部分面孔都叫雪白的胡须遮住了。那胡须修剪得很仔细——是他的妻子星期天修的，她也修剪了他的后颈窝。
三个人包围了马丁，一律说起赞扬的话来，直说到马丁感觉他们曾打过赌，比赛谁说话最卖劲。
“我们常常奇怪你怎么不来看看我们。”怀特先生说。
“我没有车费，我住在海湾对面，”马丁开门见山地说，想让他们明白他迫切地需要钱。
当然，他心想，我这身漂亮的破衣服本身就是强有力的广告，可以告诉他们找多么需要钱。
一有机会他就向他们暗示他此来的目的。他一再暗示，阻他的崇拜者们却是些聋子。他们大唱着赞歌，告诉他他们第一眼看见他的作品时是如何想的，以后又是如何想的，他们的老婆和家里人又是如何想的。只是一点点也没有表示给他稿费的意思。
“我告诉了你我是怎么第一次读你的作品的么？”福特先生说，“当然，还没有。我从纽约往西回来，火车到了奥格登，下一班乘务员把最新一期《跨越大陆》拿上了火车。”
天呀！你倒在坐豪华列车旅行，我却在为你们欠我的那可怜的五块钱挨饿。一阵怒火猛然升起，《跨越大陆》叫他受的委屈急剧膨胀，多少个月来他凄凄凉凉空空地等待，忍饥受苦，现在他的饥饿也醒了过来，咬啮着他，提醒他他从昨天就没有吃饭，而最后的那一顿也吃得很少。他不禁发起狂来。这些家伙甚至不是强盗，而是鬼鬼祟祟的小偷。他们用谎言和空头许诺骗走了他的小说。哼，他得给他们个好看。他下定了最大的决心不拿到钱决不离开办公室。他又想起如果得不到钱他就无法回到奥克兰去。他努力克制住自己，可他脸上那狼一样的表情已经吓得他们心慌意乱。
他们越来越夸夸其谈。福特先生重新谈起他第一次读到《钟声激越》的情况；恩孜先生也同时努力重复他的侄女对《钟声激越》的欣赏，并说他侄女在阿拉美达做教师。
“我来告诉你们我的来意吧，”马丁终于说了，“我是来拿你们大家都那么喜欢的那篇小说的稿费的。五块钱，我相信，这就是你们答应在发表之后给我的报酬。”
福特先生灵活的眉眼立即欢欢喜喜表示同意，伸手摸向口袋，却突然转身对恩孜先生说他把钱忘在家里了。恩孜先生显然不高兴；马丁看见他手一动，好像要保护他的裤子口袋，明白了他的钱就在那儿。
“对不起，”恩孜先生说，“可是我不到一小时以前付了印刷费，现金用光了。一不小心就拿不出钱了；支票还没有到期，印刷所老板却求我帮忙，立即预支给他。事出意外。”
两人都眼巴巴望着怀特先生，但是那位先生却笑了，耸了耸肩。他至少问心无愧。他当初到《跨越大陆》原想学习杂志文学，可到头来他主要学的却是财务周转。《跨越大陆》欠了他四个月的薪，他明白先得满足了印刷所老板才轮得到他这个副编辑。
“叫你撞见我们这种情况，真是有点荒乎其唐，伊登先生，”福特先生笑眯眯地说开了。“我向你保证，完全是意外，不过，我可以告诉你我们怎么办。明天早上我们第一件事就是给你寄支票去。你有伊登先生的地址的，是么，思孜先生？”
不错，恩孜先生有地址，明天早上第一件事就是寄支票。马丁对于银行和支票的事不大明白，可他也看不出他们有什么理由今天不给他支票，而要等到明天。
“那就是说，得到了伊登先生的谅解，明天给你寄去支票？”
“我今天就需要钱，”马丁顽强地说。
“情况太不巧了，你哪天来都——”福特先生彬彬有礼地说，却叫恩孜先生打断了。恩孜先生的急躁脾气证实了他那急躁的眼神。
“福特先生已经解释过了，”他粗暴地说，“我也讲得很明白。支票明天就——”
“我也已经解释过了，”马丁插嘴说，“我解释过我今天就得要钱。”
那位业务经理的蛮横使马丁的脉搏加快了跳动，同时他也警惕地注视着，因为他已经猜到《跨越大陆》的现金就躺在那家伙的裤子口袋里。
“非常不巧——”福特先生开始了。
这时恩孜先生却做了个不耐烦的动作，转过身去，好像打算开溜。马丁立即跳了过去，一手揪住了他的喉咙，揪得恩孜先生那依然一尘不染的白胡须向大花板翘起，呈四十五度角。怀特和福特两位先生看见他们的业务经理叫他像摇阿斯特拉罕地毯一样摇撼着，简直吓坏了。
“掏出来，你这压制年轻天才的老混蛋！”马丁追逼着，“掏呀，否则我就给你摇晃出来。哪怕全是五分的镍币也行。”然后又对那吓坏了的两位看客叫道，“让开！谁要来干涉，可别怪我不客气。”
恩孜先生呛得透不过气来，直到喉咙上的手放松了一些，才算说出了话，表示同意掏钱。他掏了又掏，从他的裤子口袋里一共掏出了四块一毛五分钱。
“翻口袋！”马丁命令。
又掉下来一毛钱。为了稳妥起见，马丁再数了一下他此番袭击的收入。
“你是下一个！”他对福特先生下达命令，“我还得收七毛五分。”
福特先生不敢怠慢，急忙掏腰包。掏出了六毛钱。
“就这么点？”马丁气势汹汹地追问，拿过了钱。“你背心口袋里有没有？”
为了表明心迹，福特先生把两个口袋都翻了过来。一张硬纸片从口袋里掉到地板上。他捡了起来，正要放回口袋，马丁叫道：——
“是什么？——轮渡票？这儿，给我，也值一毛钱呢。也算是你还的。我现在得到了四块九毛五，还差五分。”
他狠狠地望着怀特先生，望着那弱不禁风的先生递给他一个五分的镍币。
“谢谢，”马丁对他们三个人说，“再见。”
“强盗！”恩孜先生对着他的背影说。
“小偷！”马丁反驳说．砰地一声关上门，走了出去。
马丁飘飘然了，他想起《大黄蜂》还欠他十五块钱《仙女与珍珠》的稿费，决定如法炮制。但是《大黄蜂》却是一帮脸上刮得光光的健壮青年办的，都是些公然的海盗．谁都抢，什么都抢，连彼此都抢。打破了一些家具之后．编辑在业务经理和广告代理人和门房的有力协助下终于把马丁搡出了办公室，那最初的一搡竟把他送下了第一道阶梯。
“欢迎再来，马丁先生，欢迎你任何时候光临。”他们居高临下从梯口平台对他叫道。
马丁爬了起来，却咧开嘴笑着。
“嗨哟！”他对他们嘟哝道，“《跨越大陆》那帮人全是些母羊，你们倒是些拳击能手。”
回答他这话的是更多的笑声。
“我得说，伊登先生，”《大黄蜂》的编辑俯身叫道，“作为诗人你倒还真有两手。请问，你那手右推挡是从哪儿学来的？”
“就从你学到你那后锁颈的地方学来的，”马丁回答，“总之能打得你鼻青眼黑。”
“你脖子没有僵硬吧，我担心，”编辑关心地问，“咱们一块出去喝一杯庆祝庆祝怎么样？——当然不是庆祝脖子僵硬，是庆祝这一套开打戏。”
“我若是喝不过你们，就由我请客，”马丁接受了。
于是打劫的和被打劫的杯酒言和，双方亲切地同意了强者必胜的道理，《仙女与珍珠》那十五块钱稿费理所当然地归了《大黄蜂》编辑部。
Chapter 34
Arthur remained at the gate while Ruth climbed Maria's front steps. She heard the rapid click of the type-writer, and when Martin let her in, found him on the last page of a manuscript. She had come to make certain whether or not he would be at their table for Thanksgiving dinner; but before she could broach the subject Martin plunged into the one with which he was full.
"Here, let me read you this," he cried, separating the carbon copies and running the pages of manuscript into shape. "It's my latest, and different from anything I've done. It is so altogether different that I am almost afraid of it, and yet I've a sneaking idea it is good. You be judge. It's an Hawaiian story. I've called it 'Wiki-wiki.'"
His face was bright with the creative glow, though she shivered in the cold room and had been struck by the coldness of his hands at greeting. She listened closely while he read, and though he from time to time had seen only disapprobation in her face, at the close he asked:-
"Frankly, what do you think of it?"
"I - I don't know," she, answered. "Will it - do you think it will sell?"
"I'm afraid not," was the confession. "It's too strong for the magazines. But it's true, on my word it's true."
"But why do you persist in writing such things when you know they won't sell?" she went on inexorably. "The reason for your writing is to make a living, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's right; but the miserable story got away with me. I couldn't help writing it. It demanded to be written."
"But that character, that Wiki-Wiki, why do you make him talk so roughly? Surely it will offend your readers, and surely that is why the editors are justified in refusing your work."
"Because the real Wiki-Wiki would have talked that way."
"But it is not good taste."
"It is life," he replied bluntly. "It is real. It is true. And I must write life as I see it."
She made no answer, and for an awkward moment they sat silent. It was because he loved her that he did not quite understand her, and she could not understand him because he was so large that he bulked beyond her horizon
"Well, I've collected from the TRANSCONTINENTAL," he said in an effort to shift the conversation to a more comfortable subject. The picture of the bewhiskered trio, as he had last seen them, mulcted of four dollars and ninety cents and a ferry ticket, made him chuckle.
"Then you'll come!" she cried joyously. "That was what I came to find out."
"Come?" he muttered absently. "Where?"
"Why, to dinner to-morrow. You know you said you'd recover your suit if you got that money."
"I forgot all about it," he said humbly. "You see, this morning the poundman got Maria's two cows and the baby calf, and - well, it happened that Maria didn't have any money, and so I had to recover her cows for her. That's where the TRANSCONTINENTAL fiver went - 'The Ring of Bells' went into the poundman's pocket."
"Then you won't come?"
He looked down at his clothing.
"I can't."
Tears of disappointment and reproach glistened in her blue eyes, but she said nothing.
"Next Thanksgiving you'll have dinner with me in Delmonico's," he said cheerily; "or in London, or Paris, or anywhere you wish. I know it."
"I saw in the paper a few days ago," she announced abruptly, "that there had been several local appointments to the Railway Mail. You passed first, didn't you?"
He was compelled to admit that the call had come for him, but that he had declined it. "I was so sure - I am so sure - of myself," he concluded. "A year from now I'll be earning more than a dozen men in the Railway Mail. You wait and see."
"Oh," was all she said, when he finished. She stood up, pulling at her gloves. "I must go, Martin. Arthur is waiting for me."
He took her in his arms and kissed her, but she proved a passive sweetheart. There was no tenseness in her body, her arms did not go around him, and her lips met his without their wonted pressure.
She was angry with him, he concluded, as he returned from the gate. But why? It was unfortunate that the poundman had gobbled Maria's cows. But it was only a stroke of fate. Nobody could be blamed for it. Nor did it enter his head that he could have done aught otherwise than what he had done. Well, yes, he was to blame a little, was his next thought, for having refused the call to the Railway Mail. And she had not liked "Wiki-Wiki."
He turned at the head of the steps to meet the letter-carrier on his afternoon round. The ever recurrent fever of expectancy assailed Martin as he took the bundle of long envelopes. One was not long. It was short and thin, and outside was printed the address of THE NEW YORK OUTVIEW. He paused in the act of tearing the envelope open. It could not be an acceptance. He had no manuscripts with that publication. Perhaps - his heart almost stood still at the - wild thought - perhaps they were ordering an article from him; but the next instant he dismissed the surmise as hopelessly impossible.
It was a short, formal letter, signed by the office editor, merely informing him that an anonymous letter which they had received was enclosed, and that he could rest assured the OUTVIEW'S staff never under any circumstances gave consideration to anonymous correspondence.
The enclosed letter Martin found to be crudely printed by hand. It was a hotchpotch of illiterate abuse of Martin, and of assertion that the "so-called Martin Eden" who was selling stories to magazines was no writer at all, and that in reality he was stealing stories from old magazines, typing them, and sending them out as his own. The envelope was postmarked "San Leandro." Martin did not require a second thought to discover the author. Higginbotham's grammar, Higginbotham's colloquialisms, Higginbotham's mental quirks and processes, were apparent throughout. Martin saw in every line, not the fine Italian hand, but the coarse grocer's fist, of his brother-in-law.
But why? he vainly questioned. What injury had he done Bernard Higginbotham? The thing was so unreasonable, so wanton. There was no explaining it. In the course of the week a dozen similar letters were forwarded to Martin by the editors of various Eastern magazines. The editors were behaving handsomely, Martin concluded. He was wholly unknown to them, yet some of them had even been sympathetic. It was evident that they detested anonymity. He saw that the malicious attempt to hurt him had failed. In fact, if anything came of it, it was bound to be good, for at least his name had been called to the attention of a number of editors. Sometime, perhaps, reading a submitted manuscript of his, they might remember him as the fellow about whom they had received an anonymous letter. And who was to say that such a remembrance might not sway the balance of their judgment just a trifle in his favor?
It was about this time that Martin took a great slump in Maria's estimation. He found her in the kitchen one morning groaning with pain, tears of weakness running down her cheeks, vainly endeavoring to put through a large ironing. He promptly diagnosed her affliction as La Grippe, dosed her with hot whiskey (the remnants in the bottles for which Brissenden was responsible), and ordered her to bed. But Maria was refractory. The ironing had to be done, she protested, and delivered that night, or else there would be no food on the morrow for the seven small and hungry Silvas.
To her astonishment (and it was something that she never ceased from relating to her dying day), she saw Martin Eden seize an iron from the stove and throw a fancy shirt-waist on the ironing-board. It was Kate Flanagan's best Sunday waist, than whom there was no more exacting and fastidiously dressed woman in Maria's world. Also, Miss Flanagan had sent special instruction that said waist must be delivered by that night. As every one knew, she was keeping company with John Collins, the blacksmith, and, as Maria knew privily, Miss Flanagan and Mr. Collins were going next day to Golden Gate Park. Vain was Maria's attempt to rescue the garment. Martin guided her tottering footsteps to a chair, from where she watched him with bulging eyes. In a quarter of the time it would have taken her she saw the shirt-waist safely ironed, and ironed as well as she could have done it, as Martin made her grant.
"I could work faster," he explained, "if your irons were only hotter."
To her, the irons he swung were much hotter than she ever dared to use.
"Your sprinkling is all wrong," he complained next. "Here, let me teach you how to sprinkle. Pressure is what's wanted. Sprinkle under pressure if you want to iron fast."
He procured a packing-case from the woodpile in the cellar, fitted a cover to it, and raided the scrap-iron the Silva tribe was collecting for the junkman. With fresh-sprinkled garments in the box, covered with the board and pressed by the iron, the device was complete and in operation.
"Now you watch me, Maria," he said, stripping off to his undershirt and gripping an iron that was what he called "really hot."
"An' when he feenish da iron' he washa da wools," as she described it afterward. "He say, 'Maria, you are da greata fool. I showa you how to washa da wools,' an' he shows me, too. Ten minutes he maka da machine - one barrel, one wheel-hub, two poles, justa like dat."
Martin had learned the contrivance from Joe at the Shelly Hot Springs. The old wheel-hub, fixed on the end of the upright pole, constituted the plunger. Making this, in turn, fast to the spring- pole attached to the kitchen rafters, so that the hub played upon the woollens in the barrel, he was able, with one hand, thoroughly to pound them.
"No more Maria washa da wools," her story always ended. "I maka da kids worka da pole an' da hub an' da barrel. Him da smarta man, Mister Eden."
Nevertheless, by his masterly operation and improvement of her kitchen-laundry he fell an immense distance in her regard. The glamour of romance with which her imagination had invested him faded away in the cold light of fact that he was an ex-laundryman. All his books, and his grand friends who visited him in carriages or with countless bottles of whiskey, went for naught. He was, after all, a mere workingman, a member of her own class and caste. He was more human and approachable, but, he was no longer mystery.
Martin's alienation from his family continued. Following upon Mr. Higginbotham's unprovoked attack, Mr. Hermann von Schmidt showed his hand. The fortunate sale of several storiettes, some humorous verse, and a few jokes gave Martin a temporary splurge of prosperity. Not only did he partially pay up his bills, but he had sufficient balance left to redeem his black suit and wheel. The latter, by virtue of a twisted crank-hanger, required repairing, and, as a matter of friendliness with his future brother-in-law, he sent it to Von Schmidt's shop.
The afternoon of the same day Martin was pleased by the wheel being delivered by a small boy. Von Schmidt was also inclined to be friendly, was Martin's conclusion from this unusual favor. Repaired wheels usually had to be called for. But when he examined the wheel, he discovered no repairs had been made. A little later in the day he telephoned his sister's betrothed, and learned that that person didn't want anything to do with him in "any shape, manner, or form."
"Hermann von Schmidt," Martin answered cheerfully, "I've a good mind to come over and punch that Dutch nose of yours."
"You come to my shop," came the reply, "an' I'll send for the police. An' I'll put you through, too. Oh, I know you, but you can't make no rough-house with me. I don't want nothin' to do with the likes of you. You're a loafer, that's what, an' I ain't asleep. You ain't goin' to do no spongin' off me just because I'm marryin' your sister. Why don't you go to work an' earn an honest livin', eh? Answer me that."
Martin's philosophy asserted itself, dissipating his anger, and he hung up the receiver with a long whistle of incredulous amusement. But after the amusement came the reaction, and he was oppressed by his loneliness. Nobody understood him, nobody seemed to have any use for him, except Brissenden, and Brissenden had disappeared, God alone knew where.
Twilight was falling as Martin left the fruit store and turned homeward, his marketing on his arm. At the corner an electric car had stopped, and at sight of a lean, familiar figure alighting, his heart leapt with joy. It was Brissenden, and in the fleeting glimpse, ere the car started up, Martin noted the overcoat pockets, one bulging with books, the other bulging with a quart bottle of whiskey.
亚瑟留在门日，露丝路上了玛利亚家门前的台阶。她听见打字机急速地敲打着，马丁请她进去时她发现他在打着最后一页稿子。她是来确定他是否去她家参加感恩节宴会的。但是不等她谈到本题，马丁已经谈开了他自己的题目，他满肚子就是他那题目。 
“呐，让我读给你听，”他叫道，把复写的稿页分别整理好，“这是我最新的作品，和我已写过的任何作品都不相同。太不同了，连我都差不多害怕起来。不过我自以为不错。你来当当裁判吧。是一个夏威夷的故事。我叫它《威几威几》。”
虽然她在这寒冷的屋里冷得发抖，和他握手时也感到他的手冰凉，他仍然满脸闪亮，洋溢着创造的欢乐。他读，她细细地听，尽管他读时也见她脸上只有不以为然的表情，读完他仍然问道：——
“说真话，你的印象如何？”
“我——我不知道，”她回答，“它能不能——你认为它卖得掉么？”
“怕是卖不掉，”他承认，“投给杂志嫌太激烈。不过很实事求是，我保证它实事求是。”
“你明明知道卖不掉，为什么偏偏要写这种东西呢”她不客气地说，“你写作是为了生活，是么？”
“是的，不错，但是那悲惨的故事迷住了我，我忍不住要写。它逼着我非写不可。”
“可是你为什么让你那角色威几威几说话那么粗野？那肯定会叫读者不高兴，也确实说明了编辑们不肯发表你作品的理由。”
“因为真正的威几成几就是那么说话的。”
“不过品位就低了。”
“那是生活，”他直率地回答，“那是现实的，是真正的。我必须按照我见到的生活的原样写作。”
她没有回答。两人尴尬地坐了一会儿。他不理解她是因为太爱她；而他却太宏大，远在她的地平线之外。
“我已经从《跨越大陆》收到欠款了，”他努力转入一个较为轻松的话题，他所见到的三个连鬓胡叫他抢走了四块九毛钱外加一张轮渡票的景象使他不禁格格地笑了。
“那么你是要来的喽！”她快活地叫了起来，“我就是为明确这个问题才来的。”
“来？”他心不在焉地咕哝道，“到哪儿？”
“怎么，来赴宴呀，你知道你说过要到那笔钱就把衣服赎出来。”
“我全忘了，”他乖乖地说，“你看，今天早上牲畜栏看守把玛利亚的两头母牛和牛犊牵走了，——可玛利亚一个钱也没有。我只好帮她赎回了牛。《跨越大陆》的五块钱花掉了。《钟声激越》进了畜栏看守的腰包。”
“那你是不来了么？”
他低头看着他的衣服。
“我来不了。”
她蓝色的服里闪烁起失望和责难的泪花，没有说话。
“明年感恩节我要你跟我到德梦尼可去吃大餐，”他快活地说，“或者是到伦敦、巴黎，或是你想去的任何地方。这我明白。”
“我几天以前在一张报纸上看见，”她突然宣布，“铁路邮局已发了几项当他的任命。你是以第一名考上的，是么？”
他只好承认给了他通知，却被他拒绝了。“那时我对自己很有信心，现在也一样，”他结束道，“一年以后我的收入要超过十二个邮务员。你等着瞧。”
他说完了话，她只“哦”了一声，便站了起来，拉拉手套。“我要走了，亚瑟还在等我呢。”
他伸手接过她来吻她，可她却被动，身体没有激情，胳臂拥抱不紧，接吻也不如平时那么用力。
他从门口回来时的结论是：她生气了。可为什么？畜栏看守把玛利亚的母牛牵走了，那很不幸，可那不过是命运的打击，不能怪任何人的。他也想不出除了他那做法之外还能有什么别的办法。是的，他应该受到埋怨，因为邮局给了他录取通知，他却没去，而且她也不喜欢恢几威几人
他在台阶顶上转过身来，去迎接下午那班邮件。他接过那一扎长信封时，一向就出现的期望的狂热又袭击了他。有一个信封不长，外面印好《纽约远眺》字样。他正要拆信，忽然打住了。那不可能是接受稿件的信。也许——一个异想天开的念头闪过，他的心几乎停止了跳动——说不足他们是向他约稿呢。可他随即丢掉了这念头，那是绝对不可能的。
那是一封官样文章的短信，由办公室编辑署名，只是通知他他们接到一封匿名信，附在信里寄了来；并通知他不必在意，《纽约远眺》编辑部在任何情况下也是不会考虑任何匿名信的意见的。
马丁发现那匿名信是手写的印刷体，写得很糟糕，是一些对马丁的没有教养的谩骂，硬说向各杂志兜售稿子的“所谓马丁·伊登”根本不是作家，实际上他是在从旧杂志上盗窃作品，把它们打出来据为己有往外投稿。信封上邮戳的地点是圣利安德罗。马丁不用多想就发现了那作者。那东西通篇显然都是希金波坦的语法，希金波坦的用语，希金波坦的奇谈怪论。马丁在每一行里看见的都是他姐夫那杂货店老板的粗糙的拳头，而不是他那意大利式的细小的字迹。
可他是为了什么？他百思不得其解。他什么地方得罪了希金波担了？这事太没有道理，太荒唐，无法解释。一周之内东部若干家杂志的编辑部都给他转来了十多封类必的信。马丁的结论是编辑们做得都很漂亮，他们谁都不认识地，可有几个对他还颇表同情。他们显然憎恶匿名信。他明白要想伤害他的阴谋是失败了。实际上此事如果有什么后果，那就只能是好后果，目为他的名字已引起了许多编辑的注意。以后他们读到他的稿子说不定会想起他就是他们曾收到过的匿名信所投诉的人。这样一回忆谁又能说得清它不会影响他们的判断，让他的稿子沾点光呢。
大约就在这个时候马丁的身份在玛利亚的心目中却一落千丈。有天早上玛利亚在厨房里痛苦地呻吟，软弱的眼泪沿着面颊往下流，却仍力不从心地熨烫着一大披衣服。他立即诊断她是害了流感，给她喝了热威士忌（那是布里森登带来的几瓶酒里剩下的），然后命令她躺到床上去。但是玛利亚不肯，她抗议说衣服非烫完不可，当天晚上就要送去，否则明天早上七个饥饿的小西尔伐就没有饭吃。
令玛利亚大吃一惊的是看见马丁·伊登从炉子里抓起一把熨斗，又把一件花哨的连衣裙扔到熨烫板上（这事地老讲个没完，一直到她死去）。那可是凯特·美兰纳百的星期日盛装，而在玛利亚的世界里谁的穿着也比不上她更仔细，更挑剔；何况她还专门带了信来要求那件连衣裙当天晚上必须送去。大家鄙知道她正在跟铁匠约翰·科林斯谈恋爱，玛利亚还悄悄地知道芙兰纳村小姐和科林斯先生明天要到金门公园去玩。玛利亚企图抢救那件连衣裙，但是没有办法。她歪歪倒倒地被马丁扶到一张椅子上坐下，在那里瞪大眼望着他。她眼见他只花了她四分之一的时间就把连衣裙平安无事地熨烫好了，而且不得不向马丁承认他烫得不比地差。
“我可以烫得更快，”他说．“若是你的熨斗烧得更烫的活。”
可那挥舞在他手上的熨斗已经比她敢用的那种熨斗烫了许多。
“你喷水也完全不得法，”他接下去又抱怨，“来，让我来教你怎么喷水。需要压力，要想熨烫得快，就得用力喷。”
他从地客的木料堆里找出了一个打包箱，装上盖子，又在西尔伐家的孩子们搞来准备卖给废品商的废料里搜刮了一番。刚喷过水的衣服放进箱子，盖上熨烫板，然后用熨斗熨，那设计就像这样完成了，可以用了。
“现在你看我，玛利亚，”他说，脱得只剩下一件贴身衬衫，抓起一把他认为“真烧烫了”的熨斗。
“他烫完衣服又洗毛线，”她后来叙述说，“他说，‘玛利亚，你是个大笨蛋，我来教教你洗毛线，’然后就教了我。他十分钟就做好了这部机器——一个桶，一个轮毂，两根杆子，就像那样。”
那设计是马丁在雪莉温泉旅馆从乔那里学来的。轮毂固定在一根垂直的杆子上，构成了春祥，然后把这东西固定在厨房的梁上，让轮载拍打水桶里的毛线衣物，只需要一只手他就可以通通拍打个够。
“我玛利亚以后再也不用洗毛线了，”她的故事总是这样结束，“我只叫娃娃们弄轮毂和水桶就行了。他这人可灵巧，伊登先生。”
可是，马丁的这手精湛的功夫和对她厨房洗衣间的改进却叫他在玛利亚眼中的身分一落千丈。她的想像给他博士的浪漫色彩在现实的冷冰冰的光照前暗淡了下去——原来他以前不过是个洗衣工。于是他那所有的书籍，他那坐了漂亮马车或是带了不知多少瓶威士忌酒来看他的阔朋友都不算回事了。他不过是个工人而已，跟她同一个阶级，同一个层次。他更亲切了，更好接近了，可再也不神秘了。
马丁跟他的家人越来越疏远了。随着希金波坦先生那无端的攻击之后，赫尔曼·冯·史密特先生电摊了牌。马丁在侥幸卖掉几篇小小说。几首俏皮诗和几个笑话之后有过一段短暂的春风得意的时期。他不但还掉了一部分旧帐，还剩下几块钱把黑衣服和自行车赎了回来。自行车的曲轴歪了，需要修理。为了对他未来的妹夫表示好感他把车送到了冯·史密特的修理店。
当天下午那车就由一个小孩送了回来。马丁很高兴，从这番不同寻常的优待马丁得到的结论是；冯·史密特也有表示好感的意思，修理自行车一般是得自己去取的。可是他一检查，却发现车并没有修。他立即给妹妹的未婚夫打了电话，这才知道了那人并不愿意跟他“有仔何形式、任何关系和任何状态的交往”。
“赫尔曼·冯·史密特，”马丁快活地回答道；“我倒真想来会会你，揍你那荷兰鼻子一顿呢。”
“你只要一来我的铺子，我就叫警察，”回答是，“我还得戳穿你的真相。我明白你是什么样的人，可你别想来惹事生非。我不愿意跟你这号人打交道。你这个懒虫，你就是懒，我可不糊涂，你别因为我要娶你的妹妹就想来占什么便宜。你为什么不老老实实去干活？哎，回答呀片
马丁的哲学起了作用，它赶走了他的愤怒，他吹了一声长长的口哨，觉得难以相信的滑稽，桂掉了电话。可随着他的滑稽之感来的是另一种反应，一阵寂寞压上他的心头。谁也不理解他，谁对他都似乎没有用处，除了布里森登之外，而布里森登又不见了，只有上帝才知道到哪里去了。
马丁抱着买来的东西离开水果店回家时，大巴斯黑。路边有一辆电车停了下来，他看见一个熟悉的瘦削身影下了电车，心里不禁欢乐地跳跃起来。是布里森登。在电车起动之前的短暂的一瞥里地注意到布里森登外衣的口袋鼓鼓囊囊的，一边塞着书，一边是一瓶一夸脱装的威士忌酒。
Chapter 35
Brissenden gave no explanation of his long absence, nor did Martin pry into it. He was content to see his friend's cadaverous face opposite him through the steam rising from a tumbler of toddy.
"I, too, have not been idle," Brissenden proclaimed, after hearing Martin's account of the work he had accomplished.
He pulled a manuscript from his inside coat pocket and passed it to Martin, who looked at the title and glanced up curiously.
"Yes, that's it," Brissenden laughed. "Pretty good title, eh? 'Ephemera' - it is the one word. And you're responsible for it, what of your MAN, who is always the erected, the vitalized inorganic, the latest of the ephemera, the creature of temperature strutting his little space on the thermometer. It got into my head and I had to write it to get rid of it. Tell me what you think of it."
Martin's face, flushed at first, paled as he read on. It was perfect art. Form triumphed over substance, if triumph it could be called where the last conceivable atom of substance had found expression in so perfect construction as to make Martin's head swim with delight, to put passionate tears into his eyes, and to send chills creeping up and down his back. It was a long poem of six or seven hundred lines, and it was a fantastic, amazing, unearthly thing. It was terrific, impossible; and yet there it was, scrawled in black ink across the sheets of paper. It dealt with man and his soul-gropings in their ultimate terms, plumbing the abysses of space for the testimony of remotest suns and rainbow spectrums. It was a mad orgy of imagination, wassailing in the skull of a dying man who half sobbed under his breath and was quick with the wild flutter of fading heart-beats. The poem swung in majestic rhythm to the cool tumult of interstellar conflict, to the onset of starry hosts, to the impact of cold suns and the flaming up of nebular in the darkened void; and through it all, unceasing and faint, like a silver shuttle, ran the frail, piping voice of man, a querulous chirp amid the screaming of planets and the crash of systems.
"There is nothing like it in literature," Martin said, when at last he was able to speak. "It's wonderful! - wonderful! It has gone to my head. I am drunken with it. That great, infinitesimal question - I can't shake it out of my thoughts. That questing, eternal, ever recurring, thin little wailing voice of man is still ringing in my ears. It is like the dead-march of a gnat amid the trumpeting of elephants and the roaring of lions. It is insatiable with microscopic desire. I now I'm making a fool of myself, but the thing has obsessed me. You are - I don't know what you are - you are wonderful, that's all. But how do you do it? How do you do it?"
Martin paused from his rhapsody, only to break out afresh.
"I shall never write again. I am a dauber in clay. You have shown me the work of the real artificer-artisan. Genius! This is something more than genius. It transcends genius. It is truth gone mad. It is true, man, every line of it. I wonder if you realize that, you dogmatist. Science cannot give you the lie. It is the truth of the sneer, stamped out from the black iron of the Cosmos and interwoven with mighty rhythms of sound into a fabric of splendor and beauty. And now I won't say another word. I am overwhelmed, crushed. Yes, I will, too. Let me market it for you."
Brissenden grinned. "There's not a magazine in Christendom that would dare to publish it - you know that."
"I know nothing of the sort. I know there's not a magazine in Christendom that wouldn't jump at it. They don't get things like that every day. That's no mere poem of the year. It's the poem of the century."
"I'd like to take you up on the proposition."
"Now don't get cynical," Martin exhorted. "The magazine editors are not wholly fatuous. I know that. And I'll close with you on the bet. I'll wager anything you want that 'Ephemera' is accepted either on the first or second offering."
"There's just one thing that prevents me from taking you." Brissenden waited a moment. "The thing is big - the biggest I've ever done. I know that. It's my swan song. I am almighty proud of it. I worship it. It's better than whiskey. It is what I dreamed of - the great and perfect thing - when I was a simple young man, with sweet illusions and clean ideals. And I've got it, now, in my last grasp, and I'll not have it pawed over and soiled by a lot of swine. No, I won't take the bet. It's mine. I made it, and I've shared it with you."
"But think of the rest of the world," Martin protested. "The function of beauty is joy-making."
"It's my beauty."
"Don't be selfish."
"I'm not selfish." Brissenden grinned soberly in the way he had when pleased by the thing his thin lips were about to shape. "I'm as unselfish as a famished hog."
In vain Martin strove to shake him from his decision. Martin told him that his hatred of the magazines was rabid, fanatical, and that his conduct was a thousand times more despicable than that of the youth who burned the temple of Diana at Ephesus. Under the storm of denunciation Brissenden complacently sipped his toddy and affirmed that everything the other said was quite true, with the exception of the magazine editors. His hatred of them knew no bounds, and he excelled Martin in denunciation when he turned upon them.
"I wish you'd type it for me," he said. "You know how a thousand times better than any stenographer. And now I want to give you some advice." He drew a bulky manuscript from his outside coat pocket. "Here's your 'Shame of the Sun.' I've read it not once, but twice and three times - the highest compliment I can pay you. After what you've said about 'Ephemera' I must be silent. But this I will say: when 'The Shame of the Sun' is published, it will make a hit. It will start a controversy that will be worth thousands to you just in advertising."
Martin laughed. "I suppose your next advice will be to submit it to the magazines."
"By all means no - that is, if you want to see it in print. Offer it to the first-class houses. Some publisher's reader may be mad enough or drunk enough to report favorably on it. You've read the books. The meat of them has been transmuted in the alembic of Martin Eden's mind and poured into 'The Shame of the Sun,' and one day Martin Eden will be famous, and not the least of his fame will rest upon that work. So you must get a publisher for it - the sooner the better."
Brissenden went home late that night; and just as he mounted the first step of the car, he swung suddenly back on Martin and thrust into his hand a small, tightly crumpled wad of paper.
"Here, take this," he said. "I was out to the races to-day, and I had the right dope."
The bell clanged and the car pulled out, leaving Martin wondering as to the nature of the crinkly, greasy wad he clutched in his hand. Back in his room he unrolled it and found a hundred-dollar bill.
He did not scruple to use it. He knew his friend had always plenty of money, and he knew also, with profound certitude, that his success would enable him to repay it. In the morning he paid every bill, gave Maria three months' advance on the room, and redeemed every pledge at the pawnshop. Next he bought Marian's wedding present, and simpler presents, suitable to Christmas, for Ruth and Gertrude. And finally, on the balance remaining to him, he herded the whole Silva tribe down into Oakland. He was a winter late in redeeming his promise, but redeemed it was, for the last, least Silva got a pair of shoes, as well as Maria herself. Also, there were horns, and dolls, and toys of various sorts, and parcels and bundles of candies and nuts that filled the arms of all the Silvas to overflowing.
It was with this extraordinary procession trooping at his and Maria's heels into a confectioner's in quest if the biggest candy- cane ever made, that he encountered Ruth and her mother. Mrs. Morse was shocked. Even Ruth was hurt, for she had some regard for appearances, and her lover, cheek by jowl with Maria, at the head of that army of Portuguese ragamuffins, was not a pretty sight. But it was not that which hurt so much as what she took to be his lack of pride and self-respect. Further, and keenest of all, she read into the incident the impossibility of his living down his working-class origin. There was stigma enough in the fact of it, but shamelessly to flaunt it in the face of the world - her world - was going too far. Though her engagement to Martin had been kept secret, their long intimacy had not been unproductive of gossip; and in the shop, glancing covertly at her lover and his following, had been several of her acquaintances. She lacked the easy largeness of Martin and could not rise superior to her environment. She had been hurt to the quick, and her sensitive nature was quivering with the shame of it. So it was, when Martin arrived later in the day, that he kept her present in his breast-pocket, deferring the giving of it to a more propitious occasion. Ruth in tears - passionate, angry tears - was a revelation to him. The spectacle of her suffering convinced him that he had been a brute, yet in the soul of him he could not see how nor why. It never entered his head to be ashamed of those he knew, and to take the Silvas out to a Christmas treat could in no way, so it seemed to him, show lack of consideration for Ruth. On the other hand, he did see Ruth's point of view, after she had explained it; and he looked upon it as a feminine weakness, such as afflicted all women and the best of women.
布里森登没有解释他长期失踪的原因。马丁也没有问。他能透过从一大杯柠檬威士忌甜酒升起的水雾望见地朋友那瘦削凹陷的脸，已经心满意足了。 
“我也没有闲着，”布里森登听马）讲过他已完成的工作之后宣布。
他从内面一件短衫的口袋里掏出了一份手稿给了马丁。马丁看了看标题，好奇地瞥了他一眼。
“对，就是它，”布里森登哈哈大笑。“挺漂亮的标题，是么？‘蜉蝣’，就是这个词。是从你那里来的，就从你的那个‘人’来的，那个永远直立的、被激活了的无机物，蜉蝣的最新形式，在温度计那小小的天地望高视阔步的有体温的生物。那东西钻进了我的脑子，为了把它打发掉我只好写了出来。告诉我你对它的看法。”
开始时马丁的股发红，但一读下去，便苍白了。那是十全十美的艺术。形式战胜了内容，如果还能叫做战胜的话。在那里凡能设想出的内容的每一个细节都获得了最完美的表现形式。马丁高兴得如醉如痴，热泪盈眶，却又感到一阵阵阴寒在背上起伏。那是一首六七百行的长诗，一部奇思逸想、令人震惊、不属于人世的诗作。它精彩之至，难以设想，可又分明存在，用黑色的墨水写在一张张纸上。那诗写的是人和他的灵魂在终极意义上的探索，他探索着宇宙空间的一个个深渊，寻求着最辽远处的一个个太阳和一道道霓虹光谱。那是想像力的疯狂的盛筵，在一个垂死的人的头脑里祝酒，垂死者气息奄奄地哭泣着，衰微不去的心脏却仍然狂跳。那诗以庄重的节奏振荡起伏，伴随着星际冲突的清冷的波涛、万千星宿的前进步伐、和无数冷冰冰的太阳的冲击，伴随着最黑暗的空虚望的星云的燃烧；而在这一切之间，却传来了入类微弱细小的声音，有如一支银梭，不断地、无力地呐喊着，在星球的呼啸和天体的撞击声中只不过是几声哀怨悲嗟的唧唧啾鸣。
“文学里还从没有过这样的作品！”马丁在终于能说话时说道，“惊人之作！——惊人！它钻进了我的脑袋，叫我沉醉。那伟大的浩瀚无涯的问题我是无法赶出脑袋了。人类那永远反复的追求的细弱的呐喊还在我的耳用震响，有如狮吼象吗之间的纹钢的丧葬进行曲。它怀着千百倍夸大的欲望，无从满足，我知道我是在把自己变成个傻瓜。但这个问题却叫我神魂颠四。你，你——我不知道怎么说你才好，可是你真了不起。可你是怎么写出来的？怎么写的？”
马丁暂停了他的狂欢颂，只是为了重新说下去。
“我再也不写东西了。我是个在泥涂里乱画的家伙。你已经让我看见了真正的艺术大师的作品。天才！比天才还高越，超过了天才。是疯魔的真理。是的，老兄，每一行都是的。我不知道你是否意识到这一点，你这个教条主义者。科学是不会骗人的。这是冷言冷语叙述的真理，是用宇宙的黑色铁玺印就的，是把声音的强大节奏织人光辉和美的织品里造成的。现在我再也没有话说了。我被征服了，粉碎了。不，我还有话说！让我给你找销路吧。”
布里森登满面笑容：“基督教世界纪还没有一份杂志敢于发表这诗呢——这你是知道的。”
‘哪类的事我不懂，但我知道基督教世界还没有一份杂志不会抢着要它。他们并不是每天都能得到这样的东西的。这不是这一年之冠，而是本世纪之冠。”
“我愿意拿你这说法和你打赌。”
“好了，可别那么愤世嫉俗，”马丁提出要求，“杂志编辑并非都那么昏庸，这我是知道的。我可以跟你用你想要的任何东西打赌，《蜉蝣》头一次或第二次投出去就会被采用的。”
“只有一个东西不让我跟你打赌，”布里森登想了一会儿，说：“我这诗很有分量——是我的作品里最有分量的，这我知道。它是我的天鹅之歌，我为它骄傲。我崇拜它甚于威士忌，它是我少年时梦寐以求的东西——完美元缺的伟大作品。那时我怀着甜蜜的幻想和纯洁的理想。现在我用我这最后的一把力气抓住了它。我可不愿意把它送出去让那些猪移胡乱蹂躏和玷污。不，我不打赌。它是我的。我创作了它，而且已经跟你分享了。”
“可你得想想世界上其他的人，”马丁抗议道，“美的功能原本就是给人享受。”
“可那美属于我。”
“别自私。”
“我并不自私，”布里森登冷静地笑了。他那薄薄的嘴唇有好笑的事想说就那么笑。“我可是跟一头俄急了的野猪一样大公无私呢。”
马丁想动摇他的决心，却没有如愿。马丁告诉他地对编辑们的仇恨太过激，太狂热，他的行为比烧掉了以弗所的狄安娜神庙的那个青年还要讨厌一千倍。布里森登心满意足地啜着他的柠檬威十忌甜酒，面对着谴责的风暴。他承认对方的活每一句都对，只是关于杂志编辑的活不对。他对他们怀着无穷的仇恨。一提起他们他的谴责的风暴便超过了马丁。
“我希望你为我把它打出来，”他说，“你打得比任何速记员都好一千倍。现在我要给你一个忠告。”他从外衣口袋掏出了一大摞稿子。“这是你的《太阳的耻辱》，我读过不是一次，而是两次三次——这可是我对你的最高赞美。在你说了关于蜉蝣的那些话之后我只好闭嘴了。可我还要说一句：《太阳的耻辱》发表之后一定会引起轰动。它一定会引起争论，光在宣传上那对你也要值千千万呢。”
马丁哈哈大笑：“我估计你下面就会要我把它寄给杂志了。”
“绝对不可以——就是说如果你想见它发表的话。把它寄给第一流的出版社。某个审稿人可能为它颠倒或是沉醉，做出有利的审稿报告。你读过了该读的书。那些书的精华已经被马丁·伊登提炼吸收，注入了《太阳的耻辱》。有一天马丁·伊甸会成名，而那部著作对他的名气的作用决不会小。因此你得为它找一个出版家——越早越好。”
那天晚上布望森登很晚才回家，他刚踏上车便转过身来塞在马丁手里一个捏得很紧的小纸团。
“喏，拿着，”他说，“我今天去赛了马，我有关于马的可靠内部情报。”
马车叮叮当当走掉了，让马丁留在那里猜想着他手里摸着的这个皱巴巴的纸团是什么意思。他回到屋里打开一看，原来是一张一百元的钞票。
他满不在乎地打算用这笔钱。他知道他的朋友一向有许多钱，也深信自己的成功能让他偿还这笔债。早上他还清了一切欠债；预付给了玛利亚三个月房租地赎回了当铺里的一切。然后他为茉莉安买了结婚礼物，为露丝和格特霞也买了适合圣诞节的较简单的礼物。最后他用剩下的钱把西尔伐一家请到奥克夫兰去，从西尔伐家最小的孩子到玛利亚各自都得到了一双鞋。他随行诺言晚了一冬，但他毕竟履行了。此外还买了喇叭、布娃娃、各种各样的玩具。还有大包小包的糖果，叫西尔伐全家的手臂几乎抱不住。
这一支与众不同的队伍跟在他和玛利亚身后浩浩荡荡地进了一家糖果店，要想寻找最大的手杖糖。正在此时他却碰见了露丝和她的妈妈。莫尔斯太太非常愤慨。就连露丝也受到了伤害，因为她有些顾脸面，而她的爱人却跟玛利亚那么亲亲热热，带了那么一帮衣衫褴褛的葡萄牙小叫花子，那样子真不体面，而最叫她难受的却是他在她眼里那种没有自尊和自爱的样子。还有，最叫她伤己的是她从这件事看到了他那工人阶级生活之叫人难堪。事实本身已经够丢人的了，他却还要不知羞耻地招摇过市——到她的世界里来。这未免太过分。她跟马丁的婚约虽然保了密，两人之间长期亲密的过从并非不会引起流言蜚语的。在那家铺子里已有好几个她的熟人悄悄地打量着她的情人和跟着他的那帮人。她缺少马丁那样广阔的心胸，不能超越自己环境。她受到了严重的伤害，他那敏感的天性因为那耻辱而颤抖。马丁当天晚些时候到了她家时，情况就像这样。马丁把礼物留在胸前口袋里，原想找一个较为有利的时机再拿出来。是露丝流起了眼泪，激动的愤怒的眼泪，才给了他启示的。她那泪眼婆娑的痛苦样子让他觉得自己是个野兽，可他从灵魂里却并不懂得问题词在，为了什么。他从来不会想到为自己的朋友感到害羞。他好像觉得圣诞节请西尔伐一家去挥霍一番不可能对露丝表现什么不体贴。反过来，就在露丝已经解释她的观点之后他也还莫名其妙，只把它看作是一种女性的弱点——一种一切妇女都有的毛病，包括最优秀的妇女在内。
Chapter 36
"Come on, - I'll show you the real dirt," Brissenden said to him, one evening in January.
They had dined together in San Francisco, and were at the Ferry Building, returning to Oakland, when the whim came to him to show Martin the "real dirt." He turned and fled across the water-front, a meagre shadow in a flapping overcoat, with Martin straining to keep up with him. At a wholesale liquor store he bought two gallon-demijohns of old port, and with one in each hand boarded a Mission Street car, Martin at his heels burdened with several quart-bottles of whiskey.
If Ruth could see me now, was his thought, while he wondered as to what constituted the real dirt.
"Maybe nobody will be there," Brissenden said, when they dismounted and plunged off to the right into the heart of the working-class ghetto, south of Market Street. "In which case you'll miss what you've been looking for so long."
"And what the deuce is that?" Martin asked.
