Even if it isn't more than five dollars, Martin thought to himself, it will buy enough beans and pea-soup to enable me to write half a dozen like it, and possibly as good.
Back came a cool letter from the editor that at least elicited Martin's admiration.
"We thank you," it ran, "for your excellent contribution. All of us in the office enjoyed it immensely, and, as you see, it was given the place of honor and immediate publication. We earnestly hope that you liked the illustrations.
"On rereading your letter it seems to us that you are laboring under the misapprehension that we pay for unsolicited manuscripts. This is not our custom, and of course yours was unsolicited. We assumed, naturally, when we received your story, that you understood the situation. We can only deeply regret this unfortunate misunderstanding, and assure you of our unfailing regard. Again, thanking you for your kind contribution, and hoping to receive more from you in the near future, we remain, etc."
There was also a postscript to the effect that though THE BILLOW carried no free-list, it took great pleasure in sending him a complimentary subscription for the ensuing year.
After that experience, Martin typed at the top of the first sheet of all his manuscripts: "Submitted at your usual rate."
Some day, he consoled himself, they will be submitted at MY usual rate.
He discovered in himself, at this period, a passion for perfection, under the sway of which he rewrote and polished "The Jostling Street," "The Wine of Life," "Joy," the "Sea Lyrics," and others of his earlier work. As of old, nineteen hours of labor a day was all too little to suit him. He wrote prodigiously, and he read prodigiously, forgetting in his toil the pangs caused by giving up his tobacco. Ruth's promised cure for the habit, flamboyantly labelled, he stowed away in the most inaccessible corner of his bureau. Especially during his stretches of famine he suffered from lack of the weed; but no matter how often he mastered the craving, it remained with him as strong as ever. He regarded it as the biggest thing he had ever achieved. Ruth's point of view was that he was doing no more than was right. She brought him the anti- tobacco remedy, purchased out of her glove money, and in a few days forgot all about it.
His machine-made storiettes, though he hated them and derided them, were successful. By means of them he redeemed all his pledges, paid most of his bills, and bought a new set of tires for his wheel. The storiettes at least kept the pot a-boiling and gave him time for ambitious work; while the one thing that upheld him was the forty dollars he had received from THE WHITE MOUSE. He anchored his faith to that, and was confident that the really first-class magazines would pay an unknown writer at least an equal rate, if not a better one. But the thing was, how to get into the first-class magazines. His best stories, essays, and poems went begging among them, and yet, each month, he read reams of dull, prosy, inartistic stuff between all their various covers. If only one editor, he sometimes thought, would descend from his high seat of pride to write me one cheering line! No matter if my work is unusual, no matter if it is unfit, for prudential reasons, for their pages, surely there must be some sparks in it, somewhere, a few, to warm them to some sort of appreciation. And thereupon he would get out one or another of his manuscripts, such as "Adventure," and read it over and over in a vain attempt to vindicate the editorial silence.
As the sweet California spring came on, his period of plenty came to an end. For several weeks he had been worried by a strange silence on the part of the newspaper storiette syndicate. Then, one day, came back to him through the mail ten of his immaculate machine-made storiettes. They were accompanied by a brief letter to the effect that the syndicate was overstocked, and that some months would elapse before it would be in the market again for manuscripts. Martin had even been extravagant m the strength of those on ten storiettes. Toward the last the syndicate had been paying him five dollars each for them and accepting every one he sent. So he had looked upon the ten as good as sold, and he had lived accordingly, on a basis of fifty dollars in the bank. So it was that he entered abruptly upon a lean period, wherein he continued selling his earlier efforts to publications that would not pay and submitting his later work to magazines that would not buy. Also, he resumed his trips to the pawn-broker down in Oakland. A few jokes and snatches of humorous verse, sold to the New York weeklies, made existence barely possible for him. It was at this time that he wrote letters of inquiry to the several great monthly and quarterly reviews, and learned in reply that they rarely considered unsolicited articles, and that most of their contents were written upon order by well-known specialists who were authorities in their various fields.
