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浙江11选5电视走势图:馬丁·伊登(MARTIN EDEN)第四十五章

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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.

有一天克瑞斯來看馬丁了,克瑞斯是“真正的賤民”之一。馬丁聽著他敘述起一個輝煌計劃的細節,放下心來。那計劃相當想入非非,他懷著小說家的興趣而不是投資人的興趣聽他講述。解釋到中途,克瑞斯還分出了點時間告訴馬丁,他在他那《太陽的恥辱》里簡直是塊木頭。

“可我并不是到這兒來侃哲學的,”克瑞斯說下去,“我想知道你是否肯在這樁買賣上投上一千元資本?!?br>
“不,我無論如何也還沒有木頭到那種程度,”馬丁回答,“不過我要告訴你我的打算。你曾經給了我平生最精彩的一夜,給了我用金錢買不到的東西。現在我有錢了,而錢對于我又毫無意義。我認為你那樁買賣并無價值,但我愿意給你一千元,回報你給我的那個無價之寶的一夜。你需要的是錢,而我的錢又多得花不完;你既然需要錢,又來要錢,就用不著耍什么花槍來騙我了,你拿去吧?!?br>
克瑞斯沒有表現絲毫驚訝,折好支票,放進了口袋。

“照這個價錢我倒想訂個合同,為你提供許多那樣的夜晚,”他說。

“太晚了,”馬丁搖搖頭,“對于我來說那是唯一的一夜。那天晚上我簡直就是在天堂里。我知道那對于你們是家常便飯,可對我卻大不相同。我以后再也不會生活在那樣的高度了,我跟哲學分手了;關于哲學的話我一個字也不想聽了?!?br>
“這可是我平生憑哲學謙到的第一筆錢,”克瑞斯走到門口,站住了,說,“可是市場又垮掉了?!?br>
有一天莫爾斯太太在街上開車路過馬丁身邊,向他點了點頭,微笑了一下;馬丁也脫帽,微笑作答。此事對他毫無影響,要是在一個月以前他一定會生氣,好奇,而且會揣測她的心理狀態;可現在事情一過他便不再想,轉瞬便忘,就像路過中央銀行大樓或是市政廳便立即忘記一樣??剎緩美斫獾氖牽核乃嘉勻換鈐?,總繞著一個圓圈轉來轉去;圓圈的中心是“作品早已完成”;那念頭像一大堆永不死亡的蛆蟲咬嚙著他的腦子,早上把他咬醒,晚上咬嚙他的夢。周圍生活里每一件進入他感官的事物都立即和“作品早已完成”聯系了起來。他沿著冷酷無情的邏輯推論下去,結論是他自己已無足輕重,什么也不是。流氓馬·伊登和水手馬·伊登是真實的,那就是他??贍侵淖骷衣磯 ひ戀僑詞譴尤好バ睦聿囊煌琶暈?,是由群氓心理硬塞進流氓和水手馬·伊登的臭皮囊里去的。那騙不了他,他并不是群紙獻牲膜拜的那個太陽神話。他有自知之明。

他測覽雜志上有關自己的文章,細讀上面發表的關于他的描寫,始終覺得無法把那些描繪跟自己對上號。他確實是那個曾經生活過、歡樂過、戀愛過的人;那個隨遇而安??砣萆罾锏娜醯愕娜?;他確實在水手艙當過水手,曾在異國他鄉漂泊,曾在打架的日子里帶領過自己一幫人;他最初見到免費圖書館書架上那千千萬萬的藏書時確實曾目瞪口呆;以后又在書城之中鉆研出了門道,掌握了書本;他確實曾經點著燈熬夜讀書,帶著鐵刺睡覺,也寫過好幾本書。但有一樁本領他卻沒有:他沒有所有的群氓都想填塞的那么個碩大無朋的胃。