"Men, intelligent men, and not the gibbering nonentities I found you consorting with in that trader's den. You read the books and you found yourself all alone. Well, I'm going to show you to-night some other men who've read the books, so that you won't be lonely any more."
"Not that I bother my head about their everlasting discussions," he said at the end of a block. "I'm not interested in book philosophy. But you'll find these fellows intelligences and not bourgeois swine. But watch out, they'll talk an arm off of you on any subject under the sun."
"Hope Norton's there," he panted a little later, resisting Martin's effort to relieve him of the two demijohns. "Norton's an idealist - a Harvard man. Prodigious memory. Idealism led him to philosophic anarchy, and his family threw him off. Father's a railroad president and many times millionnaire, but the son's starving in 'Frisco, editing an anarchist sheet for twenty-five a month."
Martin was little acquainted in San Francisco, and not at all south of Market; so he had no idea of where he was being led.
"Go ahead," he said; "tell me about them beforehand. What do they do for a living? How do they happen to be here?"
"Hope Hamilton's there." Brissenden paused and rested his hands. "Strawn-Hamilton's his name - hyphenated, you know - comes of old Southern stock. He's a tramp - laziest man I ever knew, though he's clerking, or trying to, in a socialist cooperative store for six dollars a week. But he's a confirmed hobo. Tramped into town. I've seen him sit all day on a bench and never a bite pass his lips, and in the evening, when I invited him to dinner - restaurant two blocks away - have him say, 'Too much trouble, old man. Buy me a package of cigarettes instead.' He was a Spencerian like you till Kreis turned him to materialistic monism. I'll start him on monism if I can. Norton's another monist - only he affirms naught but spirit. He can give Kreis and Hamilton all they want, too."
"Who is Kreis?" Martin asked.
"His rooms we're going to. One time professor - fired from university - usual story. A mind like a steel trap. Makes his living any old way. I know he's been a street fakir when he was down. Unscrupulous. Rob a corpse of a shroud - anything. Difference between him - and the bourgeoisie is that he robs without illusion. He'll talk Nietzsche, or Schopenhauer, or Kant, or anything, but the only thing in this world, not excepting Mary, that he really cares for, is his monism. Haeckel is his little tin god. The only way to insult him is to take a slap at Haeckel."
"Here's the hang-out." Brissenden rested his demijohn at the upstairs entrance, preliminary to the climb. It was the usual two- story corner building, with a saloon and grocery underneath. "The gang lives here - got the whole upstairs to themselves. But Kreis is the only one who has two rooms. Come on."
No lights burned in the upper hall, but Brissenden threaded the utter blackness like a familiar ghost. He stopped to speak to Martin.
"There's one fellow - Stevens - a theosophist. Makes a pretty tangle when he gets going. Just now he's dish-washer in a restaurant. Likes a good cigar. I've seen him eat in a ten-cent hash-house and pay fifty cents for the cigar he smoked afterward. I've got a couple in my pocket for him, if he shows up."
"And there's another fellow - Parry - an Australian, a statistician and a sporting encyclopaedia. Ask him the grain output of Paraguay for 1903, or the English importation of sheetings into China for 1890, or at what weight Jimmy Britt fought Battling Nelson, or who was welter-weight champion of the United States in '68, and you'll get the correct answer with the automatic celerity of a slot- machine. And there's Andy, a stone-mason, has ideas on everything, a good chess-player; and another fellow, Harry, a baker, red hot socialist and strong union man. By the way, you remember Cooks' and Waiters' strike - Hamilton was the chap who organized that union and precipitated the strike - planned it all out in advance, right here in Kreis's rooms. Did it just for the fun of it, but was too lazy to stay by the union. Yet he could have risen high if he wanted to. There's no end to the possibilities in that man - if he weren't so insuperably lazy."
Brissenden advanced through the darkness till a thread of light marked the threshold of a door. A knock and an answer opened it, and Martin found himself shaking hands with Kreis, a handsome brunette man, with dazzling white teeth, a drooping black mustache, and large, flashing black eyes. Mary, a matronly young blonde, was washing dishes in the little back room that served for kitchen and dining room. The front room served as bedchamber and living room. Overhead was the week's washing, hanging in festoons so low that Martin did not see at first the two men talking in a corner. They hailed Brissenden and his demijohns with acclamation, and, on being introduced, Martin learned they were Andy and Parry. He joined them and listened attentively to the description of a prize-fight Parry had seen the night before; while Brissenden, in his glory, plunged into the manufacture of a toddy and the serving of wine and whiskey-and-sodas. At his command, "Bring in the clan," Andy departed to go the round of the rooms for the lodgers.
"We're lucky that most of them are here," Brissenden whispered to Martin. "There's Norton and Hamilton; come on and meet them. Stevens isn't around, I hear. I'm going to get them started on monism if I can. Wait till they get a few jolts in them and they'll warm up."
At first the conversation was desultory. Nevertheless Martin could not fail to appreciate the keen play of their minds. They were men with opinions, though the opinions often clashed, and, though they were witty and clever, they were not superficial. He swiftly saw, no matter upon what they talked, that each man applied the correlation of knowledge and had also a deep-seated and unified conception of society and the Cosmos. Nobody manufactured their opinions for them; they were all rebels of one variety or another, and their lips were strangers to platitudes. Never had Martin, at the Morses', heard so amazing a range of topics discussed. There seemed no limit save time to the things they were alive to. The talk wandered from Mrs. Humphry Ward's new book to Shaw's latest play, through the future of the drama to reminiscences of Mansfield. They appreciated or sneered at the morning editorials, jumped from labor conditions in New Zealand to Henry James and Brander Matthews, passed on to the German designs in the Far East and the economic aspect of the Yellow Peril, wrangled over the German elections and Bebel's last speech, and settled down to local politics, the latest plans and scandals in the union labor party administration, and the wires that were pulled to bring about the Coast Seamen's strike. Martin was struck by the inside knowledge they possessed. They knew what was never printed in the newspapers - the wires and strings and the hidden hands that made the puppets dance. To Martin's surprise, the girl, Mary, joined in the conversation, displaying an intelligence he had never encountered in the few women he had met. They talked together on Swinburne and Rossetti, after which she led him beyond his depth into the by- paths of French literature. His revenge came when she defended Maeterlinck and he brought into action the carefully-thought-out thesis of "The Shame of the Sun."
Several other men had dropped in, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke, when Brissenden waved the red flag.
"Here's fresh meat for your axe, Kreis," he said; "a rose-white youth with the ardor of a lover for Herbert Spencer. Make a Haeckelite of him - if you can."
Kreis seemed to wake up and flash like some metallic, magnetic thing, while Norton looked at Martin sympathetically, with a sweet, girlish smile, as much as to say that he would be amply protected.
Kreis began directly on Martin, but step by step Norton interfered, until he and Kreis were off and away in a personal battle. Martin listened and fain would have rubbed his eyes. It was impossible that this should be, much less in the labor ghetto south of Market. The books were alive in these men. They talked with fire and enthusiasm, the intellectual stimulant stirring them as he had seen drink and anger stir other men. What he heard was no longer the philosophy of the dry, printed word, written by half-mythical demigods like Kant and Spencer. It was living philosophy, with warm, red blood, incarnated in these two men till its very features worked with excitement. Now and again other men joined in, and all followed the discussion with cigarettes going out in their hands and with alert, intent faces.
Idealism had never attracted Martin, but the exposition it now received at the hands of Norton was a revelation. The logical plausibility of it, that made an appeal to his intellect, seemed missed by Kreis and Hamilton, who sneered at Norton as a metaphysician, and who, in turn, sneered back at them as metaphysicians. PHENOMENON and NOUMENON were bandied back and forth. They charged him with attempting to explain consciousness by itself. He charged them with word-jugglery, with reasoning from words to theory instead of from facts to theory. At this they were aghast. It was the cardinal tenet of their mode of reasoning to start with facts and to give names to the facts.
When Norton wandered into the intricacies of Kant, Kreis reminded him that all good little German philosophies when they died went to Oxford. A little later Norton reminded them of Hamilton's Law of Parsimony, the application of which they immediately claimed for every reasoning process of theirs. And Martin hugged his knees and exulted in it all. But Norton was no Spencerian, and he, too, strove for Martin's philosophic soul, talking as much at him as to his two opponents.
"You know Berkeley has never been answered," he said, looking directly at Martin. "Herbert Spencer came the nearest, which was not very near. Even the stanchest of Spencer's followers will not go farther. I was reading an essay of Saleeby's the other day, and the best Saleeby could say was that Herbert Spencer NEARLY succeeded in answering Berkeley."
"You know what Hume said?" Hamilton asked. Norton nodded, but Hamilton gave it for the benefit of the rest. "He said that Berkeley's arguments admit of no answer and produce no conviction."
"In his, Hume's, mind," was the reply. "And Hume's mind was the same as yours, with this difference: he was wise enough to admit there was no answering Berkeley."
Norton was sensitive and excitable, though he never lost his head, while Kreis and Hamilton were like a pair of cold-blooded savages, seeking out tender places to prod and poke. As the evening grew late, Norton, smarting under the repeated charges of being a metaphysician, clutching his chair to keep from jumping to his feet, his gray eyes snapping and his girlish face grown harsh and sure, made a grand attack upon their position.
"All right, you Haeckelites, I may reason like a medicine man, but, pray, how do you reason? You have nothing to stand on, you unscientific dogmatists with your positive science which you are always lugging about into places it has no right to be. Long before the school of materialistic monism arose, the ground was removed so that there could be no foundation. Locke was the man, John Locke. Two hundred years ago - more than that, even in his 'Essay concerning the Human Understanding,' he proved the non- existence of innate ideas. The best of it is that that is precisely what you claim. To-night, again and again, you have asserted the non-existence of innate ideas.
"And what does that mean? It means that you can never know ultimate reality. Your brains are empty when you are born. Appearances, or phenomena, are all the content your minds can receive from your five senses. Then noumena, which are not in your minds when you are born, have no way of getting in - "
"I deny - " Kreis started to interrupt.
"You wait till I'm done," Norton shouted. "You can know only that much of the play and interplay of force and matter as impinges in one way or another on our senses. You see, I am willing to admit, for the sake of the argument, that matter exists; and what I am about to do is to efface you by your own argument. I can't do it any other way, for you are both congenitally unable to understand a philosophic abstraction."
"And now, what do you know of matter, according to your own positive science? You know it only by its phenomena, its appearances. You are aware only of its changes, or of such changes in it as cause changes in your consciousness. Positive science deals only with phenomena, yet you are foolish enough to strive to be ontologists and to deal with noumena. Yet, by the very definition of positive science, science is concerned only with appearances. As somebody has said, phenomenal knowledge cannot transcend phenomena."
"You cannot answer Berkeley, even if you have annihilated Kant, and yet, perforce, you assume that Berkeley is wrong when you affirm that science proves the non-existence of God, or, as much to the point, the existence of matter. - You know I granted the reality of matter only in order to make myself intelligible to your understanding. Be positive scientists, if you please; but ontology has no place in positive science, so leave it alone. Spencer is right in his agnosticism, but if Spencer - "
But it was time to catch the last ferry-boat for Oakland, and Brissenden and Martin slipped out, leaving Norton still talking and Kreis and Hamilton waiting to pounce on him like a pair of hounds as soon as he finished.
"You have given me a glimpse of fairyland," Martin said on the ferry-boat. "It makes life worth while to meet people like that. My mind is all worked up. I never appreciated idealism before. Yet I can't accept it. I know that I shall always be a realist. I am so made, I guess. But I'd like to have made a reply to Kreis and Hamilton, and I think I'd have had a word or two for Norton. I didn't see that Spencer was damaged any. I'm as excited as a child on its first visit to the circus. I see I must read up some more. I'm going to get hold of Saleeby. I still think Spencer is unassailable, and next time I'm going to take a hand myself."
But Brissenden, breathing painfully, had dropped off to sleep, his chin buried in a scarf and resting on his sunken chest, his body wrapped in the long overcoat and shaking to the vibration of the propellers.
“来，来，我让你见识见识真正的草芥之民。”一月份的某一个晚上布里森登对他说。 
两人刚在旧金山吃完晚饭，要回奥克兰，来到了轮渡大厦。这时布世森登心血来潮，要叫他看看“草芥之民”。他转过身来，他那外衣飘闪的瘦削的身影飘过了海岸，马丁努力跟着。布卫森登在一家批发饮料站买了两大瓶陈年葡萄酒，大胜瓶装的，一手拎一瓶上了教会街的电车。马丁拿了几瓶夸脱装的威士忌紧跟在后。
他心里想，这要是叫露丝看见可不得了，同时猜测那“真正的草芥之民”是怎么回事。“也许那儿一个人也没有，”两人下了车，便直奔市场街南面工人阶级贫民窟的中心，这时布里森登说，“那你就会错过你长期想找的人了。”
“究竟是什么呀？”
“人，聪明的人，而不是我发现你在那个生意人窝周交往的卿卿喳喳的无聊的人。你已经读了些书，发现自己完全孤独了。今天晚上我要叫你见识见识一些也读过书的人，那你就再也不会孤独了。
“我对他们的讨论没有兴趣，”他来到一个街区的尽头时说，“书本上的哲学打动不了我，但你会发现这些人是聪明人，不是资产阶级的猪猡。可你得小动，他们会就太阳之下的任何题目对你唠叨个没完的。
“我希望诺尔屯在那甲，”说到这儿他有一点气喘，却拒绝了马丁把他那两个大肚子酒瓶接过手去的好意。“诺尔屯是个理想主义者——哈佛大学的，有惊人的记忆力。理想主义把他引向了哲学上的无政府主义，被家庭赶了出来。他爸爸是一条铁路的总裁，有好几百万家产，可儿子却在旧金山挨饿，编着一份无政府主义报纸，每月二十五块。”
马丁对旧金山不熟，对市场街以南更是一无所知。因此他不知道自己已被领到了什么地方。
“讲吧，”他说，“先给我介绍介绍。他们靠什么过日子？怎么会到这儿来的？”
“但愿汉密尔顿也在这几，”市里森登站了一会儿，歇了歇手。“他的姓是斯特罗恩一汉密尔顿（中间是个连字符），出身南方世家。一个流浪汉——我所见过的最懒的人，虽然他在一家社会主义的合作社里做职员（或者说勉强凑合作着做），每周六块钱，可他是个积习难改的占普赛人，是流浪到这儿来的。我曾见他在一张长凳上坐过一整天，一点东西都没进嘴，到了晚上我请他吃饭——只须走两段街就到了馆子，他却回答说：‘太麻烦，老兄，给我买盒烟就行了！’他原来跟你一样，是斯宾塞主义者，后来被克瑞斯转变成了个唯物主义的一元论者。我如果能够，倒想跟他谈谈一元论；诺尔屯也是个一元论者——不过他只肯定精神，对其他的一切都怀疑。而他却可以提供克瑞斯和汉密尔顿所缺少的一切。”
“克瑞斯是谁呀、马丁问道。
“我们就是到他的屋里去呢，当过大学教授——被开除了——老一套的故事。那张嘴像刀子，用一切古老的形式混着饭吃。我知道他倒霉的时候在街上摆过摊，什么都满不在乎地干，连死人的尸衣也偷——什么都偷。他跟资产阶级不同，偷时并不制造假象。他谈尼采，谈叔本华，谈康德，什么都谈。但在世界上他真正关心的只有他的一元论，别的他都不放在心上，包括圣母玛利亚在内。海克尔是他崇拜的一个小偶像，你要侮辱他有一个办法法，打海克尔一耳光就行。
“咱们的老窝到了，”布里森登把他的大肚子酒瓶在阶梯口放了一会儿，做好上楼准备。那是常见的一楼一底的街角房，楼下是一间沙龙和一间杂货店。“这帮家伙就住这儿——楼上整个凡是他们的天下。只有克瑞斯一人住两间。来吧。”
楼上大厅里没有灯光，但布里森登却在沉沉的黑暗里穿来穿去，像个熟悉环境的幽灵。他停下脚步对马丁说：
“这儿有一个人叫史梯劳斯，是个通神论者，话匣子一打开可热闹呢。他现在在一家饭馆院盘子。喜欢抽高级雪茄烟。我见过他在一家‘一角餐厅’吃饭，然后花五角钱买雪茄抽。他要是来了，我兜里还为他准备了几支雪茄。
“还有一个家伙叫巴瑞，澳洲人‘统计学家，是一部挺有趣的百科全书。你问他一九０三年巴拉圭的粮食产量是多少，一八九０年英国向中国输出的床单是多少，吉米·布里特对杀手纳尔逊拳击战是哪个量级，一八六八年全美次重最级冠军是谁，都可以得到迅速准确的答案，像从自动售货机里出来的一样。还有安迪，是个五匠，对什么都有自己的看法，棋艺极棒。还有个家伙叫哈里，面包师傅，激烈的社会主义者和坚定的工联主义者。附带说一句，你记得厨工待者大罢工么？就是他组织了工会搞的——事先对一切都作了安排，地点就在这儿：克瑞斯家里。他搞罢工只是为了好玩，可是太懒，不愿留在工会里。他只要愿意是可以爬上去的。那家伙要不是懒得出奇，他的能量可以说是无穷无尽。”
布里森登在黑暗里穿行，直到一缕微光指明了门槛的所在。他敲了敲门，有人回答，门开了。马丁发现自己已在跟克瑞斯握着手。克瑞斯是个漂亮的人，浅黑色皮肤，黑色八字胡，牙齿白得耀眼，眼睛黑而且大，目光炯炯。玛丽是个金头发白皮肤的年轻妇女，主妇模样，正在后面一间小屋里洗碟子。那小屋是厨房，兼作饭厅；前屋是客厅，兼作寝室。一周来的衣服洗过了，像万国旗一样低低地晾在屋里，马丁刚进来时竟没看见有两个人在一个角落里谈话。两人用欢呼迎接了布里森登和他的大肚子酒瓶。经过介绍马丁知道他们是安迪和巴瑞。马丁来到一两人身边，仔细听巴瑞描述他头天晚上看过的拳击赛，这时布巴森登便用葡萄酒和威士忌苏打得意杨扬地调制好甜威士忌，端了上来。他一声令下“把那伙人请来”，那两人便到各个房间去叫人。
“我们运气不错，大部分人都在，”布里森登悄悄对马丁说，“诺尔屯和汉密尔顿在，来，跟他们见面吧。听说斯梯芬斯不在。如果能办到我就设法让他们谈一元论。先等他们喝两杯酒‘热热身’再说。”
谈话开始时有点凌乱，但马丁仍可以欣赏到他们那敏锐的心灵活动。全都是有思想的人，尽管常常互相碰撞；每个人都聪明风趣，但决不浅薄。很快他就发现他们无论谈什么问题都能综合地运用知识，对社会和宇宙具有深沉而系统的理解。他们都是某种类型的叛逆者，他们的思想不是任何人预先炮制好的，嘴里没有陈词滥调，讨论的问题多得惊人，那是马丁在莫尔斯家从没见过的。他们感到兴趣的问题若不是受到时间限制似乎可以无穷无尽。他们从亨福雷·华尔德夫人的新书谈到萧伯纳的最新剧本；从戏剧的前途谈到对曼殊菲尔的回忆。他们对早报的社论表示欣赏或是鄙弃；他们从新西兰的劳工条件猛然转入亨利·詹姆斯和布兰德·马修斯，又转入德国的远东阴谋和黄祸的经济侧面；他们争论德国的选举和倍倍尔的最新讲话；然后又落到当他的政治，联合劳工党政权的最新计划和丑闻；还有那导致了海岸海员罢工的幕后牵线情况。他们所掌握的内幕新闻之多个马丁震惊。他们知道报纸上从没有发表的东西——那操纵着木偶们跳舞的一条条线和一只只手。还有一件事也令马丁吃惊：玛丽也参加了谈话，并表现了在他所接触过的少数妇女身上从未见到过的智慧。她和他一起讨论史文朋和罗塞蒂，然后便把他引进了马丁感到陌生的法国文学的小胡同已去。等到她为梅特林克辩护时，马丁便把他在《太阳的耻辱押深思熟虑的理论使用出来，算是有了回敬她的机会。
另外的人也参加了讨论，空气里是浓烈的香烟味，这时布里森登挥动了辩论的红旗。
“克瑞斯，你那板斧有了新对象了，”他说，“一个纯洁得像白玫瑰的青年，对斯宾塞怀着恋人一样的热情。让他改信海克尔吧——你要是有本领的话！”
克瑞斯似乎醒了过来，像某种带磁性的金属一样闪出了光＃。此时诺尔屯同情地望着马丁，发出一个姑娘般的甜笑，似乎在告诉他他可以得到强有力的保护。
克瑞斯直接向马丁开了火。可是诺尔中逐步进行了干预，辩论便转而在他们俩之间进行了。马丁听着听着几乎不相信自己的眼睛了：这简直是不可能的，尤其是在市场街以南的劳工贫民窟里。这些人书读得很灵活，谈话时怀着烈火和激情。他们为智慧的力量驱使时有如马丁见到别人受到酒精和愤怒驱使时一样激动。他所听见的东西不再是出自康德或斯宾塞这种神秘的仙灵笔下，不再是书本上的枯燥的哲学文字，而是奔流着鲜红的热血的活生生的哲学。那哲学体现在他们俩身上，直到它热情澎湃地显露出了本来面目。别的人也偶然插几句嘴。所有的人都紧跟着讨论的进程，手上的香烟渐渐熄灭，脸上露出敏锐的专注的神色。
唯心主义从来没有吸引过马丁，但经过诺尔屯一解释却给了他启示。唯心论的值得赞扬的逻辑启发了他的智力，但克瑞斯和汉密尔顿对之却似乎充耳不闻。他们嘲笑诺尔屯是个玄学鬼。诺尔屯也嗤之以鼻，回敬他们以玄学鬼的称号。他们用现象和本体两个字互相攻击。克瑞斯和汉密尔顿攻击诺尔屯企图以意识解释意识；诺尔屯则攻击他们俩玩弄词语，思考时从词语到理论，而不是从实际到理论。诺尔屯的话把他们俩惊呆了——他们的推理模式的根本信条一向是从事实出发，绘事实加上些名词术语。
诺尔屯钻进了康德的复杂世界，这时克瑞斯便提醒他说德国所有的小哲学学派死亡之后都跑到牛津去落户。不久诺尔屯又反提醒他们汉密尔顿的悭吝律。他们随即宣称他们的每一个推理过程都是应用着这一规律的。马丁抱着膝头听着，感到兴高采烈。但是诺尔屯并不是个斯宾塞主义者，他也在努力理解马丁哲学的精髓，一面对他的对手说话一面也对马丁说话。
“你知道贝克莱提出的问题谁也没有回答出来，”他直面着马丁，说，“赫伯特·斯宾塞的回答最接近于解决，但距离仍不算近。即使斯宾塞的最坚强的信徒也难于再前进了。那天我读了撤里比的一篇论文，撒里比所能说出的最好的话不过是：赫伯特·斯宾塞几乎回答了贝克莱的问题。”
“你知道休谟的话么？”汉密尔顿问道。诺尔屯点点头，但是汉密尔顿为了让大家明白，把它交代了出来。“他说贝克莱的那些论点虽无可辩驳，却不具说服力。”
“那是休谟的思想，”回答是，“而休谟的思想正和你的思想相同——只有一点不同：他很聪明，承认了贝克莱的问题无法回答。”
诺尔屯虽然从来不会糊涂，却敏感而易于冲动利而克瑞斯和汉密尔顿却像一对冷血的野蛮人，专找他的弱点戳他，顶他。夜色渐深，诺尔屯受到了反复的攻击，他们说他是个官学鬼，把他刺痛了，诺尔克怕自己会跳起来，忙攥住了椅子；他灰色的眼睛闪亮着，姑娘一样的面孔变得严厉而坚毅了。他对他们的立场发表了一通精彩的攻忐。
“好吧，你们这些海克尔主义者，就算我的思维像个定方郎中，可请问，你们是怎么推理的？你们这些不科学的教条主义者，你们没何立．足之地，老把你们的实证科学往它并无权利进去的地方乱搡。在唯物的一元论学派出现以前很久你们那根据早就被挖掉了，早没了基础。挖掉它的是洛克，约翰·洛克两百年以前．甚至更早以前，在他的论文《论人的理解》里他已经证明了没有与生俱来的意念。最精彩的是：你们的说法也正如此，今晚你们所一再肯定的正是没有与生俱来的意念。”
“你那话是什么意思？那正说明了你无法知道终极的现实，你出生时头脑里空空如上。表象，或者说现象，就是你的心灵从五种感官所能获得的全部内容。因此本体，你出生时所没有的东西，是没有法子进入——”
“我否认——”克瑞斯开始插嘴。
“你等我说完，”诺尔屯叫道，“对于力与物质的作用和两者的相互作用你所能知道的就那么一点点，因为它们以某种形式触动了你们的感官。你看，为了辩论，我倒是乐意承认物质是存在的。因为我打算以子之矛攻子之盾，只好先承认它，因为你们俩天生就无法理解哲学的抽象。
“那么，根据你们的实证科学，你们对物质又知道什么呢？你们只能通过它的现象，它的表象，知道它，你们只知道它的变化，或者说通过它的变化所引起的你们的意识的变化去知道它。实证科学只能处理现象，而你们却很策，偏要努力去做本体论者，去研究本体。然而就从实证科学的定义出发也很清楚，科学是只关心现象的。有人说过，从现象得来的知识是无法超越现象的。
“即使你们打倒了康德，你们也回答不了贝克莱的问题。但是，也许你们在确认科学证明了上帝并不存在，或者差不多证明了物质的存在时就已假定贝克莱错了。你们知道我承认物质的现实性只是为了能让你们懂得我的意思。你们要是高兴，就做实证科学家吧，但是本体论在实证科学里并没有地位，因此别去谈什么实证科学。斯宾塞的怀疑主义是对的。但是如果斯宾塞——”
不过，已经到了去赶最后一班轮渡回奥克兰的时候了。布里森登和马丁溜了出来，留下诺尔屯还在那里侃侃而谈，而克瑞斯和汉密尔顿则像两条措拘一样，等他一住目就扑上去。
“你让我瞥见了神仙的世界，”马丁在轮渡上说，“跟那样的人见面使生活变得有了价值。我的头脑全调动起来了。以前我从没有欣赏过唯心主义，尽管我仍然接受不了。我知道我永远是个现实主义者。我估计那是天生的。可我倒很想回答克瑞斯和汉密尔顿几句，也对诺尔屯发表点意见。我并不认为斯宾塞已被打倒。我很激动，像小孩第一次见到马戏团一样激动。我看我还得多读点书。我要找撒里比来读读。我仍然认为斯宾塞无懈可击。下一回我就要自己上阵了。”
但是布里森登已经睡着了。他痛苦地呼吸着，下巴顶住他那凹陷的胸口，埋在围巾里，身子裹在长大衣里随着推进器的震动而摇晃着。
Chapter 37
The first thing Martin did next morning was to go counter both to Brissenden's advice and command. "The Shame of the Sun" he wrapped and mailed to THE ACROPOLIS. He believed he could find magazine publication for it, and he felt that recognition by the magazines would commend him to the book-publishing houses. "Ephemera" he likewise wrapped and mailed to a magazine. Despite Brissenden's prejudice against the magazines, which was a pronounced mania with him, Martin decided that the great poem should see print. He did not intend, however, to publish it without the other's permission. His plan was to get it accepted by one of the high magazines, and, thus armed, again to wrestle with Brissenden for consent.
Martin began, that morning, a story which he had sketched out a number of weeks before and which ever since had been worrying him with its insistent clamor to be created. Apparently it was to be a rattling sea story, a tale of twentieth-century adventure and romance, handling real characters, in a real world, under real conditions. But beneath the swing and go of the story was to be something else - something that the superficial reader would never discern and which, on the other hand, would not diminish in any way the interest and enjoyment for such a reader. It was this, and not the mere story, that impelled Martin to write it. For that matter, it was always the great, universal motif that suggested plots to him. After having found such a motif, he cast about for the particular persons and particular location in time and space wherewith and wherein to utter the universal thing. "Overdue" was the title he had decided for it, and its length he believed would not be more than sixty thousand words - a bagatelle for him with his splendid vigor of production. On this first day he took hold of it with conscious delight in the mastery of his tools. He no longer worried for fear that the sharp, cutting edges should slip and mar his work. The long months of intense application and study had brought their reward. He could now devote himself with sure hand to the larger phases of the thing he shaped; and as he worked, hour after hour, he felt, as never before, the sure and cosmic grasp with which he held life and the affairs of life. "Overdue" would tell a story that would be true of its particular characters and its particular events; but it would tell, too, he was confident, great vital things that would be true of all time, and all sea, and all life - thanks to Herbert Spencer, he thought, leaning back for a moment from the table. Ay, thanks to Herbert Spencer and to the master-key of life, evolution, which Spencer had placed in his hands.
He was conscious that it was great stuff he was writing. "It will go! It will go!" was the refrain that kept, sounding in his ears. Of course it would go. At last he was turning out the thing at which the magazines would jump. The whole story worked out before him in lightning flashes. He broke off from it long enough to write a paragraph in his note-book. This would be the last paragraph in "Overdue"; but so thoroughly was the whole book already composed in his brain that he could write, weeks before he had arrived at the end, the end itself. He compared the tale, as yet unwritten, with the tales of the sea-writers, and he felt it to be immeasurably superior. "There's only one man who could touch it," he murmured aloud, "and that's Conrad. And it ought to make even him sit up and shake hands with me, and say, 'Well done, Martin, my boy.'"
He toiled on all day, recollecting, at the last moment, that he was to have dinner at the Morses'. Thanks to Brissenden, his black suit was out of pawn and he was again eligible for dinner parties. Down town he stopped off long enough to run into the library and search for Saleeby's books. He drew out 'The Cycle of Life," and on the car turned to the essay Norton had mentioned on Spencer. As Martin read, he grew angry. His face flushed, his jaw set, and unconsciously his hand clenched, unclenched, and clenched again as if he were taking fresh grips upon some hateful thing out of which he was squeezing the life. When he left the car, he strode along the sidewalk as a wrathful man will stride, and he rang the Morse bell with such viciousness that it roused him to consciousness of his condition, so that he entered in good nature, smiling with amusement at himself. No sooner, however, was he inside than a great depression descended upon him. He fell from the height where he had been up-borne all day on the wings of inspiration. "Bourgeois," "trader's den" - Brissenden's epithets repeated themselves in his mind. But what of that? he demanded angrily. He was marrying Ruth, not her family.
It seemed to him that he had never seen Ruth more beautiful, more spiritual and ethereal and at the same time more healthy. There was color in her cheeks, and her eyes drew him again and again - the eyes in which he had first read immortality. He had forgotten immortality of late, and the trend of his scientific reading had been away from it; but here, in Ruth's eyes, he read an argument without words that transcended all worded arguments. He saw that in her eyes before which all discussion fled away, for he saw love there. And in his own eyes was love; and love was unanswerable. Such was his passionate doctrine.
The half hour he had with her, before they went in to dinner, left him supremely happy and supremely satisfied with life. Nevertheless, at table, the inevitable reaction and exhaustion consequent upon the hard day seized hold of him. He was aware that his eyes were tired and that he was irritable. He remembered it was at this table, at which he now sneered and was so often bored, that he had first eaten with civilized beings in what he had imagined was an atmosphere of high culture and refinement. He caught a glimpse of that pathetic figure of him, so long ago, a self-conscious savage, sprouting sweat at every pore in an agony of apprehension, puzzled by the bewildering minutiae of eating- implements, tortured by the ogre of a servant, striving at a leap to live at such dizzy social altitude, and deciding in the end to be frankly himself, pretending no knowledge and no polish he did not possess.
He glanced at Ruth for reassurance, much in the same manner that a passenger, with sudden panic thought of possible shipwreck, will strive to locate the life preservers. Well, that much had come out of it - love and Ruth. All the rest had failed to stand the test of the books. But Ruth and love had stood the test; for them he found a biological sanction. Love was the most exalted expression of life. Nature had been busy designing him, as she had been busy with all normal men, for the purpose of loving. She had spent ten thousand centuries - ay, a hundred thousand and a million centuries - upon the task, and he was the best she could do. She had made love the strongest thing in him, increased its power a myriad per cent with her gift of imagination, and sent him forth into the ephemera to thrill and melt and mate. His hand sought Ruth's hand beside him hidden by the table, and a warm pressure was given and received. She looked at him a swift instant, and her eyes were radiant and melting. So were his in the thrill that pervaded him; nor did he realize how much that was radiant and melting in her eyes had been aroused by what she had seen in his.
Across the table from him, cater-cornered, at Mr. Morse's right, sat Judge Blount, a local superior court judge. Martin had met him a number of times and had failed to like him. He and Ruth's father were discussing labor union politics, the local situation, and socialism, and Mr. Morse was endeavoring to twit Martin on the latter topic. At last Judge Blount looked across the table with benignant and fatherly pity. Martin smiled to himself.
"You'll grow out of it, young man," he said soothingly. "Time is the best cure for such youthful distempers." He turned to Mr. Morse. "I do not believe discussion is good in such cases. It makes the patient obstinate."
"That is true," the other assented gravely. "But it is well to warn the patient occasionally of his condition."
Martin laughed merrily, but it was with an effort. The day had been too long, the day's effort too intense, and he was deep in the throes of the reaction.
"Undoubtedly you are both excellent doctors," he said; "but if you care a whit for the opinion of the patient, let him tell you that you are poor diagnosticians. In fact, you are both suffering from the disease you think you find in me. As for me, I am immune. The socialist philosophy that riots half-baked in your veins has passed me by."
"Clever, clever," murmured the judge. "An excellent ruse in controversy, to reverse positions."
"Out of your mouth." Martin's eyes were sparkling, but he kept control of himself. "You see, Judge, I've heard your campaign speeches. By some henidical process - henidical, by the way is a favorite word of mine which nobody understands - by some henidical process you persuade yourself that you believe in the competitive system and the survival of the strong, and at the same time you indorse with might and main all sorts of measures to shear the strength from the strong."
"My young man - "
"Remember, I've heard your campaign speeches," Martin warned. "It's on record, your position on interstate commerce regulation, on regulation of the railway trust and Standard Oil, on the conservation of the forests, on a thousand and one restrictive measures that are nothing else than socialistic."
"Do you mean to tell me that you do not believe in regulating these various outrageous exercises of power?"
"That's not the point. I mean to tell you that you are a poor diagnostician. I mean to tell you that I am not suffering from the microbe of socialism. I mean to tell you that it is you who are suffering from the emasculating ravages of that same microbe. As for me, I am an inveterate opponent of socialism just as I am an inveterate opponent of your own mongrel democracy that is nothing else than pseudo-socialism masquerading under a garb of words that will not stand the test of the dictionary."
"I am a reactionary - so complete a reactionary that my position is incomprehensible to you who live in a veiled lie of social organization and whose sight is not keen enough to pierce the veil. You make believe that you believe in the survival of the strong and the rule of the strong. I believe. That is the difference. When I was a trifle younger, - a few months younger, - I believed the same thing. You see, the ideas of you and yours had impressed me. But merchants and traders are cowardly rulers at best; they grunt and grub all their days in the trough of money-getting, and I have swung back to aristocracy, if you please. I am the only individualist in this room. I look to the state for nothing. I look only to the strong man, the man on horseback, to save the state from its own rotten futility."
"Nietzsche was right. I won't take the time to tell you who Nietzsche was, but he was right. The world belongs to the strong - to the strong who are noble as well and who do not wallow in the swine-trough of trade and exchange. The world belongs to the true nobleman, to the great blond beasts, to the noncompromisers, to the 'yes-sayers.' And they will eat you up, you socialists - who are afraid of socialism and who think yourselves individualists. Your slave-morality of the meek and lowly will never save you. - Oh, it's all Greek, I know, and I won't bother you any more with it. But remember one thing. There aren't half a dozen individualists in Oakland, but Martin Eden is one of them."
He signified that he was done with the discussion, and turned to Ruth.
"I'm wrought up to-day," he said in an undertone. "All I want to do is to love, not talk."
He ignored Mr. Morse, who said:-
"I am unconvinced. All socialists are Jesuits. That is the way to tell them."
"We'll make a good Republican out of you yet," said Judge Blount.
"The man on horseback will arrive before that time," Martin retorted with good humor, and returned to Ruth.
But Mr. Morse was not content. He did not like the laziness and the disinclination for sober, legitimate work of this prospective son-in-law of his, for whose ideas he had no respect and of whose nature he had no understanding. So he turned the conversation to Herbert Spencer. Judge Blount ably seconded him, and Martin, whose ears had pricked at the first mention of the philosopher's name, listened to the judge enunciate a grave and complacent diatribe against Spencer. From time to time Mr. Morse glanced at Martin, as much as to say, "There, my boy, you see."
"Chattering daws," Martin muttered under his breath, and went on talking with Ruth and Arthur.
But the long day and the "real dirt" of the night before were telling upon him; and, besides, still in his burnt mind was what had made him angry when he read it on the car.
"What is the matter?" Ruth asked suddenly alarmed by the effort he was making to contain himself.
"There is no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is its prophet," Judge Blount was saying at that moment.
Martin turned upon him.
"A cheap judgment," he remarked quietly. "I heard it first in the City Hall Park, on the lips of a workingman who ought to have known better. I have heard it often since, and each time the clap-trap of it nauseates me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. To hear that great and noble man's name upon your lips is like finding a dew-drop in a cesspool. You are disgusting."
It was like a thunderbolt. Judge Blount glared at him with apoplectic countenance, and silence reigned. Mr. Morse was secretly pleased. He could see that his daughter was shocked. It was what he wanted to do - to bring out the innate ruffianism of this man he did not like.
Ruth's hand sought Martin's beseechingly under the table, but his blood was up. He was inflamed by the intellectual pretence and fraud of those who sat in the high places. A Superior Court Judge! It was only several years before that he had looked up from the mire at such glorious entities and deemed them gods.
Judge Blount recovered himself and attempted to go on, addressing himself to Martin with an assumption of politeness that the latter understood was for the benefit of the ladies. Even this added to his anger. Was there no honesty in the world?
"You can't discuss Spencer with me," he cried. "You do not know any more about Spencer than do his own countrymen. But it is no fault of yours, I grant. It is just a phase of the contemptible ignorance of the times. I ran across a sample of it on my way here this evening. I was reading an essay by Saleeby on Spencer. You should read it. It is accessible to all men. You can buy it in any book-store or draw it from the public library. You would feel ashamed of your paucity of abuse and ignorance of that noble man compared with what Saleeby has collected on the subject. It is a record of shame that would shame your shame."
"'The philosopher of the half-educated,' he was called by an academic Philosopher who was not worthy to pollute the atmosphere he breathed. I don't think you have read ten pages of Spencer, but there have been critics, assumably more intelligent than you, who have read no more than you of Spencer, who publicly challenged his followers to adduce one single idea from all his writings - from Herbert Spencer's writings, the man who has impressed the stamp of his genius over the whole field of scientific research and modern thought; the father of psychology; the man who revolutionized pedagogy, so that to-day the child of the French peasant is taught the three R's according to principles laid down by him. And the little gnats of men sting his memory when they get their very bread and butter from the technical application of his ideas. What little of worth resides in their brains is largely due to him. It is certain that had he never lived, most of what is correct in their parrot-learned knowledge would be absent."
"And yet a man like Principal Fairbanks of Oxford - a man who sits in an even higher place than you, Judge Blount - has said that Spencer will be dismissed by posterity as a poet and dreamer rather than a thinker. Yappers and blatherskites, the whole brood of them! '"First Principles" is not wholly destitute of a certain literary power,' said one of them. And others of them have said that he was an industrious plodder rather than an original thinker. Yappers and blatherskites! Yappers and blatherskites!"
Martin ceased abruptly, in a dead silence. Everybody in Ruth's family looked up to Judge Blount as a man of power and achievement, and they were horrified at Martin's outbreak. The remainder of the dinner passed like a funeral, the judge and Mr. Morse confining their talk to each other, and the rest of the conversation being extremely desultory. Then afterward, when Ruth and Martin were alone, there was a scene.
"You are unbearable," she wept.
But his anger still smouldered, and he kept muttering, "The beasts! The beasts!"
When she averred he had insulted the judge, he retorted:-
"By telling the truth about him?"
"I don't care whether it was true or not," she insisted. "There are certain bounds of decency, and you had no license to insult anybody."
"Then where did Judge Blount get the license to assault truth?" Martin demanded. "Surely to assault truth is a more serious misdemeanor than to insult a pygmy personality such as the judge's. He did worse than that. He blackened the name of a great, noble man who is dead. Oh, the beasts! The beasts!"
His complex anger flamed afresh, and Ruth was in terror of him. Never had she seen him so angry, and it was all mystified and unreasonable to her comprehension. And yet, through her very terror ran the fibres of fascination that had drawn and that still drew her to him - that had compelled her to lean towards him, and, in that mad, culminating moment, lay her hands upon his neck. She was hurt and outraged by what had taken place, and yet she lay in his arms and quivered while he went on muttering, "The beasts! The beasts!" And she still lay there when he said: "I'll not bother your table again, dear. They do not like me, and it is wrong of me to thrust my objectionable presence upon them. Besides, they are just as objectionable to me. Faugh! They are sickening. And to think of it, I dreamed in my innocence that the persons who sat in the high places, who lived in fine houses and had educations and bank accounts, were worth while!
