"We are women together," her mother said, drawing her to her and kissing her. "We are women together," she repeated, as they went out of the room, their arms around each other's waists, their hearts swelling with a new sense of companionship.
"Our little girl has become a woman," Mrs. Morse said proudly to her husband an hour later.
"That means," he said, after a long look at his wife, "that means she is in love."
"No, but that she is loved," was the smiling rejoinder. "The experiment has succeeded. She is awakened at last."
"Then we'll have to get rid of him." Mr. Morse spoke briskly, in matter-of-fact, businesslike tones.
But his wife shook her head. "It will not be necessary. Ruth says he is going to sea in a few days. When he comes back, she will not be here. We will send her to Aunt Clara's. And, besides, a year in the East, with the change in climate, people, ideas, and everything, is just the thing she needs."
露丝和她的全家都回来了，马丁回到奥克兰之后跟她常常见面。露丝获得了学位，不再读书了。马丁呢，劳动得心力交瘁，也不再写东西了。这就让他俩比以前有了更多的时间见面。两人的关系也迅速亲密起来。
起初马丁除了休息什么事都不做，睡了很多觉，花了很多时间沉思默想。此外无所事事，像个饱尝了惊人的苦难后逐渐复原的人。他重新觉醒的最初信号是对每天的报纸发生了兴趣，不再淡漠了。然后他开始读书——读轻松的小说和诗歌。过了几天他又如醉如痴地迷上了他久已未读的费斯克。他那不同凡响的体魄和健康产生了新的活力，而他的青春又柔韧和富于弹性了。
当他宣布打算在充分休息之后再出一次海时，露丝表现了明显的失望。
“你为什么要出海？”她问。
“为了钱，”回答是，“我得攒一笔钱，准备下一次向编辑们发起进攻。就我的处境而言，钱是战斗力的泉源——一要有钱，二要有耐心。”
“既然你缺的只是钱，为什么不在洗衣房里干下去？”
“因为洗衣房要把我变成牲口。那样的活干得太多是会逼得人去喝酒的。”
她瞪大了眼望着他，眼里闪动着恐怖。
“你是说——？”她发着抖。
要绕开这个问题并不难，但他的自然冲动却是真诚坦率。他想起了从前的决心：无论出现什么情况都要真诚坦率。
“不错，”他回答，“就是那么回事。去喝了几回。”
她不禁一阵颤栗，离他远了些。
“我所认识的人没有人喝酒的——没有。”
“那是因为他们没有在雪莉温泉旅馆的洗衣房子过活，”他尖刻地笑道，“苦干是好事，所有的牧师都说它使人健全。上天也知道我从没有害怕过苦干。但世界上就有好过了头的事。那儿的洗衣房就是如此。因此我想再出一趟海。我认为那将是我最后的一次了。因为我回来之后就要打进杂志里去。我有把握。”
她沉默了。她并不赞成。马丁闷闷不乐地望着她。他明白要她理解他所经历的痛苦是多么枉然。总有一天我会把它全写出来的——《苦干的堕落作用》或是《工人阶级饮酒的心理研究》，诸如此类。
自从第一次见面之后他俩从没有像那天那么疏远过。他现坦率的自白背后虽带有反抗情绪，却仍使她反感。但令她震惊的倒不是导致反感的原因而是那反感本身。这事向她表明了他对她所具有的强大吸引力。意识到这一点之后她对他反倒更亲密了。此外，那也唤起了她的矜悯之情，和一种天真烂漫的理想主义的改造热情。无论对方愿意不愿意，她也要挽救这位跟她距离很远的蒙昧的青年，使他微弃旧我，摆脱早期环境的不幸影响。她认为这一切都出于一种异常高贵的胸怀，却做梦也没有想到那背后和下面会隐藏着爱情的谨填的欲望。
他俩常在秋高气爽的日子骑车外出，到山里去高声朗诵诗歌。有时他朗诵，有时她朗诵，读的都是使人醉心于高尚事物。催人上进的高雅诗章。她借此间接向他宣扬着克己、牺牲、忍耐、勤奋和刻苦上进之类的原则——在她心里这类抽象的品德都体现在她的父亲和巴特勒先生身上，还有安德路·卡耐基——那从一个贫穷的少年移民奋斗成为世界性权威的人。
这一切马丁都欣赏，而且喜欢。他现在更清楚她的思想脉络了。她的灵魂再也不是过去那种无法窥测的奇迹了。他跟她在智力上已经平等。他俩的意见出入并不影响爱情。他爱得比以前任何时候都炽热了。因为他爱的就是此时的她。就连她那娇弱的身子在他眼里也只增添了妩媚。他读到体弱多病的伊丽莎白·勃朗宁的故事。她有好多年双脚不曾沾过地面，直到她跟勃朗宁私奔的那一天，因为爱情燃烧竟然顶天立地地站了起来。马丁认为勃朗宁在她身上能做到的他也能在露丝身上做到。可首先她得要爱他，然后别的就好办了。他会给她力量和健康的。他督见了他俩以后多少年的共同生活。以工作、舒适和共同富裕为背景，他看见了自己跟露丝在一起读诗、探讨诗的场景。她偎在一大堆放在地面的靠垫上，向他朗诵着。这便是他俩未来生活的基调。他总看到那幅图画。有时她仅依着他，听他朗诵：他的手接着她的腰；她的头靠着他的肩。有时他们俩又一起沉润于那印刷在书页上的美。而且，她热爱大自然，于是他便以丰富的想像变换着他们俩读诗的场景——有时在峭壁环抱、与世隔绝的山谷之中；有时在高山峻岭之巅的草场上；有时在灰色的沙丘之旁，细浪在脚边如花环般京绕；有时在辽远的热带入山岛上，瀑布飞泻，水雾蒙蒙，宛如片片薄绡，直通到海滨，每一阵风地飘摇吹过都使那雾绡淡荡摇曳。但占据前景的总是他和露丝这对美的主人。他们永远高卧着，朗诵着，共享着，而在大自然这个背景之外还有个朦胧迷离的背景：劳动、成功和金钱。有了这些他们才可以不受世人和他们的全部财产的约束。