不過,雜志上有些東西也令他覺得好玩。所有的雜志都在爭奪他?!痘自驢廢蛩畝┗茉詵⑾中倫骷?;別的且不說,馬丁·伊登就是他們向讀者大眾推薦的?!棟資蟆吩又拘坡磯 ひ戀鞘撬欠⑾值?;發表同樣消息的還有《北方評論》和《麥金托什雜志》,可他們卻叫《環球》打啞了,《環球》勝利地提出了埋藏在他們的文獻中那份被竄改得面目全非的《海上抒情詩》;逃掉了債務又轉世還魂的《青年與時代》提出了馬丁一篇更早的作品,那東西除了農民的孩子之外再也沒有人讀?!犢繚醬舐健販⒈砹艘黃裾裼寫塹淖仙?,說他們是如何物色到馬丁·伊登的,《大黃蜂》卻展示了他們出版的《仙女與珍珠》,進行了激烈的反駁。在這一片吵嚷聲中欣格垂、達思利公司那溫和的聲明被淹沒了,何況欣格垂出版社沒有雜志,無法發表更為響亮的聲明。

報紙計算著馬丁的版稅收入。某幾家雜志給他的豪華稿酬不知道怎么泄露了出去,于是奧克蘭的牧師們便來對他作友誼拜訪;職業性的求助信也充斥了他的信箱。而比這一切更糟的則是女人。他的照片廣泛發表,于是有了專門的作家拿他那曬黑了的結實的面龐、上面的傷疤、健壯的肩頭、沉靜清澈的眼光、苦行僧式的凹陷的面頰大做文章。這讓他想起了自己少年時代的野性,不禁微笑了。他在自己交往的婦女中不時發現有人打量他,品評他,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。女人是無法毀掉他的,這可以肯定,他早已過了那樣的年齡。

有一回他送麗齊去夜校。麗齊看見一位穿著華麗的長袍的資產階級美女膘了他一眼。那一眼瞟得長了一點,深沉了一點,其意思麗齊最是明白。她憤怒了,身子僵直了,馬丁看了出來,也注意到了那意思,便告訴她這種事他早已見慣不驚,并不放在心主。

“你應當注意的,”她回答時滿眼怒火,“問題就在,你已經有了毛病?!?br>
“我一輩子也沒有更健康過,我的體重比過去增加了五磅呢?!?br>
“不是你身體有病,而是你腦子有病,是你那思想的機器出了毛病。連我這樣的小角色也看出來了?!?br>
他走在她身旁想著。

“只要能治好你這病,我什么都不在乎,”她沖動地叫喊起來,“像你這樣的人,女人像那樣看你,你就得小心。太不自然,你如果是個打打扮扮的男人那倒沒什么,可你天生不是那種人。上帝保佑,要是出了一個能叫你喜歡的人,我倒是心甘情愿,而且高興的?!?br>
他把麗齊留在夜校,一個人回到了大都會旅館。

一進屋他就倒在一張莫里斯安樂椅里,茫然地望著前面。他沒有打盹,也沒有想問題,心里一片空白,只偶然有一些回憶鏡頭帶著形象、色彩和閃光從他眼簾下掠過。他感到了那些鏡頭,卻幾乎沒有意識到——它們并不比夢境更清晰,可他又沒有睡著。有一次他醒了過來,看了看表:才八點。他無事可做。要睡覺又嫌太早。他心里又成了空白,眼簾下又有影像形成和消失。那些影像都模糊不清,永遠如陽光穿透的層層樹葉和灌木叢的亂技。

敲門聲驚醒了他。他沒有睡著,那聲音令他想起了電報、信件或是洗衣房的仆役送來的洗好的衣物。他在想著喬,猜想著他在什么地方,同時嘴里說:“請進?!?br>
他還在想著喬,沒有向門口轉過身去。他聽見門輕輕關上,然后是長久的沉默。他忘記了曾經有過敲門聲,仍茫然地望著前面,卻聽見了女人的哭泣。他對哭聲轉過身子,注意到那哭聲抽搐、壓抑。難以控制。不由自主、帶著嗚咽。他立即站了起來。

