几个礼拜过去，马丁的钱用完了。出版社的支票服以前一样杏无音信。他的重要作品全都退回来又送走了。他的“下锅之作”遭遇也并不更妙。小厨房里再也没有种类繁多的食品，他已经山穷水尽，只剩下半袋米和几磅杏子干了。他的菜谱一连五天都是三餐大米加杏子干。然后他开始了赊账。他一向付现金的葡萄牙杂货店老板在他积欠达到三块八毛五的巨额之后就拒绝赊欠了。
“因为，你看，”杂货店老板说，“你找不到工作，这钱就得我亏。”
马丁无话可说。他没法解释。把东西赊给一个身强力壮却懒得上班的工人阶级小伙子不符合正常的生意原则。
“你找到工作我就给你吃的，”杂货店老板问他保证，“没有工作没有吃的，这是生意经。”接着，为了表现此举全是生意上的远见，而非偏见，他说：“我请你喝一杯吧——咱俩还是朋友。”
马丁轻轻松松喝了酒，表示跟老板还是朋友；然后便上了床，没吃晚饭。
马丁买菜的水果铺是个美国人开的。那人做生意原则性较差，直到马丁的积欠达到五块才停止了赊欠。面包店老板到两块便不赊了，屠户是四块时拒赊的。马丁把大债加起来，发现他在这世界上总共欠了十四元八毛五分。他的打字机租期也满了，但他估计能欠上两个月债。那又是八元。到时候他怕就会弄得赊欠无门了。
从水果店买到的最后的东西是一袋上豆。他就整个礼拜每日三餐净吃土豆——只有土豆，再也没有别的。偶然在露丝家吃顿饭能帮助他保持体力。虽然他见了满桌子的食物便饥肠辘辘，很难控制住自己不再吃下去。他也多次趁吃饭时到姐姐家去，在那儿放开胆子大吃一顿——比在莫尔斯家胆大多了，虽然心里暗自惭愧。
他一天天工作着，邮递员一天天给他送来退稿。他没有钱买邮票了，稿子只好在桌了堆积成了一大堆。有一天地已经是四十个小时没吃东西了。到露丝家去吃已没有希望，因为露丝已到圣拉非尔做客去了。要去两个礼拜。他也不能到姐姐家去，因为太不好意思。最倒霉的是，邮递员下午又给他送回了五份退稿。结果马丁穿了外套去了奥克兰，回来时外套没有了，口袋里叮叮当当多了五块钱。他给每位老板还了一块钱债，又在厨房里煎起了洋葱牛排，煮起了咖啡，还熬了一大罐梅子干。吃完饭他又在他那饭桌兼书桌旁坐了下来，午夜前写完了一篇散文，叫做《高利贷的尊严》，文章用打字机打完之后只好扔到桌下，因为五块钱已经花光，没钱买邮票了。
然后他当掉了手表，接着是自行车，给所有的稿子都贴上邮票，寄了出去，这又减少了所能到手的伙食费。他对写下锅之作感到失望，没有人愿买。他把它踉在报纸、周刊、廉价杂志上找到的东西比较，认为他的作品要比其中中等的作品好，好得多，可就是卖不掉。然后地发现许多报纸都大量出一种叫做“流行版”的东西。他弄到了提供这种稿子的协会的地址，可他送去的东西仍然被退了回来。退稿附有一张印好的条子，说他们全部所需稿件都由自己提供。他在一家大型少年期刊上发现了一整栏一整栏的奇闻轶事，认为是个机会。可他的短文仍然被退了回来。虽然他一再努力往外寄，总是没有用。后来到了他已经不在乎的时候，他才明白，那些副编辑和助理编辑为了增加收入自己就提供那种稿子。滑稽周刊也寄回了他的笑话和俏皮诗。他为大杂志写的轻松社交诗也没有找到出路。然后是报纸上的小小说。他知道自己能写出的小小说要比已经发表的好得多。他设法找到了两家报纸的供稿社地址，送去了一。连串小小说。一共二十篇，却一篇也没有卖掉。他这才不再写了。然而，他仍然每天看见小小说在日报和周刊上发表，成批成批的，没有一篇比得上他。他在绝望之余得到结论，他完全缺乏判断力，只是叫自己的作品催眠了。他看来是个自我陶醉的自封的作家。
没点火气的编辑机器照常油滑运转。他把回程邮票限稿件一起装好送进邮筒，三周到一个月之后邮递员便踏上台阶，把稿件送还给他。看来那一头肯定只有齿轮、螺丝钉和注油杯——一部由机器人操纵的聪明的机器，不存在有热度的活人。他非常失望，曾多次怀疑是否有编辑存在。他从来没有见到过一点点说明编辑存在的迹象。由于他的作品全都没提意见就被退了回来，若说编辑不过是由办公室的听差、排字工和印刷工所捏造出来并加以渲染的神话，也未尝没有道理。