“找要提醒我的小姑娘小心呢，”有一天她的妈妈警告她。
“我懂得你的意思，但那是不可能的。他跟我不——”
露丝红了脸，是处女的羞红。她还是第一次跟被她看作神圣的母亲讨论这个在生命中同样神圣的问题。
“——不般配。”她妈妈为她补完了全句。
露丝点点头。
“我本来不想谈的。不过他确实不般配。他粗野、剽悍、健壮，太健壮了。没有——”
她犹豫了，说不下去了。她从不曾跟妈妈谈过这类事。她妈妈又为她把话说完：——
“你想说的是：他从没有过过干干净净的生活。”
露丝点点头，脸上又泛出羞红。
“正是这样，”她说，“那不能怪他，但他也太随——”
“——太随波逐流？”
“是的，太随波逐流。他叫我害怕。有时他谈起那些事竟那么轻松愉快，好像全不当回事似的，真叫我心惊胆战。那是应该当回事的，是么？”
这时她们母女俩彼此搂着腰坐着。她住了嘴。妈妈却一言不发，只拍拍她的手，等她说下去。
“但他却引起了我极大的兴趣，”她说，“他在一定意义上是我的门徒，也是我的第一个男朋友——确切地说，还算不上朋友，算是门徒兼朋友吧。而在他叫我害怕的时候他又似乎是我的一只牛头拘，供我养着玩的——学校姐妹会里就有人养牛头狗玩.可他在龇着牙使劲扯链子，想扯断了跑掉呢。”
她妈妈等着她继续说下去。
“我觉得他真像牛头狗一样引起我的兴趣。他还有许多长处。可另一方面他也有不少我不喜欢的东西，你看，我一直在想。他骂粗话抽烟、喝酒、打架（他告诉我的，而且说他喜欢打架）。男人不应有的东西他全有。他并不是我所喜欢的——”她放低了声音，“丈夫人选。而且他又太健壮。我的‘王子’应当是高挑、顾长、黝黑的——一个潇洒的有魅力的‘王子’。不，我没有爱上马丁·伊登的危险。爱上他只能是我最大的不幸。”
“不过，我想谈的倒不是这个。”她的母亲闪烁其词地说，“你从他那一面考虑过没有呢？他在各个方面都是那么不如人意，这你知道。可要是他爱上了你，你怎么办？”
“他已经爱上我了？”她叫道。
“这倒也是人之常情，”莫尔斯太太轻言细语地说，“认识你的人谁又能不爱上你呢？”
“奥尔尼可讨厌我呢！”她激动地叫道，“我也讨厌奥尔尼。只要他在场我就产生一种猫的感觉，要想给他难堪。即使我没有那个意思他也会给我难堪的。但跟马丁·伊登在一起，我却觉得愉快。以前没有人爱过我——我是说像男人那样爱过我，而有人爱——恋爱，却是很甜蜜的。你明白我的意思，好妈妈。发觉自己已是个真正的、十足的女人是很甜蜜的呢。”她把脸理进妈妈的招兜里抽泣起来。“我知道你为我担心。但我是诚实的，我告诉你的都是真实感情。”
说也奇怪，莫尔斯太太倒是悲喜交集。她的女儿，那个做了大学文学上的大姑娘，不见了，变成了个女人。她的实验成功了。露丝天性中那奇怪的空白填满了，并没有带来危险和不良后果。而工具便是这个粗鲁的水手。他唤起了她女人的感情。
“他的手发抖呢，”露丝说道，因为害羞仍然把脸埋在妈妈裙兜里。“非常有趣而且滑稽。可我也为他难过。在他的手抖得太凶、眼睛太闪亮的时候，啊，我就教训他，谈他的生活，告诉他他那改正缺点的路子不对。但我知道他崇拜我。他的双手和眼睛不会撒谎。一想到这个，只要一想到这个，我就觉得已经是个成年人了。我感到获得了我有权获得的东西——我跟别的姑娘和年轻女人一样了。我也知道我过去跟她们不一样，你因此着急，为我怀着隐忧。你以为没有让我知道，其实我早知道了，而且打算——用马丁·伊登的话说：‘解决它’。”
那是母女双方神圣的时刻。两人在薄喜的微光里谈着话，眼里噙满泪水。露丝胸无城府，天真烂漫，坦率真诚；母亲满怀同情，洞察人意，平静地解释着，开导着。
“他比你小四岁，”她说，“在社会上没有地位，没有职务，也没有薪水，而且不切实际。既然爱上了你，凭常识地也应该做一点使他有权结婚的事了吧！可他却拿他那些小说到处乱寄，做着孩子气的梦。我担心马丁·伊登是永远也不会长大成人了。他不会承担起责任，在世界上做一份男子汉的工作，像你父亲和我们所有的朋友一样，比如巴特勒先生。我担心马丁·伊登永远不会成为能挣钱的人。可是这个世界的秩序的要求却是：有钱才能幸福——啊，不，不一定要像我们家这样阔气，总也要过得舒服像样吧！他——没有提起过？”
“一个字也没有提过，没有打算过。不过即使他有那意思我也不会让他提的。因为，你看，我并不爱他。”
“这就叫我高兴了。我不会乐意看到我的女儿，我这样纯洁无假的唯一的女儿，爱上一个像他那样的人的。世界上有的是高尚的男人，纯洁、真诚、男子汉味十足的男人，你有一天是会碰见这样的人，并且爱上他的，他也会爱上你的。你跟他会很幸福，就像你爸爸跟我一样。有件事你必须永远记在心里——”
“是的，妈妈。”
莫尔斯太太放低了声音，甜蜜地说：“那就是孩子。”
“我考虑过孩子的问题，”露丝承认。她想起了过去那些曾叫她难为情的放肆的念头。因为不得不谈起这样的问题，脸上泛出了处女的羞红。
“孩子的问题更淘汰了伊登先生，”莫尔斯太太一针见血地说下去。“孩子们必须家世清白。我却担心他的家世并不清白。你爸爸告诉过我水手的生活，因此，你是了解的。”
露丝捏捏妈妈的手表示理解。她以为自己真了解，其实她的印象模糊、辽远、可怕、难以想像。