“露絲!”他說,又驚訝又惶惑。

露絲臉色蒼白,緊張。她站在門口,怕站立不穩,一只手扶住門框,另一只手撫住腰。她向他可憐巴巴地伸出了雙手,走了過來。他抓住她的手,領她來到了莫里斯安樂椅前,讓她坐下。他注意到她的雙手冰涼。他拉過來另一把椅子,坐在它巨大的扶手上。他心里一片混亂,說不出話來。在他的心里他跟露絲的關系早已結束,打上了封蠟。他內心的感覺是:那像是雪莉溫泉旅館突然給大都會旅館送來了一個禮拜臟衣服要他趕快洗出來一樣。他好幾次要想說話,卻遲疑不決。

“沒有人知道我在這兒,”露絲細聲說,帶著楚楚動人的微笑。

“你說什么?”他問道。

他為自己說話時的聲音吃驚。

她又說了一遍。

“啊,”他說,然后便再無話可說。

“我看見你進旅館來的,然后我又等了一會兒?!?br>
“啊,”他說。

他一輩子也不曾那么結巴過。他腦子里確實一句話也沒有,他感到尷尬,狼狽,可仍然想不出話來。這次的闖入如果發生在雪莉溫泉旅館也說不定會好些,他還可以卷起袖子上班去。

“然后你才進來,”他終于說。

她點了點頭,略帶了些頑皮,然后解開了她脖子上的圍巾。

“你在街那邊和那個姑娘在一起時我就看見你了?!?br>
“啊,是的,”他簡短地說,“我送她上夜校去?!?br>
“那么,你見了我高興么?”沉默了一會兒,她說。

“高興,高興,”他急忙說,“可你到這兒來不是有點冒失么?”

“我是溜進來的,沒有人知道。我想見你。我是來向你承認我過去的愚蠢的。我是因為再也受不了和你分手才來的。是我的心強迫我來的。因為——因為我自己想來?!?br>
她從椅邊站起,向他走來,把手放到他的肩上。她呼吸急促,過了一會兒便倒進了他的懷里。他不希望傷害別人,他明白若是拒絕了她的自薦,便會給予她一個女人所能受到的最殘酷的傷害,便大量地、輕松地伸出胳臂,把她緊緊摟住。但那擁抱沒有暖意,那接觸沒有溫情。她倒進了他的懷里,他抱住了她,如此而已。她往他的懷里鉆了鉆,然后換了一個姿勢,雙手摟住了他的脖子。然而她手下的肉體沒有火焰,馬丁只覺得尷尬,吃力。

“你怎么抖得這么厲害?”他問道,“冷么?要我點燃壁爐么?”

他動了一下,想脫開身子,可她卻往他身上靠得更緊了,并猛烈地顫抖著。

“只不過有點緊張,”她牙齒答答地響,說,“我一會兒就能控制住自己的。好了,我已經好些了?!?br>
她的顫抖慢慢停止,他繼續擁抱著她。此刻他已不再惶惑,也已明白了她的來意。

“我媽媽要我嫁給查理·哈撲古德,”她宣稱。

“查理·哈撲古德,那個一說話就滿口陳詞濫調的家伙么?”馬丁抱怨道,接著又說,“那么現在,我看,是你媽媽要你嫁給我了?”他這話不是提出問題,而是當作肯定的事實。他那一行行的版稅數字開始在他眼前飛舞。

“她是不會反對的,這一點我知道,”露絲說。

“他覺得我般配么?”

露絲點點頭。

“可我現在并不比她解除我們倆婚約的時候更般配,”他沉思著說,“我絲毫也沒有改變,我還是當初那個馬丁·伊登,盡管無論從哪個角度看來我都更不般配了。我現在又抽煙了。你沒有聞到我的煙味么?”