跟露丝一起时是他仅有的欢乐时刻，而在那时双方又未必都快活。他永远感到痛苦：一种不安咬啮着他，比没有获得她的爱情时还要叫他不放心。因为他现在虽然获得了她的爱情，却跟仔何时候一样距离获得她还很远。他曾提出过以两年为期；可时光飞逝着，他却一事无成。何况他还一直意识到她不赞成他的做法——她虽然没有直接提出，却已分敲侧击让他明白了，跟直截了当告诉了他并无两样。她虽然没有怨言，却也没有赞成。性格不那么温和的女人也许会抱怨，她却只是失望，她失望了，她自告奋勇要想改造的这个人现在不接受改造了。她在一定程度上发现他这块泥土具有弹性，而且越变越顽强，拒绝按照她爸爸或是巴特勒先生的形象受到塑造。
她看不见他的伟大和坚强，更糟糕的是，误解了他。其实造成这个人的原料弹性是很大的，凡是人类能生存的鸽子笼里他都能生存，可她却认为他顽固，因为她无法把他塑造得能在她的那个鸽子笼果生存，而那是她所知道的唯一鸽子笼。她无法随着他的思想飞翔。他的思想一超出她的范围，她就断定地反常——从来没有人的思想超出过她的范围。她一向能跟上她爸爸、妈妈、弟弟和奥尔尼的思想。因此只要她跟不上马丁，便相信问题出在马丁身上。这是一个古老的悲剧：目光短浅者偏要充当胸襟辽阔者的导师。
“你是拜倒在现存秩序的神坛下了。”有一次两人讨论普拉卜斯和万德瓦特时，他告诉她，“我承认他们是出人头他的权威，他们的话受到引用——是美国两个最前列的文学批评家。美国的每一个教师都仰望万德瓦特，把他看做批评界的领袖。可是我读了他的东西，却认为那似乎是心灵空虚者的淋漓尽致的。准确不过的自白。你看，在台勒特·贝格斯的笔下，万德瓦特就不过是个傻乎乎的老冬烘。普拉卜斯也不比他高明。比如他的《铁杉苔》就写得很美，一个逗号都没用错，调子也很崇高，啊，崇高之至。他是美国收入最高的评论家。不过，非常遗憾！他根本不是批评家。英国的批评就要好得多。
“问题在于，他们唱的是大众的调子，而且唱得那么美，那么道貌岸然，那么心安理得。他们的观点令我想起英国人过的星期天。他们说的是大家说的话。他们是你们的英语教授的后台，你们的英语教授也是他们的后台。他们脑袋里就没有丝毫的独特见解。他们只知道现存秩序——实际上他们就是现存秩序。他们心灵孱弱，现存秩序在他们身上打上烙印就像啤酒厂在啤酒瓶上贴上标签一样容易。而他们的作用就是抓住上大学的青年，把一切偶然出现的闪光的独创意识从他们脑子里赶出去，给他们贴上现存秩序的标签。”
“我认为，”她回答，“在我站在现存秩序一边时，我比你更接近真理，你真像个南太平洋海岛上大发雷霆的偶像破坏者呢。”
“破坏偶像的是教会，”他大笑，“遗憾的是，所有的教会人员都跑到异教徒那儿去了，家里反而没有人来破坏万德瓦特先生和普拉卜斯先生这两尊古老的偶像。”
“还有大学教授的偶像，”她给他加上。
他使劲摇头：“不，教理科的教授还得要。他们是真正的伟大。但是英语教授的脑袋十分之九都该破一破——是些心眼小得要用显微镜才看得见的小鹦鹉。”
这话对教授们确实刻薄，在露丝看来更是亵读。她忍不住要用那些教授来衡量马丁。教授们一个个文质彬彬，语调控馆，衣着整洁称身，谈吐文明风雅。而马丁呢，是个几乎难以描述的年轻人，而她却不知怎么爱上了他。他的衣着从来就不称身，一身暴突的肌肉说明做过沉重的苦役。一说话就冲动，不是平静地叙述而是咒骂，不是冷静地自律而是激动地放言高论。教授们至少薪水丰厚，是君子——是的，她得强迫自己面对这一事实；而他却一文钱也赚不到，跟他们没法比。
她并不就马丁的话语和论点本身进行衡量，她是从外表的比较断定他的意见不对的——不错，那是无意识的。教授们对文学的判断对，因为他们是成功的人；而马丁对文学的判断不对，因为他的作品没人要。用他自己的话说，他的作品都“像模像样”，而他自己却不像个模样。而且，要说他对也讲不过去——不久以前，就在这起坐间里，他在被人介绍时还脸红，还尴尬，还害怕地望看那些小摆设，生怕他那晃动的肩头会把它们碰下来；还在问史文朋已经死了多久；还在夸耀地宣称他读过《精益求精》和《生命礼赞》。