“你知道我无论做什么都是会告诉你的，”露丝说，“不过有时你得问问我，像这回一样。我本来是想告诉你的，可总觉得难以启齿。我知道不应该这样害羞。可你一问我就好开口了。你有时就是该来问问我，给我机会开口，像这回一样的。”
“唉，妈妈，原来你也是个女人！”两人站了起来，露丝站得笔直，拉住妈妈的双手，在微光里面对着她，意识到跟她之间的一种甜蜜的平等关系，欢喜得哭了起来。“没有这番谈话，我是不会那样看你的。在懂得了自己是个女人之后，我也才懂得了你也是个女人。”
“我们俩都是女人，”她的母亲拥抱她，亲吻着她说，“我们俩都是女人，”她们俩走出屋子时她重复道。两人互相接着腰，因体会到一种新的伙伴之情而心花怒放。
“我们的小丫头长大成人了呢。”一小时以后莫尔斯太太得意地告诉她的丈夫。
“那就是说，”他注视了妻子很久之后才说，“她在恋爱了。”
“不，只是有人爱上她了，”她含笑回答，“我们的实验成功了，她终于苏醒了过来。”
“那么，我们就得摆脱那个人了。”莫尔斯先生带着一本正经、公事公办的口气斩钉截铁地说。
但是他的妻子摇了摇头：“用不着。露丝说他过几天就要出海了。等他回来她早离开这儿了。我们要送她到她姑妈克拉拉家去。她正需要到东部去过上一年，换换气候，换换人，换换思想和一切呢。”
Chapter 20
The desire to write was stirring in Martin once more. Stories and poems were springing into spontaneous creation in his brain, and he made notes of them against the future time when he would give them expression. But he did not write. This was his little vacation; he had resolved to devote it to rest and love, and in both matters he prospered. He was soon spilling over with vitality, and each day he saw Ruth, at the moment of meeting, she experienced the old shock of his strength and health.
"Be careful," her mother warned her once again. "I am afraid you are seeing too much of Martin Eden."
But Ruth laughed from security. She was sure of herself, and in a few days he would be off to sea. Then, by the time he returned, she would be away on her visit East. There was a magic, however, in the strength and health of Martin. He, too, had been told of her contemplated Eastern trip, and he felt the need for haste. Yet he did not know how to make love to a girl like Ruth. Then, too, he was handicapped by the possession of a great fund of experience with girls and women who had been absolutely different from her. They had known about love and life and flirtation, while she knew nothing about such things. Her prodigious innocence appalled him, freezing on his lips all ardors of speech, and convincing him, in spite of himself, of his own unworthiness. Also he was handicapped in another way. He had himself never been in love before. He had liked women in that turgid past of his, and been fascinated by some of them, but he had not known what it was to love them. He had whistled in a masterful, careless way, and they had come to him. They had been diversions, incidents, part of the game men play, but a small part at most. And now, and for the first time, he was a suppliant, tender and timid and doubting. He did not know the way of love, nor its speech, while he was frightened at his loved one's clear innocence.
