There was a brief pause in the conversation they were trying to get started. Then she asked tentatively about the scar on his cheek. Even as she asked, he realized that she was making an effort to talk his talk, and he resolved to get away from it and talk hers.
"It was just an accident," he said, putting his hand to his cheek. "One night, in a calm, with a heavy sea running, the main-boom-lift carried away, an' next the tackle. The lift was wire, an' it was threshin' around like a snake. The whole watch was tryin' to grab it, an' I rushed in an' got swatted."
"Oh," she said, this time with an accent of comprehension, though secretly his speech had been so much Greek to her and she was wondering what a LIFT was and what SWATTED meant.
"This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan into execution and pronouncing the I long.
"Who?"
"Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The poet."
"Swinburne," she corrected.
"Yes, that's the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long since he died?"
"Why, I haven't heard that he was dead." She looked at him curiously. "Where did you make his acquaintance?"
"I never clapped eyes on him," was the reply. "But I read some of his poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How do you like his poetry?"
And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject he had suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly from the edge of the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands, as if it might get away from him and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in making her talk her talk, and while she rattled on, he strove to follow her, marvelling at all the knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty head of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of her face. Follow her he did, though bothered by unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips and by critical phrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his mind, but that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here was intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and stared at her with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win to, to fight for - ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such women in the world. She was one of them. She lent wings to his imagination, and great, luminous canvases spread themselves before him whereon loomed vague, gigantic figures of love and romance, and of heroic deeds for woman's sake - for a pale woman, a flower of gold. And through the swaying, palpitant vision, as through a fairy mirage, he stared at the real woman, sitting there and talking of literature and art. He listened as well, but he stared, unconscious of the fixity of his gaze or of the fact that all that was essentially masculine in his nature was shining in his eyes. But she, who knew little of the world of men, being a woman, was keenly aware of his burning eyes. She had never had men look at her in such fashion, and it embarrassed her. She stumbled and halted in her utterance. The thread of argument slipped from her. He frightened her, and at the same time it was strangely pleasant to be so looked upon. Her training warned her of peril and of wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while her instincts rang clarion-voiced through her being, impelling her to hurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from another world, to this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a line of raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throat, who, all too evidently, was soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. She was clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she was woman, and she was just beginning to learn the paradox of woman.
"As I was saying - what was I saying?" She broke off abruptly and laughed merrily at her predicament.
"You was saying that this man Swinburne failed bein' a great poet because - an' that was as far as you got, miss," he prompted, while to himself he seemed suddenly hungry, and delicious little thrills crawled up and down his spine at the sound of her laughter. Like silver, he thought to himself, like tinkling silver bells; and on the instant, and for an instant, he was transported to a far land, where under pink cherry blossoms, he smoked a cigarette and listened to the bells of the peaked pagoda calling straw-sandalled devotees to worship.
"Yes, thank you," she said. "Swinburne fails, when all is said, because he is, well, indelicate. There are many of his poems that should never be read. Every line of the really great poets is filled with beautiful truth, and calls to all that is high and noble in the human. Not a line of the great poets can be spared without impoverishing the world by that much."
"I thought it was great," he said hesitatingly, "the little I read. I had no idea he was such a - a scoundrel. I guess that crops out in his other books."
"There are many lines that could be spared from the book you were reading," she said, her voice primly firm and dogmatic.
"I must 'a' missed 'em," he announced. "What I read was the real goods. It was all lighted up an' shining, an' it shun right into me an' lighted me up inside, like the sun or a searchlight. That's the way it landed on me, but I guess I ain't up much on poetry, miss."
He broke off lamely. He was confused, painfully conscious of his inarticulateness. He had felt the bigness and glow of life in what he had read, but his speech was inadequate. He could not express what he felt, and to himself he likened himself to a sailor, in a strange ship, on a dark night, groping about in the unfamiliar running rigging. Well, he decided, it was up to him to get acquainted in this new world. He had never seen anything that he couldn't get the hang of when he wanted to and it was about time for him to want to learn to talk the things that were inside of him so that she could understand. SHE was bulking large on his horizon.