马丁次日早上所干的第一件事和布里森登的劝告和命令恰好相反。他把《太阳的耻辱》装进信封，寄给了《卫城》杂志。他相信他能找到杂志发表。他觉得作品一经杂志赏识，就会给书籍出版社以良好的印象。他也把《蜉蝣》封好寄给了一家杂志。他不顾市里森登对杂志的成见（他认为那显然是一种偏执），认为那首伟大的诗歌是能够在杂志上发表的。他并不打算在没有得到对方同意的时候就发表，他的计划是先让一家高级杂志接受，然后以此和布里森登讨价还价，取得他的同意。 
那天早上马丁开始了另一篇小说，那小说他几个礼拜以前就已有了轮廓，一直在他心里骚动，令他不安，要求他完成。显然它肯定会是一篇响当当的航海小说，一个二十世纪的浪漫的冒险故事，描写着真实世界卫真实条件下的真实人物。但是在故事的跌宕起伏之；司还有着另外的东西，那东西肤浅的读者虽然觉察不到，却也不会因任何形式而减少了兴趣和喜爱。迫使马丁写作的正是那东西，而不是故事本身。就这个意义而言，给他提供情节的一向是那伟大的普遍的主题。在他发现了这样的主题之后他便冥思苦想，寻求那独恃的人物和独特的环境，用以表达那具有普遍意义的东西的时间和地点。他决心把小说命名为《过期》，他相信它会在六万字以上——这在他那旺盛的创作精力面前简直是举手之劳。在这第一天里他为自己写作得得心应手感到高兴。他不必再担心他的锋芒与棱角会冒出来破坏了作品。漫长的几个月的紧张的实践和研究已经取得了回报。他现在可以满有把握地从大处着眼安排自己的主要精力了。他一小时一小时地写下去，对生命和生命中的事物感到了一种前所未有的规律性和确切性。《过期》所描写的故事对于它特有的角色和事件而言将会真实可信，但他也有信心它能描述出对于一切时代、一切海洋和一切生活都真实的、举足轻重的伟大的东西——这得感谢赫伯特·斯宾塞，他想，身子往后靠了一靠。是的，应该感谢赫伯特·斯宾塞，是他把进化论这把万能钥匙放到了他手里的。
他意识到他在写着伟大的作品。“准会成功！准会成功！”是反复震响在他头脑里的调子。当然会成功的。他终于要写出各家杂志争着想要的作品了。那故事在他面前像闪电一样完完整整地显露了出来。他暂时把它放下，在他的笔记本里写下了一段。那一段是《过期》的收尾。那整个的作品的构思在他脑子里已经非常完整，他可以在写到结尾之前几个星期就写下它的结尾。他把这还没有写出的故事跟别的海洋作家的故事一比较，便觉得它比它们不知道要高明多少倍。“只有一个人能赶得上，”他喃喃地说，“那就是康拉德。我这部作品甚至能叫康拉德吃一惊，来和我握手，说：‘写得好，马丁，我的孩子。’”
他苦苦地写了一天，写到最后忽然想起还要去莫尔斯家参加晚宴。谢谢布里森登，他的黑礼服已经从当铺赎了出来，他又有资格参加晚会了。进城后他花了一点时间到图书馆找撒里比的书。他找出了《生命周期》，在车上读起了诺尔屯提到的那篇批评斯宾塞的文章。读时不禁生起气来。他的脸红了，牙关咬紧了，拳头不知不觉攥了起来，放开，又攥了起来，仿佛在攥着什么可恶的东西，想把它捏死。他下了车便像个暴怒的人一样在路边大踏步走着，直到狠狠按响了莫尔斯家的门铃，才猛醒过来，意识到自己的心惰，觉得好笑，然后才心平气和地进了门。但是他一进门，一种严重的阴暗情绪却突然笼罩了他，那天他整天都乘着灵感的翅膀在九天上翱翔，现在却又落到了尘世。“布尔乔亚”，“市侩窝子”——布里森登的用语在他心里一再出现。但那又怎么样？他愤怒地问，他要娶的是露丝，不是她家里的人。
他仿佛觉得露丝是从来没有过地美丽、超脱、空灵，却又健康，面颊嫣红。那双眼睛一再地引得他注视——而让他第一次读到了永恒的正是那双眼睛。最近他已忘掉了永恒，他读的科学著作使他离开了永恒。但是在这儿，在露丝的眼睛里，他又读到了一种凌驾于一切言语论证之上的无言的理论。他看见一切的辩论都在她那双眼睛面前落荒而逃，因为在那儿他看见了爱情。他自己眼里也满溢着爱情，而爱情是不容反驳的，那是他激情的信念。
在进去用餐前和露丝一起度过的半小时使他感到了极端的幸福，对生活的极端满足。但是一上桌子，一天的辛苦所造成的无可奈何的反应和疲劳却抓住了他。他意识到自己目光倦怠，心惰烦躁。他回忆起自己当初就是在这张桌子旁第一次跟高雅人一起用餐的。那时地以为那就是高雅的文明气氛，可现在他却对它嗤之以鼻，只觉得厌恶了，他又瞥见了自己当时那可怜的形象：一个意识到自己钓的粗野的粗汉，怀着痛苦的恐惧，浑身毛孔都冒着汗。那已是很久以前的事：他曾叫餐具的繁文褥节弄得不知所措，受着个妖魔一样的传者的折磨，竭尽全力想攀上这叫人头晕的社会高层，到最后却决定坦然地表现自己，决不不懂装懂，决不冒充风雅。
他瞥了一眼露丝，想求得镇静，像个突然害怕船只沉没而心慌意乱急于找救生衣的乘客。行了，他已经大有收获了——他得到了爱情和露丝。别的一切都没有经受住书本的考验，但露丝和爱情却经受住了。对两者他还找到了生物学上的认可。爱情是生命的最崇高的表现；为了爱情的目的，大自然一直在忙着设计他，也忙着设计一切正常的人。为了这项工程大自然已经花去了一百个世纪——是的，花去了十万个世纪一百万个世纪，而他则是大自然的最佳杰作。大自然已把爱情创造成了他生命中最强大的东西，给了他想像力，让爱情的力量十倍地增加；给了他短暂的生命以狂欢、销魂，让他求偶。他的手在桌子下面寻求着身边的露丝的手。一种温暖的压力彼此交流，她匆匆瞥了他一眼，眼神里露出了光彩和陶醉。他也一样，一阵欢乐透过全身，露出同样的神情。他还不知道露丝的陶醉里有多少正是来自他那陶醉的眼神。
他的桌于斜对面坐着当地高级法院的法官布朗特。马j和他见过几次面，却不喜欢他。布朗特法官正在跟露丝的父亲议论工会政治、当地形势和社会主义。莫尔斯先生正想就社会主义的问题嘲弄马丁一番。布朗特法官终于带着父亲式的慈爱怜悯地望着桌子对面的马丁。马丁心中暗暗好笑。
“随着年龄的增长你会抛弃它的，年轻人，”他安慰地说，“对于这一类幼稚的毛病，时间是最好的药物，”他掉头对莫尔斯先生说，“我相信对这类问题讨论是没有用处的。那只叫病人更加坚持。”
“不错，”对方郑重地表示同意，“不过随时提醒一下病人他的病情也是好的。”
马丁高兴地笑了，但有些勉强。那天日子太长，他感到太累，他的反应很痛苦。
“毫无疑问你们都是杰出的医生，”他说，“但是你们如果愿意听听病人的意见，那就让他来告诉你们吧，你们的处方可是并不高明。事实上两位正害着你们自以为在我身上看见的病。至于我么，我倒是免疫的。你们俩血管里骚动着的半吊子社会主义哲学对我倒是毫无作用。”
“妙语，妙语，”法官喃喃地说，“绝妙的辩论手法，这叫反客为主。”
“我可是从你的说法来的，”马丁眼里冒着火，却按捺住自己，“你看，法官，我听过你的竞选演说。你以某种‘憨匿’过程——附带说一句，‘憨匿’是我喜欢用的一种说法，别人是不大懂的——你以某种憨匿的过程让自己相信你是赞成竞争制度，强者生存的。而同时你却竭尽全力批准各种剥夺强者力量的措施。”
“我的年轻人——”
“记住，我听过你的竞选演说，”马丁警告说，“那是有记录在案的。你对州际贸易、铁路托拉斯、标准石油公司和森林资源所采取的限制立场，你对无数种限制措施所采取的立场都不是别的，而是社会主义的。”
“你是说你并不赞成限制这些无法无天的权力滥用么？”
“问题不在这里。我只是想告诉你你开的处方并不高明。我要告诉你我并不曾受到社会主义细菌的感染，而遭到社会主义细菌的削弱与破坏的正是你们自己。至于我么，我倒是个社会主义的死敌，也是你们那杂交的民主制度的死敌。你那招摇过市的东西不过是在某些词句的外衣掩护下的假社会主义，是经不起字典检验的。
“我是个反动分子，一个十足的反动分子，你们生活在一种盖着纱幕的社会组织的谎言之中，你们不够敏锐，看不透那纱幕，因此难于理解我的立场。我看你们是自以为相信强者生存、强者统治的理论。差别就在这里。我年轻一点的时候——几个月以前——我也相信过那理论。你看，你和你们的想法也曾经影响过我。但是，生意买卖人最多也不过是些没有魄力的统治者。只会一天到晚在赚钱发财的食槽里哼哼着，拱来拱去。可是，对不起，我已经掉回头去相信了贵族统治。我是这屋里唯一的个人主义者。我对国家无所求，我只对强者怀着希望。我希望那马背上的人能把国家从腐朽无能的统治之下拯救过来。
“尼采是对的。我不愿花时间来讲尼采是什么人，可他却是对的。世界属于强者，属于高贵的人，属于不在赚钱发财的猪槽里打滚的人。世界属于真正的高贵者，金头发白皮肤的伟大野兽，从不妥协的人，作出决断的人。而他们是会吃掉你们的，你们这些自命为个人主义者、其实是害怕社会主义的社会主义者们。你们这种案顺卑贱的奴隶道德救不了你们。啊，那对你们都太高深，我知道，我不再拿它来麻烦你们了。可是你们要记住一件事，在奥克兰个人主义者还不到半打，可马丁·伊登却是其中之一。”
他做出个姿势表示说完了话，然后转向了露丝。
“我今天有点激动，”他低声说，“我现在想的是爱情，不是说话。”
莫尔斯先生说话了，他却没有听；——
“你可没有说服我，所有的社会主义者都是阴谋家。那是鉴别他们的办法。”
“我们还是可以把你变成个优秀的共和党人的。”布朗特法官说。
“马背上的人在那时以前就会到来。”马丁心平气和地回答，又转身和露丝说话去了。
可是莫尔斯先生仍然不满意。他这未来的女婿又懒惰又不肯正经做工作，他不喜欢。他也瞧不起他的思想，不理解他的天性。于是他把讨论转向了赫伯特·斯宾塞。布朗特法官给了他强有力的支持。马丁一听见提到那位哲学家的名字耳朵就坚了起来。他听着法官一本正经踌躇满志地攻击着斯宾塞，仿佛是在说：“孩子，你听听。”
“乌鸦嘴。”马丁低声说了一句，又和露丝与亚瑟谈话去了。
但是那漫长的一天和昨天晚上那些“草芥之民”还在对他起着作用。而且他在车上读到的令他生气的东西还在他心里燃烧。
“是怎么回事？”露丝见他在压抑自己的怒气感到吃惊，突然问道。
“没有上帝，只有不可知之物，而赫伯特·斯宾塞就是它的先知。”这时布朗特法官正在说着。
马丁对地转过身去。
“不值钱的判断，”他冷冷地说，“我第一次听见这话是在市政厅公园。说话的是一个工人，他倒应该更懂事一点。从那以后我曾多次听见过这话，每一回那讨好卖乖劲都叫我作呕。你应该为自己感到丢脸的。从你的嘴里听见那高贵而伟大的人的名字简直就像见到一滴露珠落到了脏水塘里。你可真叫人恶心。”
这话简直像是个晴天霹雳。布朗特法官瞪大了眼望着他，一脸中了风的样子。满室沉默。莫尔斯先生私心窃喜。他看出他的女儿惶惑了。那正是他希望办到的事——把这个他所不喜欢的入内在的流氓气逗引出来。
露丝的手在桌下求情似的寻找着马丁的手。但是马丁的血已经涌了上来。身居高位者的智力上的假冒伪善令他怒火中烧。高等法院法官！不过几年以前他还在粪土甲仰望着这些光辉人物，把他们看作神灵呢。
布朗特法官镇定下来，打算继续说下去，他对马丁装出一副彬彬有礼的样子说话。马丁认为那是因为怕太太小姐们不安的缘故。这叫他更愤怒了。世界上难道就没有诚实么？
“你不能和我谈斯宾塞，”他叫道，“你对斯宾塞的理解还不如他的英国同胞。不过，我承认，那不是你的错，而只表现了这个时代可鄙的一面——无知。今天黄昏我来这儿时就遇见了一个例子。读到了一篇撒里比论斯宾塞的文章。你应该读一读。那书谁都可以弄到，哪个书店都可以买到，公共图书馆也可以借到。跟撒里比在这个问题上所搜集的材料一比，你对那位高贵的人的毁访就会显得太无知，太贫乏，你应该感到惭愧。那可是创记录地可耻，能叫你的可耻相形见绌。
“有一个连污染他呼吸过的空气都不配的学究式的哲学家曾说他是‘一知半解者的哲学家’，我觉得斯宾塞的书你就没有读过十页，可也就有好些这样的批评家（他们照说应该比你聪明，可他们读过的斯宾塞比你还少）却公开挑战，要斯宾塞的信徒从他所有的作品里提出一条属于他自己的思想来——从赫伯特·斯宾塞的作品里找他自己的思想！可是整个的科学研究天地和现代思想都打满了斯宾塞天才的烙印；斯宾塞是心理学的鼻祖；斯宾塞掀起了教育学的革命；因此法国农家孩子们今天才得以按照斯宾塞制定的原则接受到读写算的教育。那些人类中渺小的蚊蚋，吞食着从技术上应用他的思想而得来的黄油面包，却叮咬着他死后的名声。可他们脑子里那一点点可怜的有价值的东西主要还是靠斯宾塞得来的。毫无疑问，若是没有斯宾塞，他们那点鹦鹉学舌的知识也是没有的。
“可牛津的费尔班克司校长那样的人——他的地位比你还高，布朗待法官，竟然说后世的人会把斯宾塞抛到一边，把他看作个诗人、梦想家，而不看作思想家。全是一帮胡说八道的牛皮匠！他们之中有人说《首要原理》也并非没有丝毫文学魅力；还有人说斯宾塞是个勤奋的实干家而不是独创性的思想家。胡说八道，牛皮匠！胡说八道，牛皮匠！”
在一片死寂之中马丁突然住了口，马丁这番大放厥词把露丝全家都吓坏了。他们是把布朗特法官当作权威赫赫成就显著的人的。晚宴的其余部分简直就像是丧礼。法官和莫尔斯先生把谈话限制在了彼此之间。其他的谈话也零落散漫。然后，当露丝和马丁单独在一起时两人便吵了起来。
“你简直叫人受不了！”她哭了。
但他仍然余怒未息，仍然喃喃地说着：“畜生！畜生！”
她肯定他侮辱了法官，他反驳道：——
“因为我说了他真话么？”
“真话不真话我不管，”她坚持，“礼貌分寸总得讲的。你没有特权侮辱任何人。”
“那么布朗特法官又有什么特权侮辱真理呢？”马丁问道，“侮辱真理肯定是比侮辱一个像法官这样的小人严重得多的失礼。他的行为比不礼貌严重多了。他诽谤了一个已经死去的高贵的伟大的人物。啊，畜生！畜生！”
他那复杂的怒火又燃烧了起来，露丝简直害怕他了。她从来没有见他发过这么大的脾气。那脾气来得那么莫名其妙，那么突兀，她简直无法理解。然而就在他那恐惧之中却还有魅力的神经在颤动，它过去吸引过她，现在仍然吸引着她——逼得她向他倒了过去，在她那疯狂的最后时刻她伸出了双臂搂住了他的脖子。那天发生的事伤害了她，冒犯了她，然而她却还在他嘟哝着“畜生！畜生！”时躺在他的怀里发抖，他又说出下面的话，她仍然在他的怀里，“我术会再到你们家饭桌上来惹麻烦了，亲爱的。他们不喜欢我，我也不该去惹他们讨厌。而且他们也同样叫我生厌。呸！这些人真恶心！想想看，我竟然天真地做过梦，认为身居高位的、住高楼大厦的、受过教育的、有银行存款的人全鄙高贵呢！”
Chapter 38
"Come on, let's go down to the local." So spoke Brissenden, faint from a hemorrhage of half an hour before - the second hemorrhage in three days. The perennial whiskey glass was in his hands, and he drained it with shaking fingers.
"What do I want with socialism?" Martin demanded.
"Outsiders are allowed five-minute speeches," the sick man urged. "Get up and spout. Tell them why you don't want socialism. Tell them what you think about them and their ghetto ethics. Slam Nietzsche into them and get walloped for your pains. Make a scrap of it. It will do them good. Discussion is what they want, and what you want, too. You see, I'd like to see you a socialist before I'm gone. It will give you a sanction for your existence. It is the one thing that will save you in the time of disappointment that is coming to you."
"I never can puzzle out why you, of all men, are a socialist," Martin pondered. "You detest the crowd so. Surely there is nothing in the canaille to recommend it to your aesthetic soul." He pointed an accusing finger at the whiskey glass which the other was refilling. "Socialism doesn't seem to save you."
"I'm very sick," was the answer. "With you it is different. You have health and much to live for, and you must be handcuffed to life somehow. As for me, you wonder why I am a socialist. I'll tell you. It is because Socialism is inevitable; because the present rotten and irrational system cannot endure; because the day is past for your man on horseback. The slaves won't stand for it. They are too many, and willy-nilly they'll drag down the would-be equestrian before ever he gets astride. You can't get away from them, and you'll have to swallow the whole slave-morality. It's not a nice mess, I'll allow. But it's been a-brewing and swallow it you must. You are antediluvian anyway, with your Nietzsche ideas. The past is past, and the man who says history repeats itself is a liar. Of course I don't like the crowd, but what's a poor chap to do? We can't have the man on horseback, and anything is preferable to the timid swine that now rule. But come on, anyway. I'm loaded to the guards now, and if I sit here any longer, I'll get drunk. And you know the doctor says - damn the doctor! I'll fool him yet."
It was Sunday night, and they found the small hall packed by the Oakland socialists, chiefly members of the working class. The speaker, a clever Jew, won Martin's admiration at the same time that he aroused his antagonism. The man's stooped and narrow shoulders and weazened chest proclaimed him the true child of the crowded ghetto, and strong on Martin was the age-long struggle of the feeble, wretched slaves against the lordly handful of men who had ruled over them and would rule over them to the end of time. To Martin this withered wisp of a creature was a symbol. He was the figure that stood forth representative of the whole miserable mass of weaklings and inefficients who perished according to biological law on the ragged confines of life. They were the unfit. In spite of their cunning philosophy and of their antlike proclivities for cooperation, Nature rejected them for the exceptional man. Out of the plentiful spawn of life she flung from her prolific hand she selected only the best. It was by the same method that men, aping her, bred race-horses and cucumbers. Doubtless, a creator of a Cosmos could have devised a better method; but creatures of this particular Cosmos must put up with this particular method. Of course, they could squirm as they perished, as the socialists squirmed, as the speaker on the platform and the perspiring crowd were squirming even now as they counselled together for some new device with which to minimize the penalties of living and outwit the Cosmos.
So Martin thought, and so he spoke when Brissenden urged him to give them hell. He obeyed the mandate, walking up to the platform, as was the custom, and addressing the chairman. He began in a low voice, haltingly, forming into order the ideas which had surged in his brain while the Jew was speaking. In such meetings five minutes was the time allotted to each speaker; but when Martin's five minutes were up, he was in full stride, his attack upon their doctrines but half completed. He had caught their interest, and the audience urged the chairman by acclamation to extend Martin's time. They appreciated him as a foeman worthy of their intellect, and they listened intently, following every word. He spoke with fire and conviction, mincing no words in his attack upon the slaves and their morality and tactics and frankly alluding to his hearers as the slaves in question. He quoted Spencer and Malthus, and enunciated the biological law of development.
"And so," he concluded, in a swift resume, "no state composed of the slave-types can endure. The old law of development still holds. In the struggle for existence, as I have shown, the strong and the progeny of the strong tend to survive, while the weak and the progeny of the weak are crushed and tend to perish. The result is that the strong and the progeny of the strong survive, and, so long as the struggle obtains, the strength of each generation increases. That is development. But you slaves - it is too bad to be slaves, I grant - but you slaves dream of a society where the law of development will be annulled, where no weaklings and inefficients will perish, where every inefficient will have as much as he wants to eat as many times a day as he desires, and where all will marry and have progeny - the weak as well as the strong. What will be the result? No longer will the strength and life-value of each generation increase. On the contrary, it will diminish. There is the Nemesis of your slave philosophy. Your society of slaves - of, by, and for, slaves - must inevitably weaken and go to pieces as the life which composes it weakens and goes to pieces.
"Remember, I am enunciating biology and not sentimental ethics. No state of slaves can stand - "
"How about the United States?" a man yelled from the audience.
"And how about it?" Martin retorted. "The thirteen colonies threw off their rulers and formed the Republic so-called. The slaves were their own masters. There were no more masters of the sword. But you couldn't get along without masters of some sort, and there arose a new set of masters - not the great, virile, noble men, but the shrewd and spidery traders and money-lenders. And they enslaved you over again - but not frankly, as the true, noble men would do with weight of their own right arms, but secretly, by spidery machinations and by wheedling and cajolery and lies. They have purchased your slave judges, they have debauched your slave legislatures, and they have forced to worse horrors than chattel slavery your slave boys and girls. Two million of your children are toiling to-day in this trader-oligarchy of the United States. Ten millions of you slaves are not properly sheltered nor properly fed."
"But to return. I have shown that no society of slaves can endure, because, in its very nature, such society must annul the law of development. No sooner can a slave society be organized than deterioration sets in. It is easy for you to talk of annulling the law of development, but where is the new law of development that will maintain your strength? Formulate it. Is it already formulated? Then state it."
Martin took his seat amidst an uproar of voices. A score of men were on their feet clamoring for recognition from the chair. And one by one, encouraged by vociferous applause, speaking with fire and enthusiasm and excited gestures, they replied to the attack. It was a wild night - but it was wild intellectually, a battle of ideas. Some strayed from the point, but most of the speakers replied directly to Martin. They shook him with lines of thought that were new to him; and gave him insights, not into new biological laws, but into new applications of the old laws. They were too earnest to be always polite, and more than once the chairman rapped and pounded for order.
It chanced that a cub reporter sat in the audience, detailed there on a day dull of news and impressed by the urgent need of journalism for sensation. He was not a bright cub reporter. He was merely facile and glib. He was too dense to follow the discussion. In fact, he had a comfortable feeling that he was vastly superior to these wordy maniacs of the working class. Also, he had a great respect for those who sat in the high places and dictated the policies of nations and newspapers. Further, he had an ideal, namely, of achieving that excellence of the perfect reporter who is able to make something - even a great deal - out of nothing.
He did not know what all the talk was about. It was not necessary. Words like REVOLUTION gave him his cue. Like a paleontologist, able to reconstruct an entire skeleton from one fossil bone, he was able to reconstruct a whole speech from the one word REVOLUTION. He did it that night, and he did it well; and since Martin had made the biggest stir, he put it all into his mouth and made him the arch-anarch of the show, transforming his reactionary individualism into the most lurid, red-shirt socialist utterance. The cub reporter was an artist, and it was a large brush with which he laid on the local color - wild-eyed long-haired men, neurasthenia and degenerate types of men, voices shaken with passion, clenched fists raised on high, and all projected against a background of oaths, yells, and the throaty rumbling of angry men.
“来吧，咱们到区分部去。” 
布里森登说。他半小时以前才吐了血，仍然头晕目眩——三天来他已是第二次吐血。他手上仍然照例擎着威士忌酒杯，手指颤抖着喝光了酒。
“社会主义对我有什么用？”马丁问道。
“非党员可以发表五分钟讲话，”病人劝他，“你准备放一炮吧，告诉他们你为什么不需要社会主义，把你对他们和他们那贫民窟道德的意见告诉他们；拿尼采去教训他们，让他们因此跟你辩论，然后粉碎他们。那对他们会有好处。他们需要的就是辩论，你也一样需要辩论。你看，我倒希望在去世之前看见你变成社会主义者，那能批准你活下去。你以后准会遇见失望的，那时只有社会主义能救你。”
“你竟是个社会主义者，我怎么也想不通，”马丁思索着说，“你这么讨厌群氓。那些身合之众肯定不会有什么能打动你审美灵魂的地方的。”布里森登正在斟满酒杯，马丁伸出一根指头责难地指着他。“社会主义似乎没有法子救你的命。”
“我已经病入膏盲，”他回答说，“可你不同。你身强力壮，还有许多值得活着去追求的东西，因此非得跟生活铐在一起不可。至于我，你不懂我为什么成了个社会主义者。找告诉你吧，因为社会主义是无法避免的；因为目前这种腐朽的不合理的制度是长不了的，而你那马背上的人又已经过时。奴隶们是不会忍受他的。奴隶太多，无论他们愿不愿意，不等你那人跨上马背，已经被他们拉了下来。你摆脱不了他们的奴隶道德，只好接受。我承认那种混乱不能算好，可它已经在酝酿，你只好把它囫囵吞下去。你那尼采思想早过了时，那位硬说历史会重演的人是个骗子。我当然不会喜欢乌合之众，但是像我这样的人能有什么办法？马背上的人是没有了，可无论什么人来统治也要比现在这批胆怯的猪猡强。现在，好了，我已经有点晕晕忽忽了，再坐下去怕会醉倒的。医生说过，你知道，——让医生滚蛋吧！我还要糊弄糊弄他。”
那是星期天晚上，他们发现那小厅里挤满了奥克兰的社会主义者，主要是工人阶级的成员。发言的人是个聪明的犹太人，他使马丁钦佩，也叫他气闷。那人的塌陷的窄肩和萎缩的胸膛宣布他的确是个在拥挤不堪的犹太贫民窟里长大的孩子。他给了马丁一个强烈的印象：瘦弱的困苦的奴隶们尽管为反对那一小撮趾高气扬的统治者进行了许多代人的斗争，叶仍然受着他们统治，而巨还要永远被统治下去。马丁觉得这个萎缩的生灵便是一个象征，一个突出的形象，代表着整个可怜的软弱无能的群体，按照生物学的规律在生命的狭窄崎岖的天地早被消灭掉，因为他们不是“适者”。大自然为了给超人让路，拒绝了他们，没有理会他们狡猾的哲学和蚂蚁一样的合作天性。她在用她那丰盈的手撒播出的会公众生里只选拔出最优秀的人；而人类也跟大自然一样用这种方法在繁殖看黄瓜和赛跑用的马。毫无疑问，宇宙的创造者是能够设计出更好的方法的；但是这个特定的宇宙里的生物却只好接受这个特定的方法。当然，他们在被消灭时可以蠕动挣扎，正像此刻社会主义者们在蠕动挣扎，台上那个发言人在蠕动挣扎，现在流着汗的人群在蠕动挣扎一样。他们正在商量新的办法，要想竭力减少生活的鞭挞，击败宇宙的法则。
马丁像这样想着，布里森登却建议他去教训他们一顿。于是他发了言。他服从命令，按照习惯走上讲台，向主席致了意。什始时他的声音低沉而犹豫，同时把听那犹太人说话时沸腾在脑子里的想法整理出了头绪。这种会议给每个发言人的时间只有五分钟，但是马丁的五分钟用完时他却正讲到要紧之处，他对他们的学说的攻击才进行到一半，但已引起了听众的兴趣。他们鼓掌要求主席给他延长时间。他们欣赏他，认为他是个值得他们使用智慧对待的对手，于是听得很仔细，一字不漏。他感情炽烈，信心十足，他攻击奴隶们和他们的策略和道德观念，而且直言不讳，坦率地向听众们暗示他们就是那些奴隶。他引用了斯宾塞和马尔萨斯的话，阐述了生物发展的规律。
“因此，”他迅速作出结论，“古老的发展规律仍然有效，奴隶型的人构成的国家是不能持久的。正如我已经指出的，在生存竞争之中强者和他们的子孙更适于生存，而弱者和他们的子孙则要被碾碎，被消灭。其结果是，强者和强者的子孙会生存下去，而只要斗争仍然继续八就会一代比一代更加出色，这就叫做发展。可是你们这些奴隶——我承认，做奴隶是很痛苦的——可你们却梦想着一个发展规律被消灭而弱者和无能者不会被消灭的社会，在那里无能的人每天想吃多少顿就能吃多少顿，都能结婚，都能生育后代——强者弱者没有区别。结果怎么样呢？人的强力和生命的价值不是一代一代增加，反倒一代一代削弱了。复仇女神会给你们的奴隶哲学以报应的。你们那奴隶治、奴隶有。奴隶享的社会一定会随着构成它的生命的削弱和崩溃而垮掉的。
“记住，我阐述的不是感伤的伦理道德而是生物科学。没有一个奴隶的社会能够经得起——”
“那么美国会怎么样呢？”听众里有人叫了起来。
“它会怎么样？”马丁反驳，“北美十三州当年推翻了他们的统治者，建立了一个北美共和国。奴隶们成了自己的主人。再也没有握着刀子的奴隶主了。可是没有某种意义上的主人你们过不下去，于是出现了一批新主人——不是那种伟大的、精力充沛的、高贵的人，而是些蜘蛛一样的精明的生意人，放债人。他们重新奴役看你们——可并不是坦率地奴役，像那些真诚的高贵的、用右手的高压统治你们的人，而是像蜘蛛一样用阴谋、谎言和甜言蜜语阴险地统治你们的人。他们收买你们的奴隶法官，败坏你们的奴隶议会，用比最恶劣的奴役还要可怕的形式奴役你们的奴隶子女。今天在美国，你们有两百万子女在这种生意人的寡头专制之下做苦工，有一千万人缺吃少住。
“不过，话又说回来，我曾经告诉过你们，奴隶社会是长不了的，因为就其本性而言，这样的社会必须消灭发展规律。奴隶的社会一开始组织，立即会蜕变。你们侈谈消灭发展规律，那倒容易，但是能让你保留自己力量的新发展规律又在哪里？提出来吧？是不是已经提出来了？要是提出来了你们说说看。”
马丁在一片哄闹声中回到了座位。一二十个人站了起来，叫喊着要求主席同意发言。他们一个个受到喧闹的欢呼鼓掌的鼓励，怀着火焰和激情，打着激动的手势，回答了对他们的攻击。那是个疯狂的夜晚，但是是智力的疯狂，是思想的交锋。有的人偏离了话题，但是大部分都直接反击了马丁。他们用一些他从没有听见过的思路震撼了他，启发了他，他们并没有提出什么生物学的新规律，而是启示他从新的角度使用旧规律。他们太真诚，不可能永远有礼貌。主席不只一次敲桌子。捶桌子维持秩序。
碰巧那天听众里坐了个半瓶醋记者，是在那个到处是新闻的日子里被派来的。他心急火燎，只想搞到轰动的新闻。作为新手，他不太能干，只会检便宜和信口开河。他没有思想，听不懂他们的讨论，实际上他还有一种高人一等的得意之感，觉得自己比工人阶级这些学里罗嗦的疯子不知要高明多少。他也对身居高位指挥着国家政策和报纸的人必恭必敬，而且有个理想，要出人头地，做一个十全十美的记者，哪怕无中生有也要弄出点名堂——甚至是大名堂来。
这场谈话的意义他并不懂得，也用不着横。革命这类字眼就已经给了他线索。他从革命这一个词就可以虚构出整个的发言，就像古生物学家靠一块骨骼化石就可以建造出一副完整的骨架一样。那天晚上他就是那样搞的，而且搞得很漂亮。由于马丁的发言最引起轰动，他便把一切都写进了马丁嘴里，把他变成了那番骚动里的无政府主义元凶，把他那反动的个人主义理论改造成了最阴险的。穿赤色短衫的社会主义的发泄。那半瓶醋记者是个艺术家，大笔一挥，还加上了些现场色彩——目光疯狂长发飘动的人，神经质的蜕化型的人，激动得发抖的声音，高举的捏紧的拳头，这一切的背景则是愤怒的人们的咒骂、喊叫和低沉的咆哮。
Chapter 39
Over the coffee, in his little room, Martin read next morning's paper. It was a novel experience to find himself head-lined, on the first page at that; and he was surprised to learn that he was the most notorious leader of the Oakland socialists. He ran over the violent speech the cub reporter had constructed for him, and, though at first he was angered by the fabrication, in the end he tossed the paper aside with a laugh.
"Either the man was drunk or criminally malicious," he said that afternoon, from his perch on the bed, when Brissenden had arrived and dropped limply into the one chair.
"But what do you care?" Brissenden asked. "Surely you don't desire the approval of the bourgeois swine that read the newspapers?"
Martin thought for a while, then said:-
"No, I really don't care for their approval, not a whit. On the other hand, it's very likely to make my relations with Ruth's family a trifle awkward. Her father always contended I was a socialist, and this miserable stuff will clinch his belief. Not that I care for his opinion - but what's the odds? I want to read you what I've been doing to-day. It's 'Overdue,' of course, and I'm just about halfway through."
He was reading aloud when Maria thrust open the door and ushered in a young man in a natty suit who glanced briskly about him, noting the oil-burner and the kitchen in the corner before his gaze wandered on to Martin.
"Sit down," Brissenden said.
Martin made room for the young man on the bed and waited for him to broach his business.
"I heard you speak last night, Mr. Eden, and I've come to interview you," he began.
Brissenden burst out in a hearty laugh.
"A brother socialist?" the reporter asked, with a quick glance at Brissenden that appraised the color-value of that cadaverous and dying man.
"And he wrote that report," Martin said softly. "Why, he is only a boy!"
"Why don't you poke him?" Brissenden asked. "I'd give a thousand dollars to have my lungs back for five minutes."
The cub reporter was a trifle perplexed by this talking over him and around him and at him. But he had been commended for his brilliant description of the socialist meeting and had further been detailed to get a personal interview with Martin Eden, the leader of the organized menace to society.
"You do not object to having your picture taken, Mr. Eden?" he said. "I've a staff photographer outside, you see, and he says it will be better to take you right away before the sun gets lower. Then we can have the interview afterward."
"A photographer," Brissenden said meditatively. "Poke him, Martin! Poke him!"
"I guess I'm getting old," was the answer. "I know I ought, but I really haven't the heart. It doesn't seem to matter."
"For his mother's sake," Brissenden urged.
"It's worth considering," Martin replied; "but it doesn't seem worth while enough to rouse sufficient energy in me. You see, it does take energy to give a fellow a poking. Besides, what does it matter?"
"That's right - that's the way to take it," the cub announced airily, though he had already begun to glance anxiously at the door.
"But it wasn't true, not a word of what he wrote," Martin went on, confining his attention to Brissenden.
"It was just in a general way a description, you understand," the cub ventured, "and besides, it's good advertising. That's what counts. It was a favor to you."
"It's good advertising, Martin, old boy," Brissenden repeated solemnly.
"And it was a favor to me - think of that!" was Martin's contribution.
"Let me see - where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an air of expectant attention.
"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden. "He remembers it all."
"That is sufficient for me." The cub was trying not to look worried. "No decent reporter needs to bother with notes."
"That was sufficient - for last night." But Brissenden was not a disciple of quietism, and he changed his attitude abruptly. "Martin, if you don't poke him, I'll do it myself, if I fall dead on the floor the next moment."
"How will a spanking do?" Martin asked.
Brissenden considered judicially, and nodded his head.
The next instant Martin was seated on the edge of the bed with the cub face downward across his knees.
"Now don't bite," Martin warned, "or else I'll have to punch your face. It would be a pity, for it is such a pretty face."
His uplifted hand descended, and thereafter rose and fell in a swift and steady rhythm. The cub struggled and cursed and squirmed, but did not offer to bite. Brissenden looked on gravely, though once he grew excited and gripped the whiskey bottle, pleading, "Here, just let me swat him once."
"Sorry my hand played out," Martin said, when at last he desisted. "It is quite numb."
He uprighted the cub and perched him on the bed.
"I'll have you arrested for this," he snarled, tears of boyish indignation running down his flushed cheeks. "I'll make you sweat for this. You'll see."
"The pretty thing," Martin remarked. "He doesn't realize that he has entered upon the downward path. It is not honest, it is not square, it is not manly, to tell lies about one's fellow-creatures the way he has done, and he doesn't know it."
"He has to come to us to be told," Brissenden filled in a pause.
"Yes, to me whom he has maligned and injured. My grocery will undoubtedly refuse me credit now. The worst of it is that the poor boy will keep on this way until he deteriorates into a first-class newspaper man and also a first-class scoundrel."
"But there is yet time," quoth Brissenden. "Who knows but what you may prove the humble instrument to save him. Why didn't you let me swat him just once? I'd like to have had a hand in it."
"I'll have you arrested, the pair of you, you b-b-big brutes," sobbed the erring soul.
"No, his mouth is too pretty and too weak." Martin shook his head lugubriously. "I'm afraid I've numbed my hand in vain. The young man cannot reform. He will become eventually a very great and successful newspaper man. He has no conscience. That alone will make him great."
With that the cub passed out the door in trepidation to the last for fear that Brissenden would hit him in the back with the bottle he still clutched.
In the next morning's paper Martin learned a great deal more about himself that was new to him. "We are the sworn enemies of society," he found himself quoted as saying in a column interview. "No, we are not anarchists but socialists." When the reporter pointed out to him that there seemed little difference between the two schools, Martin had shrugged his shoulders in silent affirmation. His face was described as bilaterally asymmetrical, and various other signs of degeneration were described. Especially notable were his thuglike hands and the fiery gleams in his blood- shot eyes.
He learned, also, that he spoke nightly to the workmen in the City Hall Park, and that among the anarchists and agitators that there inflamed the minds of the people he drew the largest audiences and made the most revolutionary speeches. The cub painted a high-light picture of his poor little room, its oil-stove and the one chair, and of the death's-head tramp who kept him company and who looked as if he had just emerged from twenty years of solitary confinement in some fortress dungeon.
The cub had been industrious. He had scurried around and nosed out Martin's family history, and procured a photograph of Higginbotham's Cash Store with Bernard Higginbotham himself standing out in front. That gentleman was depicted as an intelligent, dignified businessman who had no patience with his brother-in-law's socialistic views, and no patience with the brother-in-law, either, whom he was quoted as characterizing as a lazy good-for-nothing who wouldn't take a job when it was offered to him and who would go to jail yet. Hermann Yon Schmidt, Marian's husband, had likewise been interviewed. He had called Martin the black sheep of the family and repudiated him. "He tried to sponge off of me, but I put a stop to that good and quick," Von Schmidt had said to the reporter. "He knows better than to come bumming around here. A man who won't work is no good, take that from me."
This time Martin was genuinely angry. Brissenden looked upon the affair as a good joke, but he could not console Martin, who knew that it would be no easy task to explain to Ruth. As for her father, he knew that he must be overjoyed with what had happened and that he would make the most of it to break off the engagement. How much he would make of it he was soon to realize. The afternoon mail brought a letter from Ruth. Martin opened it with a premonition of disaster, and read it standing at the open door when he had received it from the postman. As he read, mechanically his hand sought his pocket for the tobacco and brown paper of his old cigarette days. He was not aware that the pocket was empty or that he had even reached for the materials with which to roll a cigarette.
It was not a passionate letter. There were no touches of anger in it. But all the way through, from the first sentence to the last, was sounded the note of hurt and disappointment. She had expected better of him. She had thought he had got over his youthful wildness, that her love for him had been sufficiently worth while to enable him to live seriously and decently. And now her father and mother had taken a firm stand and commanded that the engagement be broken. That they were justified in this she could not but admit. Their relation could never be a happy one. It had been unfortunate from the first. But one regret she voiced in the whole letter, and it was a bitter one to Martin. "If only you had settled down to some position and attempted to make something of yourself," she wrote. "But it was not to be. Your past life had been too wild and irregular. I can understand that you are not to be blamed. You could act only according to your nature and your early training. So I do not blame you, Martin. Please remember that. It was simply a mistake. As father and mother have contended, we were not made for each other, and we should both be happy because it was discovered not too late." . . "There is no use trying to see me," she said toward the last. "It would be an unhappy meeting for both of us, as well as for my mother. I feel, as it is, that I have caused her great pain and worry. I shall have to do much living to atone for it."
He read it through to the end, carefully, a second time, then sat down and replied. He outlined the remarks he had uttered at the socialist meeting, pointing out that they were in all ways the converse of what the newspaper had put in his mouth. Toward the end of the letter he was God's own lover pleading passionately for love. "Please answer," he said, "and in your answer you have to tell me but one thing. Do you love me? That is all - the answer to that one question."
But no answer came the next day, nor the next. "Overdue" lay untouched upon the table, and each day the heap of returned manuscripts under the table grew larger. For the first time Martin's glorious sleep was interrupted by insomnia, and he tossed through long, restless nights. Three times he called at the Morse home, but was turned away by the servant who answered the bell. Brissenden lay sick in his hotel, too feeble to stir out, and, though Martin was with him often, he did not worry him with his troubles.
For Martin's troubles were many. The aftermath of the cub reporter's deed was even wider than Martin had anticipated. The Portuguese grocer refused him further credit, while the greengrocer, who was an American and proud of it, had called him a traitor to his country and refused further dealings with him - carrying his patriotism to such a degree that he cancelled Martin's account and forbade him ever to attempt to pay it. The talk in the neighborhood reflected the same feeling, and indignation against Martin ran high. No one would have anything to do with a socialist traitor. Poor Maria was dubious and frightened, but she remained loyal. The children of the neighborhood recovered from the awe of the grand carriage which once had visited Martin, and from safe distances they called him "hobo" and "bum." The Silva tribe, however, stanchly defended him, fighting more than one pitched battle for his honor, and black eyes and bloody noses became quite the order of the day and added to Maria's perplexities and troubles.
Once, Martin met Gertrude on the street, down in Oakland, and learned what he knew could not be otherwise - that Bernard Higginbotham was furious with him for having dragged the family into public disgrace, and that he had forbidden him the house.
"Why don't you go away, Martin?" Gertrude had begged. "Go away and get a job somewhere and steady down. Afterwards, when this all blows over, you can come back."
Martin shook his head, but gave no explanations. How could he explain? He was appalled at the awful intellectual chasm that yawned between him and his people. He could never cross it and explain to them his position, - the Nietzschean position, in regard to socialism. There were not words enough in the English language, nor in any language, to make his attitude and conduct intelligible to them. Their highest concept of right conduct, in his case, was to get a job. That was their first word and their last. It constituted their whole lexicon of ideas. Get a job! Go to work! Poor, stupid slaves, he thought, while his sister talked. Small wonder the world belonged to the strong. The slaves were obsessed by their own slavery. A job was to them a golden fetich before which they fell down and worshipped.
He shook his head again, when Gertrude offered him money, though he knew that within the day he would have to make a trip to the pawnbroker.
"Don't come near Bernard now," she admonished him. "After a few months, when he is cooled down, if you want to, you can get the job of drivin' delivery-wagon for him. Any time you want me, just send for me an' I'll come. Don't forget."
She went away weeping audibly, and he felt a pang of sorrow shoot through him at sight of her heavy body and uncouth gait. As he watched her go, the Nietzschean edifice seemed to shake and totter. The slave-class in the abstract was all very well, but it was not wholly satisfactory when it was brought home to his own family. And yet, if there was ever a slave trampled by the strong, that slave was his sister Gertrude. He grinned savagely at the paradox. A fine Nietzsche-man he was, to allow his intellectual concepts to be shaken by the first sentiment or emotion that strayed along - ay, to be shaken by the slave-morality itself, for that was what his pity for his sister really was. The true noble men were above pity and compassion. Pity and compassion had been generated in the subterranean barracoons of the slaves and were no more than the agony and sweat of the crowded miserables and weaklings.
马丁是在小屋里喝着咖啡时读到第二天早上的报纸的。他得到了一个惊人的经验：发现自己以头版头条的位置登到了报上，而且成了奥克兰的社会党人臭名昭著的头子。他匆匆读完了那半瓶醋记者为他编造的激烈言论，虽然开始时很为那胡编乱造生气，后来却只笑了一笑便把那报纸扔到了一边。 
“那家伙要不是喝醉了酒就是恶意诽谤。”那天下午他坐在床上说，那时布里森登来了，歪歪倒倒坐进了那唯一的椅子。
“那你管他干什么，”布里森登问他，“你肯定不会认为在报上读到这消息的资产阶级猪猡们会赞成你的话吧？”
马丁想了一会儿，说：——
“不，他们是否赞成我倒真不在乎，毫不在乎。可另一方面，这却能害得我跟露丝一家的关系更别扭。她爸爸总一D咬定说我是个社会主义者，现在这讨厌的玩意会叫他更加深信不疑的。我对他的意见倒不在乎——不过，那又算得什么？我想让你听听我今天才写的东西。当然，就是叫《过期》的那篇，写了才差不多一半。”
他正在朗读，玛利亚推开门，引进了一个年轻人。那人服装整齐，一进门先匆匆打量了布里森登一眼，注意到了煤油炉子和厨房，目光又回到马丁身上。
“坐，”布里森登说。
马丁在床上给年轻人让了个座位，等着他说明来意。
“我昨天晚上听了你的发言，伊登先生，现在是来采访你。”他开始了。
布里森登不禁哈哈大笑。
“他是你社会党的弟兄么？”记者急忙瞥了布里森登一眼，估计了一下那形容柏槁的快要死去的入的赤化程度，问道。
“那篇报道难道就是他写的么，”马丁低声说，“嗨，还是个娃娃呢！”
“你怎么不接他一顿？”布里森登问道，“要是能让我的肺恢复五分钟健康，我愿意出一千块钱。”
两人这样当着他的面不客气地议论他，使那半瓶醋记者有几分狼狈。但是他因为那篇对社会党集会的精彩报道曾受到表扬，并且得到指示要进一步采访马丁·伊甸本人——那个威胁着社会的组织的头目。
“你不会反对给你拍一张照片吧，伊登先生？”他说，“我们报社有个摄影师就在外面，你看，他说最好趁阳光还没有再往下斜时就拍，拍完我们再谈。”
“摄影师？”布里森登思量着，说，“揍他，马丁。揍他！”
“看来我年纪已经太大，”是马丁的回答，“我知道该揍他，可还真没有那心情。大概不会有什么关系吧。”
“替他妈妈教训他一顿，”布里森登催促他。
“那就值得考虑了，”马丁回答，“不过我似乎还鼓不起劲来。你看，揍人是要花力气的。而且，那又有什么关系？”
“不错，这才是处理问题的办法，”半瓶醋记者吊儿郎当地宣布，虽然他已开始不放心地打量着房门。
“不过他那全胡说。他发表的东西没有一句真话。”马丁的眼睛只看布里森登。
“那只不过是一般性的描写，你明白的，”那半瓶醋记者大着胆地回答，“何况，那也是很好的宣传。对你可是一种优惠，很合算的。”
“那可是很好的宣传呀，马丁老弟。”布里森登然有介事地重复记者的话。
“那还是给我的优惠呢——你看！”马丁附和。
“我看看——你生在什么地方，伊登先生？”半瓶醋记者问，摆出仔细听的样子。
“你看，他连笔记也不做，”布里森登说，“全靠脑子记。”
“我只用脑子记就行了，”那半瓶醋记者装出并不担心的样子。
“他昨天晚上也全是靠脑子记的，”布里森登可不是沉默主义的信徒。他突然改变了态度。“马丁，你要是不揍他，我就自己动手了，哪怕会叫我马上摔死在地上。”
“打他一顿屁股怎么样？”马丁问。
布里森登冷静地考虑了一会儿，点了点头。
转瞬之间马丁已坐到了床边，那半瓶醋记者已经趴在了他的膝盖上。
“现在你可别咬，”马丁警告他，“否则我就揍你的脸。你那张脸挺漂亮的，捧破了就太遗憾了。”
他挥起的手落了下来，接着就迅速地、有节奏地揍了起来。那半瓶醋记者挣扎着、咒骂着、扭动着，的确没有动口咬。布里森登一本正经地望着，尽管他有一回激动了起来，抓起了威士忌酒瓶，请求道：“来，让我也砸他一家伙。”
“抱歉，我的手没有劲了，”马丁终于停住，说，“打麻木了。”
他放掉了记者，让他坐在床上。
“我会叫人把你们抓起来的，”那人龇牙咧嘴地说，通红的面颊上眼泪婆娑，像满肚子委屈的孩子。“我会叫你们够受的。你们走着瞧。”
“小白脸，”马丁评论道，“他还不知道自己已经走上堕落的路了呢。像他那样拿他自己的同胞撒谎是不诚实的、不公正的，也不像个男子汉，而他竟然不觉得。”
“他得到我们这儿来听我们告诉他，”一阵沉默之后，布里森登说了下去。
“是的，对于受到他的诬蔑诽谤的我，那就意味着杂货店老板再也不会赊帐给我了。而最糟糕的是这可怜的娃娃就会这么继续胡闹下去，直到堕落成为一个头等的新闻记者兼头等流氓。”
“不过也许还来得及，”布里森登说，“你这个不算高明的手段说不定还能救他。你为什么不让我也敲他一家伙？我也想拉他一把呢。”
“我要把你们俩都抓起来，你们俩，大——大——大坏蛋，”那误入歧途的灵魂抽抽搭搭地说。
“不，他那嘴太好看，也太差劲，”马丁板着脸摇摇头说，“我担心是白白地打麻了我的手。这小伙子怕是改不了了，他最终会变成一个成功的大记者的。他没有良心，就凭这一条他就能飞黄腾达。”
那半瓶醋记者就这样走出了门。他心惊胆战，生怕布里森登会拿他还攥在手里的酒瓶从背后敲他一家伙。
马丁从第二天的报纸上读到了许多关于他自己的东西，那些东西他自己也觉得新鲜。“我们是社会的不共戴夫之敌，”他发现自己在一个专栏采访里说，“不，我们不是无政府主义者，而是社会主义者。”而在记者向他指出这两个派别似乎没有差异的时候，马丁便耸了耸肩，默认了。他的脸被描写成两面不对称，还涂上了些别的堕落迹象。特别引人注目的还有他那一双打手般的手，和充血的双眼里露出的凶光。
他还读到他每天晚上都要在市政厅公园向工人们演说，在那些蛊惑群众的无政府主义者和煽动家之中是听众最多、发言最激烈的一个。那半瓶醋记者对他那贫穷的小屋、煤油炉子、唯一的椅子，和跟他做伴的骷髅一样的流浪汉做了特写。说那人就像刚在什么要塞的地牢里单独囚禁了二十年之后才放出来的。
那半瓶醋记者很花了一点功夫。他四面打听，嗅出了一些马丁的家庭历史，弄到了一张希金波坦现金商店的照片，照片上伯纳德·希金波坦站在门口。那位先生被描写成了一个聪明庄重的商人，对于他的小舅子的社会主义观点和那位小舅子本人都受不了。据他说马丁的特点就是无所事事，游手好闲，给他工作也不做，早晚是会去蹲班房的。他也采访到了茉莉安的丈夫冯·史密特。史密特把马丁称作他们家族的害群之马，表示和他绝了交。“他想揩我的油，可我立即让他完全断了那念头，”冯·史密特告诉记者，“他知道从我这地捞不到什么，就不来鬼混了。不干活的人是不会干好事的，相信我。”
这一回马丁真生气了。布里森登把这事看作一个大玩笑，却无法安慰马丁。马丁知道很难向露丝解释清楚。至于她的父亲，他知道他会因为这事喜出望外，一定会尽量利用它解除他们俩的婚约。
他马上就明白了那老人利用此事到了什么程度。午后的一班邮件带来了一封露丝的信。马丁预感到会有灾难，从邮递员手上接过信，拆开，就站在门口看了起来。读信时机械地摸着日袋，想跟以往抽烟时一样掏出烟叶和棕色纸，他没有意识到口袋里早已空空如也，也没有意识到伸手掏过卷烟材料，想卷烟抽。
那信没有热情，也没有愤怒的迹象。但是从第一句到最后一句全是受到伤害和失望的调子。她曾期望他比现在更好，曾以为他青年时期的胡闹已经过去，曾以为她对他的爱情已足够促使他过起严肃正派的生活。而现在她的父亲和母亲已经采取了坚决的立场，命令她解除婚约，而她却只好承认他们是有道理的。他们俩的这种关系决不会幸福，从开头就没有幸福过。在整封信里她只表示了一点遗憾：对马丁的严重遗憾。“如果你一开头就找个职位安下心来做出点成绩，那就好了，”她写道，“可是你不肯，你过去的生活太胡闹，太放纵。那不能怪你，这我可以理解。你只能按照你的天性和早期受到的培养行动。因此我并不责备你，马丁。请记住这一点。那只是一个错误。正如爸爸妈妈所坚持的，我们注定了不是一对，因此我们俩都应当高兴，高兴发现得还不算太晚。”……“别想来看我了，那没有用，”结尾时她写道，“见面对我们俩和我的母亲都是不会愉快的。就像现在这样，我已经觉得给了她极大的痛苦和烦恼了。我得过好多日子才能弥补起来。”
他又把信从头到尾仔仔细细读了一遍，然后坐下来写回信。他概括地介绍了一下他在社会党会上的发言，指出他说的话跟报上讲的他的发言恰好相反。在信末他又成了上帝的情人，热情洋溢地表白了爱情。“请回信，”他说，“回信时只需回答我一个问题：你是否爱我？就这一个问题。”
可是第二天却没有回信，第三天也没有。《过期》躺在桌上，他也没有去碰。桌下的退稿一天天增加。马丁的睡眠一向极酣畅，现在却第一次遭到了失眠的干扰。漫长的夜里他辗转反侧，通宵不寐。他到莫尔斯家去拜访了三次，三次都叫应门的仆人挡了驾。布里森登病了，躺在旅馆里，身体虚弱，不能行动。马丁虽然常和他在一起，却没有拿自己的烦恼去麻烦他。
马丁的麻烦很多，那半瓶醋记者的行为带来的后果比马丁预计的大了许多。葡萄牙杂货商拒绝赊给他东西了。蔬菜商是个美国人，并以此而自豪。他把他叫做卖国贼，拒绝跟他再有往来。他的爱国情绪竟高涨到划掉马丁的欠帐不准他还的程度。左邻右舍的谈话也反映了这种情绪，对马丁的义愤越来越严重。没有人愿意跟一个相信社会主义的卖国贼有来往。可怜的玛利亚也糊涂了，害怕了。可她对他还忠实。附近的孩子们摆脱了从拜访马丁的大马车所引起的敬畏之情，躲在安全的距离以外叫他“二流子”、“瘪三”。可是西尔伐家的孩子们仍然忠心耿耿地保卫着他，为了他的荣誉不止一次安营扎寨大打出手。眼睛打乌鼻子出血在那段时间成了家常便饭，那叫玛利亚更加惶惑、更加烦恼了。
有一回马丁在奥克兰街上遇见了格特露，听她说了些他知道必然会发生的事——伯纳德·希金波坦因为他在公众面前丢了全家人的脸对他大为光火，不许他再进他的屋。
“你怎么不离开这儿，马丁？”格特露求他，“到别的什么地方去找个工作，安定下来吧。等这阵风刮过了再回来。”
马丁摇摇头，却没有解释。他能怎么解释？他和他的家人之间大张着一个可怕的智力鸿沟，他为那鸿沟感到恐怖。他无法跨越那鸿沟向他们解释自己的立场——他对社会主义的尼采式的立场。在英语里，在一切语言里，都找不到足够的词汇去向他们解释清楚他的态度和行为。在他们心目中他的良好行为的最高观念就是找个工作。那就是他们的第一个也是最后一个意见，也就是他们思想的全部词汇。找一份工作！干活儿去！可怜的、愚昧的奴隶们，他想道。他姐姐还在说话。难怪世界属于强者。奴隶们都为自己能做奴隶感到陶醉呢。一份工作便是他们崇拜的黄金偶像，他们在工作面前五体投地，顶礼膜拜。
格特震要给他钱，他又摇了摇头，虽然他明白那天他就非得去上当铺不可。
“现在可别到伯纳德身边去，”她急忙劝告他，“你若是愿意，等他几个月以后冷静下来，可以让他把开送货车的工作给你。需要我的时候就通知我，我会立即来的，别忘了。”
她走掉了，他能听见她的哭声。望着她那沉重的身影和蹒跚的脚步，一阵凄凉的辛酸不禁穿过他。心里。他望着她走掉时，他那尼采式的华厦似乎动摇了，垮塌了。抽象的奴隶阶级倒没有什么，但是奴隶阶级到了自己家里就不那么圆满了。而且，若是真有什么奴隶在受到强者蹂躏的话，那就是他的姐姐格特露。面临着这个矛盾怪圈他放肆地笑了。好个尼采的信徒！他那理性的思想竟会团第一次的情绪波动而动摇——是的，因奴隶道德而动摇，因为他对他的姐姐的怜悯事实上便是奴隶道德。真正高贵的人是超越怜悯和同情的。怜悯和同情产生于关押和贩卖奴隶的地窖里，不过是挤成一团的受苦者和软弱者的痛苦和汗水而已。
Chapter 40
"Overdue" still continued to lie forgotten on the table. Every manuscript that he had had out now lay under the table. Only one manuscript he kept going, and that was Brissenden's "Ephemera." His bicycle and black suit were again in pawn, and the type-writer people were once more worrying about the rent. But such things no longer bothered him. He was seeking a new orientation, and until that was found his life must stand still.