In the course of getting acquainted with a varied world, whirling on through the ever changing phases of it, he had learned a rule of conduct which was to the effect that when one played a strange game, he should let the other fellow play first. This had stood him in good stead a thousand times and trained him as an observer as well. He knew how to watch the thing that was strange, and to wait for a weakness, for a place of entrance, to divulge itself. It was like sparring for an opening in fist-fighting. And when such an opening came, he knew by long experience to play for it and to play hard.
So he waited with Ruth and watched, desiring to speak his love but not daring. He was afraid of shocking her, and he was not sure of himself. Had he but known it, he was following the right course with her. Love came into the world before articulate speech, and in its own early youth it had learned ways and means that it had never forgotten. It was in this old, primitive way that Martin wooed Ruth. He did not know he was doing it at first, though later he divined it. The touch of his hand on hers was vastly more potent than any word he could utter, the impact of his strength on her imagination was more alluring than the printed poems and spoken passions of a thousand generations of lovers. Whatever his tongue could express would have appealed, in part, to her judgment; but the touch of hand, the fleeting contact, made its way directly to her instinct. Her judgment was as young as she, but her instincts were as old as the race and older. They had been young when love was young, and they were wiser than convention and opinion and all the new-born things. So her judgment did not act. There was no call upon it, and she did not realize the strength of the appeal Martin made from moment to moment to her love-nature. That he loved her, on the other hand, was as clear as day, and she consciously delighted in beholding his love-manifestations - the glowing eyes with their tender lights, the trembling hands, and the never failing swarthy flush that flooded darkly under his sunburn. She even went farther, in a timid way inciting him, but doing it so delicately that he never suspected, and doing it half-consciously, so that she scarcely suspected herself. She thrilled with these proofs of her power that proclaimed her a woman, and she took an Eve-like delight in tormenting him and playing upon him.