但是成功女神弄丢了马丁的地址，她的使者再也不上马丁的门了。他辛辛苦苦写了二十五天，完成了一篇专门攻击梅特林克的神秘主义学派的论文：《太阳的耻辱》，大约有三万字，假日和星期日也没有休息，从实证科学的高度抨击了奇迹梦想者，但并未波及与确切的科学事实并不矛盾的许多美感经验与奇迹。以后不久他又写了两篇短文：《奇迹梦想者》和《自我的尺度》，继续进行攻击。于是他又开始为论文付旅费，把它们往一家一家杂志寄出。
在写作《太阳的耻辱》的二十五天里，他的一些下锅之作又卖了六块五毛钱。一个笑话给了他五毛，另一篇投给一个高级滑稽周刊，赚来了一元，还有两首俏皮诗，分别得到两元和三元。结果是，在一些商家拒绝赊欠之后他的自行车和见客服装又回到当铺里去了，同时他在杂货铺的赊欠能力却提高到了五元。打字机店的人又在吵着要他交费了，说要严格照合同办事，要求预付租金。
几篇下锅之作卖掉，马丁受到鼓舞，又写起这类东西来。说不定可以靠它维持生活呢！报纸小故事供稿社退回的那二十来篇小故事还塞在桌子底下，他又翻出来读了一遍，想找出写作失败的原因。他从其中研究出了一个可靠的公式。他发现报纸小故事不能是悲剧，必须有大团圆结局；语言不必美，思想不必细致，感情也不必微妙，但一定要有感情，而且要丰富，要纯洁高贵，要是他少年时在剧院廉价座位上为之大喝其彩的那种感情——那种“为了上帝、祖国和国王”的感情，“穷归穷，要穷得志气”的感情。
有了这些必备知识，马丁又参考了《公爵夫人》杂志，学着它的调子，按照药方如法炮制，那药方包含三个部分：（1）一对情人生生被拆散；（2）两人因某一行为或事件而言归于好；（3）婚礼钟声。第三部分是一个不变量，第一、二部分可以变化无穷。比如两人拆散的原因可以是对对方动机的误解；可以是命运的意外；可以是妒忌；可以是父母的反对，监护人的狡猾，亲戚的干扰，如此等等。两人的团圆可以是由于男方的英勇行为；女方的英勇行为；一方的回心转意；狡猾的监护人或蓄意破坏的亲戚或情敌被迫承认错误；某种意外机密的发现；男方激动了女方的感情；情人做了长期的高贵的自我牺牲，或诸如此类，可以变化无穷。在双方团圆的过程中由女方追求更为动人，马丁一点一滴地发现了许多能吊人胃口、引人入胜的窍门；但结尾时的婚礼钟声是绝对不能更改的，哪怕天空像卷轴一样卷了起来，星星漫天散落，婚礼的钟声也必须响起。这个公式是写一千二百到一千五百字的小故事的诀窍。
研究小故事写作技巧后不久，马丁搞出了华打固定的模式，常常用来作编写参考。这些模式像巧妙的数学表格，可以从上面、下面。左面。右面切入，每道人口都有几十个横栏，几十个坚栏，从这些表格里不需要思考或推理就可以推导出千千万万不同的结果，每一个结果都准确可靠，经得起推敲。这样，使用了他的表格，不要半个小时便可以勾勒出几十个小故事的轮廓。他把它们放到一边，等那天严肃的工作结束，要上床了，闲空了，再填充完成。后来他还向露丝坦白，说他几乎连睡着了也能写出那样的东西来。真正的工作是设计轮廓；而设计轮廓是机械的工作。
他毫不怀疑他那公式的效率。这时他第一次明白了编辑的心理。他对自己肯定说他寄出去的头两篇作品准会带给他支票。果然，十二天之后支票来了，每篇四元。
与此同时他还对杂志有了惊人的新发现。《跨越大陆》虽然发表了他的《钟声激越》，却老不寄支票来。马丁需要钱，写信去问，回信却避而不谈，反而要他寄别的作品。因为等回信他已经饿了两天肚子，只好把自行车也送进了当铺。尽管回信很少，他每月仍固定发两封信，向《跨越大陆》讨那五块钱。他并不知道《跨越大陆》已经多年风雨飘摇，是个四流杂志，十流杂志，没有根基，发行量很不稳定，部分地靠小小的恐吓，部分地靠爱国情绪和几乎是施舍性的广告维持。他也不知道《跨越大陆》是编辑和经理的唯一饭碗，而他们挤出生活费用的办法就是搬家以逃避房租和躲掉一切躲得掉的开支。他也不知道他那五块钱早给经理挪用去油漆他在阿拉密达的房子了——那是利用上班日的下午自己油漆的，因为他付不起工会所规定的工资，也因为他雇佣的第一个不按规定要价的工人从梯子上掉下来，摔断了肩胛骨，送进了医院。
马丁·伊登卖给芝加哥新闻的《探宝者》的稿酬也没有到手。他在中央阅览室的文件里查明，作品已经发了，但是编辑一个字也没有写给他。他写信去问，仍然没有人理。为了肯定他的信已经收到，他把几封信寄了挂号。他的结论是：对方的做法简直就是抢劫——冷血的强盗。他在挨饿，而他们却还偷他的东西，抢他的货物——而卖货物换面包是他唯一的生路。
《青年与时代》是一个周刊，发表了他那二万一千字的连载故事的三分之二便倒闭了，得到那十六块钱的希望也就随之破灭。