露丝不知不觉地证明了马丁的论点：她对现存秩序顶礼膜拜。马丁能跟随她的思路，但是不肯再往前走。他不是因为她对普拉卜斯先生、万德瓦特先生和英语教授们的观点而爱她的。他还逐渐意识到，而且越来越坚信，他自己具有的思维空间和知识面是她所无法理解，甚至还不知道的。
她觉得他对音乐的看法没有道理，而对歌剧他就不仅是没有道理，而且是故作奇谈怪论了。
“你觉得怎么样？”有天晚上看完歌剧回来，她问他。
那天夜里地是勒紧了一个月裤带才带她去的。她还在颤抖，还在为刚看见和听见的东西激动。她等着他发表意见，却无反应，这才问了他这个问题。
“我喜欢它的序曲，”他回答，“很精彩。”
“对，可歌剧本身呢？”
“也精彩；我是说，乐队精彩，不过，若是那些蹦蹦跳跳的人索性闭上嘴或是离开舞台我倒会更喜欢的。”
露丝目瞪口呆。
“你不是要特绰兰尼或是巴瑞罗离开舞台吧？”她追问。
“全离开，一股脑儿全下。”
“可他们是伟大的艺术家呀。”她驳斥道。
“他们那些不真实的滑稽表演也一样破坏了音乐。”
“可是你难道不喜欢巴瑞罗的嗓子？”露丝问，“人家说他仅次于卡路索呢。”
“当然喜欢，而且更喜欢特绰兰尼，她的嗓子非常美妙——至少我是这么感觉的。”
“可是，可是——”露丝结巴了，“我不明白你的意思。你既然欣赏他们的嗓子，为什么又说他们破坏了音乐呢？”
“正是这样，若是叫我到音乐会去听他们唱歌，我什么代价都愿意付，可是歌剧乐队一演奏，我就宁可多付点钱让他们别唱。我怕我是个无可救药的现实主义者。伟大的歌唱家未必都是伟大的演员。听巴瑞罗用天使般的嗓子唱一段情歌，再听特绰兰尼像另一个天使那样唱一段回答，还加上色彩绚丽、光彩夺目的音乐伴奏，便是个十全十美的酒神节，简直能叫人沉醉，酩酊大醉。对此，我不光是承认，而是坚信。可是我一看见他们俩，整个效果就破坏了。我看特绰兰尼，两条胖腿，身高五英尺十英寸，体重一百九十磅；再看巴瑞罗，只有可怜的五英尺四英寸，一张油光光的脸，一副铁匠般的胸脯，却矮墩墩，不够尺寸。再看看这一对，装腔作势，抓着胸脯，像疯人院的狂人那样在空中挥舞着两条胳膊，却要我承认那是一个美丽窈窕的公主跟一个英俊潇洒的年轻王子的恋爱场面——嗨，我就是接受不了，只能接受不了。这是胡闹，是荒谬，是虚假。问题就在这儿：虚假。可别告诉我世界上有这么谈恋爱的。嗨，我要是像这样跟你谈恋爱，你准会扇我耳光的。”
“可是你误解了，”露丝抗议道，“每一种艺术都有它的限制。”（她正急着回忆她在大学听到的一个有关艺术传统的演讲。）“一幅画在画布上只有两度空间，但是你能接受三度空间的幻觉。那是画家的艺术在画布上的表现。写作也一样。作者必须无所不能。作者对女主人公的秘密思想所做的描述，你认为是完全合理的。可你也一直知道，女主人公在这样思索的时候是独自一人，无论是作者还是别人都没有可能听见她的话。舞台也如此，雕塑、歌剧和每一种形式的艺术也都如此。我们必须接受某些无可奈何的东西。”
“是的，那我也明白，”马丁回答，“一切艺术都有它的传统。”（露丝听见他用这个词不免感到惊讶，他简直像是上过大学一样，而不是不学无术，随随便便在图书馆找了些书看。）“但讲传统也得讲真实。把画在平面纸板上的树木固定在舞台两边，我们可以看作森林。而海洋的布景就不能看作森林，那是办不到的，它跟我们的感官矛盾。今天晚上那两个疯子的哇里哇啦、扭摆晃动、和痛苦的痉挛你也不会，或者说不应该，看作令人信服的爱情表演的。”
“可是你不会认为自己比音乐批评家更高明吧？”
“不，不，一刻也不。我只不过坚持我个人的权利。我刚才只是告诉你我的感想。目的是解释特绰兰尼夫人那大象式的蹦蹦跳跳为什么在我眼里破坏了歌剧。全世界的音乐评论家们都可能是对的。但我还是我，即使全人类的判断都一致，我也是不会让自己的口味屈从于它的。我不喜欢就是不喜欢，那就完了。在太阳底下就没有任何理由要求我因为我的大部分同胞喜欢它（或是装作喜欢它）而学着去喜欢它。我不能在个人爱好的问题上赶时髦。”