她伸出手指壓到他的嘴上,作為回答,動作優美,像撒嬌,只等著他來吻她。那在以前是必然的結果。但是馬丁的嘴唇并未作出憐愛的響應。等她的手指頭移開之后,他繼續說了下去。

“我沒有變。我沒有找工作,而且不打算去找工作。我依舊相信赫伯特·斯賓塞是個了不起的高貴的人;而布朗特法官是個十足的蠢驢。前不久的一個晚上我還跟他一起吃過晚飯,因此我應該明白?!?br>
“但是你沒有接受爸爸的邀請,”她責備他。

“那么你是知道的了?是誰打發他來邀請的?你媽媽么?”

她保持沉默。

“那么,確實是你媽媽叫他出面來邀請的嘍。找原來就這樣想。那么,我現在估計,你也是她打發到這兒來的嘍?!?br>
“我到這兒來是誰也不知道的,”她抗議道,“你以為我媽媽會同意我這樣做么?”

“可她會同意你嫁給我,這可以肯定?!?br>
她尖聲叫了起來:“??;馬丁,別那么殘酷。你還一次都沒有親吻我呢。你簡直死板得像塊石頭。你得想想我冒了多大的風險?!彼蛄艘桓齪?,四面望望,盡管有一半的神色還是期待,“你想想看,我現在在什么地方?!?br>
“我可以為你死!為你死!”麗齊的話在馬丁的耳邊震響。

“可你以前為什么不敢冒風險呢?”他不客氣地問道,“因為那時我沒有工作么?因為我在挨餓么?那時我也是個男人,也是個藝術家,跟現在的馬丁·伊登完全一樣。這個問題我研究了多少日子了——倒并不專對你一個人,而是對所有的人。你看,我并沒有變,盡管我表面價值的突然變化強迫我經常確認這一點。我的骨架上掛的還是這些肉,我長的還是十個手指頭和十個腳趾頭。我還是我;我的力氣沒有新的變化,道德也沒有新的發展;我的腦子還是當初那副腦子;在文學上或是在哲學上我一條新的概括也沒有作出。我這個人的價值還跟沒人要時一個樣。叫我百思不得其解的是;他們為什么現在又要我了。他們肯定不是因為我自己而要我的,因為我還是他們原來不想要的那個人。那么他們肯定是因為別的原因要我了,因為某種我以外的東西了,因為某種并不是我的東西了!你要聽我告訴你那是什么嗎?那是因為我得到了承認??贍淺腥洗嬖詒鶉誦睦?,并不是我?;褂芯褪且蛭乙丫醯降那?,和還要掙到的錢??贍喬膊皇俏?。那東西存在銀行里,存在甲乙丙丁人人的口袋里。你現在又要我了,是不是也是因為這個呢,是不是也因為我得到的承認和金錢呢?”

“你叫我心都碎了,”她抽泣起來,“你知道我是愛你的,我來,是因為我愛你?!?br>
“我怕是你并沒有明白我的意思,”他溫和地說,“我的意思是:如果你愛我的話,為什么你現在愛我會比那時深了許多呢?那時你對我的愛是很軟弱的,你否定了我?!?br>
“忘掉吧,原諒吧,”她激動地叫道,“我一直愛著你,記住這一點,而我現在又到了這兒,在你的懷抱里?!?br>
“我怕我是個精明的生意人,得要仔細看看秤盤,得要稱一稱你的愛情,看看它究竟是什么貨品呢?!?br>
她從他懷里抽出身子,坐直了,探索地打量了他許久。她欲言又止,終于改變了主意。

“你看,我覺得事情是這樣的,”馬丁說了下去,“那時我還是現在的我,那時除了我本階級的人之外似乎誰都瞧不起我。那時我所有的書都已經寫成,可讀過那些手稿的人似乎誰也不把它們放在心上。事實上他們反倒因此更瞧不起我了。我寫了那些東西好像至少是做了什么丟臉的事。每個人都勸我:‘找個活兒干吧?!?br>
她做出個要表示異議的反應。