Tongue-tied by inexperience and by excess of ardor, wooing unwittingly and awkwardly, Martin continued his approach by contact. The touch of his hand was pleasant to her, and something deliciously more than pleasant. Martin did not know it, but he did know that it was not distasteful to her. Not that they touched hands often, save at meeting and parting; but that in handling the bicycles, in strapping on the books of verse they carried into the hills, and in conning the pages of books side by side, there were opportunities for hand to stray against hand. And there were opportunities, too, for her hair to brush his cheek, and for shoulder to touch shoulder, as they leaned together over the beauty of the books. She smiled to herself at vagrant impulses which arose from nowhere and suggested that she rumple his hair; while he desired greatly, when they tired of reading, to rest his head in her lap and dream with closed eyes about the future that was to be theirs. On Sunday picnics at Shellmound Park and Schuetzen Park, in the past, he had rested his head on many laps, and, usually, he had slept soundly and selfishly while the girls shaded his face from the sun and looked down and loved him and wondered at his lordly carelessness of their love. To rest his head in a girl's lap had been the easiest thing in the world until now, and now he found Ruth's lap inaccessible and impossible. Yet it was right here, in his reticence, that the strength of his wooing lay. It was because of this reticence that he never alarmed her. Herself fastidious and timid, she never awakened to the perilous trend of their intercourse. Subtly and unaware she grew toward him and closer to him, while he, sensing the growing closeness, longed to dare but was afraid.
Once he dared, one afternoon, when he found her in the darkened living room with a blinding headache.
"Nothing can do it any good," she had answered his inquiries. "And besides, I don't take headache powders. Doctor Hall won't permit me."
"I can cure it, I think, and without drugs," was Martin's answer. "I am not sure, of course, but I'd like to try. It's simply massage. I learned the trick first from the Japanese. They are a race of masseurs, you know. Then I learned it all over again with variations from the Hawaiians. They call it LOMI-LOMI. It can accomplish most of the things drugs accomplish and a few things that drugs can't."
Scarcely had his hands touched her head when she sighed deeply.
"That is so good," she said.
She spoke once again, half an hour later, when she asked, "Aren't you tired?"
The question was perfunctory, and she knew what the answer would be. Then she lost herself in drowsy contemplation of the soothing balm of his strength: Life poured from the ends of his fingers, driving the pain before it, or so it seemed to her, until with the easement of pain, she fell asleep and he stole away.
She called him up by telephone that evening to thank him.
"I slept until dinner," she said. "You cured me completely, Mr. Eden, and I don't know how to thank you."
He was warm, and bungling of speech, and very happy, as he replied to her, and there was dancing in his mind, throughout the telephone conversation, the memory of Browning and of sickly Elizabeth Barrett. What had been done could be done again, and he, Martin Eden, could do it and would do it for Ruth Morse. He went back to his room and to the volume of Spencer's "Sociology" lying open on the bed. But he could not read. Love tormented him and overrode his will, so that, despite all determination, he found himself at the little ink-stained table. The sonnet he composed that night was the first of a love-cycle of fifty sonnets which was completed within two months. He had the "Love-sonnets from the Portuguese" in mind as he wrote, and he wrote under the best conditions for great work, at a climacteric of living, in the throes of his own sweet love-madness.
The many hours he was not with Ruth he devoted to the "Love-cycle," to reading at home, or to the public reading-rooms, where he got more closely in touch with the magazines of the day and the nature of their policy and content. The hours he spent with Ruth were maddening alike in promise and in inconclusiveness. It was a week after he cured her headache that a moonlight sail on Lake Merritt was proposed by Norman and seconded by Arthur and Olney. Martin was the only one capable of handling a boat, and he was pressed into service. Ruth sat near him in the stern, while the three young fellows lounged amidships, deep in a wordy wrangle over "frat" affairs.
The moon had not yet risen, and Ruth, gazing into the starry vault of the sky and exchanging no speech with Martin, experienced a sudden feeling of loneliness. She glanced at him. A puff of wind was heeling the boat over till the deck was awash, and he, one hand on tiller and the other on main-sheet, was luffing slightly, at the same time peering ahead to make out the near-lying north shore. He was unaware of her gaze, and she watched him intently, speculating fancifully about the strange warp of soul that led him, a young man with signal powers, to fritter away his time on the writing of stories and poems foredoomed to mediocrity and failure.