“可是，你知道，音乐是一种需要训练的东西，”露丝辩解道，“而歌剧尤其需要训练。你是不是——”
“我是不是对歌剧少了训练呢？”
她点点头。
“正是这样，”他表示同意，“我倒认为自己没有从小就迷上它是一种幸运，否则我今天晚上就会伤感地哭鼻子，而这两位可贵的小丑般的怪人的嗓子就会显得尤其甜蜜，乐队的伴奏也会显得更加美丽。你说得对，那大体是个训练的问题。而我现在已经太老。我要的就是真实，否则才可不要。没有说服力的幻觉是明显的谎：。在矮小的巴瑞罗感情冲动地搂着胖墩墩的特绰兰尼（她也是感情冲动），而且告诉她他是如何满腔热情地崇拜着她时，我已经明白什么是大歌剧了。”
露丝又一次拿他的外部条件作比较，并按照她对现存秩序的信任来衡量他的思想。他算得什么人物，难道一切有教养的人都错了，而他反倒对了？他的意见和话语都没有给她任何印象。她对现存秩序大迷信，对革命思想毫不同情。她一向习惯于音乐，从儿童时代起就欣赏歌剧，而她周围的人也都欣赏歌剧。马丁·伊登凭什么能从他那爵士乐和工人阶级歌曲中冒出来（他是最近才冒出来的时世界上的音乐品头论足？她为他烦恼。跟他走在一起时她模糊感到受了触犯。在她心里最感到怜惜的时候，她也只把地阐述的论点当作一时的奇谈怪论和毫无来由的俏皮话。但是，在地搂着她来到门口，跟她深情地吻别的时候，她却又热情澎湃，把什么都忘了。然后，当她躺在枕头上久久无法入睡时，便苦苦地思索着（她近来常常苦苦地思索），她怎么会爱上了这么个怪人。家里人都不赞成，她为什么偏偏爱上了他。
第二天马丁抛开了“下锅之作”，激情满怀地写成了一篇论文，名叫《幻觉的哲学》。贴了一张邮票打发它上了旅途。但它已注定了还要在以后的好几个月里贴上许多邮票、多次重上旅途。
Chapter 25
Maria Silva was poor, and all the ways of poverty were clear to her. Poverty, to Ruth, was a word signifying a not-nice condition of existence. That was her total knowledge on the subject. She knew Martin was poor, and his condition she associated in her mind with the boyhood of Abraham Lincoln, of Mr. Butler, and of other men who had become successes. Also, while aware that poverty was anything but delectable, she had a comfortable middle-class feeling that poverty was salutary, that it was a sharp spur that urged on to success all men who were not degraded and hopeless drudges. So that her knowledge that Martin was so poor that he had pawned his watch and overcoat did not disturb her. She even considered it the hopeful side of the situation, believing that sooner or later it would arouse him and compel him to abandon his writing.