“好了,好了,”他說,“只是你有點不同,你叫我找的是‘職位’。那個不好聽的詞‘活兒’和我寫的大多數作品一樣,令你不愉快。那詞粗野??晌蟻蚰惚V?,所有我認識的人把那個詞推薦給我時,它也并不好聽一點,那是像叫一個不道德的角色把行為放規矩一樣的?;故腔氐獎咎獍?。我寫作的東西的出版和我所得到的名聲使你的愛情的本質發生了變化。你不愿意嫁給寫完了他的全部作品的馬丁·伊登,你對他的愛不夠堅強,沒有能使你嫁給他??上衷諛愕陌槿醇崆科鵠戳?。我無法逃避一個結論:你那愛情的力量產生于出版和聲望。對于你我不提版稅,雖然我可以肯定它在你父母的轉變里起著作用。當然,這一切是不會叫我高興的。然而最糟糕的是,它使我懷疑起愛情,神圣的愛情了。難道愛情就那么廟俗,非得靠出版和聲望來飼養不可么?可它好像正是這樣。我曾經坐著想呀想吁,想得頭昏腦漲?!?br>
“我親愛的可憐的頭腦呀?!甭端可斐鲆恢皇擲?,用指頭在他的頭發里撫慰地搓揉著,“那你就別頭昏腦漲了吧。現在讓我們來重新開始。我一向是愛你的。我知道我曾服從過我母親的意志,那是一種軟弱,是不應該的??墑俏以啻翁鬩員烀躒說男鼗程鈣鶉誦緣拇噯鹺鴕子詼槁?。把你那悲天憫人的胸懷也推廣到我身上吧。我做了錯事,希望你原諒?!?br>
“啊,我是會原諒的,”他不耐煩地說,“沒有可原諒的東西時原諒是容易的。你做的事其實不需要原諒。每個人都按照自己的思想行動,超過了這個他就無法行動。同樣,我也無法因為不去找工作而請求你原諒?!?br>
“我是出于好意,”她解釋道,“這你知道,我既然愛你就不會不存好意?!?br>
“不錯,可是你那一番好意卻可能毀了我。

“的確,的確,”她正要抗議卻被他陰住了,“你是可能毀了我的寫作和事業的。現實主義支配著我的天性,而資產階級精神卻仇恨現實主義。資產階級是怯懦的,他門害怕生活,而你的全部努力就是讓我害怕生活。你可能讓我公式化,你可能把我塞進一個五尺長兩尺寬的生活鴿子籠里,在那里生活的一切價值都是縹緲的,虛假的,庸俗的?!彼械剿蛩憧掛??!壩顧仔浴有難劾錈俺隼吹撓顧仔?,我得承認——是資產階級的風雅和文化的基礎。正如我所說,你打算讓我公式化,把我變成你們階級的成員,懷著你們階級的理想,承認你們階級的價值觀念和你們的階級成見?!彼巧說匾∫⊥?,“而你到了現在也還不明白我說的是什么。我的話聽在你耳里并不是我打算表達的意思。我說的話對于你簡直是奇談怪論,可對于我那卻是要命的現實。你至多只感到有點糊涂,有點滑稽,這個從深淵的泥淖里爬出來的小伙子居然敢對你們的階級作出評價,說它庸俗?!?br>
她疲倦地把頭靠在他身上,因為一陣陣緊張,身子戰栗著。他等她說話,停了一會兒,又繼續說了下去。

“現在你想讓我們言歸于好,想和我結婚,你需要我,可是,你聽著——如果我的書沒有引起注意,我現在還會依然故我,而你仍然會離我遠遠的。全都是因為那些他媽的書——”

“別罵粗話,”她插嘴說。

她的指責叫他大吃了一驚,他不客氣地哈哈大笑起來。

“正好,”他說,“在關鍵時刻,在你似乎要拿一輩子的幸福孤注一擲的時候,你又按老規矩害怕起生活來了——害怕生活,也害怕一句無傷大雅的粗話?!?br>
他的話刺痛了她,讓她意識到了自己行為的幼稚。不過她也覺得馬丁夸大得過火了一些,心里感到憤慨。兩人默不作聲,呆坐了許久。她心急火燎地考慮著,他卻思量著自己已經消逝的愛情。現在他才明白他從沒有真正愛過她。他所愛的是一個理想化了的露絲,一個自己所創造的虛無縹緲的露絲,是他的愛情詩篇里的光華燦爛的精靈。這個現實的露絲,這個資產階級的露絲,這個有著種種資產階級的弱點。滿腦子塞著無可救藥的資產階級成見的露絲他從來就不曾愛過。