"Now Longfellow - " she was saying.
"Yes, I've read 'm," he broke in impulsively, spurred on to exhibit and make the most of his little store of book knowledge, desirous of showing her that he was not wholly a stupid clod. "'The Psalm of Life,' 'Excelsior,' an' . . . I guess that's all."
She nodded her head and smiled, and he felt, somehow, that her smile was tolerant, pitifully tolerant. He was a fool to attempt to make a pretence that way. That Longfellow chap most likely had written countless books of poetry.
"Excuse me, miss, for buttin' in that way. I guess the real facts is that I don't know nothin' much about such things. It ain't in my class. But I'm goin' to make it in my class."
It sounded like a threat. His voice was determined, his eyes were flashing, the lines of his face had grown harsh. And to her it seemed that the angle of his jaw had changed; its pitch had become unpleasantly aggressive. At the same time a wave of intense virility seemed to surge out from him and impinge upon her.
"I think you could make it in - in your class," she finished with a laugh. "You are very strong."
Her gaze rested for a moment on the muscular neck, heavy corded, almost bull-like, bronzed by the sun, spilling over with rugged health and strength. And though he sat there, blushing and humble, again she felt drawn to him. She was surprised by a wanton thought that rushed into her mind. It seemed to her that if she could lay her two hands upon that neck that all its strength and vigor would flow out to her. She was shocked by this thought. It seemed to reveal to her an undreamed depravity in her nature. Besides, strength to her was a gross and brutish thing. Her ideal of masculine beauty had always been slender gracefulness. Yet the thought still persisted. It bewildered her that she should desire to place her hands on that sunburned neck. In truth, she was far from robust, and the need of her body and mind was for strength. But she did not know it. She knew only that no man had ever affected her before as this one had, who shocked her from moment to moment with his awful grammar.
"Yes, I ain't no invalid," he said. "When it comes down to hard- pan, I can digest scrap-iron. But just now I've got dyspepsia. Most of what you was sayin' I can't digest. Never trained that way, you see. I like books and poetry, and what time I've had I've read 'em, but I've never thought about 'em the way you have. That's why I can't talk about 'em. I'm like a navigator adrift on a strange sea without chart or compass. Now I want to get my bearin's. Mebbe you can put me right. How did you learn all this you've ben talkin'?"
"By going to school, I fancy, and by studying," she answered.
"I went to school when I was a kid," he began to object.
"Yes; but I mean high school, and lectures, and the university."
"You've gone to the university?" he demanded in frank amazement. He felt that she had become remoter from him by at least a million miles.
"I'm going there now. I'm taking special courses in English."
He did not know what "English" meant, but he made a mental note of that item of ignorance and passed on.
"How long would I have to study before I could go to the university?" he asked.
She beamed encouragement upon his desire for knowledge, and said: "That depends upon how much studying you have already done. You have never attended high school? Of course not. But did you finish grammar school?"
"I had two years to run, when I left," he answered. "But I was always honorably promoted at school."
The next moment, angry with himself for the boast, he had gripped the arms of the chair so savagely that every finger-end was stinging. At the same moment he became aware that a woman was entering the room. He saw the girl leave her chair and trip swiftly across the floor to the newcomer. They kissed each other, and, with arms around each other's waists, they advanced toward him. That must be her mother, he thought. She was a tall, blond woman, slender, and stately, and beautiful. Her gown was what he might expect in such a house. His eyes delighted in the graceful lines of it. She and her dress together reminded him of women on the stage. Then he remembered seeing similar grand ladies and gowns entering the London theatres while he stood and watched and the policemen shoved him back into the drizzle beyond the awning. Next his mind leaped to the Grand Hotel at Yokohama, where, too, from the sidewalk, he had seen grand ladies. Then the city and the harbor of Yokohama, in a thousand pictures, began flashing before his eyes. But he swiftly dismissed the kaleidoscope of memory, oppressed by the urgent need of the present. He knew that he must stand up to be introduced, and he struggled painfully to his feet, where he stood with trousers bagging at the knees, his arms loose- hanging and ludicrous, his face set hard for the impending ordeal.