Ruth never read hunger in Martin's face, which had grown lean and had enlarged the slight hollows in the cheeks. In fact, she marked the change in his face with satisfaction. It seemed to refine him, to remove from him much of the dross of flesh and the too animal- like vigor that lured her while she detested it. Sometimes, when with her, she noted an unusual brightness in his eyes, and she admired it, for it made him appear more the poet and the scholar - the things he would have liked to be and which she would have liked him to be. But Maria Silva read a different tale in the hollow cheeks and the burning eyes, and she noted the changes in them from day to day, by them following the ebb and flow of his fortunes. She saw him leave the house with his overcoat and return without it, though the day was chill and raw, and promptly she saw his cheeks fill out slightly and the fire of hunger leave his eyes. In the same way she had seen his wheel and watch go, and after each event she had seen his vigor bloom again.
Likewise she watched his toils, and knew the measure of the midnight oil he burned. Work! She knew that he outdid her, though his work was of a different order. And she was surprised to behold that the less food he had, the harder he worked. On occasion, in a casual sort of way, when she thought hunger pinched hardest, she would send him in a loaf of new baking, awkwardly covering the act with banter to the effect that it was better than he could bake. And again, she would send one of her toddlers in to him with a great pitcher of hot soup, debating inwardly the while whether she was justified in taking it from the mouths of her own flesh and blood. Nor was Martin ungrateful, knowing as he did the lives of the poor, and that if ever in the world there was charity, this was it.
On a day when she had filled her brood with what was left in the house, Maria invested her last fifteen cents in a gallon of cheap wine. Martin, coming into her kitchen to fetch water, was invited to sit down and drink. He drank her very-good health, and in return she drank his. Then she drank to prosperity in his undertakings, and he drank to the hope that James Grant would show up and pay her for his washing. James Grant was a journeymen carpenter who did not always pay his bills and who owed Maria three dollars.
Both Maria and Martin drank the sour new wine on empty stomachs, and it went swiftly to their heads. Utterly differentiated creatures that they were, they were lonely in their misery, and though the misery was tacitly ignored, it was the bond that drew them together. Maria was amazed to learn that he had been in the Azores, where she had lived until she was eleven. She was doubly amazed that he had been in the Hawaiian Islands, whither she had migrated from the Azores with her people. But her amazement passed all bounds when he told her he had been on Maui, the particular island whereon she had attained womanhood and married. Kahului, where she had first met her husband, - he, Martin, had been there twice! Yes, she remembered the sugar steamers, and he had been on them - well, well, it was a small world. And Wailuku! That place, too! Did he know the head-luna of the plantation? Yes, and had had a couple of drinks with him.
And so they reminiscenced and drowned their hunger in the raw, sour wine. To Martin the future did not seem so dim. Success trembled just before him. He was on the verge of clasping it. Then he studied the deep-lined face of the toil-worn woman before him, remembered her soups and loaves of new baking, and felt spring up in him the warmest gratitude and philanthropy.
"Maria," he exclaimed suddenly. "What would you like to have?"
She looked at him, bepuzzled.
"What would you like to have now, right now, if you could get it?"
"Shoe alla da roun' for da childs - seven pairs da shoe."
"You shall have them," he announced, while she nodded her head gravely. "But I mean a big wish, something big that you want."
Her eyes sparkled good-naturedly. He was choosing to make fun with her, Maria, with whom few made fun these days.
"Think hard," he cautioned, just as she was opening her mouth to speak.
"Alla right," she answered. "I thinka da hard. I lika da house, dis house - all mine, no paya da rent, seven dollar da month."