她突然開始說話了。

“我知道你的話大多是事實。我害怕過生活,我對你的愛有過錯誤,可我已經學會了更正確地戀愛。我愛現在的你,過去的你,愛你所走過的道路。我因為你所提出的我倆困階級不同而產生的差異而愛你,因為你的信仰而愛你,雖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,甚至包括你的抽煙和粗話——它們都是你的一部分,因為它們我也要愛你。我還可以學習。在剛才這十分鐘里我就學到了許多東西。我能到這兒來就說明我已經學到了許多東西。啊,馬??!——”

她抽泣著向他靠了過去。

他擁抱她的手臂第一次表現了溫柔和同情,她快活地動了動,臉上閃出了光彩,表明她已經明白他的意思。

“太晚了,”他說。他想起了麗齊那句話?!拔沂歉鲇脅〉娜恕?,不是身體有病,而是靈魂有病,是頭腦有病。我好像失去了我的一切價值,什么都滿不在乎了。你要是幾個月以前這樣做,情況會不相同,可是現在太遲了?!?br>
“還不太遲,”她叫了起來,“我來告訴你。我會向你證明我的愛情成長了。愛情比我的階級和我所愛的一切都更重要。我要拋棄資產階級最喜愛的一切。我不再害怕生活了。我要離開我的父母,讓我的名字成為朋友間的笑柄。我現在就要搬到你這兒來住,只要你愿意,可以和我隨意相愛。我要以和你一起生活為驕傲,感到快樂。如果我以前曾經背叛過愛情的話,那么我現在為了愛情就要背叛過去使我背叛的一切?!?br>
她眼里閃著光芒,站在他面前。

“我在等著你呢,馬丁,”她低聲說道,“等著你接受我的愛,你看看我?!?br>
他望著她想道,真是精彩。她就這樣彌補了她所缺少的一切了,終于站了起來,真誠的女人,超越了資產階級的傳統。了不起,精彩,挺而走險。但是,他是怎么了?他并不曾因為她的行為而狂歡,而激動。那了不起的感覺,那精彩的感覺只是理智上的。在他應當燃燒時他卻冷冷地估量著她。他的心沒有被打動,他意識不到任何對她的欲望。他又想起了而齊那句話。

“我病了,病得很厲害,”他做了一個失望的手勢,說道,“到目前為止,我還不知道我病得這么厲害。我身上少了點東西,我從來沒有害怕過生活,可我做夢也沒有想到會叫生活填得太飽。我被填得太多,對一切都失去了興趣。如果肚子還有縫隙,我現在是會需要你的。你看我病得多厲害?!?br>
他頭向后仰,閉上了眼睛,然后像一個哭泣的兒童望著陽光透過淚膜遮蔽的眼球忘記了悲傷一樣忘掉了他的病,忘掉了露絲的存在,忘掉了一切。以他的眼簾為背景的蓬勃生長的叢叢草木被熾熱的陽光穿透了,他望著。綠色的葉叢并不恬靜,陽光又太耀眼刺目,望著它使他覺得難受??剎恢牢裁?,他仍然望著。

門把手的聲音驚醒了他,露絲已經走到了門口。

“我怎么出去呢?”她眼淚汪汪地問道,“我害怕?!?br>
“啊,對不起,”他跳了起來,叫道,“我出神了,你知道。我忘了你在這兒?!彼約旱哪源??!澳憧?,我剛才不大正常。我送你回家去吧。我們可以從仆役的門出去,沒有人會看見的。把那窗簾拉下來,一切都會好的?!?br>
她緊挨著他的手臂走過燈光暗淡的市道,走下狹窄的樓梯。