After several weeks, what he had been waiting for happened. He met Ruth on the street. It was true, she was accompanied by her brother, Norman, and it was true that they tried to ignore him and that Norman attempted to wave him aside.
"If you interfere with my sister, I'll call an officer," Norman threatened. "She does not wish to speak with you, and your insistence is insult."
"If you persist, you'll have to call that officer, and then you'll get your name in the papers," Martin answered grimly. "And now, get out of my way and get the officer if you want to. I'm going to talk with Ruth."
"I want to have it from your own lips," he said to her.
She was pale and trembling, but she held up and looked inquiringly.
"The question I asked in my letter," he prompted.
Norman made an impatient movement, but Martin checked him with a swift look.
She shook her head.
"Is all this of your own free will?" he demanded.
"It is." She spoke in a low, firm voice and with deliberation. "It is of my own free will. You have disgraced me so that I am ashamed to meet my friends. They are all talking about me, I know. That is all I can tell you. You have made me very unhappy, and I never wish to see you again."
"Friends! Gossip! Newspaper misreports! Surely such things are not stronger than love! I can only believe that you never loved me."
A blush drove the pallor from her face.
"After what has passed?" she said faintly. "Martin, you do not know what you are saying. I am not common."
"You see, she doesn't want to have anything to do with you," Norman blurted out, starting on with her.
Martin stood aside and let them pass, fumbling unconsciously in his coat pocket for the tobacco and brown papers that were not there.
It was a long walk to North Oakland, but it was not until he went up the steps and entered his room that he knew he had walked it. He found himself sitting on the edge of the bed and staring about him like an awakened somnambulist. He noticed "Overdue" lying on the table and drew up his chair and reached for his pen. There was in his nature a logical compulsion toward completeness. Here was something undone. It had been deferred against the completion of something else. Now that something else had been finished, and he would apply himself to this task until it was finished. What he would do next he did not know. All that he did know was that a climacteric in his life had been attained. A period had been reached, and he was rounding it off in workman-like fashion. He was not curious about the future. He would soon enough find out what it held in store for him. Whatever it was, it did not matter. Nothing seemed to matter.
For five days he toiled on at "Overdue," going nowhere, seeing nobody, and eating meagrely. On the morning of the sixth day the postman brought him a thin letter from the editor of THE PARTHENON. A glance told him that "Ephemera" was accepted. "We have submitted the poem to Mr. Cartwright Bruce," the editor went on to say, "and he has reported so favorably upon it that we cannot let it go. As an earnest of our pleasure in publishing the poem, let me tell you that we have set it for the August number, our July number being already made up. Kindly extend our pleasure and our thanks to Mr. Brissenden. Please send by return mail his photograph and biographical data. If our honorarium is unsatisfactory, kindly telegraph us at once and state what you consider a fair price."
Since the honorarium they had offered was three hundred and fifty dollars, Martin thought it not worth while to telegraph. Then, too, there was Brissenden's consent to be gained. Well, he had been right, after all. Here was one magazine editor who knew real poetry when he saw it. And the price was splendid, even though it was for the poem of a century. As for Cartwright Bruce, Martin knew that he was the one critic for whose opinions Brissenden had any respect.
Martin rode down town on an electric car, and as he watched the houses and cross-streets slipping by he was aware of a regret that he was not more elated over his friend's success and over his own signal victory. The one critic in the United States had pronounced favorably on the poem, while his own contention that good stuff could find its way into the magazines had proved correct. But enthusiasm had lost its spring in him, and he found that he was more anxious to see Brissenden than he was to carry the good news. The acceptance of THE PARTHENON had recalled to him that during his five days' devotion to "Overdue" he had not heard from Brissenden nor even thought about him. For the first time Martin realized the daze he had been in, and he felt shame for having forgotten his friend. But even the shame did not burn very sharply. He was numb to emotions of any sort save the artistic ones concerned in the writing of "Overdue." So far as other affairs were concerned, he had been in a trance. For that matter, he was still in a trance. All this life through which the electric car whirred seemed remote and unreal, and he would have experienced little interest and less shook if the great stone steeple of the church he passed had suddenly crumbled to mortar-dust upon his head.
At the hotel he hurried up to Brissenden's room, and hurried down again. The room was empty. All luggage was gone.
"Did Mr. Brissenden leave any address?" he asked the clerk, who looked at him curiously for a moment.
"Haven't you heard?" he asked.
Martin shook his head.
"Why, the papers were full of it. He was found dead in bed. Suicide. Shot himself through the head."
"Is he buried yet?" Martin seemed to hear his voice, like some one else's voice, from a long way off, asking the question.
"No. The body was shipped East after the inquest. Lawyers engaged by his people saw to the arrangements."
"They were quick about it, I must say," Martin commented.
"Oh, I don't know. It happened five days ago."
"Five days ago?"
"Yes, five days ago."
"Oh," Martin said as he turned and went out.
At the corner he stepped into the Western Union and sent a telegram to THE PARTHENON, advising them to proceed with the publication of the poem. He had in his pocket but five cents with which to pay his carfare home, so he sent the message collect.
Once in his room, he resumed his writing. The days and nights came and went, and he sat at his table and wrote on. He went nowhere, save to the pawnbroker, took no exercise, and ate methodically when he was hungry and had something to cook, and just as methodically went without when he had nothing to cook. Composed as the story was, in advance, chapter by chapter, he nevertheless saw and developed an opening that increased the power of it, though it necessitated twenty thousand additional words. It was not that there was any vital need that the thing should be well done, but that his artistic canons compelled him to do it well. He worked on in the daze, strangely detached from the world around him, feeling like a familiar ghost among these literary trappings of his former life. He remembered that some one had said that a ghost was the spirit of a man who was dead and who did not have sense enough to know it; and he paused for the moment to wonder if he were really dead did unaware of it.
Came the day when "Overdue" was finished. The agent of the type- writer firm had come for the machine, and he sat on the bed while Martin, on the one chair, typed the last pages of the final chapter. "Finis," he wrote, in capitals, at the end, and to him it was indeed finis. He watched the type-writer carried out the door with a feeling of relief, then went over and lay down on the bed. He was faint from hunger. Food had not passed his lips in thirty- six hours, but he did not think about it. He lay on his back, with closed eyes, and did not think at all, while the daze or stupor slowly welled up, saturating his consciousness. Half in delirium, he began muttering aloud the lines of an anonymous poem Brissenden had been fond of quoting to him. Maria, listening anxiously outside his door, was perturbed by his monotonous utterance. The words in themselves were not significant to her, but the fact that he was saying them was. "I have done," was the burden of the poem.
"'I have done - Put by the lute. Song and singing soon are over As the airy shades that hover In among the purple clover. I have done - Put by the lute. Once I sang as early thrushes Sing among the dewy bushes; Now I'm mute. I am like a weary linnet, For my throat has no song in it; I have had my singing minute. I have done. Put by the lute.'"
Maria could stand it no longer, and hurried away to the stove, where she filled a quart-bowl with soup, putting into it the lion's share of chopped meat and vegetables which her ladle scraped from the bottom of the pot. Martin roused himself and sat up and began to eat, between spoonfuls reassuring Maria that he had not been talking in his sleep and that he did not have any fever.
After she left him he sat drearily, with drooping shoulders, on the edge of the bed, gazing about him with lack-lustre eyes that saw nothing until the torn wrapper of a magazine, which had come in the morning's mail and which lay unopened, shot a gleam of light into his darkened brain. It is THE PARTHENON, he thought, the August PARTHENON, and it must contain "Ephemera." If only Brissenden were here to see!
He was turning the pages of the magazine, when suddenly he stopped. "Ephemera" had been featured, with gorgeous head-piece and Beardsley-like margin decorations. On one side of the head-piece was Brissenden's photograph, on the other side was the photograph of Sir John Value, the British Ambassador. A preliminary editorial note quoted Sir John Value as saying that there were no poets in America, and the publication of "Ephemera" was THE PARTHENON'S. "There, take that, Sir John Value!" Cartwright Bruce was described as the greatest critic in America, and he was quoted as saying that "Ephemera" was the greatest poem ever written in America. And finally, the editor's foreword ended with: "We have not yet made up our minds entirely as to the merits of "Ephemera"; perhaps we shall never be able to do so. But we have read it often, wondering at the words and their arrangement, wondering where Mr. Brissenden got them, and how he could fasten them together." Then followed the poem.
"Pretty good thing you died, Briss, old man," Martin murmured, letting the magazine slip between his knees to the floor.
The cheapness and vulgarity of it was nauseating, and Martin noted apathetically that he was not nauseated very much. He wished he could get angry, but did not have energy enough to try. He was too numb. His blood was too congealed to accelerate to the swift tidal flow of indignation. After all, what did it matter? It was on a par with all the rest that Brissenden had condemned in bourgeois society.
"Poor Briss," Martin communed; "he would never have forgiven me."
Rousing himself with an effort, he possessed himself of a box which had once contained type-writer paper. Going through its contents, he drew forth eleven poems which his friend had written. These he tore lengthwise and crosswise and dropped into the waste basket. He did it languidly, and, when he had finished, sat on the edge of the bed staring blankly before him.
How long he sat there he did not know, until, suddenly, across his sightless vision he saw form a long horizontal line of white. It was curious. But as he watched it grow in definiteness he saw that it was a coral reef smoking in the white Pacific surges. Next, in the line of breakers he made out a small canoe, an outrigger canoe. In the stern he saw a young bronzed god in scarlet hip-cloth dipping a flashing paddle. He recognized him. He was Moti, the youngest son of Tati, the chief, and this was Tahiti, and beyond that smoking reef lay the sweet land of Papara and the chief's grass house by the river's mouth. It was the end of the day, and Moti was coming home from the fishing. He was waiting for the rush of a big breaker whereon to jump the reef. Then he saw himself, sitting forward in the canoe as he had often sat in the past, dipping a paddle that waited Moti's word to dig in like mad when the turquoise wall of the great breaker rose behind them. Next, he was no longer an onlooker but was himself in the canoe, Moti was crying out, they were both thrusting hard with their paddles, racing on the steep face of the flying turquoise. Under the bow the water was hissing as from a steam jet, the air was filled with driven spray, there was a rush and rumble and long-echoing roar, and the canoe floated on the placid water of the lagoon. Moti laughed and shook the salt water from his eyes, and together they paddled in to the pounded-coral beach where Tati's grass walls through the cocoanut-palms showed golden in the setting sun.
The picture faded, and before his eyes stretched the disorder of his squalid room. He strove in vain to see Tahiti again. He knew there was singing among the trees and that the maidens were dancing in the moonlight, but he could not see them. He could see only the littered writing-table, the empty space where the type-writer had stood, and the unwashed window-pane. He closed his eyes with a groan, and slept. 
《过期》仍然躺在桌上，被忘掉了。他寄出去的手稿现在都躺在桌子底下。只有一份稿子他还在往外寄，那就是布里森登的《蜉蝣》。他的自行车和黑色外衣又进了当铺。打字机行的人又在担心租金了。但是马丁再也不会为这类事情烦恼了。他在寻找新的方向，在找到以前，他的生活只好暂停。 
几个礼拜以后他等待的东西出现了。他在街上遇见了露丝。她确实由她的弟弟诺尔曼陪着，两人确实都想不理他，而诺尔曼也挥手打算赶他走。
“你要是骚扰我姐姐，我就叫警察，”诺尔曼威胁说，“她不愿意和你说话而你硬要跟她说话就是侮辱她。”
“如果你坚持你的做法，就去叫警察好了，那你的名字就会上报，”马丁冷冷地回答，“现在你离开这儿，去叫警察吧，我要跟露丝谈一谈。”
“我要听你自己说说，”马丁对露丝说。
她颤抖着，脸色苍白，可是停了步，带着疑问的神色望着他。
“我要听你回答我在信里提出的问题，”他提醒她。
诺尔曼做了个不耐烦的动作，但是马丁立即盯了他一眼，制止了他。
她摇摇头。
“全是出于你自己的自由意志么？”他问。
“是的，”她声音很低，但坚决，沉静，“是我自己的自由意志。你叫我受到了侮辱，叫我羞于见到朋友。她们都在说我闲话，我知道。这就是我能告诉你的话。你使我很不幸，我再也不想见到你了。”
“朋友！闲话！报纸上的错误报道！这些东西总不会比爱情更强有力吧！我只能相信你从来就没有爱过我。”
一阵红晕赶走了她脸上的苍白。
“我们有过那么多的过从你还这么讲么？”她有气无力地说，“马丁，你不知道你说的是什么。我可不是一般的人。”
“听见了吧？她不愿意再跟你来往了！”诺尔曼叫了起来，打算带了她离开。
马丁站到一边，让他们走掉了，一面在口袋里摸索着烟叶和褐色的纸，却没有。
到北奥克兰的路还很远，但是他是直到上了台阶进了屋子才发觉自己是步行回来的。他发现自己坐在床边上，向四面张望着，像个刚醒来的梦游病患者。他注意到《过期》还躺在桌子上，便拉拢了椅子伸手去取笔。他有一种带逻辑强迫力的有始有终的天性。有件事因为别的事耽搁而没有做完，现在别的事已经做完，他就该来完成这件事了。往后再要干什么，他不知道。他只知道自己面；临着平生的转折关头。一个阶段已经结束，他郑重其事地做着收尾工作。他对于未来并不好奇，等着他的是什么东西他不久就会知道的。不管是什么，都没有关系。一切一切都似乎无所谓了。
一连五天他苦苦地写着《过期》，没有出门，没有见人，东西也吃得很少。第六天早上邮递员给他送来了《帕提农》的编辑给他的一封信。他一眼就看出《蜉蝣》已经被采用。“本刊已将此诗送卡特莱特·布鲁斯先生审阅，”编辑说，“布鲁斯先生极为推崇，本刊亦爱不释手。本刊七月号稿件业已排定，为说明出版此稿之忱，谨此奉告：该稿已定于八月号刊登——请向布里森登先生转致本刊荣幸之感，并致谢意。请于赐复时附寄布里森登先生照片及小传。本刊薄酬若不当意，请即电告，并提出先生以为恰当之数。”
他们提出的稿酬是三百五十元，马丁觉得已经不必再电告了。不过这事得要取得布里森登同意。看来他毕竟没有错：这里就有了一个有眼光的杂志编辑。即使这首诗可称世纪之作，稿费也还是很高的。至于卡特莱特·布鲁斯，马丁知道他在布里森登眼中是其意见多少还值得尊重的唯一评论家。
马丁乘电车进了城，在凝望车外闪现的房屋和横街时他意识到了一种遗憾：他并没有为他的朋友的成功和自己的显著胜利太感到得意。美国唯一的评论家对这首诗表示了赞赏；那么自己的看法：好作品也能得到杂志的首肯也证明没有错。但是他心里的热情已经没有了源泉。他发现自己更喜欢的倒是见到布里森登，而不是告诉他好消息。《帕提农》接受稿件的事提醒了他，在他忙着写《过期》的五天里还没有得到过布里森登的消息，甚至连想也没有想起过他。这才第一次意识到自己忙昏了头，于是为忘掉朋友而惭愧起来。但，就是那惭愧之感也并不强烈。他已经麻木，除了写作《过期》所需要的艺术激情之外他已经不再有激情可言。在别的事情上他处于失神状态，到目前还是一片空白。电车呜呜驶过的这一切生活都似乎辽远缥缈。即使他刚才经过的教堂那巍峨的石头尖塔此刻突然砸到他头上，碎成了片片，他也不会注意，更不要说惊讶了。
他来到旅馆，匆匆上了楼，走到布里森登的房间，又匆匆地赶了下来。房间是空的。行李全没有了。“布里森登先生留下地址没有？”他问办事员，那人很纳罕，打量了他一会儿。
“你没有听说么？”他问。
马丁摇摇头。
“怎么，报纸上满是他的事呢。他被发现死在了床上，自杀了。子弹射穿了脑袋。”
“埋了没有？”马丁听见自己的声音像是别人的，在从辽远处提出问题。
“没有，尸体检查之后就运到东部去了。一切都是由他家里人委托的律师处理的。”
“办理得倒真快，我得说，”马丁发表意见。
“那我就不知道了。那是五天以前的事。”
‘三天以前？”
“是的，五天以前。”
“噢，”马丁说着转身走了出去。
来到街角他走进了西部联合电信局，给《帕提农》发了一个电报，要求他们发表那首诗。他口袋里只剩下五分钱坐车回家了，因此发出的电报由收报人付费。
一回到家他又开始了写作。白天黑夜来来去去，他总坐在桌边写着。除了上当铺他哪儿也没有去过。他从不运动，饿了，有东西可煮就煮一点，照章办事地吃下去；没有东西可煮就不煮，照章办事地饿肚子。他那故事早已一章章安排好，他却又考虑而且发展出了一个盯以增加气魄的开头，尽管那又不能不增加了两万来字。那小说并没有什么严重的必要非写好不可，逼着他精益求精的是他的艺术信条。他就像那样失魂落魄地写着，跟周围的世界离奇地脱了节。他感到自己好像是一个回到了前生所熟悉的写作条件里的幽灵。他想起有人说过幽灵是已经死去却还没有意识到死亡的人的精神；于是停下笔考虑，他是否已经死去而还没有意识到死亡。
《过期》写完的日子终于到来，打字机行的代理人已经来取机器，马丁坐在唯一的椅子上写最后一章的几页，那人就坐在床上等着。“完，”到末了他用大写字母打出。对他说来的确是一切都结束了。他怀着一种如释重负的心情看着打字机被带出了门，然后来到床边躺了下来。他的嘴唇已经三十六小时没有碰过食物，但他想也没有想。闭着眼躺在床上，一无所思。昏沉，或是麻木，涌了上来，淹没了他的知觉。他半是吃语地大声背诵起布里森登喜欢为他朗诵的一个无名诗人的诗句。玛利亚在他门外担心地听着，为他那单调的声音提心吊胆。那些话对她倒没有什么意义，她担心的是他在那么喃喃地叨念。那诗的叠句是，“我的歌已经唱完”：“‘我的歌已经唱完，我已把诗琴收起。歌声与歌唱转瞬即逝，如笼在紫苜蓿上的轻灵而缥缈的影子。我的歌已经唱完，我已把诗琴收起。我曾歌唱如早起的画眉，鸣啭在露湿的灌木丛里。可此刻我已经喑哑无语，如一只唱厌倦了的红雀，因为我喉里再没有歌曲，我已度尽我歌唱的日子。我的歌已经唱完，我已把诗琴收起。’”
玛利亚再也受不了了，急忙到炉边盛满了一大钵汤，把用勺子从锅底滤出的她家大部分的肉末和蔬菜放了进去。马丁鼓起劲坐起身子吃了起来。一面舀着一面叫玛利亚放心，他决没有梦呓，也没有发烧。
玛利亚离开之后他仍耷拉了两肩阴郁地坐在床边，眼睛失神地望着，对一切都视而不见，直到一本杂志撕破的封面把一道光芒射进了他漆黑的脑子里。那份杂志是早上送到的，还没有拆开。他以为是《帕提农》，八月号的《帕提农》，上面一定有《蜉蝣》，要是布里森登能看见就好了！
他翻阅着杂志，突然住了手。《蜉蝣》是以特稿形式刊登的，有豪华的题花和比亚兹荣风格的边框装饰。题花一侧是布里森登的照片，另一侧是英国大使约翰·伐琉爵士的照片。一篇编辑部的介绍短文引用伐琉大使的话说：美国没有诗人。《蜉蝣》的出版等于是《帕提农》一声断喝：“看看这，约翰·伐琉爵士！”杂志把卡特莱特描写为美国最伟大的评论家，并引用他的话说《蜉蝣》是美国有史以来最伟大的诗篇。最后编辑的前言以下面的话结束：“我们对于《蜉蝣》的杰出之处还没有完全认识；也许永远也无法认识。但是我们再三拜读此诗，对其词语及结构总是惊讶莫名，我们惊讶布里森登先生的词语从何而来，又如何联属成了此文。”接下来就是那首诗。
“你死了倒好，布里老兄，”马丁喃喃地说，让那杂志从膝盖之间滑落到地上。
那廉价、那庸俗真叫人要呕吐，可马丁却又冷冰冰地觉得并不太想呕吐。他倒希望自己能生气，但他已没有了生气的力气。他太麻木，血液太粘稠，流速达不到发脾气所需要的理想的激动程度。可归根到底，那又有什么关系？这种现象和布里森登所藐视的资产阶级社会的一切岂不正好合拍么？
“可怜的布里，”马丁内省道，“他是永远也不会原谅我了。”
他打叠起精神，捧起了一个箱子，原来是用来装打字纸的。他浏览了一下目录，从里面抽出了十一首他那朋友的诗，把它们横着撕破又竖着撕破，扔进了字纸篓里。他懒洋洋地做着，做完又坐在床边茫然地望着前面。
他不知道自己坐了多久，最后在他那一无所见的视觉里出现了一道白色的光，长长的，平躺的，很怪。他再看，那水平的光越来越清楚了，他看见了，原来是在太平洋白色的波涛之间的一道雾蒙蒙的珊瑚礁。然后他就在重重的浪花里看见了一只独木船——带平衡翼的独木船。他在船尾看见一个挂着朱红腰布的青铜色的年轻神灵，挥动着闪亮的桨片。他认出来了，那是莫提，塔提前长最小的儿子。地点是塔希提岛。那雾蒙蒙的珊瑚礁以外就是帕帕拉的美妙的土地，酋长的草屋就坐落在河口。那时已是黄昏，莫提打完鱼要回家，正等着大浪来送他飞越珊瑚礁。这时马万也看见了自己，正按以前的习惯坐在独木船前面，桨放在水里，等候着莫提的命令，准备在那大潮的碧玉般的高墙从身后打来时不要命地划过去。然后，马丁已不再是看客，而成了划着独木船的自己。莫提大喊大叫，两人在笔陡飞旋的碧玉高墙上拼命地划着桨。船船下海浪嘶嘶地怒吼着；有如喷着水气的喷头，空气里弥漫着飞溅的浪花，冲击奔腾的喧哗声此起彼伏，然后，独木船便已漂浮在礁湖里平静的水面上。莫提哈哈大笑，眨巴着溅过眼里的海水，然后两人便划进了用碎珊瑚铺成的海滩旁。那儿，在夕阳里，椰子树的绿叶之间露出了一片金黄，那就是塔提的草屋子单打成的墙面。
那画面谈去了。他眼前出现了自己肮脏凌乱的房间。他努力想再看到塔希提，却失败了。他知道那里有些树丛里有歌声，月光下还有姑娘们在舞蹈，但是他已看不见了。他看得见的只有那凌乱的书桌，打字机留下的空白，还有不曾擦洗过的窗玻璃。他呻吟了一声，睡去了。
Chapter 41
He slept heavily all night, and did not stir until aroused by the postman on his morning round. Martin felt tired and passive, and went through his letters aimlessly. One thin envelope, from a robber magazine, contained for twenty-two dollars. He had been dunning for it for a year and a half. He noted its amount apathetically. The old-time thrill at receiving a publisher's check was gone. Unlike his earlier checks, this one was not pregnant with promise of great things to come. To him it was a check for twenty-two dollars, that was all, and it would buy him something to eat.
Another check was in the same mail, sent from a New York weekly in payment for some humorous verse which had been accepted months before. It was for ten dollars. An idea came to him, which he calmly considered. He did not know what he was going to do, and he felt in no hurry to do anything. In the meantime he must live. Also he owed numerous debts. Would it not be a paying investment to put stamps on the huge pile of manuscripts under the table and start them on their travels again? One or two of them might be accepted. That would help him to live. He decided on the investment, and, after he had cashed the checks at the bank down in Oakland, he bought ten dollars' worth of postage stamps. The thought of going home to cook breakfast in his stuffy little room was repulsive to him. For the first time he refused to consider his debts. He knew that in his room he could manufacture a substantial breakfast at a cost of from fifteen to twenty cents. But, instead, he went into the Forum Cafe and ordered a breakfast that cost two dollars. He tipped the waiter a quarter, and spent fifty cents for a package of Egyptian cigarettes. It was the first time he had smoked since Ruth had asked him to stop. But he could see now no reason why he should not, and besides, he wanted to smoke. And what did the money matter? For five cents he could have bought a package of Durham and brown papers and rolled forty cigarettes - but what of it? Money had no meaning to him now except what it would immediately buy. He was chartless and rudderless, and he had no port to make, while drifting involved the least living, and it was living that hurt.
The days slipped along, and he slept eight hours regularly every night. Though now, while waiting for more checks, he ate in the Japanese restaurants where meals were served for ten cents, his wasted body filled out, as did the hollows in his cheeks. He no longer abused himself with short sleep, overwork, and overstudy. He wrote nothing, and the books were closed. He walked much, out in the hills, and loafed long hours in the quiet parks. He had no friends nor acquaintances, nor did he make any. He had no inclination. He was waiting for some impulse, from he knew not where, to put his stopped life into motion again. In the meantime his life remained run down, planless, and empty and idle.
Once he made a trip to San Francisco to look up the "real dirt." But at the last moment, as he stepped into the upstairs entrance, he recoiled and turned and fled through the swarming ghetto. He was frightened at the thought of hearing philosophy discussed, and he fled furtively, for fear that some one of the "real dirt" might chance along and recognize him.
Sometimes he glanced over the magazines and newspapers to see how "Ephemera" was being maltreated. It had made a hit. But what a hit! Everybody had read it, and everybody was discussing whether or not it was really poetry. The local papers had taken it up, and daily there appeared columns of learned criticisms, facetious editorials, and serious letters from subscribers. Helen Della Delmar (proclaimed with a flourish of trumpets and rolling of tomtoms to be the greatest woman poet in the United States) denied Brissenden a seat beside her on Pegasus and wrote voluminous letters to the public, proving that he was no poet.
THE PARTHENON came out in its next number patting itself on the back for the stir it had made, sneering at Sir John Value, and exploiting Brissenden's death with ruthless commercialism. A newspaper with a sworn circulation of half a million published an original and spontaneous poem by Helen Della Delmar, in which she gibed and sneered at Brissenden. Also, she was guilty of a second poem, in which she parodied him.
Martin had many times to be glad that Brissenden was dead. He had hated the crowd so, and here all that was finest and most sacred of him had been thrown to the crowd. Daily the vivisection of Beauty went on. Every nincompoop in the land rushed into free print, floating their wizened little egos into the public eye on the surge of Brissenden's greatness. Quoth one paper: "We have received a letter from a gentleman who wrote a poem just like it, only better, some time ago." Another paper, in deadly seriousness, reproving Helen Della Delmar for her parody, said: "But unquestionably Miss Delmar wrote it in a moment of badinage and not quite with the respect that one great poet should show to another and perhaps to the greatest. However, whether Miss Delmar be jealous or not of the man who invented 'Ephemera,' it is certain that she, like thousands of others, is fascinated by his work, and that the day may come when she will try to write lines like his."
Ministers began to preach sermons against "Ephemera," and one, who too stoutly stood for much of its content, was expelled for heresy. The great poem contributed to the gayety of the world. The comic verse-writers and the cartoonists took hold of it with screaming laughter, and in the personal columns of society weeklies jokes were perpetrated on it to the effect that Charley Frensham told Archie Jennings, in confidence, that five lines of "Ephemera" would drive a man to beat a cripple, and that ten lines would send him to the bottom of the river.
Martin did not laugh; nor did he grit his teeth in anger. The effect produced upon him was one of great sadness. In the crash of his whole world, with love on the pinnacle, the crash of magazinedom and the dear public was a small crash indeed. Brissenden had been wholly right in his judgment of the magazines, and he, Martin, had spent arduous and futile years in order to find it out for himself. The magazines were all Brissenden had said they were and more. Well, he was done, he solaced himself. He had hitched his wagon to a star and been landed in a pestiferous marsh. The visions of Tahiti - clean, sweet Tahiti - were coming to him more frequently. And there were the low Paumotus, and the high Marquesas; he saw himself often, now, on board trading schooners or frail little cutters, slipping out at dawn through the reef at Papeete and beginning the long beat through the pearl-atolls to Nukahiva and the Bay of Taiohae, where Tamari, he knew, would kill a pig in honor of his coming, and where Tamari's flower-garlanded daughters would seize his hands and with song and laughter garland him with flowers. The South Seas were calling, and he knew that sooner or later he would answer the call.
In the meantime he drifted, resting and recuperating after the long traverse he had made through the realm of knowledge. When THE PARTHENON check of three hundred and fifty dollars was forwarded to him, he turned it over to the local lawyer who had attended to Brissenden's affairs for his family. Martin took a receipt for the check, and at the same time gave a note for the hundred dollars Brissenden had let him have.
The time was not long when Martin ceased patronizing the Japanese restaurants. At the very moment when he had abandoned the fight, the tide turned. But it had turned too late. Without a thrill he opened a thick envelope from THE MILLENNIUM, scanned the face of a check that represented three hundred dollars, and noted that it was the payment on acceptance for "Adventure." Every debt he owed in the world, including the pawnshop, with its usurious interest, amounted to less than a hundred dollars. And when he had paid everything, and lifted the hundred-dollar note with Brissenden's lawyer, he still had over a hundred dollars in pocket. He ordered a suit of clothes from the tailor and ate his meals in the best cafes in town. He still slept in his little room at Maria's, but the sight of his new clothes caused the neighborhood children to cease from calling him "hobo" and "tramp" from the roofs of woodsheds and over back fences.
"Wiki-Wiki," his Hawaiian short story, was bought by WARREN'S MONTHLY for two hundred and fifty dollars. THE NORTHERN REVIEW took his essay, "The Cradle of Beauty," and MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE took "The Palmist" - the poem he had written to Marian. The editors and readers were back from their summer vacations, and manuscripts were being handled quickly. But Martin could not puzzle out what strange whim animated them to this general acceptance of the things they had persistently rejected for two years. Nothing of his had been published. He was not known anywhere outside of Oakland, and in Oakland, with the few who thought they knew him, he was notorious as a red-shirt and a socialist. So there was no explaining this sudden acceptability of his wares. It was sheer jugglery of fate.
After it had been refused by a number of magazines, he had taken Brissenden's rejected advice and started, "The Shame of the Sun" on the round of publishers. After several refusals, Singletree, Darnley & Co. accepted it, promising fall publication. When Martin asked for an advance on royalties, they wrote that such was not their custom, that books of that nature rarely paid for themselves, and that they doubted if his book would sell a thousand copies. Martin figured what the book would earn him on such a sale. Retailed at a dollar, on a royalty of fifteen per cent, it would bring him one hundred and fifty dollars. He decided that if he had it to do over again he would confine himself to fiction. "Adventure," one-fourth as long, had brought him twice as much from THE MILLENNIUM. That newspaper paragraph he had read so long ago had been true, after all. The first-class magazines did not pay on acceptance, and they paid well. Not two cents a word, but four cents a word, had THE MILLENNIUM paid him. And, furthermore, they bought good stuff, too, for were they not buying his? This last thought he accompanied with a grin.
He wrote to Singletree, Darnley & Co., offering to sell out his rights in "The Shame of the Sun" for a hundred dollars, but they did not care to take the risk. In the meantime he was not in need of money, for several of his later stories had been accepted and paid for. He actually opened a bank account, where, without a debt in the world, he had several hundred dollars to his credit. "Overdue," after having been declined by a number of magazines, came to rest at the Meredith-Lowell Company. Martin remembered the five dollars Gertrude had given him, and his resolve to return it to her a hundred times over; so he wrote for an advance on royalties of five hundred dollars. To his surprise a check for that amount, accompanied by a contract, came by return mail. He cashed the check into five-dollar gold pieces and telephoned Gertrude that he wanted to see her.
She arrived at the house panting and short of breath from the haste she had made. Apprehensive of trouble, she had stuffed the few dollars she possessed into her hand-satchel; and so sure was she that disaster had overtaken her brother, that she stumbled forward, sobbing, into his arms, at the same time thrusting the satchel mutely at him.
"I'd have come myself," he said. "But I didn't want a row with Mr. Higginbotham, and that is what would have surely happened."
"He'll be all right after a time," she assured him, while she wondered what the trouble was that Martin was in. "But you'd best get a job first an' steady down. Bernard does like to see a man at honest work. That stuff in the newspapers broke 'm all up. I never saw 'm so mad before."
"I'm not going to get a job," Martin said with a smile. "And you can tell him so from me. I don't need a job, and there's the proof of it."
He emptied the hundred gold pieces into her lap in a glinting, tinkling stream.
"You remember that fiver you gave me the time I didn't have carfare? Well, there it is, with ninety-nine brothers of different ages but all of the same size."
If Gertrude had been frightened when she arrived, she was now in a panic of fear. Her fear was such that it was certitude. She was not suspicious. She was convinced. She looked at Martin in horror, and her heavy limbs shrank under the golden stream as though it were burning her.
"It's yours," he laughed.
She burst into tears, and began to moan, "My poor boy, my poor boy!"
He was puzzled for a moment. Then he divined the cause of her agitation and handed her the Meredith-Lowell letter which had accompanied the check. She stumbled through it, pausing now and again to wipe her eyes, and when she had finished, said:-
"An' does it mean that you come by the money honestly?"
"More honestly than if I'd won it in a lottery. I earned it."
Slowly faith came back to her, and she reread the letter carefully. It took him long to explain to her the nature of the transaction which had put the money into his possession, and longer still to get her to understand that the money was really hers and that he did not need it.
"I'll put it in the bank for you," she said finally.
"You'll do nothing of the sort. It's yours, to do with as you please, and if you won't take it, I'll give it to Maria. She'll know what to do with it. I'd suggest, though, that you hire a servant and take a good long rest."
"I'm goin' to tell Bernard all about it," she announced, when she was leaving.
Martin winced, then grinned.
"Yes, do," he said. "And then, maybe, he'll invite me to dinner again."
"Yes, he will - I'm sure he will!" she exclaimed fervently, as she drew him to her and kissed and hugged him.
马丁酣睡了一夜，一动不动，直到送早班邮件的邮递员把他惊醒。他感到疲倦，没精打采，只漫无目的地翻着邮件。一家强盗杂志寄来了一个薄薄的信封，里面有一张二十二元的支票。他为这笔钱已经催讨了一年半。他注意到了那个数字，却无动于衷。以前那种发表作品收到支票时的激动已经没有了。这份支票不像以前的支票，其中再没有对远大前程的预告。在他眼里那只不过是二十二元钱的一张支票，可以买一点东西吃，如此而已。 
同一批邮件里还有一张支票，是从纽约一家周刊寄来的，是一首幽默诗歌的稿酬，十块钱，几个月以前采用的。一个想法来到他心里，他心平气和地思考着。他不知道以后要做什么，也不急于做什么，但他却非活下去不可，何况他还欠了一大批债。若是把他堆积在桌子底下的那一大堆稿件全部贴上邮票，重新打发出去旅行，会不会得到什么回报呢？其中的一两篇说不定能够被采用，那就可以帮助他生活下去了。他决定作这笔投资。他到奥克兰兑现了支票，买了十块钱邮票。一想起回到那憋气的小屋去做饭吃他就气闷，于是第一次拒绝了考虑欠债的问题。他知道在屋里可以用一毛五到两毛钱做出一顿像样的早饭，但是他却进了论坛咖啡馆，叫了一份两元一客的早餐。他给了传者一个两毛五的硬币，又花了五毛钱买了一包埃及香烟。那是他在露丝要求他戒烟之后第一次抽烟，不过现在他已经找不出理由不抽了，何况他还很想抽。钱算得了什么？他用五分钱就可以买一包度浪牌烟叶和一些卷烟纸，自己卷四十支——可那又怎么样？此刻的钱，除了能够立即买到手的东西以外，对他已经毫无意义。他没有海图，没有船舵，也没有海港可去，而随波逐流意味着不用理会生活——生活只叫他痛苦。
日子一天天默默过去。他每天晚上照例睡八个小时。现在他在坐待更多支票寄来，只到日本料理去吃饭，一餐一毛钱。他消瘦的身子丰满起来了，凹陷的双颊平复了。他不再用短促的睡眠、过度的工作和刻苦的学习来折磨自己了。他什么都不写了，书本全关上了。他常常散步，长时间在山里、在平静的公园里溜达。他没有朋友，没有熟人，也不结交朋友——没有那种要求。他在等待某种冲动出现，好让他停了摆的生活重新启动。他不知道那启动力会从哪儿来；他的生活就一直那么沮丧、空虚、没有计划、无所事事。
有一次他到旧金山去了一趟，去看看那些“草芥之民”，但是在踏上楼梯口的最后一刻他退却了。他转过身子逃进了人烟稠密的犹太贫民区。他一想到听哲学讨论就头疼，他偷偷地溜走了，他生怕出现什么“草芥之民”认出他来。
他有时也读报纸和杂志，想看看《蜉蝣》遭到了什么样的虐待。那诗引起了轰动，可那是什么样的轰动呀！每个人都读了，每个人都在讨论它是否算得上真正的诗。地方报纸讨论了起来；每天都要发表一些渊博的专栏评述，吹毛求疵的社论，和订阅者们一本正经的来信。海伦·德拉·德尔玛（她是以花腔连天的喇叭和震天价响的鼓声被捧上了合众国最伟大的女诗人宝座的）拒绝在她的飞马背上给予布里森登一席之地。她给公众连篇累犊地写信，证明布里森登算不上持人。
《帕提农》在它的下一期为自己所引起的轰动而自鸣得意。它嘲弄约翰·伐流爵士，并用残酷的商业手段开发布里森登之死这个话题。一份自称发行量达到五十万份的报纸发表了海伦·德拉·德尔玛一首情不自禁的别具一格的诗。她挑布里森登的毛病，嘲笑他。然后还毫不内疚地发表了一首对布里森登的诗的讽刺性访作。
马丁曾多次庆幸布里森登已经死去。布里森登是那么仇恨群氓，而此刻他所有的最优秀最神圣的东西却被扔给了群氓，每天诗里的美都遭到宰割；这个国家的每一个蠢材都在借着布里森登的伟大所引起的热潮大写其文章，把自己枯萎渺小的身影硬塞进读者眼里。一家报纸说：“前不久我们收到一位先生寄来的信，他写了一首诗，很像布里森登，只是更加高明。”另一家报纸煞有介事地指责海伦·德拉·德尔玛不该写那首模拟诗，说：“不过德尔玛小姐写那首诗是带着嘲弄的心情，而不是带着伟大的诗人对别人——也许是最伟大的人——应有的尊重。不过，无论德尔玛小姐对创作了《蜉蝣》的人是否出于妒忌，她却肯定是被他的诗迷住了，像千百万读者一样；也许有一天她也会想写出像他那样的诗的。”
牧师们开始布道，反对《蜉蝣》，有一个牧师因为坚决维护那诗的内容，竟被以异端罪逐出了教会。那伟大的诗篇也给了人们笑料。俏皮诗和漫画作者发出尖利的笑声抓住了它，社会新闻周刊的人物专栏也拿那诗说笑话，大意是：查理·福雷山姆私下告诉阿齐·简宁斯，五行《蜉蝣》就足以让人去殴打残疾人，十行《蜉蝣》就可以让他跳河自杀。
马丁笑不出来，却也没有气得咬牙。此事在他身上的效果是无边的悲凉。他的整个世界都崩溃了，爱情在它的顶尖。和这一比，杂志王国和亲爱的读者群的崩溃的确不算得什么。布里森登对杂志世界的判断完全没有错；而他马丁却花了好多年艰苦的徒劳的努力才明白过来。杂志正是布里森登所说的样子，甚至更为严重。好了，他的歌已经唱完了，他安慰自己，他赶了自己的马车去追求一颗星星，却落进了疫病蒸腾的泥沼里。塔希提的幻觉——美妙的、一尘不染的塔希提——越来越频繁地出现在他心里。那儿有保莫图思那样的低矮的岛子，有马奎撒思那样的高峻的岛子，现在他常发现自己驾着做生意的大帆船或是脆弱的独桅快艇在黎明时分穿过帕皮提的环礁，开始远航，经过产珍珠的珊瑚礁，驶往努卡西瓦和泰欧黑，他知道塔马瑞会在那儿杀猪欢迎他，而塔马瑞的围着花环的女儿们会抓住他的手，欢笑着，唱着歌给他戴上花环。南海在召唤着他，他知道自己早晚是会响应召唤到那儿去的。
现在他过着随波逐流的生活。经历了在知识天他的长期磨难之后他休息着，恢复着健康。在《帕提农》那三百五十元寄给他之后，他把它转给了当地那位处理布里森登事务的律师，让他转给了他的家里。马丁得到了一张收到支票的收据，同时自己也写了一张他欠布里森登一百元的收据寄去。
不久以后马丁就停止上日本料理了。他放弃了战斗，却时来运转了，虽然来得太迟。他打开了一个《千年盛世》寄来的薄信封，看了看支票的三百元的票面，发现那是接受了《冒险》的报酬。他在世界上欠下的每一笔帐，包括高利贷的当铺债务，加在一起也不到一百元。他偿还了每一笔债，从布里森登的律师那儿赎回了那张借据，口袋里还剩下了一百多块钱。他在裁缝铺定做了一套衣服，在城里最好的餐厅用餐。他仍然在玛利亚家的小屋子里睡觉，但是那一身新衣服却使附近的孩子们停止了躲在柴房顶上或骑在后门栅栏上叫他“二流子”或“瘪三”了。
《华伦月刊》用二百五十块钱买了他的夏威夷短篇小说《威几威几》；《北方评论》采用了他的论文《美的摇篮》；《麦金托什杂志》采用了他为茉莉安写的诗《手相家》。编辑和读者都已经度完暑假回来，稿件的处理快了起来。但是马丁不明白他们害了什么怪病，突然一哄而上，采用起他们两年来一直拒绝的稿子来。那以前他什么东西都没有发表过；除了在奥克兰谁也不认识他，而在奥克兰认识他的人都把他看作赤色分子，社会主义者。他那些货品为什么突然有了销路，他无法解释。只能说是命运的播弄。
在他多次遭到杂志拒绝之后，他接受了过去不肯接受的布里森登的意见，开始让《太阳的耻辱》去拜访一家家的出版社。在受到几次拒绝之后，那稿子为欣格垂、达思利公司采用了，他们答应秋天出版那本书。马丁要求预支版税，对方回答他们无此成冽，像那种性质的书一般入不敷出，他们怀疑他的书是否能销到一千册。马丁便按这个标准估计了一下那书所能带给他的收入：若是一元钱一本，版税算一毛五，那么那书就能给他带来一百五十元。他决定若是再要写作他就只写小说。只有它四分之一长的《冒险》却从《千年盛世》得到了两倍的收入。他很久以前在报上读到的那一段话毕竟没有错：第一流的杂志的确是一经采用立即付酬的，而且稿酬从优。《千年盛世》给他的稿费不是每字两分，而是每字四分。而且还采用优秀的作品，这不就是么？他的作品就被采用了。这最后的念头一出现，他不禁笑了。
他给欣格垂、达恩利公司写了信，建议把他的《太阳的耻辱》以一百元卖断，可是他们不肯冒这个险。而此时他也不缺钱用，因为他晚期的几篇小说又已被采用，得到了稿酬。实际上他还开了一个银行户头，在那里他不仅不欠分文，而且有好几百元存款。《过期》在被几家杂志拒绝之后在梅瑞迪思一罗威尔公司落了脚。马丁还记得格特露给他的那五块钱和自己还她一百倍的决心。因此他写信要求预支五百元版税。出乎他意料之外，寄回了一张五百元的支票和一纸合同。他把支票全兑换成五元一个的金币，给格特露打电话，说要见她。
格特露来得匆忙，气喘吁吁地进了屋子。她担心又出了麻烦，已经把手边的几块钱塞进了提包。她一心以为她弟弟遭到了灾难，一见他便跌跌撞撞扑到他的怀里，泪流满面，一言不发把提包塞进弟弟手里。
“我本想自己去的，”他说，“但是我怕跟希金波坦先生闹得不愉快——肯定是会干起来的。”
“过些日子他就会好的，”她向他保证，同时在猜测着马丁出了什么事。“但是你最好还是找个工作，安定下来。伯纳德喜欢看见别人规规矩矩地干活。报上那些东西叫他受不了，我以前还没有见过他发那么大的脾气。”
“我不打算找工作，”马丁笑嘻嘻地说，“你可以把我这话转告给他，我并不需要工作，这就是证明。”他把那一百枚金币倒进了格特露的裙兜里，金币闪闪发亮，发出叮叮当当的脆响。
“你还记得我没有车费时你给我的那五块钱么？喏，这就是那五块，带上了九十九个弟兄，年龄不同，大小可一样。”
如果说格特露到来时心里害怕的话，此刻她已是胆战心惊，不知所措了。她从担心变成了确信，她没有怀疑，她相信自己。她满脸恐怖地望着马丁，沉重的两腿在金币的重负下软瘫了，好像遭到了火烧。
“这钱是你的了，”他笑了起来。
她大哭起来，开始嚎叫：“我可怜的弟弟，我可怜的弟弟。”
马丁一时很觉莫名其妙，然后明白了她难过的原因，便把梅瑞迪思一罗威尔公司防支票寄来的信递给了她。她磕磕绊绊读着信，不时停下来抹眼泪，读完说道：
“这是不是说你这钱来得正当呢？”
“比中彩票还正当，是挣来的。”
信任慢慢回到她心里，她又把信仔仔细细读了一次。马万花了不少功夫才向她解释清楚使他获得那收入的是一笔什么性质的交易，又花了更多的功夫才让她明白了那钱真是她的——他不需要钱。
“我给你存在银行里，”最后她说。
“你别那么做，这钱是你的，你想怎么花就怎么花，你要是不收我就给茉莉安了，她会知道怎么花的。我倒是建议你请一个用人，好好作一个长时间的休息。”
“我要把这一切都告诉伯纳德，”她临走时宣布。
马丁眨了眨眼，笑了。
“好的，告诉他，”他说，“那时候他也许又会请我去吃饭的。”
“对，他会的，我相信他会的。”她热情地叫了起来，把他拉到身边，亲他，拥抱他。
Chapter 42
One day Martin became aware that he was lonely. He was healthy and strong, and had nothing to do. The cessation from writing and studying, the death of Brissenden, and the estrangement from Ruth had made a big hole in his life; and his life refused to be pinned down to good living in cafes and the smoking of Egyptian cigarettes. It was true the South Seas were calling to him, but he had a feeling that the game was not yet played out in the United States. Two books were soon to be published, and he had more books that might find publication. Money could be made out of them, and he would wait and take a sackful of it into the South Seas. He knew a valley and a bay in the Marquesas that he could buy for a thousand Chili dollars. The valley ran from the horseshoe, land- locked bay to the tops of the dizzy, cloud-capped peaks and contained perhaps ten thousand acres. It was filled with tropical fruits, wild chickens, and wild pigs, with an occasional herd of wild cattle, while high up among the peaks were herds of wild goats harried by packs of wild dogs. The whole place was wild. Not a human lived in it. And he could buy it and the bay for a thousand Chili dollars.