"You shall have it," he granted, "and in a short time. Now wish the great wish. Make believe I am God, and I say to you anything you want you can have. Then you wish that thing, and I listen."
Maria considered solemnly for a space.
"You no 'fraid?" she asked warningly.
"No, no," he laughed, "I'm not afraid. Go ahead."
"Most verra big," she warned again.
"All right. Fire away."
"Well, den - " She drew a big breath like a child, as she voiced to the uttermost all she cared to demand of life. "I lika da have one milka ranch - good milka ranch. Plenty cow, plenty land, plenty grass. I lika da have near San Le-an; my sister liva dere. I sella da milk in Oakland. I maka da plentee mon. Joe an' Nick no runna da cow. Dey go-a to school. Bimeby maka da good engineer, worka da railroad. Yes, I lika da milka ranch."
She paused and regarded Martin with twinkling eyes.
"You shall have it," he answered promptly.
She nodded her head and touched her lips courteously to the wine- glass and to the giver of the gift she knew would never be given. His heart was right, and in her own heart she appreciated his intention as much as if the gift had gone with it.
"No, Maria," he went on; "Nick and Joe won't have to peddle milk, and all the kids can go to school and wear shoes the whole year round. It will be a first-class milk ranch - everything complete. There will be a house to live in and a stable for the horses, and cow-barns, of course. There will be chickens, pigs, vegetables, fruit trees, and everything like that; and there will be enough cows to pay for a hired man or two. Then you won't have anything to do but take care of the children. For that matter, if you find a good man, you can marry and take it easy while he runs the ranch."
And from such largess, dispensed from his future, Martin turned and took his one good suit of clothes to the pawnshop. His plight was desperate for him to do this, for it cut him off from Ruth. He had no second-best suit that was presentable, and though he could go to the butcher and the baker, and even on occasion to his sister's, it was beyond all daring to dream of entering the Morse home so disreputably apparelled.
He toiled on, miserable and well-nigh hopeless. It began to appear to him that the second battle was lost and that he would have to go to work. In doing this he would satisfy everybody - the grocer, his sister, Ruth, and even Maria, to whom he owed a month's room rent. He was two months behind with his type-writer, and the agency was clamoring for payment or for the return of the machine. In desperation, all but ready to surrender, to make a truce with fate until he could get a fresh start, he took the civil service examinations for the Railway Mail. To his surprise, he passed first. The job was assured, though when the call would come to enter upon his duties nobody knew.
It was at this time, at the lowest ebb, that the smooth-running editorial machine broke down. A cog must have slipped or an oil- cup run dry, for the postman brought him one morning a short, thin envelope. Martin glanced at the upper left-hand corner and read the name and address of the TRANSCONTINENTAL MONTHLY. His heart gave a great leap, and he suddenly felt faint, the sinking feeling accompanied by a strange trembling of the knees. He staggered into his room and sat down on the bed, the envelope still unopened, and in that moment came understanding to him how people suddenly fall dead upon receipt of extraordinarily good news.
Of course this was good news. There was no manuscript in that thin envelope, therefore it was an acceptance. He knew the story in the hands of the TRANSCONTINENTAL. It was "The Ring of Bells," one of his horror stories, and it was an even five thousand words. And, since first-class magazines always paid on acceptance, there was a check inside. Two cents a word - twenty dollars a thousand; the check must be a hundred dollars. One hundred dollars! As he tore the envelope open, every item of all his debts surged in his brain - $3.85 to the grocer; butcher $4.00 flat; baker, $2.00; fruit store, $5.00; total, $14.85. Then there was room rent, $2.50; another month in advance, $2.50; two months' type-writer, $8.00; a month in advance, $4.00; total, $31.85. And finally to be added, his pledges, plus interest, with the pawnbroker - watch, $5.50; overcoat, $5.50; wheel, $7.75; suit of clothes, $5.50 (60 % interest, but what did it matter?) - grand total, $56.10. He saw, as if visible in the air before him, in illuminated figures, the whole sum, and the subtraction that followed and that gave a remainder of $43.90. When he had squared every debt, redeemed every pledge, he would still have jingling in his pockets a princely $43.90. And on top of that he would have a month's rent paid in advance on the type-writer and on the room.