那人用弹簧锁钥匙开门走了进去，后面跟着一个年轻人。年轻人笨拙地脱下了便帽。他穿一身粗布衣服，带着海洋的咸味。来到这宽阔的大汀他显然感到拘束，连帽子也不知道怎么处置。正想塞进外衣口袋，那人却接了过去。接得自然，一声不响，那笨拙的青年心里不禁感激，“他明白我，”他心想，“他会帮我到底的。”
他摇晃着肩膀跟在那人身后走着，两条腿不自觉地叉开，仿佛平坦的地板在随着波涛左右倾侧，上下颠簸，那宽阔的房间似乎装不下他那晃动的脚步。他心里还暗自紧张，怕他那巨大的肩膀会撞上门框或是把矮架上的小摆设拂到地上。他在家具什物之间东躲西闪，原本只存在他心中的恐惧又成倍地增加了。在屋子正中堆满书籍的桌子和钢琴之间分明有可容六个人并行的空间，可他走过时却仍提心吊胆。他的两条粗壮的胳膊松松地挂在身旁，不知道怎么处置。他正在紧张却发现一条胳膊几乎撞到摞在桌面的书上，便如受惊的马一样往旁边一个趔趄，几乎碰翻了琴凳。他望着前面的人轻松自在的步伐，第一次意识到自己走路和别人不同，步履蹒跚，不禁感到难堪，前额上沁出了豆大的汗珠。他停下脚步用手巾擦着晒成青铜色的脸。
“慢着，亚瑟，老兄，”他想说句俏皮话掩饰心中的紧张，“我这次突然来，你家的人肯定受不了。让我定定神吧！你知道我并不想来，我琢磨着你家的人也未必急于见我。”
“别担心，”亚瑟安慰道，“不要为我家的人紧张。我们都是不讲究的人——嗨，我还有一封信呢！”
他回到桌边，拆开信，看了起来，给了客人机会镇定镇定。那客人心里有数，也很感激。他天生善于同情人、理解人。目前在他那惊煌的外表下仍然体察着对方。他擦干前额，摆出平静的样子向四面看了看。眼里却掩饰不住一种野兽害怕陷阱的神气。他从来没有见过的事物包围了他，他害怕发生什么情况，无法应付。他意识到自己脚步难看、举止笨拙，害怕自己所有的属性和能力也出现类似的缺陷。他极为敏感，有着无可奈何的自我意识。那人偏又越过信纸饶有兴味地偷偷打量着他，那目光像匕首一样戳得他生疼。他看得清清楚楚，却不动声色，因为他经受过自我约束的训练。那“匕首”也伤害了他的自尊。他咒骂自己不该来，却也决心既然来了无论出现什么情况也要挺住。他脸上的线条僵住了，眼里闪出拼搏的光，更加满不在乎地打量着四周的一切。他目光敏锐，这漂亮厅堂里的每一个细节都在他脑子里记录下来。他大睁着双眼，目光所及丝毫不漏。目光既痛饮着那内室之美，眼里拼搏的光便渐渐隐敌，泛出几分温暖。他对美敏感，而这里又多的是让他敏感的东西。
一幅油画抓住了他的注意。怒涛澎湃，拍击着一片横空斜出的峭壁；孕育着风暴的黑云低垂，布满天空；浪涛线外一艘领港船正乘风前进，船身倾斜，甲板上的一切都清晰可辨。背景是一个风暴将至的薄暮的天空。那画很美，它无可抗拒地吸引了他。他忘掉了自己难看的步伐，向画幅走去。逼近画幅时，画上的美却消失了。他一脸迷惑，瞠目望着那一片仿佛是胡涂乱抹的色彩退开了。可面上全部的美又立即闪了回来。“玩噱头，”他转身走开，想道，在纷至沓来的众多印象之中却也有时间感到一种义愤：为什么要拿这么多的美来玩噱头？他不懂得画，他平生见过的只有彩色石印和石版画，远看近看总是轮廓分明线条清晰的。他也见过油画，不错，那是在橱窗里，可橱窗玻璃却不让他那双急于看个明白的眼睛靠得太近。