The bay, as he remembered it, was magnificent, with water deep enough to accommodate the largest vessel afloat, and so safe that the South Pacific Directory recommended it to the best careening place for ships for hundreds of miles around. He would buy a schooner - one of those yacht-like, coppered crafts that sailed like witches - and go trading copra and pearling among the islands. He would make the valley and the bay his headquarters. He would build a patriarchal grass house like Tati's, and have it and the valley and the schooner filled with dark-skinned servitors. He would entertain there the factor of Taiohae, captains of wandering traders, and all the best of the South Pacific riffraff. He would keep open house and entertain like a prince. And he would forget the books he had opened and the world that had proved an illusion.
To do all this he must wait in California to fill the sack with money. Already it was beginning to flow in. If one of the books made a strike, it might enable him to sell the whole heap of manuscripts. Also he could collect the stories and the poems into books, and make sure of the valley and the bay and the schooner. He would never write again. Upon that he was resolved. But in the meantime, awaiting the publication of the books, he must do something more than live dazed and stupid in the sort of uncaring trance into which he had fallen.
He noted, one Sunday morning, that the Bricklayers' Picnic took place that day at Shell Mound Park, and to Shell Mound Park he went. He had been to the working-class picnics too often in his earlier life not to know what they were like, and as he entered the park he experienced a recrudescence of all the old sensations. After all, they were his kind, these working people. He had been born among them, he had lived among them, and though he had strayed for a time, it was well to come back among them.
"If it ain't Mart!" he heard some one say, and the next moment a hearty hand was on his shoulder. "Where you ben all the time? Off to sea? Come on an' have a drink."
It was the old crowd in which he found himself - the old crowd, with here and there a gap, and here and there a new face. The fellows were not bricklayers, but, as in the old days, they attended all Sunday picnics for the dancing, and the fighting, and the fun. Martin drank with them, and began to feel really human once more. He was a fool to have ever left them, he thought; and he was very certain that his sum of happiness would have been greater had he remained with them and let alone the books and the people who sat in the high places. Yet the beer seemed not so good as of yore. It didn't taste as it used to taste. Brissenden had spoiled him for steam beer, he concluded, and wondered if, after all, the books had spoiled him for companionship with these friends of his youth. He resolved that he would not be so spoiled, and he went on to the dancing pavilion. Jimmy, the plumber, he met there, in the company of a tall, blond girl who promptly forsook him for Martin.
"Gee, it's like old times," Jimmy explained to the gang that gave him the laugh as Martin and the blonde whirled away in a waltz. "An' I don't give a rap. I'm too damned glad to see 'm back. Watch 'm waltz, eh? It's like silk. Who'd blame any girl?"
But Martin restored the blonde to Jimmy, and the three of them, with half a dozen friends, watched the revolving couples and laughed and joked with one another. Everybody was glad to see Martin back. No book of his been published; he carried no fictitious value in their eyes. They liked him for himself. He felt like a prince returned from excile, and his lonely heart burgeoned in the geniality in which it bathed. He made a mad day of it, and was at his best. Also, he had money in his pockets, and, as in the old days when he returned from sea with a pay-day, he made the money fly.
Once, on the dancing-floor, he saw Lizzie Connolly go by in the arms of a young workingman; and, later, when he made the round of the pavilion, he came upon her sitting by a refreshment table. Surprise and greetings over, he led her away into the grounds, where they could talk without shouting down the music. From the instant he spoke to her, she was his. He knew it. She showed it in the proud humility of her eyes, in every caressing movement of her proudly carried body, and in the way she hung upon his speech. She was not the young girl as he had known her. She was a woman, now, and Martin noted that her wild, defiant beauty had improved, losing none of its wildness, while the defiance and the fire seemed more in control. "A beauty, a perfect beauty," he murmured admiringly under his breath. And he knew she was his, that all he had to do was to say "Come," and she would go with him over the world wherever he led.
Even as the thought flashed through his brain he received a heavy blow on the side of his head that nearly knocked him down. It was a man's fist, directed by a man so angry and in such haste that the fist had missed the jaw for which it was aimed. Martin turned as he staggered, and saw the fist coming at him in a wild swing. Quite as a matter of course he ducked, and the fist flew harmlessly past, pivoting the man who had driven it. Martin hooked with his left, landing on the pivoting man with the weight of his body behind the blow. The man went to the ground sidewise, leaped to his feet, and made a mad rush. Martin saw his passion-distorted face and wondered what could be the cause of the fellow's anger. But while he wondered, he shot in a straight left, the weight of his body behind the blow. The man went over backward and fell in a crumpled heap. Jimmy and others of the gang were running toward them.
Martin was thrilling all over. This was the old days with a vengeance, with their dancing, and their fighting, and their fun. While he kept a wary eye on his antagonist, he glanced at Lizzie. Usually the girls screamed when the fellows got to scrapping, but she had not screamed. She was looking on with bated breath, leaning slightly forward, so keen was her interest, one hand pressed to her breast, her cheek flushed, and in her eyes a great and amazed admiration.
The man had gained his feet and was struggling to escape the restraining arms that were laid on him.
"She was waitin' for me to come back!" he was proclaiming to all and sundry. "She was waitin' for me to come back, an' then that fresh guy comes buttin' in. Let go o' me, I tell yeh. I'm goin' to fix 'm."
"What's eatin' yer?" Jimmy was demanding, as he helped hold the young fellow back. "That guy's Mart Eden. He's nifty with his mits, lemme tell you that, an' he'll eat you alive if you monkey with 'm."
"He can't steal her on me that way," the other interjected.
"He licked the Flyin' Dutchman, an' you know HIM," Jimmy went on expostulating. "An' he did it in five rounds. You couldn't last a minute against him. See?"
This information seemed to have a mollifying effect, and the irate young man favored Martin with a measuring stare.
"He don't look it," he sneered; but the sneer was without passion.
"That's what the Flyin' Dutchman thought," Jimmy assured him. "Come on, now, let's get outa this. There's lots of other girls. Come on."
The young fellow allowed himself to be led away toward the pavilion, and the gang followed after him.
"Who is he?" Martin asked Lizzie. "And what's it all about, anyway?"
Already the zest of combat, which of old had been so keen and lasting, had died down, and he discovered that he was self- analytical, too much so to live, single heart and single hand, so primitive an existence.
Lizzie tossed her head.
"Oh, he's nobody," she said. "He's just ben keepin' company with me."
"I had to, you see," she explained after a pause. "I was gettin' pretty lonesome. But I never forgot." Her voice sank lower, and she looked straight before her. "I'd throw 'm down for you any time."
Martin looking at her averted face, knowing that all he had to do was to reach out his hand and pluck her, fell to pondering whether, after all, there was any real worth in refined, grammatical English, and, so, forgot to reply to her.
"You put it all over him," she said tentatively, with a laugh.
"He's a husky young fellow, though," he admitted generously. "If they hadn't taken him away, he might have given me my hands full."
"Who was that lady friend I seen you with that night?" she asked abruptly.
"Oh, just a lady friend," was his answer.
"It was a long time ago," she murmured contemplatively. "It seems like a thousand years."
But Martin went no further into the matter. He led the conversation off into other channels. They had lunch in the restaurant, where he ordered wine and expensive delicacies and afterward he danced with her and with no one but her, till she was tired. He was a good dancer, and she whirled around and around with him in a heaven of delight, her head against his shoulder, wishing that it could last forever. Later in the afternoon they strayed off among the trees, where, in the good old fashion, she sat down while he sprawled on his back, his head in her lap. He lay and dozed, while she fondled his hair, looked down on his closed eyes, and loved him without reserve. Looking up suddenly, he read the tender advertisement in her face. Her eyes fluttered down, then they opened and looked into his with soft defiance.
"I've kept straight all these years," she said, her voice so low that it was almost a whisper.
In his heart Martin knew that it was the miraculous truth. And at his heart pleaded a great temptation. It was in his power to make her happy. Denied happiness himself, why should he deny happiness to her? He could marry her and take her down with him to dwell in the grass-walled castle in the Marquesas. The desire to do it was strong, but stronger still was the imperative command of his nature not to do it. In spite of himself he was still faithful to Love. The old days of license and easy living were gone. He could not bring them back, nor could he go back to them. He was changed - how changed he had not realized until now.
"I am not a marrying man, Lizzie," he said lightly.
The hand caressing his hair paused perceptibly, then went on with the same gentle stroke. He noticed her face harden, but it was with the hardness of resolution, for still the soft color was in her cheeks and she was all glowing and melting.
"I did not mean that - " she began, then faltered. "Or anyway I don't care."
"I don't care," she repeated. "I'm proud to be your friend. I'd do anything for you. I'm made that way, I guess."
Martin sat up. He took her hand in his. He did it deliberately, with warmth but without passion; and such warmth chilled her.
"Don't let's talk about it," she said.
"You are a great and noble woman," he said. "And it is I who should be proud to know you. And I am, I am. You are a ray of light to me in a very dark world, and I've got to be straight with you, just as straight as you have been."
"I don't care whether you're straight with me or not. You could do anything with me. You could throw me in the dirt an' walk on me. An' you're the only man in the world that can," she added with a defiant flash. "I ain't taken care of myself ever since I was a kid for nothin'."
"And it's just because of that that I'm not going to," he said gently. "You are so big and generous that you challenge me to equal generousness. I'm not marrying, and I'm not - well, loving without marrying, though I've done my share of that in the past. I'm sorry I came here to-day and met you. But it can't be helped now, and I never expected it would turn out this way."
"But look here, Lizzie. I can't begin to tell you how much I like you. I do more than like you. I admire and respect you. You are magnificent, and you are magnificently good. But what's the use of words? Yet there's something I'd like to do. You've had a hard life; let me make it easy for you." (A joyous light welled into her eyes, then faded out again.) "I'm pretty sure of getting hold of some money soon - lots of it."
In that moment he abandoned the idea of the valley and the bay, the grass-walled castle and the trim, white schooner. After all, what did it matter? He could go away, as he had done so often, before the mast, on any ship bound anywhere.
"I'd like to turn it over to you. There must be something you want - to go to school or business college. You might like to study and be a stenographer. I could fix it for you. Or maybe your father and mother are living - I could set them up in a grocery store or something. Anything you want, just name it, and I can fix it for you."
She made no reply, but sat, gazing straight before her, dry-eyed and motionless, but with an ache in the throat which Martin divined so strongly that it made his own throat ache. He regretted that he had spoken. It seemed so tawdry what he had offered her - mere money - compared with what she offered him. He offered her an extraneous thing with which he could part without a pang, while she offered him herself, along with disgrace and shame, and sin, and all her hopes of heaven.
"Don't let's talk about it," she said with a catch in her voice that she changed to a cough. She stood up. "Come on, let's go home. I'm all tired out."
The day was done, and the merrymakers had nearly all departed. But as Martin and Lizzie emerged from the trees they found the gang waiting for them. Martin knew immediately the meaning of it. Trouble was brewing. The gang was his body-guard. They passed out through the gates of the park with, straggling in the rear, a second gang, the friends that Lizzie's young man had collected to avenge the loss of his lady. Several constables and special police officers, anticipating trouble, trailed along to prevent it, and herded the two gangs separately aboard the train for San Francisco. Martin told Jimmy that he would get off at Sixteenth Street Station and catch the electric car into Oakland. Lizzie was very quiet and without interest in what was impending. The train pulled in to Sixteenth Street Station, and the waiting electric car could be seen, the conductor of which was impatiently clanging the gong.
"There she is," Jimmy counselled. "Make a run for it, an' we'll hold 'em back. Now you go! Hit her up!"
The hostile gang was temporarily disconcerted by the manoeuvre, then it dashed from the train in pursuit. The staid and sober Oakland folk who sat upon the car scarcely noted the young fellow and the girl who ran for it and found a seat in front on the outside. They did not connect the couple with Jimmy, who sprang on the steps, crying to the motorman:-
"Slam on the juice, old man, and beat it outa here!"
The next moment Jimmy whirled about, and the passengers saw him land his fist on the face of a running man who was trying to board the car. But fists were landing on faces the whole length of the car. Thus, Jimmy and his gang, strung out on the long, lower steps, met the attacking gang. The car started with a great clanging of its gong, and, as Jimmy's gang drove off the last assailants, they, too, jumped off to finish the job. The car dashed on, leaving the flurry of combat far behind, and its dumfounded passengers never dreamed that the quiet young man and the pretty working-girl sitting in the corner on the outside seat had been the cause of the row.
Martin had enjoyed the fight, with a recrudescence of the old fighting thrills. But they quickly died away, and he was oppressed by a great sadness. He felt very old - centuries older than those careless, care-free young companions of his others days. He had travelled far, too far to go back. Their mode of life, which had once been his, was now distasteful to him. He was disappointed in it all. He had developed into an alien. As the steam beer had tasted raw, so their companionship seemed raw to him. He was too far removed. Too many thousands of opened books yawned between them and him. He had exiled himself. He had travelled in the vast realm of intellect until he could no longer return home. On the other hand, he was human, and his gregarious need for companionship remained unsatisfied. He had found no new home. As the gang could not understand him, as his own family could not understand him, as the bourgeoisie could not understand him, so this girl beside him, whom he honored high, could not understand him nor the honor he paid her. His sadness was not untouched with bitterness as he thought it over.
"Make it up with him," he advised Lizzie, at parting, as they stood in front of the workingman's shack in which she lived, near Sixth and Market. He referred to the young fellow whose place he had usurped that day.
"I can't - now," she said.
"Oh, go on," he said jovially. "All you have to do is whistle and he'll come running."
"I didn't mean that," she said simply.
And he knew what she had meant.
She leaned toward him as he was about to say good night. But she leaned not imperatively, not seductively, but wistfully and humbly. He was touched to the heart. His large tolerance rose up in him. He put his arms around her, and kissed her, and knew that upon his own lips rested as true a kiss as man ever received.
"My God!" she sobbed. "I could die for you. I could die for you."
She tore herself from him suddenly and ran up the steps. He felt a quick moisture in his eyes.
"Martin Eden," he communed. "You're not a brute, and you're a damn poor Nietzscheman. You'd marry her if you could and fill her quivering heart full with happiness. But you can't, you can't. And it's a damn shame."
"'A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers,'" he muttered, remembering his Henly. "'Life is, I think, a blunder and a shame.' It is - a blunder and a shame."
那天，马丁意识到了自己的寂寞。他身强力壮，却无所事事。写作和学习停止了，布里森登死了，露丝跟他吹了，他的生命被戳了个洞而他又不肯把生活固定在悠悠闲闲坐咖啡馆抽埃及烟的模式上。不错，南海在召唤他，但是他有一种感觉：美国的游戏还没有做完。他有两本书快要出版，还有更多的书就会找到出版的机会，还有钱可赚，他想等一等，然后带一大口袋金币到南海去。他知道玛奎撤思群岛有一个峡谷和一道海湾，用一千智利元就可以买到。那道峡谷从被陆地包围的马蹄铁形海湾开始直到白云缘绕的令人晕眩的峰顶，约有一万英亩，满是热带水果、野鸡、野猪，偶然还会出现野牛群。在山巅上还有受到一群群野狗骚扰的成群的野羊。那儿整个是渺无人烟的荒野，而他用一千智利元就能买到。 
他记得那海湾，它风景壮丽，波阔水深，连最大的船只都可以非常安全地出入。《南太平洋指南》把它推荐为周围几百英里之内最好的船舶检修处。他打算买一艘大帆船——像游艇的、铜皮包裹的、驾驶起来像有巫术指挥的大帆船，用它在南海诸岛之间做椰子干生意，也采珍珠。他要把海湾和峡谷当作大本营，要修建一幢塔提家的那种草屋，让那草屋、峡谷和大帆船里满是皮肤黝黑的仆人。他要在那儿宴请泰欣黑的商务代办、往来的商船船长和南太平洋流浪汉中的头面人物。他要大宴宾客，来者不拒，像王公贵族一样。他要忘掉自己读过的书，忘掉书里那个其实是虚幻的世界。
为了办到这一切，他必须在加利福尼亚呆下去，让口袋里塞满了钱——钱已经开始汩汩地流来了。只要一本书走了红，他就可能卖掉他全部作品的手稿。他还可以把小说和诗歌编成集子出版，保证把那峡谷、海湾和大帆船买到手。他决不再写东西了，这是早已决定了的。但是在等着他的书出版的时候，他总得有点事做，不能像现在这样浑浑噩噩呆头呆脑，什么都不在乎地过日子。
有个星期天早上他听说砌砖工野餐会那天要在贝陵公园举行，就到那儿去了。他早年参加过多次工人阶级的野餐会，当然知道情况。他一走进公园，往日的快乐辛酸便重新袭来。这些劳动人民毕竟是他的同行，他是在他们之间出生和长大的，虽然曾和他们分手，但毕竟已回到了他们之中。
“这不是马丁吗？”他听见有人说，接着就有一只亲切的手落到他肩上，“你这么久到哪儿去了？出海了么？来，喝一杯。”
他发现自己又回到老朋友之间。还是那群老朋友，只是少了几个旧面孔，多了几张新面孔。有些人并不是砌砖工，但是跟以前一样来参加星期天野餐，来跳舞，打架，寻开心。马丁跟他们一起喝酒，重新觉得像个现实世界的人了。他觉得自己真傻，当初怎么会离开了他们呢？他非常肯定如果他没有去读书，没有去和那些高层人物厮混，而是一直跟这些人在一起，他会要幸福得多。但是，那啤酒的味道却似乎变了，没有从前那么可口了。他的结论是：布里森登败坏了他对高泡沫啤酒的胃口。他又在猜想，看来书本已经破坏了他跟这些少时的朋友之间的友谊。他决心不那么娇气，便到舞厅去跳舞。他在那儿遇见了水暖工吉米跟一个金头发白皮肤的高挑个儿的姑娘在一起。那姑娘一见马丁便丢下吉米，来和他跳。
“喷喷，还是跟从前一样，”马丁和那姑娘一圈一圈跳起华尔兹来，大家对吉米一笑，吉米解释道，“我才他妈妈的不在乎呢，马丁回来了，我高兴得要命。你看他跳华尔兹，滑溜溜的，像绸缎一样。难怪姑娘们喜欢他。”
但是马丁却把那金发姑娘还给了吉米。三个人便和六七个朋友站在一起，看着一对对的舞伴打旋子，彼此开着玩笑，快活着。大家看见马丁回来都很高兴。在他们眼里他并没有出版什么书，身上也没有什么虚构的价值，大家喜欢他，都只因为他本人。他觉得自己像个流放归来的王子，寂寞的心沐浴在真情实爱之间，又含苞欲放了。他狂欢极乐，表现得出类拔萃。而且，他口袋里有钱，恣意地挥霍着，就像当年出海归来刚发了工资一样。
有一回他在舞池里见到了丽齐·康诺利，一个工人正搂着她从他身边舞过；后来他在舞场里跳舞，又见她坐在一张小吃桌边。一番惊讶与招呼过去，他便领她去到草场——在那儿他们可以不必用高声谈话来压倒音乐。他刚一开始说话，她就已经成了他的人，这他很明白。她那又自卑又傲慢的眼神，她那得意扬扬的身姿的柔媚动作，她听他说话时那专注的神情，在在流露出了这一点。她再也不是他以前所认识的那个姑娘了，现在她已成了个女人。马丁注意到，她那大胆而野性的美有了进步。野性如故，但那大胆和火辣却醇和了些。“美人，绝色的美人，”马丁倾倒了，对自己低声喃喃地说。而他却明白地属于他，他只需要说一声“来”，她就会乖乖地跟随他走到天涯海角。
这些念头刚闪过，他的脑袋右面就挨了重重一击，几乎被打倒在地。那是一个男人的拳头，打得太愤怒，也太急，原想打他的腮帮，却打偏了。马丁一个趔趄，转过身子，见那拳头又狠狠飞来，便顺势一弯腰，那一拳落了空，那人身子却旋了过去，马丁左手一个勾拳，落到正旋转的人身上，拳头加上旋转力使那人侧着身子倒到了地上。那人翻身跳起，又疯狂地扑了上来。马丁看到了他那气急败坏的脸色，心里纳闷，是什么事让他这么大发脾气？可同时左手又挥出了一个直拳，全身力气都压了上去。那人往后倒地，翻了个个儿，瘫倒在那里。人群中的吉米和其他人急忙向他们跑来。
马丁全身激动。往昔的日子又回来了：寻仇结恨、跳舞、打架。说说笑笑。他一面拿眼睛盯着对手，一面看了丽齐一眼。平时一打架，女人们都会尖叫，可是丽齐没有叫，她只是身子微微前倾，大气不出地专心看着，一只手压在胸前，面色酡红，眼里放着惊讶和崇拜的光。
那人已经站起身来，挣扎着要摔脱拽住他的几条胳臂。
“她是在等我回来！”他对大家解释道，“她在等我回来，可这个新到的家伙却来插上一脚。放了我，告诉你们，我得教训他一顿。”
“你凭什么东西生气？”吉米在帮着拉架，问道，“这人是马丁·伊登，拳头厉害着呢，告诉你吧，你跟他闹别扭，他能把你活活吃了。”
“我不能让他就那么把她偷走，”对方插嘴道。
“他连荷兰飞人也吃掉了的，你总认识荷兰飞人吧，”吉米继续劝解，“他五个回合就把荷兰飞人打趴下了。你跟他干不了一分钟的，懂吗？”
这番劝告起了缓解的作用，那气冲冲的年轻人瞪大眼睛打量了马丁一会儿。
“他看起来可不像，”他冷笑了，但笑得没多大力气。
“当初荷兰飞人也是那么想的，”吉米向他保证，“好了，咱们别再提这事了。姑娘多的是，算了吧。”
那青年接受了劝告，往舞场去了，一群人跟着他。
“他是谁？”马丁问丽齐，“他这么闹是什么意思，究竟？”
毕竟当年对打架的那种强烈的、执着的狂热已经过去，他发现自己太爱做自我分析，他是再也无法像那样心地单纯、独来独往、原始野蛮地活下去了。
丽齐脑袋一甩。
“啊，他谁也不是，”她说，“不过陪陪我罢了。”
“我得有人陪着，你看，”她停了一会儿，说道，“我越来越感到寂寞，不过我从来没有忘记你。”她低下声音，眼睛直勾勾望着前面。“为了你我随时可以把他扔掉。”
马丁望着她那扭到一边的头。他明白他只需要一伸手，就可以把她揽过来。但他却沉思了：他心里只在怀疑文雅的合乎语法的英语究竟有什么真正的价值，没有答腔。
“你把他打了个落花流水，”她笑了笑，试探着说。
“不过他倒也是个结实的小伙子，”他坦率地承认，“要不是叫别人劝走了，他也能给我不小的麻烦呢。”
“那天晚上我看见你和一个女的在一起，那是谁？”她突然问道。
“啊，一个女朋友，”他答道。
“那已是很久很久以前了，”她沉思着说，“好像有一千年了呢。”
但是马丁没有接那个话碴，却把谈话引上了别的渠道。他们在餐馆吃了午饭。他叫来了酒和昂贵精美的食品，吃过便和她跳舞。他再不跟别人跳，只跟她跳，直跳到她筋疲力尽为止。他跳得很好，她跟他一圈一圈地跳着，感到天堂般地幸福。她的头偎在他肩上，恨不得无穷无尽地跳下去。下午他们钻进了树林。她在树林里坐了下来，让他按古老的良好习俗躺着，把头枕在她膝头上，摊开了四肢。他躺在那儿打盹，她用手抚摩着他的头发，低头看他闭上的眼睛，尽情地抚爱着他。他突然睁开眼一看，看出了她满脸的柔情。她的目光往下一闪，张了开来，带着不顾一切的温情直望着他的眼睛。
“我这几年一直都规规矩矩，”她说，声音很低，几乎像说悄悄话。
马丁从心里知道那是一个奇迹般的事实。一种巨大的诱惑从他心里升起。他是有能力让她幸福的。他自己虽得不到幸福，可他为什么不能让她幸福呢？他可以和她结婚，然后带她到玛奎撒思那干草打墙的堡垒去住。这个愿望很强，但更强的是他那不容分说地否定那愿望的天性。尽管他并不愿意，他仍然忠实于爱情。往日那种放纵轻狂的日子已经过去。他变了——直到现在他才知道自己的变化有多大。
“我不是结婚过日子的人，丽齐，”他淡淡地说。
那抚摩着他头发的手明显地停止了活动，然后又温柔地抚摩起来。他注意到她的脸色僵硬了，却是下定了决心的僵硬，因为她面颊上还有温柔的红晕，仍然陶醉，仍然容光焕发。
“我不是那意思，”她刚开口又犹豫了，“或者说我一向就不在乎。
“我不在乎，”她重复说，“我只要能做你的朋友，就已感到骄傲。为了你我什么事都可以做。我看这就是我天生的命。”
马丁坐起身子，抓住了她的手，勉强地，有温暖但没有热情。而那温暖却叫她心凉了。
“咱俩别谈这个了吧，”她说。
“你是个高贵的女人，很了不起，”他说，“应该是我为认识你而骄傲，而我确实感到骄傲，很骄傲。你是我漆黑一团的世界里的一线光明。我对你应当规规矩矩，就像你一向规规矩矩一样。”
“你对我规不规矩我不在乎，你可以愿对我怎么样就怎么样，在这个世界上只有你才可以这样做。你可以把我甩到地上，再踩在我身上。在这个世界上我只准你这么做，”她的眼光又问出什么都不在乎的光芒。“我从小就注意保护自己，可没有白保护。”
“正因为你如此我才不能轻率，”他温情脉脉地说，“你是个好姑娘，心地宽厚，也叫我心地宽厚。我不打算结婚，因此不打算光恋爱不结婚，虽然以前那么做过。我很抱歉今天到这里来遇见了你，可现在已经无可奈何。我从没有想到会出现这样的局面。
“可是，听我说，丽齐，我不能告诉你我开始时有多喜欢你，我不仅是喜欢，而且是佩服你，尊敬你。你非常出色，而且善良得非常出色。可是光嘴上说有什么用？不过，我还想做一件事。你生浑一直困难，我想让你过得好一些。（此时丽齐眼里闪出了欢乐的光彩，却随即暗淡了，）我有把握很快就会得到一笔钱——很多。”
在那一瞬间他已放弃了峡谷、海湾、草墙堡垒和那漂亮的白色大帆船。说到底那些东西又算得了什么？他还可以像以前一贯那样，去当水手，无论上什么船、上什么地方都行。
“我想把那钱送给你。你总想得到点什么东西吧——上中学呀，上商业学院呀，可能想学学速记吧，我都可以为你安排。也许你的父母还健在——我可以让他们开个杂货店什么的。一切都可以，你只要说出来我都可以给你办到。”
她坐着，默不作声，眼睛直勾勾地望着前面，没有眼泪，一动不动，喉头却疼痛起来，那便咽的声音能够听见，马丁猜到了，动了感情，喉头也不禁疼痛起来。他懊悔说了刚才的话。比起她向他奉献的东西，他的奉献好像太粗俗——不过是金钱罢了，那本是可以随便放弃而不关痛痒的身外之物，而她向他奉献的却是她自己，随之而来便是耻辱、难堪。罪孽，甚至是进人天堂的希望。
“不谈了吧，”她说着哽咽了，装作是咳嗽，站起身来。“算了，我们回家去吧，我太疲倦了。”
一天已经过去，寻欢作乐的人们差不多全走光了。但是马丁和丽齐走出林子时却发现有群人还在等着，马丁立即明白了那意思：快要出乱子了。那群人是他的保缥。他们一起从公园大门走了出去，而另一群人却三三两两跟在后面，那是丽齐的小伙子纠合来报复夺女友之恨的。几个警察和特别警官怕出乱子，也跟在后面，准备随时制止。然后两拨人便分别上了去旧金山的火车。马丁告诉吉米他要在十六路站下车，再转去奥克兰的电车。丽齐非常安静，对逼人而来的骚乱漠不关心。火车进了十六路站，等在那儿的电车已经在望；售票员已在不耐烦地敲着锣。
“电车已经到了，”吉米给他出主意，“冲过去，我们挡住他们。现在就走！冲上车去！”
寻仇的人群见了这局面一时不知如何是好，紧接着便下了火车冲了上来。坐在车上的清醒平静的奥克兰乘客并没有注意到有那么个小伙子和一个姑娘跑来赶车，而且在靠外的一面找到了座位；也没有把他们跟吉米联系起来，吉米已跳上踏板，向驾驶员叫着：——
“合电铡，老兄，开出去！”
紧接着吉米便猛地一旋，乘客们看见他一拳打在一个要想跳上车来的人脸上，但是沿着整个电车的一侧已有许多拳头打在了许多脸上。吉米和他的那伙人沿着长长的台阶排成了一排，迎击了进攻的人。电车在一声响亮的锣声中开动了。吉米的人赶走了最后的袭击者，又跳下车去结束战斗。电车冲向前去，把一片混乱的大打出手丢到了远处。目瞪口呆的乘客们做梦也没有想到坐在靠外的角落里座位上的那个文静的青年和漂亮的女工会是这番骚乱的原因。
马丁刚才还很欣赏这一番打斗，往日那斗殴的刺激又回到了他胸中。不过那感觉迅速消失，一种巨大的悲凉压上了他心头。他觉得自己非常老迈了——比这批无忧无虑逍遥自在的往日的游伴老了许多个世纪。他已经走得太远，再也回来不了。他们这种生活方式当年也是他的生活方式，可现在它却叫他兴味素然。他对这一切都感到失望，他已经成了个局外人。现在高泡沫啤酒已经淡而无昧，跟他们的友谊也一样淡而无味了。他和他们距离太远，在他和他们之间成千上万翻开的书本形成了巨大的鸿沟。他把自己流放了出去。他在辽阔的智慧的王国里漫游得太远，已经无法返回。可另一方面他却还是人，他群居的天性和对友谊的需求仍然渴望满足。他并没有得到新的归宿，他那帮朋友不可能了解他，他的家人不可能了解他，资产阶级不可能了解他，就是他身边这个他很尊重的姑娘也不可能了解他。她也不可能了解他对她的尊重。他思前想后，心里的悲凉之中并非没有糅合进了辛酸。
“跟他和好吧，”分手时他劝丽齐，这时他俩已来到了六号路和市场街附近她所居住的工人棚屋前。他指的是那被他侵犯了地位的青年。
“我做不到——现在做不到了，”她说。
“啊，做到吧，”他欢欢喜喜地说，“你只要吹一声口哨他就会赶快跑来的。”
“我不是那意思，”她简单地说。
他明白她的意思了。
他正打算道声晚安，她却向他偎依过来。偎依得并不迫切，也不挑逗，却是一往情深而卑躬屈节。他从心底里受到了感动。一种宽厚的容忍之情从他心底油然而生，他伸出双臂拥抱了她，吻了她，他明白那压在他唇上的吻是人类所能得到的最真诚的吻。
“我的上帝呀！”她抽泣起来，“我可以为你死去，为你死去。”
她突然从他身边挣扎开了，跑上了台阶。他限里立即感到一阵潮润。
“马丁·伊登，”他思考着，“你并不是野兽，可你是个他妈的可怜的尼采信徒。你应该娶了她的，你应该让她那颤栗的心充满幸福。可你办不到，办不到。真他妈的丢脸。”
“‘可怜的老流浪汉解释他那可怜的老溃疡说，’”他想起了他的诗人亨雷，喃喃地说道，“‘在我看来，生命是一个大错误，一种耻辱。’确实——一个大错误，一种耻辱。”
Chapter 43
"The Shame of the Sun" was published in October. As Martin cut the cords of the express package and the half-dozen complimentary copies from the publishers spilled out on the table, a heavy sadness fell upon him. He thought of the wild delight that would have been his had this happened a few short months before, and he contrasted that delight that should have been with his present uncaring coldness. His book, his first book, and his pulse had not gone up a fraction of a beat, and he was only sad. It meant little to him now. The most it meant was that it might bring some money, and little enough did he care for money.
He carried a copy out into the kitchen and presented it to Maria.
"I did it," he explained, in order to clear up her bewilderment. "I wrote it in the room there, and I guess some few quarts of your vegetable soup went into the making of it. Keep it. It's yours. Just to remember me by, you know."
He was not bragging, not showing off. His sole motive was to make her happy, to make her proud of him, to justify her long faith in him. She put the book in the front room on top of the family Bible. A sacred thing was this book her lodger had made, a fetich of friendship. It softened the blow of his having been a laundryman, and though she could not understand a line of it, she knew that every line of it was great. She was a simple, practical, hard-working woman, but she possessed faith in large endowment.
Just as emotionlessly as he had received "The Shame of the Sun" did he read the reviews of it that came in weekly from the clipping bureau. The book was making a hit, that was evident. It meant more gold in the money sack. He could fix up Lizzie, redeem all his promises, and still have enough left to build his grass-walled castle.
Singletree, Darnley & Co. had cautiously brought out an edition of fifteen hundred copies, but the first reviews had started a second edition of twice the size through the presses; and ere this was delivered a third edition of five thousand had been ordered. A London firm made arrangements by cable for an English edition, and hot-footed upon this came the news of French, German, and Scandinavian translations in progress. The attack upon the Maeterlinck school could not have been made at a more opportune moment. A fierce controversy was precipitated. Saleeby and Haeckel indorsed and defended "The Shame of the Sun," for once finding themselves on the same side of a question. Crookes and Wallace ranged up on the opposing side, while Sir Oliver Lodge attempted to formulate a compromise that would jibe with his particular cosmic theories. Maeterlinck's followers rallied around the standard of mysticism. Chesterton set the whole world laughing with a series of alleged non-partisan essays on the subject, and the whole affair, controversy and controversialists, was well-nigh swept into the pit by a thundering broadside from George Bernard Shaw. Needless to say the arena was crowded with hosts of lesser lights, and the dust and sweat and din became terrific.
"It is a most marvellous happening," Singletree, Darnley & Co. wrote Martin, "a critical philosophic essay selling like a novel. You could not have chosen your subject better, and all contributory factors have been unwarrantedly propitious. We need scarcely to assure you that we are making hay while the sun shines. Over forty thousand copies have already been sold in the United States and Canada, and a new edition of twenty thousand is on the presses. We are overworked, trying to supply the demand. Nevertheless we have helped to create that demand. We have already spent five thousand dollars in advertising. The book is bound to be a record-breaker."
"Please find herewith a contract in duplicate for your next book which we have taken the liberty of forwarding to you. You will please note that we have increased your royalties to twenty per 
cent, which is about as high as a conservative publishing house dares go. If our offer is agreeable to you, please fill in the proper blank space with the title of your book. We make no stipulations concerning its nature. Any book on any subject. If you have one already written, so much the better. Now is the time to strike. The iron could not be hotter."
"On receipt of signed contract we shall be pleased to make you an advance on royalties of five thousand dollars. You see, we have faith in you, and we are going in on this thing big. We should like, also, to discuss with you the drawing up of a contract for a term of years, say ten, during which we shall have the exclusive right of publishing in book-form all that you produce. But more of this anon."
Martin laid down the letter and worked a problem in mental arithmetic, finding the product of fifteen cents times sixty thousand to be nine thousand dollars. He signed the new contract, inserting "The Smoke of Joy" in the blank space, and mailed it back to the publishers along with the twenty storiettes he had written in the days before he discovered the formula for the newspaper storiette. And promptly as the United States mail could deliver and return, came Singletree, Darnley & Co.'s check for five thousand dollars.
"I want you to come down town with me, Maria, this afternoon about two o'clock," Martin said, the morning the check arrived. "Or, better, meet me at Fourteenth and Broadway at two o'clock. I'll be looking out for you."
At the appointed time she was there; but SHOES was the only clew to the mystery her mind had been capable of evolving, and she suffered a distinct shock of disappointment when Martin walked her right by a shoe-store and dived into a real estate office. What happened thereupon resided forever after in her memory as a dream. Fine gentlemen smiled at her benevolently as they talked with Martin and one another; a type-writer clicked; signatures were affixed to an imposing document; her own landlord was there, too, and affixed his signature; and when all was over and she was outside on the sidewalk, her landlord spoke to her, saying, "Well, Maria, you won't have to pay me no seven dollars and a half this month."
Maria was too stunned for speech.
"Or next month, or the next, or the next," her landlord said.
She thanked him incoherently, as if for a favor. And it was not until she had returned home to North Oakland and conferred with her own kind, and had the Portuguese grocer investigate, that she really knew that she was the owner of the little house in which she had lived and for which she had paid rent so long.
"Why don't you trade with me no more?" the Portuguese grocer asked Martin that evening, stepping out to hail him when he got off the car; and Martin explained that he wasn't doing his own cooking any more, and then went in and had a drink of wine on the house. He noted it was the best wine the grocer had in stock.
"Maria," Martin announced that night, "I'm going to leave you. And you're going to leave here yourself soon. Then you can rent the house and be a landlord yourself. You've a brother in San Leandro or Haywards, and he's in the milk business. I want you to send all your washing back unwashed - understand? - unwashed, and to go out to San Leandro to-morrow, or Haywards, or wherever it is, and see that brother of yours. Tell him to come to see me. I'll be stopping at the Metropole down in Oakland. He'll know a good milk- ranch when he sees one."
And so it was that Maria became a landlord and the sole owner of a dairy, with two hired men to do the work for her and a bank account that steadily increased despite the fact that her whole brood wore shoes and went to school. Few persons ever meet the fairy princes they dream about; but Maria, who worked hard and whose head was hard, never dreaming about fairy princes, entertained hers in the guise of an ex-laundryman.
In the meantime the world had begun to ask: "Who is this Martin Eden?" He had declined to give any biographical data to his publishers, but the newspapers were not to be denied. Oakland was his own town, and the reporters nosed out scores of individuals who could supply information. All that he was and was not, all that he had done and most of what he had not done, was spread out for the delectation of the public, accompanied by snapshots and photographs - the latter procured from the local photographer who had once taken Martin's picture and who promptly copyrighted it and put it on the market. At first, so great was his disgust with the magazines and all bourgeois society, Martin fought against publicity; but in the end, because it was easier than not to, he surrendered. He found that he could not refuse himself to the special writers who travelled long distances to see him. Then again, each day was so many hours long, and, since he no longer was occupied with writing and studying, those hours had to be occupied somehow; so he yielded to what was to him a whim, permitted interviews, gave his opinions on literature and philosophy, and even accepted invitations of the bourgeoisie. He had settled down into a strange and comfortable state of mind. He no longer cared. He forgave everybody, even the cub reporter who had painted him red and to whom he now granted a full page with specially posed photographs.
He saw Lizzie occasionally, and it was patent that she regretted the greatness that had come to him. It widened the space between them. Perhaps it was with the hope of narrowing it that she yielded to his persuasions to go to night school and business college and to have herself gowned by a wonderful dressmaker who charged outrageous prices. She improved visibly from day to day, until Martin wondered if he was doing right, for he knew that all her compliance and endeavor was for his sake. She was trying to make herself of worth in his eyes - of the sort of worth he seemed to value. Yet he gave her no hope, treating her in brotherly fashion and rarely seeing her.
"Overdue" was rushed upon the market by the Meredith-Lowell Company in the height of his popularity, and being fiction, in point of sales it made even a bigger strike than "The Shame of the Sun." Week after week his was the credit of the unprecedented performance of having two books at the head of the list of best-sellers. Not only did the story take with the fiction-readers, but those who read "The Shame of the Sun" with avidity were likewise attracted to the sea-story by the cosmic grasp of mastery with which he had handled it. First he had attacked the literature of mysticism, and had done it exceeding well; and, next, he had successfully supplied the very literature he had exposited, thus proving himself to be that rare genius, a critic and a creator in one.