最糟糕的是，他自认为是最佳作品之一的《罐子》也失掉了。原来他在绝望中，气急败坏地向各杂志乱投递时，把它寄给了旧金山的社交周刊《波涛》。他那样寄，是因为从奥克兰只需要过了海湾就能到达，很快就可以得到回音。两周以后他却喜出望外地在报摊发现：他的作品全文刊载在那个杂志最新一期的显要位置，而且配了插图。他心里怦怦跳着回到家里，盘算着他这最好的作品能得到多少报酬。那作品接受很快，出版迅速，令他很高兴。编辑们连通知都没来得及便发表了，这份惊喜更让他踌躇满志。他等待了一周，两周，又等待了半周，铤而走险战胜了胆小畏怯，他给《波涛》的编辑写了一封信，暗示说也许业务经理出于大意，把他那笔帐忽略了。
他想，即使不到五块钱，也还能买到足够的黄豆和豌豆熬汤，让他再写出六七篇那样的作品，说不定跟那一篇同样好呢。
编辑回了一封冷冰冰的信，可它至少也能令马丁佩服。
那信说：“尊稿早收到。谨谢赐稿，我部同人对该稿皆至为欣赏，并立即以显要地位刊登，想早奉清览。其插图谅能邀先生青睐。
“拜读来翰，先生似有所误会，以为我处对未约写之稿亦付稿酬。按，我处实无此规定，而尊稿显然未经约写，此事收稿时以为先生所素知也。对此不幸误会，同仁等深以为憾，谨对先生再申敬佩之忱，并致谢意。短期内如能再赐大作则更幸甚，专此奉复……”
下面还有一则附言，说《波涛》虽不赠阅，仍很乐意免费赠送一年。
有了那次经验，马丁便在他每一篇手稿的第一页上注明：“请按贵刊常规付酬。”
有时他自我安慰说：总有一天会按我的常规付酬的。
这个阶段他发现自己有了一种追求完美的热情。在那种情绪支配之下，他修改了、润色了他早期写作的《扰攘的街道》、《生命之酒》、《欢乐》、《海上抒情诗》和一些别的作品。他仍然跟过去一样，不要命地写作和读书；一天工作十九小时还嫌不够；在百忙之中连戒烟的痛苦也忘掉了。露丝带来的包装花哨的戒烟药被他塞到了抽屉最偏僻的角落里。在饥饿的时候，他尤其想抽烟，想得难受；无论多少次忍住烟瘾，那瘾总跟过去一样，十分强烈。他把戒烟认为是他最大的成就，可露丝却只觉得他不过做了件本该做的事而已。她给他带来了用自己的军用钱买的戒烟药，过两天就忘记了。
他那些机械制造的小故事倒很成功，尽管为他所不喜欢，也瞧不起。它们给他赎回了当掉的东西，偿付了大部分欠债，给他的自行车买了一副新轮胎，还使他免于断炊之虞，给了他时间写作雄心勃勃的作品。不过给了他信心的仍然是《白鼠》带给他的那四十元，那是他的信念之所寄托。他相信真正的第一流杂志是会给予一个无名作家同样的稿酬的，即使不能更多。问题在怎样打进第一流杂志。他最好的小说。论文和诗歌都在那些杂志间沿门乞讨；而他每个月都要在那些杂志不同的封面与封底之间读到无数篇沉闷、乏味、没有艺术性的玩意。他有时想：哪怕有一个编辑从他那傲慢的高位上给我写来一行鼓励的话也是好的。即使我的作品和别的作品不同，不够谨慎，不合需要，不能刊用，可其中总还有某些地方能闪出一星星火花，让他们温暖，博得他们一丝赞赏的吧！这样一想他又拿出自己的稿子，比如《冒险》，反复地研读起来，想探索出编辑们一直沉默的道理。
加利福尼亚州芬芳馥郁的春天到来了，可他的宽裕日子却结束了。很奇怪，报纸小故事供应社一连几个星期默不作声，令他十分烦恼。然后有一天邮局送回了他十篇机械制造的、天衣无缝的小故事。还附了一封简短的信，大意是供应社稿挤，几个月之内不会再接受外搞。可马丁却早已仗恃那十篇小故事过起了阔绰的生活。到最近为止，协会对他的稿子一直是每篇五元，来者不拒的，因此他便把那十个故事当作已经卖掉，仿佛在银行已有了五十元存款，并据此安排了生活。这样，他便于突然之间堕入了一段困顿，在这段时间里他老向那些并不付酬的报刊兜售他早期的作品，向那些并不想买他稿子的杂志兜售他近来的作品。同时他又开始到奥克兰上当铺了。卖给纽约几家周刊的几个笑话和几首俏皮诗使他得以苟延残喘。他在这个时期内向几家大型月刊和季刊发出了询问信，得到的回信是，它们很少考虑接受外搞，它们的大部分内容都是约稿，作者都是有名的专家，在各自领域里的权威。
Chapter 29