他瞥了一眼在读信的朋友和桌上的书，眼里立即闪出一种期待和渴望的光，有如饥饿的人看到了食物。他冲动地迈出一大步，双肩左右一晃扑到了桌边，急切地翻起书来。他看书名，看作者名，读了些片断，用眼和手爱抚着书卷，只有一次他认出了一本读过的书，别的书他却全都陌生，作者也陌生。他偶然翻起了一本史文朋，开始连续地读，读得脸上闪光。忘了自已在什么地方。他两欢用食指插着合上书看，作者的名字，史文朋！他要记住这个名字。这家伙很有眼光，他肯定把捉住了色彩和闪光。可史文朋是谁？跟大部分诗人一样，已经去世一两百年了呢，还有活着，还在写诗？他翻到书名页……是的，他还写过别的书。对，明天早上第一件事就是去免费图书馆借点史文朋的东西读。他又读起书来，读得忘了自己，没有注意到有个年青女人已经进了屋子。他首先注意到的是亚瑟的声音在说话：
“露丝，这是伊登先生。”
他又插上食指合上书，还没转过身就为第一个崭新的印象所激动。并非因为那姑娘，而是因为她哥哥的话。在他那肌肉鼓突的身体下面是一堆颤颤巍巍的敏感神经。外部世界对他的意识、思想、感受和情绪的最轻微的刺激也能使它像幽幽的火焰一样闪动起来。他异常善于接纳。反映，他的想像力活跃、总在动作，辨析着事物的同与异。是“伊登先生”这个称呼激动了他——这一辈子他都被人叫做“伊登”，“马丁·伊登”或者是“马丁”。可现在却成了“先生！”太妙了！他心里想。他的心灵仿佛立即化作了一具庞大的幻灯机。他在自己意识里看到了数不清的生活场景：锅炉房、水手舱、野营和海滩、监狱和酒吧、高烧病房和贫民窟街道，在各种环境中别人跟他的关系都表现在对他那些称呼上。
于是他转过身来，看到了那姑娘。一见到她他脑海里的种种幻影便全没有了。她是个轻盈苍白的人，有一对超凡脱俗的蓝眼睛，大大的，还有满头丰密的金发。他不知道她的穿着如何，只觉得那衣服跟人一样美好。他把她比作嫩枝上的一朵淡淡的金花。不，她是一个精灵，一个仙子，一个女神；她那升华过的美不属于人间。说不定书本是对的，在上流社会真有许多像她这样的人。史文朋那家伙大约就善于歌唱她。在桌上那本书里他描述伊素特姑娘的时候也许心里就有像她这样一个人。尽管林林总总的形象、感觉、思想猛然袭来，在现实中他的行动却并未中断。他见她向他伸出手来，握手时像个男人一样坦然地望着他的眼睛。他认识的女人却不这样握手，实际上她们大多数并不跟谁握手。一阵联想的浪潮袭来，他跟妇女们认识的各种方式涌入了他的心里，几乎要淹没了它。可他却摆脱了这些印象，只顾看着她。他从没见过这样的女人。唉！他以前认识的那些女人呀！她们立即在那姑娘两旁排列开来。在那永恒的刹那他已站在以她为中心的一道肖像画廊里。她的周围出现了许多妇女。以她为标准一衡量，那些妇女的分量和尺寸转瞬之间便一清二楚。