Money poured in on him, fame poured in on him; he flashed, comet- like, through the world of literature, and he was more amused than interested by the stir he was making. One thing was puzzling him, a little thing that would have puzzled the world had it known. But the world would have puzzled over his bepuzzlement rather than over the little thing that to him loomed gigantic. Judge Blount invited him to dinner. That was the little thing, or the beginning of the little thing, that was soon to become the big thing. He had insulted Judge Blount, treated him abominably, and Judge Blount, meeting him on the street, invited him to dinner. Martin bethought himself of the numerous occasions on which he had met Judge Blount at the Morses' and when Judge Blount had not invited him to dinner. Why had he not invited him to dinner then? he asked himself. He had not changed. He was the same Martin Eden. What made the difference? The fact that the stuff he had written had appeared inside the covers of books? But it was work performed. It was not something he had done since. It was achievement accomplished at the very time Judge Blount was sharing this general view and sneering at his Spencer and his intellect. Therefore it was not for any real value, but for a purely fictitious value that Judge Blount invited him to dinner.
Martin grinned and accepted the invitation, marvelling the while at his complacence. And at the dinner, where, with their womankind, were half a dozen of those that sat in high places, and where Martin found himself quite the lion, Judge Blount, warmly seconded by Judge Hanwell, urged privately that Martin should permit his name to be put up for the Styx - the ultra-select club to which belonged, not the mere men of wealth, but the men of attainment. And Martin declined, and was more puzzled than ever.
He was kept busy disposing of his heap of manuscripts. He was overwhelmed by requests from editors. It had been discovered that he was a stylist, with meat under his style. THE NORTHERN REVIEW, after publishing "The Cradle of Beauty," had written him for half a dozen similar essays, which would have been supplied out of the heap, had not BURTON'S MAGAZINE, in a speculative mood, offered him five hundred dollars each for five essays. He wrote back that he would supply the demand, but at a thousand dollars an essay. He remembered that all these manuscripts had been refused by the very magazines that were now clamoring for them. And their refusals had been cold-blooded, automatic, stereotyped. They had made him sweat, and now he intended to make them sweat. BURTON'S MAGAZINE paid his price for five essays, and the remaining four, at the same rate, were snapped up by MACKINTOSH'S MONTHLY, THE NORTHERN REVIEW being too poor to stand the pace. Thus went out to the world "The High Priests of Mystery," "The Wonder-Dreamers," "The Yardstick of the Ego," "Philosophy of Illusion," "God and Clod," "Art and Biology," "Critics and Test-tubes," "Star-dust," and "The Dignity of Usury," - to raise storms and rumblings and mutterings that were many a day in dying down.
Editors wrote to him telling him to name his own terms, which he did, but it was always for work performed. He refused resolutely to pledge himself to any new thing. The thought of again setting pen to paper maddened him. He had seen Brissenden torn to pieces by the crowd, and despite the fact that him the crowd acclaimed, he could not get over the shock nor gather any respect for the crowd. His very popularity seemed a disgrace and a treason to Brissenden. It made him wince, but he made up his mind to go on and fill the money-bag.
He received letters from editors like the following: "About a year ago we were unfortunate enough to refuse your collection of love- poems. We were greatly impressed by them at the time, but certain arrangements already entered into prevented our taking them. If you still have them, and if you will be kind enough to forward them, we shall be glad to publish the entire collection on your own terms. We are also prepared to make a most advantageous offer for bringing them out in book-form."
Martin recollected his blank-verse tragedy, and sent it instead. He read it over before mailing, and was particularly impressed by its sophomoric amateurishness and general worthlessness. But he sent it; and it was published, to the everlasting regret of the editor. The public was indignant and incredulous. It was too far a cry from Martin Eden's high standard to that serious bosh. It was asserted that he had never written it, that the magazine had faked it very clumsily, or that Martin Eden was emulating the elder Dumas and at the height of success was hiring his writing done for him. But when he explained that the tragedy was an early effort of his literary childhood, and that the magazine had refused to be happy unless it got it, a great laugh went up at the magazine's expense and a change in the editorship followed. The tragedy was never brought out in book-form, though Martin pocketed the advance royalties that had been paid.
COLEMAN'S WEEKLY sent Martin a lengthy telegram, costing nearly three hundred dollars, offering him a thousand dollars an article for twenty articles. He was to travel over the United States, with all expenses paid, and select whatever topics interested him. The body of the telegram was devoted to hypothetical topics in order to show him the freedom of range that was to be his. The only restriction placed upon him was that he must confine himself to the United States. Martin sent his inability to accept and his regrets by wire "collect."
"Wiki-Wiki," published in WARREN'S MONTHLY, was an instantaneous success. It was brought out forward in a wide-margined, beautifully decorated volume that struck the holiday trade and sold like wildfire. The critics were unanimous in the belief that it would take its place with those two classics by two great writers, "The Bottle Imp" and "The Magic Skin."
The public, however, received the "Smoke of Joy" collection rather dubiously and coldly. The audacity and unconventionality of the storiettes was a shock to bourgeois morality and prejudice; but when Paris went mad over the immediate translation that was made, the American and English reading public followed suit and bought so many copies that Martin compelled the conservative house of Singletree, Darnley & Co. to pay a flat royalty of twenty-five per cent for a third book, and thirty per cent flat for a fourth. These two volumes comprised all the short stories he had written and which had received, or were receiving, serial publication. "The Ring of Bells" and his horror stories constituted one collection; the other collection was composed of "Adventure," "The Pot," "The Wine of Life," "The Whirlpool," "The Jostling Street," and four other stories. The Lowell-Meredith Company captured the collection of all his essays, and the Maxmillian Company got his "Sea Lyrics" and the "Love-cycle," the latter receiving serial publication in the LADIES' HOME COMPANION after the payment of an extortionate price.
Martin heaved a sigh of relief when he had disposed of the last manuscript. The grass-walled castle and the white, coppered schooner were very near to him. Well, at any rate he had discovered Brissenden's contention that nothing of merit found its way into the magazines. His own success demonstrated that Brissenden had been wrong.
And yet, somehow, he had a feeling that Brissenden had been right, after all. "The Shame of the Sun" had been the cause of his success more than the stuff he had written. That stuff had been merely incidental. It had been rejected right and left by the magazines. The publication of "The Shame of the Sun" had started a controversy and precipitated the landslide in his favor. Had there been no "Shame of the Sun" there would have been no landslide, and had there been no miracle in the go of "The Shame of the Sun" there would have been no landslide. Singletree, Darnley & Co. attested that miracle. They had brought out a first edition of fifteen hundred copies and been dubious of selling it. They were experienced publishers and no one had been more astounded than they at the success which had followed. To them it had been in truth a miracle. They never got over it, and every letter they wrote him reflected their reverent awe of that first mysterious happening. They did not attempt to explain it. There was no explaining it. It had happened. In the face of all experience to the contrary, it had happened.
So it was, reasoning thus, that Martin questioned the validity of his popularity. It was the bourgeoisie that bought his books and poured its gold into his money-sack, and from what little he knew of the bourgeoisie it was not clear to him how it could possibly appreciate or comprehend what he had written. His intrinsic beauty and power meant nothing to the hundreds of thousands who were acclaiming him and buying his books. He was the fad of the hour, the adventurer who had stormed Parnassus while the gods nodded. The hundreds of thousands read him and acclaimed him with the same brute non-understanding with which they had flung themselves on Brissenden's "Ephemera" and torn it to pieces - a wolf-rabble that fawned on him instead of fanging him. Fawn or fang, it was all a matter of chance. One thing he knew with absolute certitude: "Ephemera" was infinitely greater than anything he had done. It was infinitely greater than anything he had in him. It was a poem of centuries. Then the tribute the mob paid him was a sorry tribute indeed, for that same mob had wallowed "Ephemera" into the mire. He sighed heavily and with satisfaction. He was glad the last manuscript was sold and that he would soon be done with it all.
《太阳的耻辱》十月份出版了。快邮送来了包裹，马丁割断包裹绳，出版社赠送的那半打样书便散落到桌上。他不禁感到一种沉重的悲哀。他想到，此事若发生在短短几个月以前，他会是多么欢畅得意。他把那可能出现的狂欢和目前这满不在乎的冷淡作了个对比。那是他的书，他的第一本书，可是他的心却并不曾丝毫加速了跳跃，他感到的只是悲凉。此事对他已经毫无意义。它最大的作用只是给他带来一点钱，而对钱他又已经很不在乎了。 
他拿了一本书来到厨房，送给了玛利亚。
“我写的，”他解释道，想消除她的迷惑。“就是在我那间屋里写的，看来你有些菜汤还给我的写作帮了忙呢。留下吧，这书送给你了。不过作个纪念而已，你知道。”
他没有吹嘘，也没有炫耀，一心只求她高兴，求她为他骄傲，也证明她长时间以来对他的信心并没有错。她把那书放在前厅的家用圣经上。她的房客写的这本书是神圣的，是个友谊的象征，冲淡了他曾做过洗衣工这一事实给她的打击。她虽然一句也读不懂，但她明白那书的每一行都很了不起。她是个单纯而实际的女人，对信念具有宏大的天赋。
他接到《太阳的耻辱》时无动于衷，读到剪报社每周给他寄来的评论时也照样无动于衷。很明显，那书正在走俏。那意味着钱袋里更多的金币，他可以安排好丽齐的生活，实践他以前的每一个诺言，还可以建造他那干草打墙的堡垒。
欣格垂、达恩利公司出版时小心翼翼，一共才出一千五百本。但是书评刚开始发表，他们便加印了三千本。这第二批书还没有发出，定单又来了，要求再出一版，五千本。伦敦一家公司又用电报接洽，要出一个英国版。紧接着又相继传来消息，法国、德国和斯堪的纳维亚各国的译本也要出版。现在正是攻击梅特林克学派的最佳时机。随之而来的是一场激烈的论战。撒里比和海克尔终于发现他们也有观点相同的机会了：双方都赞成《太阳的耻辱》，并为它辩护。柯鲁克和华莱士却持反对意见；而奥利福·罗季爵士则试图从中寻求出一个折中的公式，使之和他独特的宇宙理论会拍。而梅特林克的信徒们却在神秘主义的旗帜之下聚合了起来。切斯脱顿对这一问题发表了一连串自命为不偏不简的文章，却引来了全世界的讪笑。而萧伯纳则发出了一阵排炮，几乎把这整个事件、全部争论和全部参加争论的人都何了个落花流水。当然，战场上还挤满了许多元籍籍名的英雄豪杰，闹了个汗流浃背，沸反盈天，尘土飞扬。
“此事非常出色，”欣格垂、达恩利公司给马丁的信上说，“哲学评论竟然能如小说一样畅销。先生之选题精彩之至。一切情况都意外地看好。我们几乎用不着向你保证我们正在未雨绸缪。在美国和加拿大此书已售出四万册，另有一新版本亦在印刷之中，印数为两万。为了满足需求我们正在加班加点。不过为造成需求我校亦煞费苦心，已花去广告费五千元。此书无疑将打破记录。
“我社在此信中已冒昧奉寄有关先生另一作品之合同一纸，一式两份。请注意，版税报酬已增至百分之二十。该报酬已是稳健的出版社所敢订出的最高数额。先生如觉可行，请即在表中有关空白处填具先生新书书名。该书性质我社不作规定，任何主题之任何书籍均可。若有已写成之书更佳。目前乃趁热打铁之最佳时机。
“我社接到先生签署之合同后即将预支给先生版税五千元。请注意，我社对先生信心十足，打算就此事大干一场。我社亦乐意与先生磋商签定一份多年合同，比如十年，十年之间见先生作品一律由我社以书籍形式出版。有未尽事宜，容后速议。”
马丁放下信，在心里算了一道算术题，发现一毛五乘以六万是九千元。他签署了新的合同，在空白处填上了《欢的轻烟》，寄给了出版人，又把他早在发现写作报纸小小说的公式之前写的二十篇小小说一起寄了去。于是，欣格垂、达恩利公司就以美国邮递回函所能达到的最高速度寄来了五千元的支票一张。
“玛利亚。我要你今天下午两点左右跟我一起进城去，”支票到达的那天上午，马丁说，“或者，你就在两点钟到十四号街和大马路的十字路口等我，我去找你。”
玛利亚在约定的时间来到了那里，她讨这个谜团所能作出的唯一解释是：买鞋。但是在马丁过鞋店而不久，却径直走进了地产公司时，她显然大失所望。在那儿发生的一切以后永远像梦一样留在她的记忆里。文质彬彬的先生们跟马丁谈话或跟她谈话时都和善地微笑着。打字机的的答答地敲了一会；堂皇的文件签上了名；她自己的房东也到了，也签了名。一切手续办完她出了店门来到人行道上，她的房东对她说：“好了，玛利亚，这个月你不用付我七元五角了。”
玛利亚大吃了一惊，说不出话来。
“下个月也不用付了，再下个月也不用付了，再下个月也一样，”房东说。
她前言不搭后语地对他表示感谢，好像受到了什么恩惠。直到她回到北奥克兰自己家里，和伙伴们商量过，又找那葡萄牙商人咨询了一番之后，她才真正明白自己已成了那幢她居住了多年、付了多年房租的小屋子的主人了。
“你怎么不来买我的东西了呢？”那天晚上那葡萄牙商人见马丁从车上下来，便抢出门去招呼他，并问道。马丁解释说他自己已不再烧饭了，然后主人便请他进门去喝了酒。他发现那是杂货店存货中最好的酒。
“玛利亚，”马丁那天晚上宣布，“我要离开你了。你自己也马上就要离开这儿了。你也可以当房主，把这房子租出去。你有个做奶品生意的弟弟，在圣利安德罗或是海华德。我要你明天就把所有的脏衣服都送回去，不用再洗了。明白么？不洗了。到圣利安德罗、海华德或是别的什么地方去找到你的弟弟，请他来见我。我在奥克兰的大都会旅馆等他，他见到了好奶牛场是能鉴别的。”
于是玛利亚就成了个房东，又成了奶牛场的独家老板。她请了两个帮工做事，还开了一个银行户头，尽管她的孩子们都穿上了鞋，而且上学读书，存折里的钱却还稳定地增长着。很少有人遇见过自己所梦想的神仙王子，但是辛苦工作、头脑单纯的玛利亚却接待了她的神仙王于，那王子假扮成了一个往日的洗衣工，虽然她从没做过神仙王子的梦D
与此同时全世界都已开始在问：“这个马丁·伊登是个什么样的人？”马丁拒绝给他的出版人任何个人的传记资料，但是报纸他却无法拒绝。他是奥克兰人，记者们打听出了几十个能够提供有关他的资料的人。他们把他是什么样的人、不是什么样的人，所有他干过的事、大部分他没有干过的事都摊到人们面前，让他们高兴，还配上了抢拍镜头和照片。照片是从当地一个摄影师那儿弄到手的。那人曾经给马丁拍过照，现在便立即拿照片申请了专利，而且送上了市场。马丁对杂志和整个资产阶级社会深恶痛绝，开始时他跟宣扬自己作过斗争，可最后却屈服了，因为不斗争比斗争容易。他发现自己无法拒绝从大老远跑来采访他的特派作家，何况一天有那么多个小时，他又不再写作和读书了，时间总得打发过去；于是他便向他认为是想人非非的东西投降了，接受了采访，发表了有关文学和哲学的见解，甚至接受资产阶级的邀请去赴宴。他在一种奇怪的心气平和的心境里安定了下来，再也不着急了。他原谅了一切人，甚至包括了那把他描绘成赤色分子的半瓶醋记者。他还让他做了一整版报道，摆开架势让他照了许多相片。
他偶然还见到丽齐，她显然对他的走红感到遗憾。这事扩大了他俩之间的距离。也许是为了缩小距离，她接受了他的建议去上夜校，上商业学院，还请了一个了不起的女衣裁缝给她做衣服，那裁缝收费高得吓人。她一天比一天进步了，直到马丁怀疑起自己的做法是否得体。因为他明白她的这一切迁就和努力都是为了他。她是在努力让自己在他眼里具有分量——具有他似乎重视的那种分量。但是他并没有给她希望，又像个哥哥一样对待她，也很少跟她见面。
在他红极一时之际，梅瑞迪思-罗威尔公司迫不及待地把他的《过期》推上了市场。由于是小说，它在销售量上取得了比《太阳的批辱》更大的成功。他得到了前所未有的荣耀，两本书同时在每周的畅销书排行榜上名列前茅。那小说不但赢得了小说读者的青睐，而且以其处理海洋情节的宏大气魄和精湛技艺吸引了津津有味地读过《太阳的耻辱》的人们。首先，他曾经极其精彩地攻击过神秘主义文学，然后，他又成功地提供了自己所阐明的那种文学作品，从而证明了自己是集作家与评论家于一身的罕见的天才。
金钱向他汩汩流来，荣誉向他滔滔而至，他像童星一样划过了文学的天空。他对自己引起的这番骚动的感觉与其说是有趣毋宁说是好笑。有一件小事令他不解。那小事老是世人知道了是会不解的。不过人们感到不解的只会是他的不解，而不是那件令他觉得越来越大的小事。布朗特法官邀请他去吃饭。那就是那小事的滥觞——或者说那就是那不久就变成了大事的小事的滥筋。他曾经侮辱过布朗特法官，对他的态度可恶已极，而布朗特法官在街上遇见他却指他去吃饭。马丁想道：他在莫尔斯家曾经无数次地见到过布朗特法官，他从没有请他吃饭。那时候他为什么不请他吃饭呢？他问自己。他自己并没有变，他还是那个马丁·伊登，那么，这变化是怎么来的？是他写的那些东西已经在书本的封面与封底之间出现了么？可那些东西地当初就已经完成，而不是后来才完成的。在布朗特法官按一般人的意见嘲弄他的斯宾塞和他的智力时，那些成就便已经取得了。因此布朗特法官清他吃饭并不是因为他任何真正的价值，而是因为一种完全虚幻的价值。
马丁苦笑了一下，接受了邀请，同时也为自己的心安理很感到奇怪。晚宴上有六七个高层人物和他们的女眷。马丁发现自己成了个大红人。布朗特法官私下劝他允许把他的名字列入思提克司俱乐部，这建议得到汉威尔法官的热烈支持。思提克司俱乐部是个非常挑剔的俱乐部，参加的人不但要广有资财，而且要成就卓越。马丁婉言谢绝了，却比任何时候都想不通了。
他忙着处理他那一大堆旧稿。编辑们的稿约使他穷于应付。有人发现他原来是个风格作家，他的风格之中大有文章。《北方评论》在发表了他的《美的摇篮》之后给他写信，要他写半打类似的论文，他正想拿他旧稿堆里的东西去应付时，《伯顿杂志》早抱着投机的态度约过他五篇稿子，每篇五百元。他回信说他可以满足要求，但每篇得要一千元。他记得所有这些稿子都曾为现在吵着要稿子的杂志所拒绝，而且都拒绝得冷酷，机械，官样文章。他们曾经叫他流汗，他也要叫他们流点汗才行。伯顿杂志按照他的价格接受了他的五篇文章，剩下的四篇被《麦金托什月刊》以同样的稿酬抢了去。《奇迹的大祭司》、《奇迹梦想者》、《自我的尺度》、《幻觉的哲学》、《艺术与生物学》、《上帝与土块》、《批评家与试管》、《星尘》和《高利贷的尊严》就是这样与读者见了面的。这些作品引起了风暴、轰动和抱怨，多少日子才平息下来。
编辑们给他写信，让他提出大纲。他提出了大纲，但都是按已写成的作品提的。他坚决拒绝答应写任何新作品。一想到提笔写作他就生气。他曾眼见布里森登被群众撕扯成了碎片。尽管他现在受到欢呼，心里仍有余悸，对群氓仍尊重不起来。他的名声似乎是一种耻辱，是对布里森登的背叛。它叫他想撤离，但他决心继续下去，好把钱袋装满。
他接到的编辑们的来信大体都是这样：“约在一年前本刊曾不幸婉绝先生惠寄之爱情诗集，同人等当时虽有深刻印象，却碍于已有安排，忍痛割爱。目前该稿如仍在先生手中，且愿赏光惠寄，我刊将乐于按先生条件全部发表，并以最优厚稿酬将该稿作诗集出版。”
马丁想起了他的素体诗悲剧，便把它寄去充数。寄出之前他再读了一遍，那剧本的幼稚、浅薄和业余味儿给了他特别深的印象，可他仍然寄了出去。出版之后那编辑后悔了一辈子。读者们义愤填膺，不肯相信，认为那距离马丁的高妙水平太远，不是他的作品，而是那杂志拙劣的仿作，再不然就是马丁·伊登学大仲马，在成功的高峰期请枪手代庖的。但是当马丁解释说那是他写作幼年期的作品、而那家杂志得不到作品总不罢休时，读者便哈哈大笑。那杂志大吃其亏，编辑因而撤职。那悲剧再没有出单行本，虽然马丁已把预支的版税装进了腰包。
《科尔曼周刊》花了差不多三百元给马丁拍来了一封很长的电报，提出要他二十篇稿子，每篇一千元。要他由杂志支付全部费用游历全美，选择任何他乐意的题目写文章。电报的主要内容是提供假定的话题，用以表示他选择题材范围之广泛自由。唯一限制是旅行只在美国国内。马丁拍了电报去表示难以从命，并表示了歉意，电报由收方付费。
《华伦月刊》刊登的《威几威几》立即取得了成功。那书每一页的四边都留了宽阔的空白，还有精美的装饰，在度假期间很走红，像野火一样迅速销售。评论家们一致相信该书将与两个伟大的作家的两本经典著作《瓶中妖魔》和《驴皮记》并驾齐驱。
不过，读者对《欢乐的轻烟》的反应却颇为冷淡，且态度暧昧，因为那些小小说的大胆和反传统精神震撼了资产阶级的道德和偏见；但该书的法文译本随即风靡了巴黎，这时英美两国的读者才又跟了上去，销售量之大，使得马丁在销售他的第三本书时逼迫那谨慎保守的欣格垂、达恩利公司给了他两毛五分的版税，第四本书则要了足足三角。后两部书由他已经写成的全部小说编集而成。那些小说都已经连载过，或正在连载。《钟声激越》和他的恐怖小说集成了一集，另外一集则包括了《冒险》、《罐子》、《生命之酒》、《漩涡》、《扰攘的街道》和其他四个短篇小说。海瑞迪思-罗威尔公司抢走了他的全部论文，马克西米连公司得到了他的《海上抒情诗》和《爱情组诗》，后者还在《女土家庭伴侣》上连载，获得了极优厚的稿酬。
马丁处理完了所有的文稿，长吁了一口气，他如释重负。干草打墙的堡垒和铜皮裹的白色大帆船距离他已经很近了。是的，他无论如何已经明白了布里森登所坚持争辩的道理：有价值的东西进不了杂志。但他的成功却又证明了布里森登的错误。不过说到底他又隐约觉得市里森登也未必错。以书本形式出版的《太阳的耻辱》对他的成功所起的作用要比其他作品大得多，其他作品的作用其实很次要，它们都曾四处碰壁，多次被杂志所拒绝和抛弃。《太阳的耻辱》的出版引起了一场争论，一场于他有利的山崩地裂。没有《太阳的耻辱》就没有山崩地裂。没有《太阳的耻辱》轰动性的畅销，也就没有随后而来的其他的山崩地裂。欣格垂、达恩利公司便是这奇迹的明证。因为担心不好销售，他们第一版只印了一千五百本——他们都是经验丰富的出版人。可随之而来的成功却使他们比谁都更加目瞪口呆。对他们说来那确实是个奇迹，而且他们的奇迹感一直没有消失，他们给他的每一封信都表示对那神秘的初次成功肃然起敬。他们没有设法去解释，事情就是那样发生了，跟他们一切的经验恰好相反。
马丁这样一推理，便怀疑起自己这鼎鼎大名之获得是否应当了。其实，买了他的书，把金币倒进他的钱口袋的就是资产阶级。从他对资产阶级那一点点理解看来，他总是纳闷：他们怎么可能欣赏或是理解他的东西？对于向他欢呼、买他的书的千千万万读者说来，他内在的美与力是没有意义的。那只是他们一时心血来潮而已；他不过是个冒险家，趁着诸神打盹的时候冲上了帕纳萨斯山而已。千千万万的读者读他的书，却带着畜生般的理解向他欢呼，他们跟外向布里森登的《蜉蝣》并把它扯成碎片的是同样的群氓——群狼，只不过他们没有向他露出獠牙，而是向他讨好。獠牙或讨好都出于偶然。有一件事他确信无疑：《蜉蝣》比他的一切的作品都不知道高明多少倍，比他心里所有的一切都不知道高明多少倍。它是一首能彪炳若干世纪的佳作。那么那群氓对他的礼赞也就只能令人遗憾了，因为把布里森登的《蜉蝣》拱到了烂泥里的也是那同样的群氓。他沉重地也满意地叹了一口气。他最后的一篇稿子都已经卖掉，他感到高兴，他马上就要跟这一切断绝关系了。
Chapter 44
Mr. Morse met Martin in the office of the Hotel Metropole. Whether he had happened there just casually, intent on other affairs, or whether he had come there for the direct purpose of inviting him to dinner, Martin never could quite make up his mind, though he inclined toward the second hypothesis. At any rate, invited to dinner he was by Mr. Morse - Ruth's father, who had forbidden him the house and broken off the engagement.
Martin was not angry. He was not even on his dignity. He tolerated Mr. Morse, wondering the while how it felt to eat such humble pie. He did not decline the invitation. Instead, he put it off with vagueness and indefiniteness and inquired after the family, particularly after Mrs. Morse and Ruth. He spoke her name without hesitancy, naturally, though secretly surprised that he had had no inward quiver, no old, familiar increase of pulse and warm surge of blood.
He had many invitations to dinner, some of which he accepted. Persons got themselves introduced to him in order to invite him to dinner. And he went on puzzling over the little thing that was becoming a great thing. Bernard Higginbotham invited him to dinner. He puzzled the harder. He remembered the days of his desperate starvation when no one invited him to dinner. That was the time he needed dinners, and went weak and faint for lack of them and lost weight from sheer famine. That was the paradox of it. When he wanted dinners, no one gave them to him, and now that he could buy a hundred thousand dinners and was losing his appetite, dinners were thrust upon him right and left. But why? There was no justice in it, no merit on his part. He was no different. All the work he had done was even at that time work performed. Mr. and Mrs. Morse had condemned him for an idler and a shirk and through Ruth had urged that he take a clerk's position in an office. Furthermore, they had been aware of his work performed. Manuscript after manuscript of his had been turned over to them by Ruth. They had read them. It was the very same work that had put his name in all the papers, and, it was his name being in all the papers that led them to invite him.
One thing was certain: the Morses had not cared to have him for himself or for his work. Therefore they could not want him now for himself or for his work, but for the fame that was his, because he was somebody amongst men, and - why not? - because he had a hundred thousand dollars or so. That was the way bourgeois society valued a man, and who was he to expect it otherwise? But he was proud. He disdained such valuation. He desired to be valued for himself, or for his work, which, after all, was an expression of himself. That was the way Lizzie valued him. The work, with her, did not even count. She valued him, himself. That was the way Jimmy, the plumber, and all the old gang valued him. That had been proved often enough in the days when he ran with them; it had been proved that Sunday at Shell Mound Park. His work could go hang. What they liked, and were willing to scrap for, was just Mart Eden, one of the bunch and a pretty good guy.
Then there was Ruth. She had liked him for himself, that was indisputable. And yet, much as she had liked him she had liked the bourgeois standard of valuation more. She had opposed his writing, and principally, it seemed to him, because it did not earn money. That had been her criticism of his "Love-cycle." She, too, had urged him to get a job. It was true, she refined it to "position," but it meant the same thing, and in his own mind the old nomenclature stuck. He had read her all that he wrote - poems, stories, essays - "Wiki-Wiki," "The Shame of the Sun," everything. And she had always and consistently urged him to get a job, to go to work - good God! - as if he hadn't been working, robbing sleep, exhausting life, in order to be worthy of her.
So the little thing grew bigger. He was healthy and normal, ate regularly, slept long hours, and yet the growing little thing was becoming an obsession. WORK PERFORMED. The phrase haunted his brain. He sat opposite Bernard Higginbotham at a heavy Sunday dinner over Higginbotham's Cash Store, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from shouting out:-
"It was work performed! And now you feed me, when then you let me starve, forbade me your house, and damned me because I wouldn't get a job. And the work was already done, all done. And now, when I speak, you check the thought unuttered on your lips and hang on my lips and pay respectful attention to whatever I choose to say. I tell you your party is rotten and filled with grafters, and instead of flying into a rage you hum and haw and admit there is a great deal in what I say. And why? Because I'm famous; because I've a lot of money. Not because I'm Martin Eden, a pretty good fellow and not particularly a fool. I could tell you the moon is made of green cheese and you would subscribe to the notion, at least you would not repudiate it, because I've got dollars, mountains of them. And it was all done long ago; it was work performed, I tell you, when you spat upon me as the dirt under your feet."
But Martin did not shout out. The thought gnawed in his brain, an unceasing torment, while he smiled and succeeded in being tolerant. As he grew silent, Bernard Higginbotham got the reins and did the talking. He was a success himself, and proud of it. He was self- made. No one had helped him. He owed no man. He was fulfilling his duty as a citizen and bringing up a large family. And there was Higginbotham's Cash Store, that monument of his own industry and ability. He loved Higginbotham's Cash Store as some men loved their wives. He opened up his heart to Martin, showed with what keenness and with what enormous planning he had made the store. And he had plans for it, ambitious plans. The neighborhood was growing up fast. The store was really too small. If he had more room, he would be able to put in a score of labor-saving and money- saving improvements. And he would do it yet. He was straining every effort for the day when he could buy the adjoining lot and put up another two-story frame building. The upstairs he could rent, and the whole ground-floor of both buildings would be Higginbotham's Cash Store. His eyes glistened when he spoke of the new sign that would stretch clear across both buildings.
Martin forgot to listen. The refrain of "Work performed," in his own brain, was drowning the other's clatter. The refrain maddened him, and he tried to escape from it.
"How much did you say it would cost?" he asked suddenly.
His brother-in-law paused in the middle of an expatiation on the business opportunities of the neighborhood. He hadn't said how much it would cost. But he knew. He had figured it out a score of times.
"At the way lumber is now," he said, "four thousand could do it."
"Including the sign?"
"I didn't count on that. It'd just have to come, onc't the buildin' was there."
"And the ground?"
"Three thousand more."
He leaned forward, licking his lips, nervously spreading and closing his fingers, while he watched Martin write a check. When it was passed over to him, he glanced at the amount-seven thousand dollars.
"I - I can't afford to pay more than six per cent," he said huskily.
Martin wanted to laugh, but, instead, demanded:-
"How much would that be?"
"Lemme see. Six per cent - six times seven - four hundred an' twenty."
"That would be thirty-five dollars a month, wouldn't it?"
Higginbotham nodded.
"Then, if you've no objection, well arrange it this way." Martin glanced at Gertrude. "You can have the principal to keep for yourself, if you'll use the thirty-five dollars a month for cooking and washing and scrubbing. The seven thousand is yours if you'll guarantee that Gertrude does no more drudgery. Is it a go?"
Mr. Higginbotham swallowed hard. That his wife should do no more housework was an affront to his thrifty soul. The magnificent present was the coating of a pill, a bitter pill. That his wife should not work! It gagged him.
"All right, then," Martin said. "I'll pay the thirty-five a month, and - "
He reached across the table for the check. But Bernard Higginbotham got his hand on it first, crying:
"I accept! I accept!"
When Martin got on the electric car, he was very sick and tired. He looked up at the assertive sign.
"The swine," he groaned. "The swine, the swine."
When MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE published "The Palmist," featuring it with decorations by Berthier and with two pictures by Wenn, Hermann von Schmidt forgot that he had called the verses obscene. He announced that his wife had inspired the poem, saw to it that the news reached the ears of a reporter, and submitted to an interview by a staff writer who was accompanied by a staff photographer and a staff artist. The result was a full page in a Sunday supplement, filled with photographs and idealized drawings of Marian, with many intimate details of Martin Eden and his family, and with the full text of "The Palmist" in large type, and republished by special permission of MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE. It caused quite a stir in the neighborhood, and good housewives were proud to have the acquaintances of the great writer's sister, while those who had not made haste to cultivate it. Hermann von Schmidt chuckled in his little repair shop and decided to order a new lathe. "Better than advertising," he told Marian, "and it costs nothing."
"We'd better have him to dinner," she suggested.
And to dinner Martin came, making himself agreeable with the fat wholesale butcher and his fatter wife - important folk, they, likely to be of use to a rising young man like Hermann Yon Schmidt. No less a bait, however, had been required to draw them to his house than his great brother-in-law. Another man at table who had swallowed the same bait was the superintendent of the Pacific Coast agencies for the Asa Bicycle Company. Him Von Schmidt desired to please and propitiate because from him could be obtained the Oakland agency for the bicycle. So Hermann von Schmidt found it a goodly asset to have Martin for a brother-in-law, but in his heart of hearts he couldn't understand where it all came in. In the silent watches of the night, while his wife slept, he had floundered through Martin's books and poems, and decided that the world was a fool to buy them.
And in his heart of hearts Martin understood the situation only too well, as he leaned back and gloated at Von Schmidt's head, in fancy punching it well-nigh off of him, sending blow after blow home just right - the chuckle-headed Dutchman! One thing he did like about him, however. Poor as he was, and determined to rise as he was, he nevertheless hired one servant to take the heavy work off of Marian's hands. Martin talked with the superintendent of the Asa agencies, and after dinner he drew him aside with Hermann, whom he backed financially for the best bicycle store with fittings in Oakland. He went further, and in a private talk with Hermann told him to keep his eyes open for an automobile agency and garage, for there was no reason that he should not be able to run both establishments successfully.
With tears in her eyes and her arms around his neck, Marian, at parting, told Martin how much she loved him and always had loved him. It was true, there was a perceptible halt midway in her assertion, which she glossed over with more tears and kisses and incoherent stammerings, and which Martin inferred to be her appeal for forgiveness for the time she had lacked faith in him and insisted on his getting a job.
"He can't never keep his money, that's sure," Hermann von Schmidt confided to his wife. "He got mad when I spoke of interest, an' he said damn the principal and if I mentioned it again, he'd punch my Dutch head off. That's what he said - my Dutch head. But he's all right, even if he ain't no business man. He's given me my chance, an' he's all right."
Invitations to dinner poured in on Martin; and the more they poured, the more he puzzled. He sat, the guest of honor, at an Arden Club banquet, with men of note whom he had heard about and read about all his life; and they told him how, when they had read "The Ring of Bells" in the TRANSCONTINENTAL, and "The Peri and the Pearl" in THE HORNET, they had immediately picked him for a winner. My God! and I was hungry and in rags, he thought to himself. Why didn't you give me a dinner then? Then was the time. It was work performed. If you are feeding me now for work performed, why did you not feed me then when I needed it? Not one word in "The Ring of Bells," nor in "The Peri and the Pearl" has been changed. No; you're not feeding me now for work performed. You are feeding me because everybody else is feeding me and because it is an honor to feed me. You are feeding me now because you are herd animals; because you are part of the mob; because the one blind, automatic thought in the mob-mind just now is to feed me. And where does Martin Eden and the work Martin Eden performed come in in all this? he asked himself plaintively, then arose to respond cleverly and wittily to a clever and witty toast.
So it went. Wherever he happened to be - at the Press Club, at the Redwood Club, at pink teas and literary gatherings - always were remembered "The Ring of Bells" and "The Peri and the Pearl" when they were first published. And always was Martin's maddening and unuttered demand: Why didn't you feed me then? It was work performed. "The Ring of Bells" and "The Peri and the Pearl" are not changed one iota. They were just as artistic, just as worth while, then as now. But you are not feeding me for their sake, nor for the sake of anything else I have written. You're feeding me because it is the style of feeding just now, because the whole mob is crazy with the idea of feeding Martin Eden.
And often, at such times, he would abruptly see slouch in among the company a young hoodlum in square-cut coat and under a stiff-rim Stetson hat. It happened to him at the Gallina Society in Oakland one afternoon. As he rose from his chair and stepped forward across the platform, he saw stalk through the wide door at the rear of the great room the young hoodlum with the square-cut coat and stiff-rim hat. Five hundred fashionably gowned women turned their heads, so intent and steadfast was Martin's gaze, to see what he was seeing. But they saw only the empty centre aisle. He saw the young tough lurching down that aisle and wondered if he would remove the stiff-rim which never yet had he seen him without. Straight down the aisle he came, and up the platform. Martin could have wept over that youthful shade of himself, when he thought of all that lay before him. Across the platform he swaggered, right up to Martin, and into the foreground of Martin's consciousness disappeared. The five hundred women applauded softly with gloved hands, seeking to encourage the bashful great man who was their guest. And Martin shook the vision from his brain, smiled, and began to speak.
The Superintendent of Schools, good old man, stopped Martin on the street and remembered him, recalling seances in his office when Martin was expelled from school for fighting.
"I read your 'Ring of Bells' in one of the magazines quite a time ago," he said. "It was as good as Poe. Splendid, I said at the time, splendid!"
Yes, and twice in the months that followed you passed me on the street and did not know me, Martin almost said aloud. Each time I was hungry and heading for the pawnbroker. Yet it was work performed. You did not know me then. Why do you know me now?
"I was remarking to my wife only the other day," the other was saying, "wouldn't it be a good idea to have you out to dinner some time? And she quite agreed with me. Yes, she quite agreed with me."
"Dinner?" Martin said so sharply that it was almost a snarl.
"Why, yes, yes, dinner, you know - just pot luck with us, with your old superintendent, you rascal," he uttered nervously, poking Martin in an attempt at jocular fellowship.
Martin went down the street in a daze. He stopped at the corner and looked about him vacantly.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he murmured at last. "The old fellow was afraid of me."
莫尔斯先生在大都会旅馆的办公室遇见了马丁。他究竟是因为别的事偶然在那儿出现，还是因为要请他赴宴而专程去的，马丁很难确定，尽管地倾向于后一假说。总而言之，露丝的爸爸，那个禁止他进门、解除了他俩婚约的人，现在请他去吃饭了。 
马丁没有生气，甚至没有拿架子。他容忍了莫尔斯先生，同时一直在猜想着像他那样纡尊降贵是个什么滋味。马丁没有谢绝邀请，却含糊其辞模棱两可他回避了它，只问起了一家人，特别是莫尔斯太太和露丝的情况。他提起露丝的名字时平静自如，并不犹豫，尽管他也暗自感到惊讶，怎么竟没有内心的颤栗，没有往日所熟悉的那种心跳急促热血涌动的情绪。
他收到许多宴会的邀请，也接受了一部分。有的人为了邀请他赴实而求人引荐。他继续为那变大了的小事感到迷惑。等到伯纳德·希金波坦也邀请他去赴宴时，他便更感到迷惑了。他记得自己那些饿得要死的日子，可那时没有人请他吃饭；而那正是他最需要饭吃的时候。因为没有饭吃，他虚弱，发昏，饿瘦了。这倒是个逻辑怪圈：那时他需要饭吃，却没有人请他；现在他可以买上十万顿饭，胃口山倒了，人们却从四面八方硬拉他去赴宴。这是为什么？他这不是无功受禄么？真没有道理。他还是他，他的作品那时早已完成。可那时莫尔斯先生和太太却指责他是懒汉，不负责任，又通过露丝催促他去找坐办公室的工作。他写成的作品他们都是读过的，露丝曾把他一份又一份的手稿给他们看，他们也都看了。而现在使他的名字出现在所有报纸上的却正是那些作品，而使他们请他赴宴的又正是他在报上的名字。
有一件事是肯定的：莫尔斯一家对他发生兴趣并非因为他或他的作品。由此看来，他们现在也不会因为他或他的作品而需要他，他们感兴趣的是他的名气，因为他现在已经出人头地，有了大约十万块钱。为什么不呢？资产阶级社会就是这样衡量人的。他算老几？他还能希望有什么别的情况？但他仍然自尊，他厌恶这种衡量标准。他希望人们按他的价值，或是他的作品给他评价。作品才是他自己的表现。丽齐就是这样评价他的。他的作品在她的眼里简直不算一回事。她是拿他自己评价他的。水电工吉米和他那批老哥儿们也是这样评价他的。这一点在他当年跟他们交往时已有足够的证明；贝陵公园的那个星期天表现得尤其清楚。他的作品可以忽略不计。他们喜欢的、愿意为他打架的是他们的同伙马丁·伊登，一个好哥儿们。
还有露丝。她爱的是他自己，这无可怀疑。但是，她虽然爱他，却更爱资产阶级的价值标准。她曾反对过他写作，他似乎觉得那主要是因为写作赚不了钱。她对他的《爱情组诗》就是那样评价的。她也劝过他去找份工作，不错，她把“工作”叫做“职位”，那其实是一回事，原来那说法总横亘在他心里。他曾把自己的全部作品读给她听，诗歌、小说、散文——《威几威几》、《太阳的耻辱》，所有的一切，而她却总不厌其烦地坚持要他去找工作，去干活——天呀！好像为了配得上她他并没有刻苦工作，剥夺睡眠，榨干了生活似的。
这样，那小事就变得更大了。他健康、正常、按时吃饭、睡眠充分，可那越长越大的小事却缠住了他。那时作品早完成了。这话者在他脑子里出现。在希金波坦现金商店楼上的一顿丰盛的晚宴上，他坐在伯纳德·希金波坦的对面，好不容易才算控制了自己，没有叫出声来：——
“那时作品早完成了！你到现在才来请我吃饭。那时你让我饿肚子，不让我进你家的门，因为我不去找工作而咒骂我。而那时我的作品早完成了，全完成了。现在我一说话，你就乖乖听着，无论我说什么你都乖乖听着，心里有话到了嘴边也压住不说。我告诉你你们那帮人都是混蛋，许多人都是剥削者，你也不生气，只一个劲哼哼哈哈，承认我的话里有许多道理。这是为什么？因为我有了名气，因为我有很多钱。并不是因为我是马丁·伊登，一个还算不错、也不太傻的人。说不定我告诉你月亮是生奶酪做的，你也会赞成，至少不会反对，因为我有钱，钱堆成了山。可我的作品很久以前就完成了。我告诉你，那些作品老早就完成了，可那时你却把我看作是你脚下的泥土，吐我唾沫。”
马丁·伊登并没有叫出声来。那思想咬啮着他的脑子，永不休止地折磨着他，他却微笑着，而且成功地表现了宽容。他讲完话，伯纳德·希金波坦便接过话茬，打开了话匣子。他自己就是一个成功的人，而且为此而骄傲。他是白手起家的，没有靠谁帮助，不欠任何人的情。他完成了一个公民的义务，拉扯大了一大家人，这才有了希金波坦现金商店，那是他的才能和勤劳的丰碑。他爱他的希金波坦现金商店有如某些人爱他们的妻子。他对马丁敞开了心扉，大讲他是如何聪明机敏，如何劳心焦思才建立起了商店的。而且他还有计划，雄心勃勃的计划：这附近正在迅速发展，这个商店委实太小。如果他有更多的空间，他可以作出一二十条省工省钱的改进。他现在还想干。他正在竭尽全力准备有一天能把店旁的土地弄到手，再修一套一楼一底的房屋。他可以把楼上租出去，把两套楼房的楼下用作希金波坦现金商店。他说到那块横跨两套楼房的新招牌时眼里放出了光芒。
马丁忘了听话。那人的唧唧呱呱已被他脑子里的叠句“那时作品早已完成”淹没了。那叠句叫他发疯，他想摆脱它。
“你刚才说那得花多少钱？”他突然问道。
他姐夫正大谈着附近地区的商业发展机会，立即住了口。刚才他并不曾提起那得花多少钱，不过他是知道的，他已经计算过一二十次了。
“按现在的木料价看，”他说，“四千元就够了。”
“包括招牌？”
“招牌没有算。房子修起来，招牌总得挂的。”
“地皮呢？”
“还得三千。”
他身子前倾，手指头神经质地捏拢只撒开，望着马丁开支票。支票递到他的面前，他瞟了一眼数目——七千。
“可我最多能出六厘利，”他沙哑了嗓子，说。
马丁几乎笑出声来，却问道：
“那得是多少钱？”
“我算算看，六厘利，六七——四百二十块。”
“那就是每月三十五块，是吧？”
希金波坦点了点头。
“好，如果你不反对的话，我们就这样安排，”马丁瞥了一眼格特露。“如果你把这每月三十五元用来雇人做饭、洗衣服、做清洁，本钱就归你。只要你保证格特露不再做苦工，这七千元就是你的了。这笔交易怎么样？”
希金波坦先生接受得好不费力。不让他的妻子做家务活，那简直是对他那节俭的灵魂的冒犯。那豪华的礼物成了药丸的糖衣，很苦的药丸。不让他的妻子干活！他碍难吞下。
“行，”马丁说，“这每月三十五块我来付，那么——”
马丁把手伸过桌子，要取回支票。可支票已经叫伯纳德·希金波坦的手抓住，希金波坦叫道：——
“我接受！我接受！”
马丁登上电车时感到异常难受而且厌倦。他抬头看看那神气十足的招牌。
“猪猡，”他嗷叫道，“猪猡，猪猡！”
《麦金托什杂志》以显著地位刊登了《手相家》，还由伯蒂埃配了装饰画，文思配了两幅插图，赫尔曼·冯·史密特已经忘记了他曾说这诗下流，反倒宣布：是他的妻子给了这诗以灵感，又有意让这消息传到了记者耳朵里，然后接受了一个报社作家的采访。那作家带来了一个报社摄影师和一个美工师。结果是在星期日增刊上占了一大版，满是照片和茉莉安理想化的画像。还加上许多马丁·伊登和他的家庭的亲切的琐事。《手相家》正文经过《麦金托什杂志》特许，以大号字体全文刊载。这在邻近地区引起了很大的轰动。正经人家的主妇们都以结识伟大作家的妹妹为荣，不认识她的人也急忙没法建立友谊。赫尔曼·冯·史密特在他的小修理店里得意地笑了，他决定再订购一套新车床。“比做广告还强呢，”他告诉茉莉安，“一个钱也没有花。”
“我们最好请他来吃晚饭，”她建议。
马丁来吃晚饭了。他让自己和那个搞肉类批发的胖子和他更胖的老婆融洽相处。那是邻近地区的重要人物，对像赫尔曼·冯·史密特这样正在上升的年轻人可能大有用处。不过，没有他妻舅这样的大人物做诱饵，那样的人是请不进门的。吞了同一颗约于来赴宴的还有阿撒自行车公司太平洋沿岸各代销店的总监。冯·史密特要想讨好他，拉拢他，因为从他可以得到在奥克兰的自行车代销权。因此赫尔曼·冯·史密特发现马丁·伊登这样一个妻舅对他竟成了一笔可观的财产。可是在心的深处他却怎么也想不通。等到夜深人静，他老婆已经入睡之后，他便把马丁的书和诗翻了个遍，结论是全世界都是傻瓜，这种东西也买。
马丁身子往后靠着，得意地望着冯·史密特的脑袋，他在心的深处对这局面洞若观火。他在幻想中揍着那脑袋，一拳又一拳地揍个正着，差不多要把它揍得掉下来——那傻里呱叽的荷兰佬！可那家伙却有一点叫他喜欢。他尽管穷，尽管下了决心往上爬，却雇了一个人把茉莉安的家务活儿接了过去。马丁跟阿撒公司的地区代理商总监谈完话，便趁晚饭后把他跟赫尔曼一起拉到了一边去。他给了赫尔曼经济上的支持，让他在奥克兰开个设备齐全的最好的自行车店。他还进一步跟赫尔曼私下谈话，要他留心物色一下，准备经营一家带车库的汽车代销店。因为没有理由说他就无法把两个铺子都经营得很成功。
分手时茉莉安用双臂搂住了他的脖子，泪流满面地告诉他她非常爱他，而且一向爱他。他确实感到她说那话时有点吞吞吐吐，可她流了更多的泪，亲了他更多次，又唧唧咕咕说了些不连贯的话，把那期期艾艾掩饰了过去。马丁把这理解为请求原谅，因为她当初曾经对他缺乏信心，要求他去找工作。
“他的钱是绝对管不住的，肯定，”赫尔曼·冯·史密特对老婆说知心话。“我一提起利息他就生气，他说连本钱也滚蛋吧，我若是再对他谈利息，他就要把我这荷兰脑袋敲掉。他就是那么说的——我这荷兰脑袋。不过，他虽然做生意不行，人倒是蛮好的。他给了我机会，是个好人。”
马丁的宴会邀请滚滚而来，来得越多他越觉得糊涂。在亚腾俱乐部的宴会上他占了贵宾席，跟他在一起的都是他平生所读到过或听见过的知名人士。他们告诉他他们在《跨越大陆》上读到他的《钟声激越》、在《大黄蜂》上读到他的《仙女与珍珠》时，早就认定了他会成功。天呀！他暗自想道：可我那时却是衣不蔽体食不果腹，那时你们怎么不来请我吃饭呢？那才是时候，那时我那些作品已经完成了。如果你们现在是因为我已经写成的作品而宴请我，那你们为什么不在我最需要的时候来宴请我呢？《钟声激越》和《仙女与珍珠》的字一个也不曾修改。不，你们不是因为我已经完成的作品而宴请我，而是因为别人都在宴请我而宴请我，因为宴请我很光彩。你们现在宴请我因为你们都是群居动物；因为你们是群氓的一部分；因为此时此刻群氓心态的一个盲目的冲动就是宴请我。在这一切之中马丁·伊登和马丁·伊登完成的作品究竟有什么作用呢？他痛苦地问自己。然后他站起身来对于一个聪明风趣的祝酒辞作出了聪明风趣的回答。
日子就这样过了下去。无论他在什么地方——在出版俱乐部，在红木俱乐部，在绯色茶会和文学集会上；总有人会提起《钟声激越》和《仙女与珍珠》刚出版的时候。那叫他发疯的他不曾提出的问题总要在他心里出现：那时候你们为什么不给我饭吃？作品那时已经完成了呀！《钟声激越》和《仙女与珍珠》现在一个字也没有修改呀！那时它们跟现在一样精彩，一样有价值呀。你们并不是因为它们才请我吃饭的，也不是因为我其他的作品。你们请我是因为请我吃饭目前很时髦，因为整个群氓集体正在为请马丁吃饭而发狂。＿
在这样的时刻他便常常突然看见一个身穿方襟短外衣、头戴斯泰森硬檐阔边帽的年轻流氓从人群中摇摇摆摆地走了出来。有天下午他在奥克兰的哥林纳社就见到他。那时他刚离开座位穿过讲台走向前去。他看见那年轻的流氓从巨大的厅堂后面的大门口神气十足地走了进来，身穿方襟短外衣，头戴硬檐阔边帽。马丁看得如此认真专注，五百个衣着时髦的仕女名媛也都转过头去看他在看什么。可她们只看见了座位正中空空的走道。马丁看见那年轻的粗汉沿着走道过来了，猜想着他是否会脱掉他从没见他脱下过的硬檐帽。那人沿着吊道笔直地走来了，走上了讲台。马丁想起他面前的路，差不多为自己那年轻的幻影哭了出来。那人摇摇摆摆穿过讲台，直往马丁走来，然后在马丁的意识前沿消失了。五百个仕女名媛用戴了手套的手轻轻地鼓起掌来，要想鼓励她们的客人，那羞涩的伟人。马丁把那幻影从他的头脑里摇掉了，笑了笑，开始了讲演。
学校视导员，一个好老头，在路边叫住了马丁。他想起了他，回忆了在他办公室里跟他的几次会见，那时马丁因为打架被学校开除了。
“很久以前我在一份杂志上读到了你的《钟声激越》，”他说，“好得就像爱伦·坡的作品。精彩，我那时就说，精彩！”
是的，以后几个月里，你两次从我身边走过，都没有认出我来——马丁几乎这样叫出声来。那两次我都在挨饿，在上当铺。可那时我的作品已经完成了。你现在为什么又来认我呢？
“那天我还在对我的老伴说，”对方还在讲，“请你出来吃顿饭会不会是个好主意呢？她非常赞成。是的，她非常赞成我的意思。”
“吃饭？”马丁声音很凶，几乎像咆哮。
“什么？啊，是的是的，吃饭，你知道——跟我们吃一顿便饭，跟你的老学监，你这个小鬼，”他有点紧张地说。装作开玩笑、挺友好的样子。
马丁感到莫名其妙，沿着大街走着。他在街角站住了，向四面茫然地望了望。
“哼，真有意思！”他终于喃喃地说道，“那老家伙在害怕我呢。”
Chapter 45
Kreis came to Martin one day - Kreis, of the "real dirt"; and Martin turned to him with relief, to receive the glowing details of a scheme sufficiently wild-catty to interest him as a fictionist rather than an investor. Kreis paused long enough in the midst of his exposition to tell him that in most of his "Shame of the Sun" he had been a chump.