It was a hard summer for Martin. Manuscript readers and editors were away on vacation, and publications that ordinarily returned a decision in three weeks now retained his manuscript for three months or more. The consolation he drew from it was that a saving in postage was effected by the deadlock. Only the robber- publications seemed to remain actively in business, and to them Martin disposed of all his early efforts, such as "Pearl-diving," "The Sea as a Career," "Turtle-catching," and "The Northeast Trades." For these manuscripts he never received a penny. It is true, after six months' correspondence, he effected a compromise, whereby he received a safety razor for "Turtle-catching," and that THE ACROPOLIS, having agreed to give him five dollars cash and five yearly subscriptions: for "The Northeast Trades," fulfilled the second part of the agreement.
For a sonnet on Stevenson he managed to wring two dollars out of a Boston editor who was running a magazine with a Matthew Arnold taste and a penny-dreadful purse. "The Peri and the Pearl," a clever skit of a poem of two hundred lines, just finished, white hot from his brain, won the heart of the editor of a San Francisco magazine published in the interest of a great railroad. When the editor wrote, offering him payment in transportation, Martin wrote back to inquire if the transportation was transferable. It was not, and so, being prevented from peddling it, he asked for the return of the poem. Back it came, with the editor's regrets, and Martin sent it to San Francisco again, this time to THE HORNET, a pretentious monthly that had been fanned into a constellation of the first magnitude by the brilliant journalist who founded it. But THE HORNET'S light had begun to dim long before Martin was born. The editor promised Martin fifteen dollars for the poem, but, when it was published, seemed to forget about it. Several of his letters being ignored, Martin indicted an angry one which drew a reply. It was written by a new editor, who coolly informed Martin that he declined to be held responsible for the old editor's mistakes, and that he did not think much of "The Peri and the Pearl" anyway.