他看见工厂女工们菜色的衰弱的脸，市场南面的妇女们痴笑的喧嚣的脸，还有游牧营他的妇女，老墨西哥抽烟的黧黑的妇女。这些形象又为穿木展、走碎步、像玩偶一样的日本妇女所代替，为面目姣好却带着堕落痕迹的欧亚混血妇女所代替，为戴花环、褐皮肤的南海诸岛的妇女形象所代替；而她们又被一群噩梦般的奇形怪状的妇女所代替，白教堂大路边慢吞吞臭烘烘的女人，窑子里酗酒的浮肿的妓女，还有一大群从地狱出来的女鬼，她们满嘴粗话，一身肮脏，乔装成妇女模样，掳掠着水手，搜索着海港的垃圾和贫民窟的残渣。
“伊登先生，请坐！”那姑娘说话了，“自从亚瑟告诉我们之后我就一直希望见到你。你很勇敢……”
他不以为然地挥挥手，含糊地说那算不了什么，别人也会那样做的。她注意到他那挥动的手上有还不曾愈合的新伤，再看那只松垂的手也有伤口未愈。再迅速打量了一眼，又见他面颊上有个伤疤，还有一个伤疤则从额前的发际露出，而第三个疤则穿到浆硬的领子里去了。她看到他晒成青铜色的脖子被浆硬的领子磨出的红印时差点笑了出来。他显然不习惯于硬领。同样，她那双女性的眼睛也一眼便看透了他那身衣服，那廉价的缺乏品味的剪裁，外衣肩上的褶皱和袖子上那一连串皱纹，仿佛在为他那鼓突的二头肌做广告。
他一面含混地表示他做的事不值一提，一面也按她的希望打算坐下，也还有时间欣赏她坐下时的优美轻松。等到在她对面的椅子上坐了下来，又意识到自己形象的笨拙，感到狼狈。这一切于他都是全新的经验。他一辈子也没注意过外表的潇洒或笨拙；他心里从没有过这种自我意识。他在椅子边上小心翼翼地坐了下来，却为两只手十分担心，因为它们不论放在什么地方都仿佛碍事。此时亚瑟又离开了屋子，马丁·伊登很不情愿地望着他走了。让他一个人在屋子里跟一个仙女一样的苍白女人坐在一起，他感到不知所措。这地方没有可以吩咐送饮料来的酒吧老板，没有可以打发到街角去买啤酒的小孩，无法用社交的饮料唤起愉快的友谊交流。
“你的脖子上有那样一个疤痕，伊登先生，”姑娘说，“那是怎么来的？我相信那是一次冒险。”
“是个墨西哥佬用刀子扎的，小姐，”他回答，舔了舔焦渴的嘴唇，清了清嗓子，“打了一架。我把他刀子弄掉后他还想咬掉我的鼻子呢。”
话虽说得不好，他眼前却浮现出萨莱纳克鲁兹那个炎热的星夜的丰富景象。狭长的海滩的白影，港口运糖船的灯光，远处喝醉了酒的水手们的哈喝，熙熙攘攘的码头苦力，墨西哥人那满脸的怒气，他的眼睛在星光下闪出野兽一般的凶光，钢铁在自己脖于上的刺痛和热血的流淌。人群，惊呼，他和墨西哥人躯体扭结，滚来滚去，踢起了沙尘。而在辽远的某个地点却有柔美的吉他声珍珍珠综传来。那景象便是如此，至今想起仍令他激动。他不知道画出墙上那幅领港船的画家是否能把那场面画下来。那白色的沙滩、星星、运糖船的灯火，还有在沙滩上围观打斗的黑越越的人群，若是画了出来一定棒极了，他想。刀子在画里要占个地位，他又决定，要是在星星下带点闪光准保好看。可这一切他丝毫不曾用言语透露。“他还想咬掉我的鼻子！”他结束了回答。