"But I didn't come here to spout philosophy," Kreis went on. "What I want to know is whether or not you will put a thousand dollars in on this deal?"
"No, I'm not chump enough for that, at any rate," Martin answered. "But I'll tell you what I will do. You gave me the greatest night of my life. You gave me what money cannot buy. Now I've got money, and it means nothing to me. I'd like to turn over to you a thousand dollars of what I don't value for what you gave me that night and which was beyond price. You need the money. I've got more than I need. You want it. You came for it. There's no use scheming it out of me. Take it."
Kreis betrayed no surprise. He folded the check away in his pocket.
"At that rate I'd like the contract of providing you with many such nights," he said.
"Too late." Martin shook his head. "That night was the one night for me. I was in paradise. It's commonplace with you, I know. But it wasn't to me. I shall never live at such a pitch again. I'm done with philosophy. I want never to hear another word of it."
"The first dollar I ever made in my life out of my philosophy," Kreis remarked, as he paused in the doorway. "And then the market broke."
Mrs. Morse drove by Martin on the street one day, and smiled and nodded. He smiled back and lifted his hat. The episode did not affect him. A month before it might have disgusted him, or made him curious and set him to speculating about her state of consciousness at that moment. But now it was not provocative of a second thought. He forgot about it the next moment. He forgot about it as he would have forgotten the Central Bank Building or the City Hall after having walked past them. Yet his mind was preternaturally active. His thoughts went ever around and around in a circle. The centre of that circle was "work performed"; it ate at his brain like a deathless maggot. He awoke to it in the morning. It tormented his dreams at night. Every affair of life around him that penetrated through his senses immediately related itself to "work performed." He drove along the path of relentless logic to the conclusion that he was nobody, nothing. Mart Eden, the hoodlum, and Mart Eden, the sailor, had been real, had been he; but Martin Eden! the famous writer, did not exist. Martin Eden, the famous writer, was a vapor that had arisen in the mob-mind and by the mob-mind had been thrust into the corporeal being of Mart Eden, the hoodlum and sailor. But it couldn't fool him. He was not that sun-myth that the mob was worshipping and sacrificing dinners to. He knew better.
He read the magazines about himself, and pored over portraits of himself published therein until he was unable to associate his identity with those portraits. He was the fellow who had lived and thrilled and loved; who had been easy-going and tolerant of the frailties of life; who had served in the forecastle, wandered in strange lands, and led his gang in the old fighting days. He was the fellow who had been stunned at first by the thousands of books in the free library, and who had afterward learned his way among them and mastered them; he was the fellow who had burned the midnight oil and bedded with a spur and written books himself. But the one thing he was not was that colossal appetite that all the mob was bent upon feeding.
There were things, however, in the magazines that amused him. All the magazines were claiming him. WARREN'S MONTHLY advertised to its subscribers that it was always on the quest after new writers, and that, among others, it had introduced Martin Eden to the reading public. THE WHITE MOUSE claimed him; so did THE NORTHERN REVIEW and MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE, until silenced by THE GLOBE, which pointed triumphantly to its files where the mangled "Sea Lyrics" lay buried. YOUTH AND AGE, which had come to life again after having escaped paying its bills, put in a prior claim, which nobody but farmers' children ever read. The TRANSCONTINENTAL made a dignified and convincing statement of how it first discovered Martin Eden, which was warmly disputed by THE HORNET, with the exhibit of "The Peri and the Pearl." The modest claim of Singletree, Darnley & Co. was lost in the din. Besides, that publishing firm did not own a magazine wherewith to make its claim less modest.
The newspapers calculated Martin's royalties. In some way the magnificent offers certain magazines had made him leaked out, and Oakland ministers called upon him in a friendly way, while professional begging letters began to clutter his mail. But worse than all this were the women. His photographs were published broadcast, and special writers exploited his strong, bronzed face, his scars, his heavy shoulders, his clear, quiet eyes, and the slight hollows in his cheeks like an ascetic's. At this last he remembered his wild youth and smiled. Often, among the women he met, he would see now one, now another, looking at him, appraising him, selecting him. He laughed to himself. He remembered Brissenden's warning and laughed again. The women would never destroy him, that much was certain. He had gone past that stage.
Once, walking with Lizzie toward night school, she caught a glance directed toward him by a well-gowned, handsome woman of the bourgeoisie. The glance was a trifle too long, a shade too considerative. Lizzie knew it for what it was, and her body tensed angrily. Martin noticed, noticed the cause of it, told her how used he was becoming to it and that he did not care anyway.
"You ought to care," she answered with blazing eyes. "You're sick. That's what's the matter."
"Never healthier in my life. I weigh five pounds more than I ever did."
"It ain't your body. It's your head. Something's wrong with your think-machine. Even I can see that, an' I ain't nobody."
He walked on beside her, reflecting.
"I'd give anything to see you get over it," she broke out impulsively. "You ought to care when women look at you that way, a man like you. It's not natural. It's all right enough for sissy- boys. But you ain't made that way. So help me, I'd be willing an' glad if the right woman came along an' made you care."
When he left Lizzie at night school, he returned to the Metropole.
Once in his rooms, he dropped into a Morris chair and sat staring straight before him. He did not doze. Nor did he think. His mind was a blank, save for the intervals when unsummoned memory pictures took form and color and radiance just under his eyelids. He saw these pictures, but he was scarcely conscious of them - no more so than if they had been dreams. Yet he was not asleep. Once, he roused himself and glanced at his watch. It was just eight o'clock. He had nothing to do, and it was too early for bed. Then his mind went blank again, and the pictures began to form and vanish under his eyelids. There was nothing distinctive about the pictures. They were always masses of leaves and shrub-like branches shot through with hot sunshine.
A knock at the door aroused him. He was not asleep, and his mind immediately connected the knock with a telegram, or letter, or perhaps one of the servants bringing back clean clothes from the laundry. He was thinking about Joe and wondering where he was, as he said, "Come in."
He was still thinking about Joe, and did not turn toward the door. He heard it close softly. There was a long silence. He forgot that there had been a knock at the door, and was still staring blankly before him when he heard a woman's sob. It was involuntary, spasmodic, checked, and stifled - he noted that as he turned about. The next instant he was on his feet.
"Ruth!" he said, amazed and bewildered.
Her face was white and strained. She stood just inside the door, one hand against it for support, the other pressed to her side. She extended both hands toward him piteously, and started forward to meet him. As he caught her hands and led her to the Morris chair he noticed how cold they were. He drew up another chair and sat down on the broad arm of it. He was too confused to speak. In his own mind his affair with Ruth was closed and sealed. He felt much in the same way that he would have felt had the Shelly Hot Springs Laundry suddenly invaded the Hotel Metropole with a whole week's washing ready for him to pitch into. Several times he was about to speak, and each time he hesitated.
"No one knows I am here," Ruth said in a faint voice, with an appealing smile.
"What did you say?"
He was surprised at the sound of his own voice.
She repeated her words.
"Oh," he said, then wondered what more he could possibly say.
"I saw you come in, and I waited a few minutes."
"Oh," he said again.
He had never been so tongue-tied in his life. Positively he did not have an idea in his head. He felt stupid and awkward, but for the life of him he could think of nothing to say. It would have been easier had the intrusion been the Shelly Hot Springs laundry. He could have rolled up his sleeves and gone to work.
"And then you came in," he said finally.
She nodded, with a slightly arch expression, and loosened the scarf at her throat.
"I saw you first from across the street when you were with that girl."
"Oh, yes," he said simply. "I took her down to night school."
"Well, aren't you glad to see me?" she said at the end of another silence.
"Yes, yes." He spoke hastily. "But wasn't it rash of you to come here?"
"I slipped in. Nobody knows I am here. I wanted to see you. I came to tell you I have been very foolish. I came because I could no longer stay away, because my heart compelled me to come, because - because I wanted to come."
She came forward, out of her chair and over to him. She rested her hand on his shoulder a moment, breathing quickly, and then slipped into his arms. And in his large, easy way, desirous of not inflicting hurt, knowing that to repulse this proffer of herself was to inflict the most grievous hurt a woman could receive, he folded his arms around her and held her close. But there was no warmth in the embrace, no caress in the contact. She had come into his arms, and he held her, that was all. She nestled against him, and then, with a change of position, her hands crept up and rested upon his neck. But his flesh was not fire beneath those hands, and he felt awkward and uncomfortable.
"What makes you tremble so?" he asked. "Is it a chill? Shall I light the grate?"
He made a movement to disengage himself, but she clung more closely to him, shivering violently.
"It is merely nervousness," she said with chattering teeth. "I'll control myself in a minute. There, I am better already."
Slowly her shivering died away. He continued to hold her, but he was no longer puzzled. He knew now for what she had come.
"My mother wanted me to marry Charley Hapgood," she announced.
"Charley Hapgood, that fellow who speaks always in platitudes?" Martin groaned. Then he added, "And now, I suppose, your mother wants you to marry me."
He did not put it in the form of a question. He stated it as a certitude, and before his eyes began to dance the rows of figures of his royalties.
"She will not object, I know that much," Ruth said.
"She considers me quite eligible?"
Ruth nodded.
"And yet I am not a bit more eligible now than I was when she broke our engagement," he meditated. "I haven't changed any. I'm the same Martin Eden, though for that matter I'm a bit worse - I smoke now. Don't you smell my breath?"
In reply she pressed her open fingers against his lips, placed them graciously and playfully, and in expectancy of the kiss that of old had always been a consequence. But there was no caressing answer of Martin's lips. He waited until the fingers were removed and then went on.
"I am not changed. I haven't got a job. I'm not looking for a job. Furthermore, I am not going to look for a job. And I still believe that Herbert Spencer is a great and noble man and that Judge Blount is an unmitigated ass. I had dinner with him the other night, so I ought to know."
"But you didn't accept father's invitation," she chided.
"So you know about that? Who sent him? Your mother?"
She remained silent.
"Then she did send him. I thought so. And now I suppose she has sent you."
"No one knows that I am here," she protested. "Do you think my mother would permit this?"
"She'd permit you to marry me, that's certain."
She gave a sharp cry. "Oh, Martin, don't be cruel. You have not kissed me once. You are as unresponsive as a stone. And think what I have dared to do." She looked about her with a shiver, though half the look was curiosity. "Just think of where I am."
"I COULD DIE FOR YOU! I COULD DIE FOR YOU!" - Lizzie's words were ringing in his ears.
"Why didn't you dare it before?" he asked harshly. "When I hadn't a job? When I was starving? When I was just as I am now, as a man, as an artist, the same Martin Eden? That's the question I've been propounding to myself for many a day - not concerning you merely, but concerning everybody. You see I have not changed, though my sudden apparent appreciation in value compels me constantly to reassure myself on that point. I've got the same flesh on my bones, the same ten fingers and toes. I am the same. I have not developed any new strength nor virtue. My brain is the same old brain. I haven't made even one new generalization on literature or philosophy. I am personally of the same value that I was when nobody wanted me. And what is puzzling me is why they want me now. Surely they don't want me for myself, for myself is the same old self they did not want. Then they must want me for something else, for something that is outside of me, for something that is not I! Shall I tell you what that something is? It is for the recognition I have received. That recognition is not I. It resides in the minds of others. Then again for the money I have earned and am earning. But that money is not I. It resides in banks and in the pockets of Tom, Dick, and Harry. And is it for that, for the recognition and the money, that you now want me?"
"You are breaking my heart," she sobbed. "You know I love you, that I am here because I love you."
"I am afraid you don't see my point," he said gently. "What I mean is: if you love me, how does it happen that you love me now so much more than you did when your love was weak enough to deny me?"
"Forget and forgive," she cried passionately. "I loved you all the time, remember that, and I am here, now, in your arms."
"I'm afraid I am a shrewd merchant, peering into the scales, trying to weigh your love and find out what manner of thing it is."
She withdrew herself from his arms, sat upright, and looked at him long and searchingly. She was about to speak, then faltered and changed her mind.
"You see, it appears this way to me," he went on. "When I was all that I am now, nobody out of my own class seemed to care for me. When my books were all written, no one who had read the manuscripts seemed to care for them. In point of fact, because of the stuff I had written they seemed to care even less for me. In writing the stuff it seemed that I had committed acts that were, to say the least, derogatory. 'Get a job,' everybody said."
She made a movement of dissent.
"Yes, yes," he said; "except in your case you told me to get a position. The homely word JOB, like much that I have written, offends you. It is brutal. But I assure you it was no less brutal to me when everybody I knew recommended it to me as they would recommend right conduct to an immoral creature. But to return. The publication of what I had written, and the public notice I received, wrought a change in the fibre of your love. Martin Eden, with his work all performed, you would not marry. Your love for him was not strong enough to enable you to marry him. But your love is now strong enough, and I cannot avoid the conclusion that its strength arises from the publication and the public notice. In your case I do not mention royalties, though I am certain that they apply to the change wrought in your mother and father. Of course, all this is not flattering to me. But worst of all, it makes me question love, sacred love. Is love so gross a thing that it must feed upon publication and public notice? It would seem so. I have sat and thought upon it till my head went around."
"Poor, dear head." She reached up a hand and passed the fingers soothingly through his hair. "Let it go around no more. Let us begin anew, now. I loved you all the time. I know that I was weak in yielding to my mother's will. I should not have done so. Yet I have heard you speak so often with broad charity of the fallibility and frailty of humankind. Extend that charity to me. I acted mistakenly. Forgive me."
"Oh, I do forgive," he said impatiently. "It is easy to forgive where there is really nothing to forgive. Nothing that you have done requires forgiveness. One acts according to one's lights, and more than that one cannot do. As well might I ask you to forgive me for my not getting a job."
"I meant well," she protested. "You know that I could not have loved you and not meant well."
"True; but you would have destroyed me out of your well-meaning."
"Yes, yes," he shut off her attempted objection. "You would have destroyed my writing and my career. Realism is imperative to my nature, and the bourgeois spirit hates realism. The bourgeoisie is cowardly. It is afraid of life. And all your effort was to make me afraid of life. You would have formalized me. You would have compressed me into a two-by-four pigeonhole of life, where all life's values are unreal, and false, and vulgar." He felt her stir protestingly. "Vulgarity - a hearty vulgarity, I'll admit - is the basis of bourgeois refinement and culture. As I say, you wanted to formalize me, to make me over into one of your own class, with your class-ideals, class-values, and class-prejudices." He shook his head sadly. "And you do not understand, even now, what I am saying. My words do not mean to you what I endeavor to make them mean. What I say is so much fantasy to you. Yet to me it is vital reality. At the best you are a trifle puzzled and amused that this raw boy, crawling up out of the mire of the abyss, should pass judgment upon your class and call it vulgar."
She leaned her head wearily against his shoulder, and her body shivered with recurrent nervousness. He waited for a time for her to speak, and then went on.
"And now you want to renew our love. You want us to be married. You want me. And yet, listen - if my books had not been noticed, I'd nevertheless have been just what I am now. And you would have stayed away. It is all those damned books - "
"Don't swear," she interrupted.
Her reproof startled him. He broke into a harsh laugh.
"That's it," he said, "at a high moment, when what seems your life's happiness is at stake, you are afraid of life in the same old way - afraid of life and a healthy oath."
She was stung by his words into realization of the puerility of her act, and yet she felt that he had magnified it unduly and was consequently resentful. They sat in silence for a long time, she thinking desperately and he pondering upon his love which had departed. He knew, now, that he had not really loved her. It was an idealized Ruth he had loved, an ethereal creature of his own creating, the bright and luminous spirit of his love-poems. The real bourgeois Ruth, with all the bourgeois failings and with the hopeless cramp of the bourgeois psychology in her mind, he had never loved.
She suddenly began to speak.
"I know that much you have said is so. I have been afraid of life. I did not love you well enough. I have learned to love better. I love you for what you are, for what you were, for the ways even by which you have become. I love you for the ways wherein you differ from what you call my class, for your beliefs which I do not understand but which I know I can come to understand. I shall devote myself to understanding them. And even your smoking and your swearing - they are part of you and I will love you for them, too. I can still learn. In the last ten minutes I have learned much. That I have dared to come here is a token of what I have already learned. Oh, Martin! - "
She was sobbing and nestling close against him.
For the first time his arms folded her gently and with sympathy, and she acknowledged it with a happy movement and a brightening face.
"It is too late," he said. He remembered Lizzie's words. "I am a sick man - oh, not my body. It is my soul, my brain. I seem to have lost all values. I care for nothing. If you had been this way a few months ago, it would have been different. It is too late, now."
"It is not too late," she cried. "I will show you. I will prove to you that my love has grown, that it is greater to me than my class and all that is dearest to me. All that is dearest to the bourgeoisie I will flout. I am no longer afraid of life. I will leave my father and mother, and let my name become a by-word with my friends. I will come to you here and now, in free love if you will, and I will be proud and glad to be with you. If I have been a traitor to love, I will now, for love's sake, be a traitor to all that made that earlier treason."
She stood before him, with shining eyes.
"I am waiting, Martin," she whispered, "waiting for you to accept me. Look at me."
It was splendid, he thought, looking at her. She had redeemed herself for all that she had lacked, rising up at last, true woman, superior to the iron rule of bourgeois convention. It was splendid, magnificent, desperate. And yet, what was the matter with him? He was not thrilled nor stirred by what she had done. It was splendid and magnificent only intellectually. In what should have been a moment of fire, he coldly appraised her. His heart was untouched. He was unaware of any desire for her. Again he remembered Lizzie's words.
"I am sick, very sick," he said with a despairing gesture. "How sick I did not know till now. Something has gone out of me. I have always been unafraid of life, but I never dreamed of being sated with life. Life has so filled me that I am empty of any desire for anything. If there were room, I should want you, now. You see how sick I am."
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes; and like a child, crying, that forgets its grief in watching the sunlight percolate through the tear-dimmed films over the pupils, so Martin forgot his sickness, the presence of Ruth, everything, in watching the masses of vegetation, shot through hotly with sunshine that took form and blazed against this background of his eyelids. It was not restful, that green foliage. The sunlight was too raw and glaring. It hurt him to look at it, and yet he looked, he knew not why.
He was brought back to himself by the rattle of the door-knob. Ruth was at the door.
"How shall I get out?" she questioned tearfully. "I am afraid."
"Oh, forgive me," he cried, springing to his feet. "I'm not myself, you know. I forgot you were here." He put his hand to his head. "You see, I'm not just right. I'll take you home. We can go out by the servants' entrance. No one will see us. Pull down that veil and everything will be all right."
She clung to his arm through the dim-lighted passages and down the narrow stairs.
"I am safe now," she said, when they emerged on the sidewalk, at the same time starting to take her hand from his arm.
"No, no, I'll see you home," he answered.
"No, please don't," she objected. "It is unnecessary."
Again she started to remove her hand. He felt a momentary curiosity. Now that she was out of danger she was afraid. She was in almost a panic to be quit of him. He could see no reason for it and attributed it to her nervousness. So he restrained her withdrawing hand and started to walk on with her. Halfway down the block, he saw a man in a long overcoat shrink back into a doorway. He shot a glance in as he passed by, and, despite the high turned- up collar, he was certain that he recognized Ruth's brother, Norman.
During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation. She was stunned. He was apathetic. Once, he mentioned that he was going away, back to the South Seas, and, once, she asked him to forgive her having come to him. And that was all. The parting at her door was conventional. They shook hands, said good night, and he lifted his hat. The door swung shut, and he lighted a cigarette and turned back for his hotel. When he came to the doorway into which he had seen Norman shrink, he stopped and looked in in a speculative humor.
"She lied," he said aloud. "She made believe to me that she had dared greatly, and all the while she knew the brother that brought her was waiting to take her back." He burst into laughter. "Oh, these bourgeois! When I was broke, I was not fit to be seen with his sister. When I have a bank account, he brings her to me."
As he swung on his heel to go on, a tramp, going in the same direction, begged him over his shoulder.
"Say, mister, can you give me a quarter to get a bed?" were the words.
But it was the voice that made Martin turn around. The next instant he had Joe by the hand.
"D'ye remember that time we parted at the Hot Springs?" the other was saying. "I said then we'd meet again. I felt it in my bones. An' here we are."
"You're looking good," Martin said admiringly, "and you've put on weight."
"I sure have." Joe's face was beaming. "I never knew what it was to live till I hit hoboin'. I'm thirty pounds heavier an' feel tiptop all the time. Why, I was worked to skin an' bone in them old days. Hoboin' sure agrees with me."
"But you're looking for a bed just the same," Martin chided, "and it's a cold night."
"Huh? Lookin' for a bed?" Joe shot a hand into his hip pocket and brought it out filled with small change. "That beats hard graft," he exulted. "You just looked good; that's why I battered you."
Martin laughed and gave in.
"You've several full-sized drunks right there," he insinuated.
Joe slid the money back into his pocket.
"Not in mine," he announced. "No gettin' oryide for me, though there ain't nothin' to stop me except I don't want to. I've ben drunk once since I seen you last, an' then it was unexpected, bein' on an empty stomach. When I work like a beast, I drink like a beast. When I live like a man, I drink like a man - a jolt now an' again when I feel like it, an' that's all."
Martin arranged to meet him next day, and went on to the hotel. He paused in the office to look up steamer sailings. The Mariposa sailed for Tahiti in five days.
"Telephone over to-morrow and reserve a stateroom for me," he told the clerk. "No deck-stateroom, but down below, on the weather- side, - the port-side, remember that, the port-side. You'd better write it down."
Once in his room he got into bed and slipped off to sleep as gently as a child. The occurrences of the evening had made no impression on him. His mind was dead to impressions. The glow of warmth with which he met Joe had been most fleeting. The succeeding minute he had been bothered by the ex-laundryman's presence and by the compulsion of conversation. That in five more days he sailed for his loved South Seas meant nothing to him. So he closed his eyes and slept normally and comfortably for eight uninterrupted hours. He was not restless. He did not change his position, nor did he dream. Sleep had become to him oblivion, and each day that he awoke, he awoke with regret. Life worried and bored him, and time was a vexation.
有一天克瑞斯来看马丁了，克瑞斯是“真正的贱民”之一。马丁听着他叙述起一个辉煌计划的细节，放下心来。那计划相当想入非非，他怀着小说家的兴趣而不是投资人的兴趣听他讲述。解释到中途，克瑞斯还分出了点时间告诉马丁，他在他那《太阳的耻辱》里简直是块木头。 
“可我并不是到这儿来侃哲学的，”克瑞斯说下去，“我想知道你是否肯在这桩买卖上投上一千元资本。”
“不，我无论如何也还没有木头到那种程度，”马丁回答，“不过我要告诉你我的打算。你曾经给了我平生最精彩的一夜，给了我用金钱买不到的东西。现在我有钱了，而钱对于我又毫无意义。我认为你那桩买卖并无价值，但我愿意给你一千元，回报你给我的那个无价之宝的一夜。你需要的是钱，而我的钱又多得花不完；你既然需要钱，又来要钱，就用不着耍什么花枪来骗我了，你拿去吧。”
克瑞斯没有表现丝毫惊讶，折好支票，放进了口袋。
“照这个价钱我倒想订个合同，为你提供许多那样的夜晚，”他说。
“太晚了，”马丁摇摇头，“对于我来说那是唯一的一夜。那天晚上我简直就是在天堂里。我知道那对于你们是家常便饭，可对我却大不相同。我以后再也不会生活在那样的高度了，我跟哲学分手了；关于哲学的话我一个字也不想听了。”
“这可是我平生凭哲学谦到的第一笔钱，”克瑞斯走到门口，站住了，说，“可是市场又垮掉了。”
有一天莫尔斯太太在街上开车路过马丁身边，向他点了点头，微笑了一下；马丁也脱帽，微笑作答。此事对他毫无影响，要是在一个月以前他一定会生气，好奇，而且会揣测她的心理状态；可现在事情一过他便不再想，转瞬便忘，就像路过中央银行大楼或是市政厅便立即忘记一样。可不好理解的是：他的思维仍然活跃，总绕着一个圆圈转来转去；圆圈的中心是“作品早已完成”；那念头像一大堆永不死亡的蛆虫咬啮着他的脑子，早上把他咬醒，晚上咬啮他的梦。周围生活里每一件进入他感官的事物都立即和“作品早已完成”联系了起来。他沿着冷酷无情的逻辑推论下去，结论是他自己已无足轻重，什么也不是。流氓马·伊登和水手马·伊登是真实的，那就是他。可那著名的作家马丁·伊登却是从群氓心理产生的一团迷雾，是由群氓心理硬塞进流氓和水手马·伊登的臭皮囊里去的。那骗不了他，他并不是群纸献牲膜拜的那个太阳神话。他有自知之明。
他测览杂志上有关自己的文章，细读上面发表的关于他的描写，始终觉得无法把那些描绘跟自己对上号。他确实是那个曾经生活过、欢乐过、恋爱过的人；那个随遇而安。宽容生活里的弱点的人；他确实在水手舱当过水手，曾在异国他乡漂泊，曾在打架的日子里带领过自己一帮人；他最初见到免费图书馆书架上那千千万万的藏书时确实曾目瞪口呆；以后又在书城之中钻研出了门道，掌握了书本；他确实曾经点着灯熬夜读书，带着铁刺睡觉，也写过好几本书。但有一桩本领他却没有：他没有所有的群氓都想填塞的那么个硕大无朋的胃。
不过，杂志上有些东西也令他觉得好玩。所有的杂志都在争夺他。《华伦月刊》向他的订户宣传它总在发现新作家；别的且不说，马丁·伊登就是他们向读者大众推荐的。《白鼠》杂志宣称马丁·伊登是他们发现的；发表同样消息的还有《北方评论》和《麦金托什杂志》，可他们却叫《环球》打哑了，《环球》胜利地提出了埋藏在他们的文献中那份被窜改得面目全非的《海上抒情诗》；逃掉了债务又转世还魂的《青年与时代》提出了马丁一篇更早的作品，那东西除了农民的孩子之外再也没有人读。《跨越大陆》发表了一篇振振有辞的庄严声明，说他们是如何物色到马丁·伊登的，《大黄蜂》却展示了他们出版的《仙女与珍珠》，进行了激烈的反驳。在这一片吵嚷声中欣格垂、达思利公司那温和的声明被淹没了，何况欣格垂出版社没有杂志，无法发表更为响亮的声明。
报纸计算着马丁的版税收入。某几家杂志给他的豪华稿酬不知道怎么泄露了出去，于是奥克兰的牧师们便来对他作友谊拜访；职业性的求助信也充斥了他的信箱。而比这一切更糟的则是女人。他的照片广泛发表，于是有了专门的作家拿他那晒黑了的结实的面庞、上面的伤疤、健壮的肩头、沉静清澈的眼光、苦行僧式的凹陷的面颊大做文章。这让他想起了自己少年时代的野性，不禁微笑了。他在自己交往的妇女中不时发现有人打量他，品评他，垂青于他。他暗暗好笑，想起了布里森登的警告，笑得更有趣了。女人是无法毁掉他的，这可以肯定，他早已过了那样的年龄。
有一回他送丽齐去夜校。丽齐看见一位穿着华丽的长袍的资产阶级美女膘了他一眼。那一眼瞟得长了一点，深沉了一点，其意思丽齐最是明白。她愤怒了，身子僵直了，马丁看了出来，也注意到了那意思，便告诉她这种事他早已见惯不惊，并不放在心主。
“你应当注意的，”她回答时满眼怒火，“问题就在，你已经有了毛病。”
“我一辈子也没有更健康过，我的体重比过去增加了五磅呢。”
“不是你身体有病，而是你脑子有病，是你那思想的机器出了毛病。连我这样的小角色也看出来了。”
他走在她身旁想着。
“只要能治好你这病，我什么都不在乎，”她冲动地叫喊起来，“像你这样的人，女人像那样看你，你就得小心。太不自然，你如果是个打打扮扮的男人那倒没什么，可你天生不是那种人。上帝保佑，要是出了一个能叫你喜欢的人，我倒是心甘情愿，而且高兴的。”
他把丽齐留在夜校，一个人回到了大都会旅馆。
一进屋他就倒在一张莫里斯安乐椅里，茫然地望着前面。他没有打盹，也没有想问题，心里一片空白，只偶然有一些回忆镜头带着形象、色彩和闪光从他眼帘下掠过。他感到了那些镜头，却几乎没有意识到——它们并不比梦境更清晰，可他又没有睡着。有一次他醒了过来，看了看表：才八点。他无事可做。要睡觉又嫌太早。他心里又成了空白，眼帘下又有影像形成和消失。那些影像都模糊不清，永远如阳光穿透的层层树叶和灌木丛的乱技。
敲门声惊醒了他。他没有睡着，那声音令他想起了电报、信件或是洗衣房的仆役送来的洗好的衣物。他在想着乔，猜想着他在什么地方，同时嘴里说：“请进。”
他还在想着乔，没有向门口转过身去。他听见门轻轻关上，然后是长久的沉默。他忘记了曾经有过敲门声，仍茫然地望着前面，却听见了女人的哭泣。他对哭声转过身子，注意到那哭声抽搐、压抑。难以控制。不由自主、带着呜咽。他立即站了起来。
“露丝！”他说，又惊讶又惶惑。
露丝脸色苍白，紧张。她站在门口，怕站立不稳，一只手扶住门框，另一只手抚住腰。她向他可怜巴巴地伸出了双手，走了过来。他抓住她的手，领她来到了莫里斯安乐椅前，让她坐下。他注意到她的双手冰凉。他拉过来另一把椅子，坐在它巨大的扶手上。他心里一片混乱，说不出话来。在他的心里他跟露丝的关系早已结束，打上了封蜡。他内心的感觉是：那像是雪莉温泉旅馆突然给大都会旅馆送来了一个礼拜脏衣服要他赶快洗出来一样。他好几次要想说话，却迟疑不决。
“没有人知道我在这儿，”露丝细声说，带着楚楚动人的微笑。
“你说什么？”他问道。
他为自己说话时的声音吃惊。
她又说了一遍。
“啊，”他说，然后便再无话可说。
“我看见你进旅馆来的，然后我又等了一会儿。”
“啊，”他说。
他一辈子也不曾那么结巴过。他脑子里确实一句话也没有，他感到尴尬，狼狈，可仍然想不出话来。这次的闯入如果发生在雪莉温泉旅馆也说不定会好些，他还可以卷起袖子上班去。
“然后你才进来，”他终于说。
她点了点头，略带了些顽皮，然后解开了她脖子上的围巾。
“你在街那边和那个姑娘在一起时我就看见你了。”
“啊，是的，”他简短地说，“我送她上夜校去。”
“那么，你见了我高兴么？”沉默了一会儿，她说。
“高兴，高兴，”他急忙说，“可你到这儿来不是有点冒失么？”
“我是溜进来的，没有人知道。我想见你。我是来向你承认我过去的愚蠢的。我是因为再也受不了和你分手才来的。是我的心强迫我来的。因为——因为我自己想来。”
她从椅边站起，向他走来，把手放到他的肩上。她呼吸急促，过了一会儿便倒进了他的怀里。他不希望伤害别人，他明白若是拒绝了她的自荐，便会给予她一个女人所能受到的最残酷的伤害，便大量地、轻松地伸出胳臂，把她紧紧搂住。但那拥抱没有暖意，那接触没有温情。她倒进了他的怀里，他抱住了她，如此而已。她往他的怀里钻了钻，然后换了一个姿势，双手搂住了他的脖子。然而她手下的肉体没有火焰，马丁只觉得尴尬，吃力。
“你怎么抖得这么厉害？”他问道，“冷么？要我点燃壁炉么？”
他动了一下，想脱开身子，可她却往他身上靠得更紧了，并猛烈地颤抖着。
“只不过有点紧张，”她牙齿答答地响，说，“我一会儿就能控制住自己的。好了，我已经好些了。”
她的颤抖慢慢停止，他继续拥抱着她。此刻他已不再惶惑，也已明白了她的来意。
“我妈妈要我嫁给查理·哈扑古德，”她宣称。
“查理·哈扑古德，那个一说话就满口陈词滥调的家伙么？”马丁抱怨道，接着又说，“那么现在，我看，是你妈妈要你嫁给我了？”他这话不是提出问题，而是当作肯定的事实。他那一行行的版税数字开始在他眼前飞舞。
“她是不会反对的，这一点我知道，”露丝说。
“他觉得我般配么？”
露丝点点头。
“可我现在并不比她解除我们俩婚约的时候更般配，”他沉思着说，“我丝毫也没有改变，我还是当初那个马丁·伊登，尽管无论从哪个角度看来我都更不般配了。我现在又抽烟了。你没有闻到我的烟味么？”
她伸出手指压到他的嘴上，作为回答，动作优美，像撒娇，只等着他来吻她。那在以前是必然的结果。但是马丁的嘴唇并未作出怜爱的响应。等她的手指头移开之后，他继续说了下去。
“我没有变。我没有找工作，而且不打算去找工作。我依旧相信赫伯特·斯宾塞是个了不起的高贵的人；而布朗特法官是个十足的蠢驴。前不久的一个晚上我还跟他一起吃过晚饭，因此我应该明白。”
“但是你没有接受爸爸的邀请，”她责备他。
“那么你是知道的了？是谁打发他来邀请的？你妈妈么？”
她保持沉默。
“那么，确实是你妈妈叫他出面来邀请的喽。找原来就这样想。那么，我现在估计，你也是她打发到这儿来的喽。”
“我到这儿来是谁也不知道的，”她抗议道，“你以为我妈妈会同意我这样做么？”
“可她会同意你嫁给我，这可以肯定。”
她尖声叫了起来：“啊；马丁，别那么残酷。你还一次都没有亲吻我呢。你简直死板得像块石头。你得想想我冒了多大的风险。”她打了一个寒噤，四面望望，尽管有一半的神色还是期待，“你想想看，我现在在什么地方。”
“我可以为你死！为你死！”丽齐的话在马丁的耳边震响。
“可你以前为什么不敢冒风险呢？”他不客气地问道，“因为那时我没有工作么？因为我在挨饿么？那时我也是个男人，也是个艺术家，跟现在的马丁·伊登完全一样。这个问题我研究了多少日子了——倒并不专对你一个人，而是对所有的人。你看，我并没有变，尽管我表面价值的突然变化强迫我经常确认这一点。我的骨架上挂的还是这些肉，我长的还是十个手指头和十个脚趾头。我还是我；我的力气没有新的变化，道德也没有新的发展；我的脑子还是当初那副脑子；在文学上或是在哲学上我一条新的概括也没有作出。我这个人的价值还跟没人要时一个样。叫我百思不得其解的是；他们为什么现在又要我了。他们肯定不是因为我自己而要我的，因为我还是他们原来不想要的那个人。那么他们肯定是因为别的原因要我了，因为某种我以外的东西了，因为某种并不是我的东西了！你要听我告诉你那是什么吗？那是因为我得到了承认。可那承认存在别人心里，并不是我。还有就是因为我已经挣到的钱，和还要挣到的钱。可那钱也不是我。那东西存在银行里，存在甲乙丙丁人人的口袋里。你现在又要我了，是不是也是因为这个呢，是不是也因为我得到的承认和金钱呢？”
“你叫我心都碎了，”她抽泣起来，“你知道我是爱你的，我来，是因为我爱你。”
“我怕是你并没有明白我的意思，”他温和地说，“我的意思是：如果你爱我的话，为什么你现在爱我会比那时深了许多呢？那时你对我的爱是很软弱的，你否定了我。”
“忘掉吧，原谅吧，”她激动地叫道，“我一直爱着你，记住这一点，而我现在又到了这儿，在你的怀抱里。”
“我怕我是个精明的生意人，得要仔细看看秤盘，得要称一称你的爱情，看看它究竟是什么货品呢。”
她从他怀里抽出身子，坐直了，探索地打量了他许久。她欲言又止，终于改变了主意。
“你看，我觉得事情是这样的，”马丁说了下去，“那时我还是现在的我，那时除了我本阶级的人之外似乎谁都瞧不起我。那时我所有的书都已经写成，可读过那些手稿的人似乎谁也不把它们放在心上。事实上他们反倒因此更瞧不起我了。我写了那些东西好像至少是做了什么丢脸的事。每个人都劝我：‘找个活儿干吧。’”
她做出个要表示异议的反应。
“好了，好了，”他说，“只是你有点不同，你叫我找的是‘职位’。那个不好听的词‘活儿’和我写的大多数作品一样，令你不愉快。那词粗野。可我向你保证，所有我认识的人把那个词推荐给我时，它也并不好听一点，那是像叫一个不道德的角色把行为放规矩一样的。还是回到本题吧。我写作的东西的出版和我所得到的名声使你的爱情的本质发生了变化。你不愿意嫁给写完了他的全部作品的马丁·伊登，你对他的爱不够坚强，没有能使你嫁给他。可现在你的爱情却坚强起来了。我无法逃避一个结论：你那爱情的力量产生于出版和声望。对于你我不提版税，虽然我可以肯定它在你父母的转变里起着作用。当然，这一切是不会叫我高兴的。然而最糟糕的是，它使我怀疑起爱情，神圣的爱情了。难道爱情就那么庙俗，非得靠出版和声望来饲养不可么？可它好像正是这样。我曾经坐着想呀想吁，想得头昏脑涨。”
“我亲爱的可怜的头脑呀。”露丝伸出一只手来，用指头在他的头发里抚慰地搓揉着，“那你就别头昏脑涨了吧。现在让我们来重新开始。我一向是爱你的。我知道我曾服从过我母亲的意志，那是一种软弱，是不应该的。可是我曾多次听见你以悲天悯人的胸怀谈起人性的脆弱和易于堕落。把你那悲天悯人的胸怀也推广到我身上吧。我做了错事，希望你原谅。”
“啊，我是会原谅的，”他不耐烦地说，“没有可原谅的东西时原谅是容易的。你做的事其实不需要原谅。每个人都按照自己的思想行动，超过了这个他就无法行动。同样，我也无法因为不去找工作而请求你原谅。”
“我是出于好意，”她解释道，“这你知道，我既然爱你就不会不存好意。”
“不错，可是你那一番好意却可能毁了我。
“的确，的确，”她正要抗议却被他阴住了，“你是可能毁了我的写作和事业的。现实主义支配着我的天性，而资产阶级精神却仇恨现实主义。资产阶级是怯懦的，他门害怕生活，而你的全部努力就是让我害怕生活。你可能让我公式化，你可能把我塞进一个五尺长两尺宽的生活鸽子笼里，在那里生活的一切价值都是缥缈的，虚假的，庸俗的。”他感到她打算抗议。“庸俗性——从心眼里冒出来的庸俗性，我得承认——是资产阶级的风雅和文化的基础。正如我所说，你打算让我公式化，把我变成你们阶级的成员，怀着你们阶级的理想，承认你们阶级的价值观念和你们的阶级成见。”他忧伤地摇摇头，“而你到了现在也还不明白我说的是什么。我的话听在你耳里并不是我打算表达的意思。我说的话对于你简直是奇谈怪论，可对于我那却是要命的现实。你至多只感到有点糊涂，有点滑稽，这个从深渊的泥淖里爬出来的小伙子居然敢对你们的阶级作出评价，说它庸俗。”
她疲倦地把头靠在他身上，因为一阵阵紧张，身子战栗着。他等她说话，停了一会儿，又继续说了下去。
“现在你想让我们言归于好，想和我结婚，你需要我，可是，你听着——如果我的书没有引起注意，我现在还会依然故我，而你仍然会离我远远的。全都是因为那些他妈的书——”
“别骂粗话，”她插嘴说。
她的指责叫他大吃了一惊，他不客气地哈哈大笑起来。
“正好，”他说，“在关键时刻，在你似乎要拿一辈子的幸福孤注一掷的时候，你又按老规矩害怕起生活来了——害怕生活，也害怕一句无伤大雅的粗话。”
他的话刺痛了她，让她意识到了自己行为的幼稚。不过她也觉得马丁夸大得过火了一些，心里感到愤慨。两人默不作声，呆坐了许久。她心急火燎地考虑着，他却思量着自己已经消逝的爱情。现在他才明白他从没有真正爱过她。他所爱的是一个理想化了的露丝，一个自己所创造的虚无缥缈的露丝，是他的爱情诗篇里的光华灿烂的精灵。这个现实的露丝，这个资产阶级的露丝，这个有着种种资产阶级的弱点。满脑子塞着无可救药的资产阶级成见的露丝他从来就不曾爱过。
她突然开始说话了。
“我知道你的话大多是事实。我害怕过生活，我对你的爱有过错误，可我已经学会了更正确地恋爱。我爱现在的你，过去的你，爱你所走过的道路。我因为你所提出的我俩困阶级不同而产生的差异而爱你，因为你的信仰而爱你，虽然我不理解你的信仰，但我相信我可能理解。我要花功夫去理解它，甚至包括你的抽烟和粗话——它们都是你的一部分，因为它们我也要爱你。我还可以学习。在刚才这十分钟里我就学到了许多东西。我能到这儿来就说明我已经学到了许多东西。啊，马丁！——”
她抽泣着向他靠了过去。
他拥抱她的手臂第一次表现了温柔和同情，她快活地动了动，脸上闪出了光彩，表明她已经明白他的意思。
“太晚了，”他说。他想起了丽齐那句话。“我是个有病的人——啊，不是身体有病，而是灵魂有病，是头脑有病。我好像失去了我的一切价值，什么都满不在乎了。你要是几个月以前这样做，情况会不相同，可是现在太迟了。”
“还不太迟，”她叫了起来，“我来告诉你。我会向你证明我的爱情成长了。爱情比我的阶级和我所爱的一切都更重要。我要抛弃资产阶级最喜爱的一切。我不再害怕生活了。我要离开我的父母，让我的名字成为朋友间的笑柄。我现在就要搬到你这儿来住，只要你愿意，可以和我随意相爱。我要以和你一起生活为骄傲，感到快乐。如果我以前曾经背叛过爱情的话，那么我现在为了爱情就要背叛过去使我背叛的一切。”
她眼里闪着光芒，站在他面前。
“我在等着你呢，马丁，”她低声说道，“等着你接受我的爱，你看看我。”
他望着她想道，真是精彩。她就这样弥补了她所缺少的一切了，终于站了起来，真诚的女人，超越了资产阶级的传统。了不起，精彩，挺而走险。但是，他是怎么了？他并不曾因为她的行为而狂欢，而激动。那了不起的感觉，那精彩的感觉只是理智上的。在他应当燃烧时他却冷冷地估量着她。他的心没有被打动，他意识不到任何对她的欲望。他又想起了而齐那句话。
“我病了，病得很厉害，”他做了一个失望的手势，说道，“到目前为止，我还不知道我病得这么厉害。我身上少了点东西，我从来没有害怕过生活，可我做梦也没有想到会叫生活填得太饱。我被填得太多，对一切都失去了兴趣。如果肚子还有缝隙，我现在是会需要你的。你看我病得多厉害。”
他头向后仰，闭上了眼睛，然后像一个哭泣的儿童望着阳光透过泪膜遮蔽的眼球忘记了悲伤一样忘掉了他的病，忘掉了露丝的存在，忘掉了一切。以他的眼帘为背景的蓬勃生长的丛丛草木被炽热的阳光穿透了，他望着。绿色的叶丛并不恬静，阳光又太耀眼刺目，望着它使他觉得难受。可不知道为什么，他仍然望着。
门把手的声音惊醒了他，露丝已经走到了门口。
“我怎么出去呢？”她眼泪汪汪地问道，“我害怕。”
“啊，对不起，”他跳了起来，叫道，“我出神了，你知道。我忘了你在这儿。”他摸摸自己的脑袋。“你看，我刚才不大正常。我送你回家去吧。我们可以从仆役的门出去，没有人会看见的。把那窗帘拉下来，一切都会好的。”
她紧挨着他的手臂走过灯光暗淡的市道，走下狭窄的楼梯。
“我现在安全了，”两人来到人行道上，她说，同时从他手臂了抽出了手。
“不，不，我送你回家，”他回答。
“谢谢，不用了，”她拒绝，“没有必要。”
她第二次要抽掉手，他一时感到了好奇：现在她已无危险可言，为什么反而害怕了？她为了摆脱他几乎手忙脚乱了。他想不出理由，只以为她是紧张。他没有放掉她打算缩回的手，只带了她继续往前走。走过半段街区，看见一个穿长外套的人闪进了一家门口。他经过时瞥了一眼，尽管那人领子掀得很高，他却深信自己看见的是露丝的弟弟诺尔曼。
露丝和马丁走路时没大说话。她是惊呆了，他则冷漠。有一回他说他要走，要回南海去；有一回她要求他原谅她来看了他，然后两人便再没有话。到了门口，分手也是礼貌性的。两人握了握手，互道晚安，他又脱帽致意。门关上了，他点燃了一支香烟，走上回旅馆的路。他回到刚才诺尔曼躲进去的屋门口时，停住步子，带着特别的心清查看了一下。
“她撒谎了，”他大声说道，“她要我相信她冒了很大的危险，其实她一直知道她弟弟就在外面等着送她回家。”他不禁笑出声来。“啊！这些资产阶级！我倒霉的时候连跟他姐姐在一起也不配，怕叫人看见。我有了银行存款他却亲自把姐姐给我送上门来。”
他转身正要离开，一个跟他走同一方向的流浪汉从身后走来向他乞讨。
“我说，先生，给我一个两毛五的角子住店好么？”他说。
那声音叫马丁转过身子，却随即跟乔握起手来。
“还记得我们在温泉告别的时候么？”那人说，“那时我就说我们会见面的。这一点我从骨头里都感觉得到。现在我们可不就在这儿遇见了么？”
“你看去挺不错嘛，”马丁带着欣赏的口气说，“你长胖了。”
“当然长胖了，”乔满脸欢喜，“我是直到开始了流浪才懂得生活的。我体重增加了三十磅。可在那些日子却瘦得皮包骨头。我倒的确适合于流浪。”
“可你仍然在找钱住店，”马丁刺他一句，“而今天晚上又很冷。”
“哈！找钱住店么？”乔一只手插进屁股口袋，抓出一大把角子，“这可比做苦工强多了。”他得意扬扬地说，“你看起来挺阔的，所以我就敲你一家伙。”
马丁哈哈大笑，认了输。
“这一把钱倒够你大醉几回的，”他话外有话。
乔把钱塞进了口袋。
“我从不大醉，”他宣布，“从不喝醉，虽然我要醉也没有谁会挡我。我和你分手之后只醉过一回，那是意外，空肚子喝了酒。我干活像吉生的时候酒醉得也像畜生，我生活像人的时候喝酒也就像人了——高兴时偶尔来上两杯，绝不多喝。”
马丁约好明天跟乔见面，就回到旅馆。他在办公室看了看船舶消息。五天后马里泊萨号就去塔希提岛。
“明天在电话上给我订个豪华舱位，”他告诉服务员，“不要甲板上的，要下面的，迎风一面——在舷，记住，左航。你最好是记下来。”
一回到房里他就钻进被窝像个孩子似的睡着了。那晚发生的事对他毫无影响。他的心已经死灭，留不下什么印象。他遇见乔时的温暖情绪也非常短暂，他随即因那往日的洗衣工的出现而厌烦，为不得不说话而难受。五天以后他就要到他心爱的南海去了，可那对他也没有了意思。他闭上眼，一睡八个小时，睡得正常，舒坦，没有烦躁，没有翻身，也没有梦。睡眠于他就是忘却。他每天都为醒来感到遗憾。生命使他烦恼了，厌倦了，时光叫他难堪。
Chapter 46
"Say, Joe," was his greeting to his old-time working-mate next morning, "there's a Frenchman out on Twenty-eighth Street. He's made a pot of money, and he's going back to France. It's a dandy, well-appointed, small steam laundry. There's a start for you if you want to settle down. Here, take this; buy some clothes with it and be at this man's office by ten o'clock. He looked up the laundry for me, and he'll take you out and show you around. If you like it, and think it is worth the price - twelve thousand - let me know and it is yours. Now run along. I'm busy. I'll see you later."