But THE GLOBE, a Chicago magazine, gave Martin the most cruel treatment of all. He had refrained from offering his "Sea Lyrics" for publication, until driven to it by starvation. After having been rejected by a dozen magazines, they had come to rest in THE GLOBE office. There were thirty poems in the collection, and he was to receive a dollar apiece for them. The first month four were published, and he promptly received a cheek for four dollars; but when he looked over the magazine, he was appalled at the slaughter. In some cases the titles had been altered: "Finis," for instance, being changed to "The Finish," and "The Song of the Outer Reef" to "The Song of the Coral Reef." In one case, an absolutely different title, a misappropriate title, was substituted. In place of his own, "Medusa Lights," the editor had printed, "The Backward Track." But the slaughter in the body of the poems was terrifying. Martin groaned and sweated and thrust his hands through his hair. Phrases, lines, and stanzas were cut out, interchanged, or juggled about in the most incomprehensible manner. Sometimes lines and stanzas not his own were substituted for his. He could not believe that a sane editor could be guilty of such maltreatment, and his favorite hypothesis was that his poems must have been doctored by the office boy or the stenographer. Martin wrote immediately, begging the editor to cease publishing the lyrics and to return them to him.
He wrote again and again, begging, entreating, threatening, but his letters were ignored. Month by month the slaughter went on till the thirty poems were published, and month by month he received a check for those which had appeared in the current number.
Despite these various misadventures, the memory of the WHITE MOUSE forty-dollar check sustained him, though he was driven more and more to hack-work. He discovered a bread-and-butter field in the agricultural weeklies and trade journals, though among the religious weeklies he found he could easily starve. At his lowest ebb, when his black suit was in pawn, he made a ten-strike - or so it seemed to him - in a prize contest arranged by the County Committee of the Republican Party. There were three branches of the contest, and he entered them all, laughing at himself bitterly the while in that he was driven to such straits to live. His poem won the first prize of ten dollars, his campaign song the second prize of five dollars, his essay on the principles of the Republican Party the first prize of twenty-five dollars. Which was very gratifying to him until he tried to collect. Something had gone wrong in the County Committee, and, though a rich banker and a state senator were members of it, the money was not forthcoming. While this affair was hanging fire, he proved that he understood the principles of the Democratic Party by winning the first prize for his essay in a similar contest. And, moreover, he received the money, twenty-five dollars. But the forty dollars won in the first contest he never received.
Driven to shifts in order to see Ruth, and deciding that the long walk from north Oakland to her house and back again consumed too much time, he kept his black suit in pawn in place of his bicycle. The latter gave him exercise, saved him hours of time for work, and enabled him to see Ruth just the same. A pair of knee duck trousers and an old sweater made him a presentable wheel costume, so that he could go with Ruth on afternoon rides. Besides, he no longer had opportunity to see much of her in her own home, where Mrs. Morse was thoroughly prosecuting her campaign of entertainment. The exalted beings he met there, and to whom he had looked up but a short time before, now bored him. They were no longer exalted. He was nervous and irritable, what of his hard times, disappointments, and close application to work, and the conversation of such people was maddening. He was not unduly egotistic. He measured the narrowness of their minds by the minds of the thinkers in the books he read. At Ruth's home he never met a large mind, with the exception of Professor Caldwell, and Caldwell he had met there only once. As for the rest, they were numskulls, ninnies, superficial, dogmatic, and ignorant. It was their ignorance that astounded him. What was the matter with them? What had they done with their educations? They had had access to the same books he had. How did it happen that they had drawn nothing from them?