“我現在安全了,”兩人來到人行道上,她說,同時從他手臂了抽出了手。

“不,不,我送你回家,”他回答。

“謝謝,不用了,”她拒絕,“沒有必要?!?br>
她第二次要抽掉手,他一時感到了好奇:現在她已無危險可言,為什么反而害怕了?她為了擺脫他幾乎手忙腳亂了。他想不出理由,只以為她是緊張。他沒有放掉她打算縮回的手,只帶了她繼續往前走。走過半段街區,看見一個穿長外套的人閃進了一家門口。他經過時瞥了一眼,盡管那人領子掀得很高,他卻深信自己看見的是露絲的弟弟諾爾曼。

露絲和馬丁走路時沒大說話。她是驚呆了,他則冷漠。有一回他說他要走,要回南海去;有一回她要求他原諒她來看了他,然后兩人便再沒有話。到了門口,分手也是禮貌性的。兩人握了握手,互道晚安,他又脫帽致意。門關上了,他點燃了一支香煙,走上回旅館的路。他回到剛才諾爾曼躲進去的屋門口時,停住步子,帶著特別的心清查看了一下。

“她撒謊了,”他大聲說道,“她要我相信她冒了很大的危險,其實她一直知道她弟弟就在外面等著送她回家?!彼喚Τ鏨??!鞍?!這些資產階級!我倒霉的時候連跟他姐姐在一起也不配,怕叫人看見。我有了銀行存款他卻親自把姐姐給我送上門來?!?br>
他轉身正要離開,一個跟他走同一方向的流浪漢從身后走來向他乞討。

“我說,先生,給我一個兩毛五的角子住店好么?”他說。

那聲音叫馬丁轉過身子,卻隨即跟喬握起手來。

“還記得我們在溫泉告別的時候么?”那人說,“那時我就說我們會見面的。這一點我從骨頭里都感覺得到。現在我們可不就在這兒遇見了么?”

“你看去挺不錯嘛,”馬丁帶著欣賞的口氣說,“你長胖了?!?br>
“當然長胖了,”喬滿臉歡喜,“我是直到開始了流浪才懂得生活的。我體重增加了三十磅??稍諛切┤兆尤詞蕕悶ぐ峭?。我倒的確適合于流浪?!?br>
“可你仍然在找錢住店,”馬丁刺他一句,“而今天晚上又很冷?!?br>
“哈!找錢住店么?”喬一只手插進屁股口袋,抓出一大把角子,“這可比做苦工強多了?!彼靡庋镅锏廝?,“你看起來挺闊的,所以我就敲你一家伙?!?br>
馬丁哈哈大笑,認了輸。

“這一把錢倒夠你大醉幾回的,”他話外有話。

喬把錢塞進了口袋。

“我從不大醉,”他宣布,“從不喝醉,雖然我要醉也沒有誰會擋我。我和你分手之后只醉過一回,那是意外,空肚子喝了酒。我干活像吉生的時候酒醉得也像畜生,我生活像人的時候喝酒也就像人了——高興時偶爾來上兩杯,絕不多喝?!?br>
馬丁約好明天跟喬見面,就回到旅館。他在辦公室看了看船舶消息。五天后馬里泊薩號就去塔希提島。

“明天在電話上給我訂個豪華艙位,”他告訴服務員,“不要甲板上的,要下面的,迎風一面——在舷,記住,左航。你最好是記下來?!?br>
一回到房里他就鉆進被窩像個孩子似的睡著了。那晚發生的事對他毫無影響。他的心已經死滅,留不下什么印象。他遇見喬時的溫暖情緒也非常短暫,他隨即因那往日的洗衣工的出現而厭煩,為不得不說話而難受。五天以后他就要到他心愛的南海去了,可那對他也沒有了意思。他閉上眼,一睡八個小時,睡得正常,舒坦,沒有煩躁,沒有翻身,也沒有夢。睡眠于他就是忘卻。他每天都為醒來感到遺憾。生命使他煩惱了,厭倦了,時光叫他難堪。
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