"Now look here, Mart," the other said slowly, with kindling anger, "I come here this mornin' to see you. Savve? I didn't come here to get no laundry. I come a here for a talk for old friends' sake, and you shove a laundry at me. I tell you, what you can do. You can take that laundry an' go to hell."
He was out of the room when Martin caught him and whirled him around.
"Now look here, Joe," he said; "if you act that way, I'll punch your head. An for old friends' sake I'll punch it hard. Savve? - you will, will you?"
Joe had clinched and attempted to throw him, and he was twisting and writhing out of the advantage of the other's hold. They reeled about the room, locked in each other's arms, and came down with a crash across the splintered wreckage of a wicker chair. Joe was underneath, with arms spread out and held and with Martin's knee on his chest. He was panting and gasping for breath when Martin released him.
"Now we'll talk a moment," Martin said. "You can't get fresh with me. I want that laundry business finished first of all. Then you can come back and we'll talk for old sake's sake. I told you I was busy. Look at that."
A servant had just come in with the morning mail, a great mass of letters and magazines.
"How can I wade through that and talk with you? You go and fix up that laundry, and then we'll get together."
"All right," Joe admitted reluctantly. "I thought you was turnin' me down, but I guess I was mistaken. But you can't lick me, Mart, in a stand-up fight. I've got the reach on you."
"We'll put on the gloves sometime and see," Martin said with a smile.
"Sure; as soon as I get that laundry going." Joe extended his arm. "You see that reach? It'll make you go a few."
Martin heaved a sigh of relief when the door closed behind the laundryman. He was becoming anti-social. Daily he found it a severer strain to be decent with people. Their presence perturbed him, and the effort of conversation irritated him. They made him restless, and no sooner was he in contact with them than he was casting about for excuses to get rid of them.
He did not proceed to attack his mail, and for a half hour he lolled in his chair, doing nothing, while no more than vague, half- formed thoughts occasionally filtered through his intelligence, or rather, at wide intervals, themselves constituted the flickering of his intelligence.
He roused himself and began glancing through his mail. There were a dozen requests for autographs - he knew them at sight; there were professional begging letters; and there were letters from cranks, ranging from the man with a working model of perpetual motion, and the man who demonstrated that the surface of the earth was the inside of a hollow sphere, to the man seeking financial aid to purchase the Peninsula of Lower California for the purpose of communist colonization. There were letters from women seeking to know him, and over one such he smiled, for enclosed was her receipt for pew-rent, sent as evidence of her good faith and as proof of her respectability.
Editors and publishers contributed to the daily heap of letters, the former on their knees for his manuscripts, the latter on their knees for his books - his poor disdained manuscripts that had kept all he possessed in pawn for so many dreary months in order to find them in postage. There were unexpected checks for English serial rights and for advance payments on foreign translations. His English agent announced the sale of German translation rights in three of his books, and informed him that Swedish editions, from which he could expect nothing because Sweden was not a party to the Berne Convention, were already on the market. Then there was a nominal request for his permission for a Russian translation, that country being likewise outside the Berne Convention.
He turned to the huge bundle of clippings which had come in from his press bureau, and read about himself and his vogue, which had become a furore. All his creative output had been flung to the public in one magnificent sweep. That seemed to account for it. He had taken the public off its feet, the way Kipling had, that time when he lay near to death and all the mob, animated by a mob- mind thought, began suddenly to read him. Martin remembered how that same world-mob, having read him and acclaimed him and not understood him in the least, had, abruptly, a few months later, flung itself upon him and torn him to pieces. Martin grinned at the thought. Who was he that he should not be similarly treated in a few more months? Well, he would fool the mob. He would be away, in the South Seas, building his grass house, trading for pearls and copra, jumping reefs in frail outriggers, catching sharks and bonitas, hunting wild goats among the cliffs of the valley that lay next to the valley of Taiohae.
In the moment of that thought the desperateness of his situation dawned upon him. He saw, cleared eyed, that he was in the Valley of the Shadow. All the life that was in him was fading, fainting, making toward death.
He realized how much he slept, and how much he desired to sleep. Of old, he had hated sleep. It had robbed him of precious moments of living. Four hours of sleep in the twenty-four had meant being robbed of four hours of life. How he had grudged sleep! Now it was life he grudged. Life was not good; its taste in his mouth was without tang, and bitter. This was his peril. Life that did not yearn toward life was in fair way toward ceasing. Some remote instinct for preservation stirred in him, and he knew he must get away. He glanced about the room, and the thought of packing was burdensome. Perhaps it would be better to leave that to the last. In the meantime he might be getting an outfit.
He put on his hat and went out, stopping in at a gun-store, where he spent the remainder of the morning buying automatic rifles, ammunition, and fishing tackle. Fashions changed in trading, and he knew he would have to wait till he reached Tahiti before ordering his trade-goods. They could come up from Australia, anyway. This solution was a source of pleasure. He had avoided doing something, and the doing of anything just now was unpleasant. He went back to the hotel gladly, with a feeling of satisfaction in that the comfortable Morris chair was waiting for him; and he groaned inwardly, on entering his room, at sight of Joe in the Morris chair.
Joe was delighted with the laundry. Everything was settled, and he would enter into possession next day. Martin lay on the bed, with closed eyes, while the other talked on. Martin's thoughts were far away - so far away that he was rarely aware that he was thinking. It was only by an effort that he occasionally responded. And yet this was Joe, whom he had always liked. But Joe was too keen with life. The boisterous impact of it on Martin's jaded mind was a hurt. It was an aching probe to his tired sensitiveness. When Joe reminded him that sometime in the future they were going to put on the gloves together, he could almost have screamed.
"Remember, Joe, you're to run the laundry according to those old rules you used to lay down at Shelly Hot Springs," he said. "No overworking. No working at night. And no children at the mangles. No children anywhere. And a fair wage."
Joe nodded and pulled out a note-book.
"Look at here. I was workin' out them rules before breakfast this A.M. What d'ye think of them?"
He read them aloud, and Martin approved, worrying at the same time as to when Joe would take himself off.
It was late afternoon when he awoke. Slowly the fact of life came back to him. He glanced about the room. Joe had evidently stolen away after he had dozed off. That was considerate of Joe, he thought. Then he closed his eyes and slept again.
In the days that followed Joe was too busy organizing and taking hold of the laundry to bother him much; and it was not until the day before sailing that the newspapers made the announcement that he had taken passage on the Mariposa. Once, when the instinct of preservation fluttered, he went to a doctor and underwent a searching physical examination. Nothing could be found the matter with him. His heart and lungs were pronounced magnificent. Every organ, so far as the doctor could know, was normal and was working normally.
"There is nothing the matter with you, Mr. Eden," he said, "positively nothing the matter with you. You are in the pink of condition. Candidly, I envy you your health. It is superb. Look at that chest. There, and in your stomach, lies the secret of your remarkable constitution. Physically, you are a man in a thousand - in ten thousand. Barring accidents, you should live to be a hundred."
And Martin knew that Lizzie's diagnosis had been correct. Physically he was all right. It was his "think-machine" that had gone wrong, and there was no cure for that except to get away to the South Seas. The trouble was that now, on the verge of departure, he had no desire to go. The South Seas charmed him no more than did bourgeois civilization. There was no zest in the thought of departure, while the act of departure appalled him as a weariness of the flesh. He would have felt better if he were already on board and gone.
The last day was a sore trial. Having read of his sailing in the morning papers, Bernard Higginbotham, Gertrude, and all the family came to say good-by, as did Hermann von Schmidt and Marian. Then there was business to be transacted, bills to be paid, and everlasting reporters to be endured. He said good-by to Lizzie Connolly, abruptly, at the entrance to night school, and hurried away. At the hotel he found Joe, too busy all day with the laundry to have come to him earlier. It was the last straw, but Martin gripped the arms of his chair and talked and listened for half an hour.
"You know, Joe," he said, "that you are not tied down to that laundry. There are no strings on it. You can sell it any time and blow the money. Any time you get sick of it and want to hit the road, just pull out. Do what will make you the happiest."
Joe shook his head.
"No more road in mine, thank you kindly. Hoboin's all right, exceptin' for one thing - the girls. I can't help it, but I'm a ladies' man. I can't get along without 'em, and you've got to get along without 'em when you're hoboin'. The times I've passed by houses where dances an' parties was goin' on, an' heard the women laugh, an' saw their white dresses and smiling faces through the windows - Gee! I tell you them moments was plain hell. I like dancin' an' picnics, an' walking in the moonlight, an' all the rest too well. Me for the laundry, and a good front, with big iron dollars clinkin' in my jeans. I seen a girl already, just yesterday, and, d'ye know, I'm feelin' already I'd just as soon marry her as not. I've ben whistlin' all day at the thought of it. She's a beaut, with the kindest eyes and softest voice you ever heard. Me for her, you can stack on that. Say, why don't you get married with all this money to burn? You could get the finest girl in the land."
Martin shook his head with a smile, but in his secret heart he was wondering why any man wanted to marry. It seemed an amazing and incomprehensible thing.
From the deck of the Mariposa, at the sailing hour, he saw Lizzie Connolly hiding in the skirts of the crowd on the wharf. Take her with you, came the thought. It is easy to be kind. She will be supremely happy. It was almost a temptation one moment, and the succeeding moment it became a terror. He was in a panic at the thought of it. His tired soul cried out in protest. He turned away from the rail with a groan, muttering, "Man, you are too sick, you are too sick."
He fled to his stateroom, where he lurked until the steamer was clear of the dock. In the dining saloon, at luncheon, he found himself in the place of honor, at the captain's right; and he was not long in discovering that he was the great man on board. But no more unsatisfactory great man ever sailed on a ship. He spent the afternoon in a deck-chair, with closed eyes, dozing brokenly most of the time, and in the evening went early to bed.
After the second day, recovered from seasickness, the full passenger list was in evidence, and the more he saw of the passengers the more he disliked them. Yet he knew that he did them injustice. They were good and kindly people, he forced himself to acknowledge, and in the moment of acknowledgment he qualified - good and kindly like all the bourgeoisie, with all the psychological cramp and intellectual futility of their kind, they bored him when they talked with him, their little superficial minds were so filled with emptiness; while the boisterous high spirits and the excessive energy of the younger people shocked him. They were never quiet, ceaselessly playing deck-quoits, tossing rings, promenading, or rushing to the rail with loud cries to watch the leaping porpoises and the first schools of flying fish.
He slept much. After breakfast he sought his deck-chair with a magazine he never finished. The printed pages tired him. He puzzled that men found so much to write about, and, puzzling, dozed in his chair. When the gong awoke him for luncheon, he was irritated that he must awaken. There was no satisfaction in being awake.
Once, he tried to arouse himself from his lethargy, and went forward into the forecastle with the sailors. But the breed of sailors seemed to have changed since the days he had lived in the forecastle. He could find no kinship with these stolid-faced, ox- minded bestial creatures. He was in despair. Up above nobody had wanted Martin Eden for his own sake, and he could not go back to those of his own class who had wanted him in the past. He did not want them. He could not stand them any more than he could stand the stupid first-cabin passengers and the riotous young people.
Life was to him like strong, white light that hurts the tired eyes of a sick person. During every conscious moment life blazed in a raw glare around him and upon him. It hurt. It hurt intolerably. It was the first time in his life that Martin had travelled first class. On ships at sea he had always been in the forecastle, the steerage, or in the black depths of the coal-hold, passing coal. In those days, climbing up the iron ladders out the pit of stifling heat, he had often caught glimpses of the passengers, in cool white, doing nothing but enjoy themselves, under awnings spread to keep the sun and wind away from them, with subservient stewards taking care of their every want and whim, and it had seemed to him that the realm in which they moved and had their being was nothing else than paradise. Well, here he was, the great man on board, in the midmost centre of it, sitting at the captain's right hand, and yet vainly harking back to forecastle and stoke-hole in quest of the Paradise he had lost. He had found no new one, and now he could not find the old one.
He strove to stir himself and find something to interest him. He ventured the petty officers' mess, and was glad to get away. He talked with a quartermaster off duty, an intelligent man who promptly prodded him with the socialist propaganda and forced into his hands a bunch of leaflets and pamphlets. He listened to the man expounding the slave-morality, and as he listened, he thought languidly of his own Nietzsche philosophy. But what was it worth, after all? He remembered one of Nietzsche's mad utterances wherein that madman had doubted truth. And who was to say? Perhaps Nietzsche had been right. Perhaps there was no truth in anything, no truth in truth - no such thing as truth. But his mind wearied quickly, and he was content to go back to his chair and doze.
Miserable as he was on the steamer, a new misery came upon him. What when the steamer reached Tahiti? He would have to go ashore. He would have to order his trade-goods, to find a passage on a schooner to the Marquesas, to do a thousand and one things that were awful to contemplate. Whenever he steeled himself deliberately to think, he could see the desperate peril in which he stood. In all truth, he was in the Valley of the Shadow, and his danger lay in that he was not afraid. If he were only afraid, he would make toward life. Being unafraid, he was drifting deeper into the shadow. He found no delight in the old familiar things of life. The Mariposa was now in the northeast trades, and this wine of wind, surging against him, irritated him. He had his chair moved to escape the embrace of this lusty comrade of old days and nights.
The day the Mariposa entered the doldrums, Martin was more miserable than ever. He could no longer sleep. He was soaked with sleep, and perforce he must now stay awake and endure the white glare of life. He moved about restlessly. The air was sticky and humid, and the rain-squalls were unrefreshing. He ached with life. He walked around the deck until that hurt too much, then sat in his chair until he was compelled to walk again. He forced himself at last to finish the magazine, and from the steamer library he culled several volumes of poetry. But they could not hold him, and once more he took to walking.
He stayed late on deck, after dinner, but that did not help him, for when he went below, he could not sleep. This surcease from life had failed him. It was too much. He turned on the electric light and tried to read. One of the volumes was a Swinburne. He lay in bed, glancing through its pages, until suddenly he became aware that he was reading with interest. He finished the stanza, attempted to read on, then came back to it. He rested the book face downward on his breast and fell to thinking. That was it. The very thing. Strange that it had never come to him before. That was the meaning of it all; he had been drifting that way all the time, and now Swinburne showed him that it was the happy way out. He wanted rest, and here was rest awaiting him. He glanced at the open port-hole. Yes, it was large enough. For the first time in weeks he felt happy. At last he had discovered the cure of his ill. He picked up the book and read the stanza slowly aloud:-
"'From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.'"
He looked again at the open port. Swinburne had furnished the key. Life was ill, or, rather, it had become ill - an unbearable thing. "That dead men rise up never!" That line stirred him with a profound feeling of gratitude. It was the one beneficent thing in the universe. When life became an aching weariness, death was ready to soothe away to everlasting sleep. But what was he waiting for? It was time to go.
He arose and thrust his head out the port-hole, looking down into the milky wash. The Mariposa was deeply loaded, and, hanging by his hands, his feet would be in the water. He could slip in noiselessly. No one would hear. A smother of spray dashed up, wetting his face. It tasted salt on his lips, and the taste was good. He wondered if he ought to write a swan-song, but laughed the thought away. There was no time. He was too impatient to be gone.
Turning off the light in his room so that it might not betray him, he went out the port-hole feet first. His shoulders stuck, and he forced himself back so as to try it with one arm down by his side. A roll of the steamer aided him, and he was through, hanging by his hands. When his feet touched the sea, he let go. He was in a milky froth of water. The side of the Mariposa rushed past him like a dark wall, broken here and there by lighted ports. She was certainly making time. Almost before he knew it, he was astern, swimming gently on the foam-crackling surface.
A bonita struck at his white body, and he laughed aloud. It had taken a piece out, and the sting of it reminded him of why he was there. In the work to do he had forgotten the purpose of it. The lights of the Mariposa were growing dim in the distance, and there he was, swimming confidently, as though it were his intention to make for the nearest land a thousand miles or so away.
It was the automatic instinct to live. He ceased swimming, but the moment he felt the water rising above his mouth the hands struck out sharply with a lifting movement. The will to live, was his thought, and the thought was accompanied by a sneer. Well, he had will, - ay, will strong enough that with one last exertion it could destroy itself and cease to be.
He changed his position to a vertical one. He glanced up at the quiet stars, at the same time emptying his lungs of air. With swift, vigorous propulsion of hands and feet, he lifted his shoulders and half his chest out of water. This was to gain impetus for the descent. Then he let himself go and sank without movement, a white statue, into the sea. He breathed in the water deeply, deliberately, after the manner of a man taking an anaesthetic. When he strangled, quite involuntarily his arms and legs clawed the water and drove him up to the surface and into the clear sight of the stars.
The will to live, he thought disdainfully, vainly endeavoring not to breathe the air into his bursting lungs. Well, he would have to try a new way. He filled his lungs with air, filled them full. This supply would take him far down. He turned over and went down head first, swimming with all his strength and all his will. Deeper and deeper he went. His eyes were open, and he watched the ghostly, phosphorescent trails of the darting bonita. As he swam, he hoped that they would not strike at him, for it might snap the tension of his will. But they did not strike, and he found time to be grateful for this last kindness of life.
Down, down, he swam till his arms and leg grew tired and hardly moved. He knew that he was deep. The pressure on his ear-drums was a pain, and there was a buzzing in his head. His endurance was faltering, but he compelled his arms and legs to drive him deeper until his will snapped and the air drove from his lungs in a great explosive rush. The bubbles rubbed and bounded like tiny balloons against his cheeks and eyes as they took their upward flight. Then came pain and strangulation. This hurt was not death, was the thought that oscillated through his reeling consciousness. Death did not hurt. It was life, the pangs of life, this awful, suffocating feeling; it was the last blow life could deal him.
His wilful hands and feet began to beat and churn about, spasmodically and feebly. But he had fooled them and the will to live that made them beat and churn. He was too deep down. They could never bring him to the surface. He seemed floating languidly in a sea of dreamy vision. Colors and radiances surrounded him and bathed him and pervaded him. What was that? It seemed a lighthouse; but it was inside his brain - a flashing, bright white light. It flashed swifter and swifter. There was a long rumble of sound, and it seemed to him that he was falling down a vast and interminable stairway. And somewhere at the bottom he fell into darkness. That much he knew. He had fallen into darkness. And at the instant he knew, he ceased to know.
“我说，乔，”第二天早上他招呼当年一起干活的伙伴说，“二十八号街有一个法国人赚了一大笔钱，打算回法国。他开了一家小蒸汽洗衣店，花里胡哨，设备齐全，你若是想安定下来，可以拿这家铺子开张。这钱你拿去先去买几件衣服，十点钟到这个人的办公室去。洗衣店就是他给我找到的。由他带你去，要你去看一看，你如果中意，觉得价钱合适——一万二千块——就回来告诉我，那店就归你了。现在去吧，我很忙。你呆会儿再来，我们再见面。” 
“听着，马，”那人慢吞吞地发起火来，缓缓说道，“我今天早上是来看你的，懂吗？不是来要什么洗衣店的。我是来和老朋友聊天的，可你却要塞给我一家洗衣店。我来告诉你怎么办。你还是带了你那洗衣店到地狱去吧。”
他正要冲出屋子，马丁一把揪住他的肩头，揪得他转过身来。
“听着，乔，你要是那样做，我就揍你脑袋，看在你是老朋友面上，揍得更狠。明白么？愿挨揍吗？愿吗？”
可乔已经揪住他，打算把他摔倒在地，但马丁却控制了他。他扭来扭去，想摆脱马丁的优势。两人彼此抱住，在屋里摇晃了一阵，便摔倒在一把已破的藤椅上。乔压在下面，双手被抓住了，直伸着，马丁的膝盖顶在他胸口上。他已经气喘吁吁，马丁放掉了他。
“现在咱们来谈一谈，”马丁说，“你别跟我耍横，我要你先办完洗衣店的事再回来，咱俩那时再为了老交情谈谈老交情。我早告诉过你，我很忙。”
一个仆役刚送来了早班邮件，一大抱信件和杂志。
“我怎么能又跟你谈话又看这些东西呢？你先去把洗衣店的事办了，然后咱俩再见面。”
“好吧，”乔勉强同意了，“我认为你刚才是在回绝我呢，看来我是误会了。可你是打不过我的，马，硬碰硬地打，我的拳头可比你打得远。”
“哪天咱们戴上手套再较量吧，”马丁笑了笑，说。
“肯定，我把洗衣店办起来再说，”乔伸直了手臂，“你看见我能打多远吗？能打得你倒退几步呢。”
大门在洗衣工背后关上之后，马丁叹了一声，松了口气。他已经变得落落寡合了，他一天天发现自己更难跟人和谐相处。别人的存在令他心烦，硬要跟人说话也叫他生气、烦躁。一跟别人来往他就要设法找借口摆脱。
他并不立即开始拆看邮件，只坐在椅子上打吨，什么都没干地过了半小时。只有一些零碎的模糊念头偶然渗透到他的思想里，更确切地说，他的思想只极偶然地闪出一两星火花。
他振作精神看起邮件来。其中有十二封是要他签名的——这类信他一眼就能看出来；还有职业性的求助信，还有一些怪人的信。一个人寄来了可用的永动机模型；一个人证明世界的表面是一个圆球的内壁；一个人打算买下下加利福尼亚半岛组织共产主义侨居地，来请求财政援助。什么人都有。还有些是妇女，想认识他，其中有一封使他笑了，因为附有一张教堂座位的租金收据，证明她虔诚的信念和正派的作风。
编辑和出版家的信件是每日邮件的主要部分。编辑们跪地乞求他的稿件，出版家们跪地乞求他的书——乞求他那些被人轻贱的可怜的手稿，当初为了筹集它们的邮资，他曾把一切值钱的东西都送进当铺，过了许多凄惨的日子。还有些是意外的支票，是英国连载的稿费，外国译本预付的稿费。他的英国代理人通知他，有三本书的德文翻译权已经卖出；又通知他他的作品已有瑞典译本问市，只是得不到稿酬，因为瑞典没有参加伯尔尼版权公约。还有一份名义上申请批准俄文译本的信，那个国家也同样没有参加伯尔尼公约。
他又转向一大捆由各编辑部寄来的剪报。他读到有关自己和围绕自己所形成的风尚的消息。那风尚已成了狂热。他全部的作品已经五彩缤纷地席卷了读者，狂热似乎便由此形成。读者已被他颌倒了。他严然成了当年的吉卜林。那时吉卜林卧病在床，奄奄一息，他的作品却由于群氓心态的作用，在群氓中突然风行起来。马丁想起世界上那同样的群氓曾如何大读吉卜林的作品，向他欢呼，却丝毫不理解他，然后又在几个月之内突然何他扑去，把他撕扯成了碎片。想起了这事马丁不禁苦笑。他算老几？他能保证在几个月之后不受到同样的待遇么？好了，他得骗骗群氓诸公。他要到南海去，去修建他的草墙房屋，去做珍珠和椰子干生意，会驾驶带平衡翼的独木船在礁石间出没，捕捉鲨鱼和鲤鱼；到泰欧黑山谷附近的峭壁上去打野苹。
想起吉卜林他明白了自己目前处境的发发可危。他清楚地看到自己此刻正在死荫的幽谷之中。他身上的全部活力正在消退、衰败、趋于死亡。他意识到了自己睡眠太多，却还非常想睡。以前他恨睡眠，恨它剥夺了他生活的宝贵时间。他在二十四小时里只睡四小时还嫌四小时生活时间被剥夺。他曾经多么不愿意睡觉！可现在他所不愿意的却是活着。活着并不美妙；在他嘴里生活已没有了甜蜜，只有苦味。他的危机正在这里。没有生活欲望的生活距离长眠已经不远。某种辽远的求生的本能还在他心里搏动，他明白他必须走掉。他望了望屋子，一想起收拾行李他就心烦。也许还是留到最后再收拾为好。现在他可以去采购旅行用品。
他戴上帽子走了出去，在一家枪械店停了下来，上午剩下的时间就用在那里买自动步枪、弹药和渔具了。做买卖的方式变了，他知道只能在到达塔希提岛以后再订购需要的东西。那些东西至少是可以从澳大利亚买到的。这种解决办法也使他快乐，因为可以让他避免做事，目前叫他做任何事他都心烦。他高高兴兴回到旅馆，想到那舒适的莫里斯安乐椅在那儿等着他，便心满意足。可一进门他却看见乔坐在莫里斯安乐椅上等着他，心里不禁呻吟起来。
洗衣店叫乔高兴。一切都解决了，明天他就接手。马丁闭着眼躺在床上心不在焉地听他讲着，他太心不在焉，几乎觉得自己没有什么思想，连偶然回答一两句也觉得吃力。这人是他一向喜欢的乔，而乔正热中着生活。他那絮絮叨叨的谈话伤害着马丁疲惫的心灵，是一根对他的感觉的探针，戳痛了他那倦怠的神经。当乔提醒他他们俩某一天可以戴上手套一起干活时，他几乎尖叫起来。
“记住，乔，要按你当年在雪莉温泉订下的规矩办洗衣店的是你。”他说，“劳动不过度，夜间不干活，碾压机禁用童工，一律禁用童工，工资合理。”
乔点点头，拿出了笔记本。
“你看这儿，今天早饭前我就在订规章制度。你对它们怎么看？”
他大声朗读着，马丁表示同意，同时估计着乔什么时候才会走。
他醒来时已是后半下午。生活的现实慢慢回到他心里。他四面望望，乔显然是在他迷糊过去时悄悄溜走的。他倒很体贴，他思想，又闭上眼睡着了。
以后的几天乔都忙于组织和管理洗衣店，没有来给他添麻烦。他出航的前一天报纸公布了他订了马里泊萨号舱位的消息。在他求生的欲望颤动的时候他曾去找过医生，仔细检查了身体。他全身没有丝毫毛病。心脏和肺部都异常健康。凡医生能检查到的器官都完全正常，功能也完全正常。
“你一切都正常，伊登先生，”他说，“绝对没有问题。身体棒极了。坦率地说，我很羡慕你的健康，那是第一流的。看看你那胸膛，这儿，还有你的胃，这就是你那惊人的体魄的奥秘所在。就身体而言，你是千里挑一，万里挑一的。要是不出意外你准可以活到一百岁。”
马丁知道丽齐的诊断并没有错。他的身体是好的。出了问题的是他的“思想机器”。要不一走了之，到南海去，就无法治好。问题是现在，马上就要出发了，他却没有了到南海去的欲望。南海并不比资产阶级文明更能吸引他。出发的念头并不使他兴奋，而出发的准备所给他的肉体疲劳又使他厌恶。上船出发之后他就会好得多了。
最后一天是一场痛苦的考验。伯纳德·希金波坦、格特露一家人在晨报上读到他要出发的消息，忙来和他告别。赫尔曼·冯·史密特和茉莉安也来了。于是又有了事要办，有了帐要付，有了数不清的记者采访要忍受。他在夜校门口突然跟丽齐·康诺利告了别，便匆匆走掉了。他在旅馆发现了乔，乔成天忙于洗衣店事务，设工夭早来。那是压断了骆驼背脊的最后一根稻草，但马丁仍然抓住椅子扶手，和他交谈了半个小时。
“你知道，乔，”他说，“那洗衣店并不能约束访，你任何时候都可以把它卖掉，然后把钱花掉。洗衣店不是绳子，任何时候你厌倦了都可以一走了之，上路去流浪。什么东西最叫你快活你就干什么。”
乔摇摇头。
“我再也不打算到路上去混了，谢谢你。流浪虽然不错，却有个不好的地方：没有女人，那叫我受不了。我是个喜欢女人的男人，没有女人就不好过。可要流浪就只好过没有女人的日子。我曾经多少次从开晚会、开舞会的屋子门前经过，听见女人笑，从窗子里看见她们的白衣和笑脸——啧啧！告诉你，那时候我简直就在地狱里。我太喜欢跳舞、野餐、在月光里散步这类事了。我喜欢洗衣店，喜欢漂亮，喜欢裤子口袋里装着大洋。我已经看见一个姑娘，就在昨天，你知道不？我简直觉得要么就不付老婆，要么就立刻娶了她。想起这事我就吹日哨，吹了一天了。是个漂亮妞，眼睛最温柔，声音最美妙，你简直就没有见过。你可以打赌，我跟她是最般配不过的。嗨，你的钱多得都烧包了，干吗不讨个老婆？全国最好的姑娘你都可以讨到呢。”
马丁摇摇头，笑了笑，却在心灵深处怀疑：人为什么就非结婚不可？那似乎是一件惊人也难以理解的事。
出航前他站在马里泊萨号的甲板上看见丽齐·康诺利躲在码头上人群的边缘。一个念头闪过：把她带走吧！发善心是容易的，丽齐准会高兴得发狂。这念头一时成了一个诱惑，可随之却使他恐怖了，慌乱了。他那厌倦的灵魂大喊大叫着提出了抗议。他呻吟了一声，转身离开了甲板，喃喃地说道：“你呀，你已经病入膏盲，病人膏盲。”
他逃回了他的豪华舱位，躲在那儿，直到轮船驶出了码头。午饭时他发现自己上了荣誉席，坐到了船长右边。不久，他又发现自己成了船上的大人物。但是坐船的大人物没有比他更令人失望的了。他在一张躺椅上整整躺了一个下午，闭着眼睛，大部分时间都在断断续续地打瞌睡，晚上上床也很早。
过了第二天，晕船的都恢复过来，全船旅客都—一露了面。他越和旅客们来往就越不喜欢他们。可他也明白这对他们是不公平的。他强迫自己承认他们都是些善良和蔼的人。可与此同时他又加上了个限制语——善良和蔼得像所有的资产阶级一样，带着资产阶级的一切心理上的障碍和智力上的无能。他讨厌和他们谈话。充满他们那狭小钱陋的心灵的是巨大的空虚；而年轻人喧哗的欢乐和太旺盛的精力又叫他吃惊。他们从来不会安静，只是没完没了地玩甲板绳圈，掷环，或是喊叫着扑到栏杆边，去看跳跃的海豚和最早出现的飞鱼群。
他睡得很多，一吃完早饭就拿一本杂志去找他的躺椅。那本杂志他永远看不完，印刷品已经令他生厌。他不明白那些人哪儿来的那么多东西可写，想着想着又在躺椅上打起吃来。午餐锣惊醒了他，他感到生气：为什么非惊醒他不可。清醒时没有什么东西能叫他满足。
有一回他努力想把自己从昏沉里唤醒过来，便到水手舱去和水手们见面。但是自从他离开水手舱以后水手们也似乎变了样。他好像跟这些脸膛结实、胸怀笨拙、野兽般的水手亲近不起来。在甲板上没有人因为他自己而需要马丁·伊登，而在这儿他又无法回到自己的阶级伙伴中去，他们过去可是需要他的，现在他却已不需要他们了。容忍这些人并不比容忍一等舱那些愚蠢的旅客和闹翻了天的年轻人容易。
生活于他好像是一道白炽的强光，能伤害病人疲劳的眼睛。在他能意识到时，生活总每时每刻用它炽烈的光照着他周围和他自己，叫他难受，吃不消。马丁是第一次坐头等舱旅行。他以前出海时，总呆在水手舱里，下等舱里，或是在黑沉沉的煤仓里送煤。在那些日子从闷得喘不过气的底层攀着铁梯爬上来时，他常常瞥见一些旅客穿着凉爽的白衣，除了寻欢作乐什么事也不做。他们躲在能遮蔽太阳和风的凉棚下，有着殷勤的侍仆关心他们的一切需要和怪想。那时他觉得他们所活动和生活的场所简直就是地道的天堂。好了，现在他也到了这儿，成了船上的大人物，在它核心的核心里生活，坐在船长的右手，可他回到水手舱和锅炉间去寻找他失去的天堂时，却一无所获。新的天堂他没有找到，旧的天堂也落了空。
他努力让自己活动活动，想找点能引起他兴趣的东西。他试了试跟下级职员会餐，却终于觉得要走掉之后才能快活。他跟一个下了班的舵手闲聊，那是个聪明人，立即向他做起社会主义宣传，把一摞传单和小册子塞进他的手里。他听那人向他解释起奴隶道德，便懒懒地想起了自己的尼采哲学。可归根到底，这一切又能有什么用？他想起了尼采的一段话，表现了那疯子对真理的怀疑。可谁又能说得清楚？也许尼采竟是对的；也许事物之中原本没有真理，就连真理中也没有真理——也许真理压根就并不存在。可他的心灵很快就疲倦了。他又回到他的躺椅，心满意足地打起盹来。
船上的日子已经够痛苦了，可还有一种新的痛苦出现。船到了塔希提岛又怎么办？他还得上岸，还得订购做生意的货品，还得找船去马奎撒司，去干一千零一件想起来就叫他头痛的事。他一勉强自己去思考，就体会到了自己处境的严重危险。他实实在在是在死前之谷里。而他的危险之处却在他的并不害怕。若是害怕，他就会挣扎着求生。可他并不害怕，于是便越来越深地在那阴影走去。他在往日熟悉的事物中找不到欢乐，马里泊萨号已经行驶在东北贸易风带，就连那美酒一样的熏风吹打着他时，他也只觉得烦乱。他把躺椅搬走了，逃避着这个过去与他日夜相伴的精力旺盛的老朋友的拥抱。
马里泊萨号进入赤道无风带那天，马丁比任何时候都痛苦了。他再也睡不着觉。他已经被睡眠浸透了，说不定只好清清醒醒忍受生命的白炽光的照射。他心神不定地散着步，空气形糊糊的，湿漉漉的，就连小风暴也没有让他清醒。生命只使他痛苦。他在甲板上走来走去，走得生疼，然后又坐到椅子上，坐到不得不起来散步。最后他强迫自己去读完了那本杂志，又从船上图书馆里找到几本诗集。可它们依然引不起他的兴趣，他又只好散步。
晚饭后他在甲板上停留了很久，可那对他也没有帮助，下楼去仍然睡不着。这种生命的停顿叫他受不了，太难过了。他扭亮电灯，试着读书。有一本是史文朋。他躺在床上一页页翻着，忽然发现读起了兴趣。他读完了那一小节，打算读下去，回头再读了读。他把书反扣在胸膛上，陷入了沉思。说得对，正是这样。奇怪，他以前怎么没有想到？那正是他的意思。他一直就像那样飘忽不定，现在史文朋却把出路告诉了他。他需要的是休息，而休息却在这儿等着他。他瞥了一眼舷窗口。不错，那洞够大的。多少个礼拜以来他第一次感到了高兴。他终于找到了治病的办法。他拿起书缓缓地朗诵起来：——“‘解除了希望，解除了恐俱，摆脱了对生命过分的爱，我们要对无论什么神抵简短地表示我们的爱戴，因为他没有给生命永恒；因为死者绝对不会复生；因为就连河流疲惫地奔腾蜿蜒到了某处，也安全入海。’”
他再看了看打开的舷窗。史文朋已经提供了钥匙。生命邪恶，或者说变邪恶了，成了无法忍受的东西。“死者绝对不会复生！”诗句打动了他，令他深为感激。死亡是宇宙之间唯一慈祥的东西。在生命令人痛苦和厌倦时，死亡随时能以永恒的睡眠来解除痛苦。那他还等待什么？已经是走掉的时候了。
他站了起来，把头伸出了舷窗口，俯看着奶汁样的翻滚的波浪。马里泊萨号负载沉重，他只需两手攀着舷窗双脚便可以点到水。他可以无声无息地落进海里，不叫人听见。一阵水花扑来，溅湿了他的脸。水是咸的，味道不错。他考虑着是否应该写一首绝命诗，可他笑了笑，把那念头放弃了。没有时间了，他太急于走掉。
他关掉了屋里的灯，以免引人注意。他先把双脚伸出舷窗口，肩头却卡住了。他挤了回来，把一只手贴着身子，再往外挤。轮船略微一转，给了他助力，他挤出了身子，用双手吊着。双脚一沾水，他便放了手，落入了泡沫翻滚的奶汁样的海水里。马里伯萨号的船体从他身边疾驰而去，像一堵漆黑的高墙，只有灯光偶尔从舷窗射出。那船显然是在抢时间行驶。他几乎还没明白过来已经落到了船尾，在水泡迸裂的水面上缓缓地游着。
一条红鱼啄了一下他白色的身子，他不禁哈哈一笑。一片肉被咬掉了，那刺痛让他想起了自己下水的原因。他一味忙着行动，竟连目的都忘了。马里泊萨号的灯光在远处渐渐模糊，他却留在了这里。他自信地游着，仿佛是打算往最近也在千里以外的陆地游去。
那是求生的自动本能。他停止了游泳，但一感到水淹没了嘴，他便猛然挥出了手，让身子露出了水面。他明白这是求生的意志，同时冷笑起来。哼，意志力他还是有的——他的意志力还够坚强，只需再作一番最后的努力就可以连意志力也摧毁，不再存在了。
他改变姿势；垂直了身子，抬头看了看宁静的星星，呼出了肺里的空气。他激烈地迅速地划动手脚，把肩头和半个胸膛露出了水面，这是为了聚集下沉的冲力。然后他便静止下来，一动不动，像座白色的雕像一样往海底沉下去。他在水里故意像吸麻醉剂一样深深地呼吸着。可到他憋不过气时，他的手脚却不自觉地大划起水来，把自己划到了水面上，清清楚楚看见了星星。
求生的本能，他轻蔑地想道。他打算拒绝把空气吸进他快要爆炸的胸膛，却失败了。不行，他得试一个新的办法。他把气吸进了胸膛，吸得满满的，这口气可以让他深深地潜入水里。然后身子一栽，脑袋朝下往下钻去。他竭尽全部的体力和意志力往下钻，越钻越深了。他睁开的眼睛望着幽灵一样的鲣鱼曳着条条荧光在他身边倏忽往来。他划着水，希望鲣鱼不来咬他，怕因此破坏了他的意志力。鲣鱼群倒真没有来咬。他竟然找出时间对生命的这最后的仁慈表示感谢。
他狠命往下划，往下划，划得手脚疲软，几乎划不动了。他明白自己已经到了极深的地方。耳膜上的压力使他疼痛，头也嗡嗡地响了起来。他快要忍耐不住了，却仍然强迫双手和双腿往深处划，直到他的意志力断裂，空气从肺里猛烈地爆裂出来。水泡像小小的气球一样升起，跳跃着，擦着他的面额和眼睛。然后是痛苦和窒息。这种痛苦还不是死亡，这想法从他逐渐衰微的意识里摇曳了出来。死亡是没有痛苦的。这是生命，这种可怕的窒息是生命的痛楚，是生命所能给他的最后打击。
他顽强的手和脚开始痉挛地微弱地挣扎和划动。但是他的手脚和使手脚挣扎和划动的求生的欲望却已经上了他的当。他钻得太深，手脚再也无法把他送出水面了。他像在朦胧的幻觉的海洋里懒懒地漂浮着。斑斓的色彩和光芒包围了他，沐浴着他，浸透了他。那是什么？似乎是一座灯塔；可那灯塔在他脑子里——一片闪烁的炽烈的白光。白光的闪动越来越快，一阵滚滚的巨声殷殷响起，他觉得自己好像正在一座巨大的无底的楼梯里往下落，在快到楼梯底时坠入了黑暗。他的意识从此结束，他已落进了黑暗里。在他意识到这一点时他已什么都不知道了。