《马丁·伊登》——   Martin Eden  中英对照版【完结】_派派后花园

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[Novel] 《马丁·伊登》——   Martin Eden  中英对照版【完结】

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゛臉紅紅....

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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 淡淡。懒懒的
把每一次都当作是最后一次。
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。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。

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。
  

。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。

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。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。

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。
  

。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。
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。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。

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。”
  

。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。
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。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。

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，在成功的高峰期请熗手代庖的。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。
  

。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。
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。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。

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。”
  

。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。
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。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。

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，就用不着耍什么花熗来骗我了，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。
  

。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。
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。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。

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，在一家熗械店停了下来，上午剩下的时间就用在那里买自动步熗、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。
  

。|。|。Martin Eden 。|。|。
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