“你为什么不肯去做记者？”听完朗诵，她问道，“你这么喜欢写作，我相信你会成功的。你可以在新闻事业上出人头地，享有盛名的。有许多了不起的特约通讯员，薪水很高，全世界就是他们的天地。他们被派到世界各地去，比如斯坦利，他就被派到非洲的腹地，派去采访教皇，派到无人知道的西藏。”
“那么你是不喜欢我的论文么？”他问，“你相信我写新闻还可以，搞文学却不行么？”
“不，不，我喜欢你的文学作品，读起来很有意思。但是我担心有的读者跟不上。至少我跟不上。听起来挺美，可是我不懂得。你的科学词汇我弄不清楚。你是个极端分子，你知道，亲爱的。你明白的东西我们别的人可不明白。”
“我估计叫你不明白的是那些哲学术语，”他能说的就是这句话。
他刚朗读了他所写成的最成熟的思想，情绪火热，听了她的断语不禁目瞪口呆。
“不管写得多么糟糕，”他坚持，“你从中看到了什么东西么？——我指的是思想？”
她摇摇头。
“没有，它和我读过的东西都非常不同。我读过梅特林克，懂得他——”
“他的神秘主义，你懂得？”马丁爆发了出来。
“懂，但是你的话我不懂，看来你是攻击他的。当然，要是强调独创性的话——”
他做了个不耐烦的手势，打断了她的话，自己却没有说什么。他突然意识到她正在说话，已经说了一会儿。
“说到底你是在玩写作，”她在说，“你确实玩得太久了。已经到了严肃地面对生活——面对我们的生活的时候了，马丁。到目前为止，你只是一个人在生活。”
“你是要想我去工作么？”他问。
“是的，爸爸已经提出——”
“那些我都明白，”他叫了起来，“可我想知道的是你对我是否失去了信心？”
她默默地捏住他的手，眼神迷茫。
“失去了对你写作的信心，亲爱的。”她低声说。
“你读过我许多东西，”他粗野地说下去，“你有什么看法？完全没有希望么？和别人的东西比怎么样？”
“可是别人的作品卖掉了，你的——没有。”
“那并没有回答我的问题。你认为我不能从事文学么？”
‘那我就回答你吧。”她鼓起了勇气回答；“我认为你不是搞写作的料。请原谅我，亲爱的。是你逼我说的；而你知道我比你更懂得文学。”
“是的，你是个文学学土，”他沉吟着说，“你应该懂得。”
“但是我还有别的话要说，”两人痛苦地沉默了一会儿，他说了下去，“我知道我心里有些什么，没有别人比我更了解。我知道我会成功的。我不愿意受到压抑。我想要用诗歌、小说。散文的形式表现的东西燃烧着我。不过我不要求你对它有信心。我并不要求你对我有信心，对我的写作有信心。我要求你的只是爱我，对于爱情有信心。
“一年以前我要求了两年，还有一年没有到期。而我以我的荣誉和灵魂发誓，相信这一年没有过完我就会成功的。你记得很久以前告诉过我的话，我学写作还有个学徒阶段。是的，我的学徒阶段已经过去。我已经把它塞满了，压缩了。你在前面等着我，我从来没有偷过懒。你知道么，我已经忘记平平静静地入睡是怎么回事了。睡得心满意足，然后高高兴兴地自然醒来对我已是几百万年以前的事了。我现在总是叫闹钟闹醒，早睡也好，晚睡也好，闹钟总上好的。这个动作，关灯，是我的最后的有意识的动作。
“我感到疲倦了便把费力的书换成轻松点的。我打瞌睡，便用指关节敲我的脑袋，把睡意赶走。我曾读到一个害怕睡觉的人。故事是吉卜林写的。那人为防止打瞌睡，弄了一根铁刺，人一迷糊他的光身子就扎到铁刺上。我就弄了这么个东西。我看准了时间，决定不到一点、两点、三点那刺决不撤掉。它就像这样在预定时间以前总扎醒我。好多个月以来那铁刺都是陪着我睡觉的。我不要命了，五小时半的睡眠已是奢侈品。我现在只睡四小时。我渴望睡眠。有时候我因为缺少睡眠把头脑弄得很清醒，有时能带来休息和睡眠的死亡对我成了严重的诱惑，那时朗赛罗的诗总京回在我的脑际：——“‘大海是那样平静幽邃，怀里的一切都沉沉安睡；向前一步便一了百了，一跳，一串泡，万事全消。’
“当然，这是瞎说，是因为太紧张，精神负担过重才这样说的。问题还在：我为什么要这样做？那是为了你，为了缩短学徒期，强迫成功早日来到。现在我的学徒期已经满了，我知道我的学识，我发誓我一个月之内学到的东西要比普通的大学生一年还多。这我明白，我告诉你。但是如果不是迫切地需要你的理解，我是不会说的。这不是夸耀。我用书本来检验成绩。今天你的几个弟兄跟我和我在他们睡大觉时在书本中所取得的知识一比，简直就是无知的野蛮人。很久以前我想成名，可现在已没有那意思了。我想要的只有你。我渴望你，比吃饭穿衣和受到承认更渴望。我做梦也想把我的头枕在你的胸口睡一辈子。而这个梦再过一年左右就可以实现了。”
他的强力一浪又一浪地冲击着她。在他的意志和她的意志碰撞最严重的时候，也正是她最强烈地感到他的吸引力的时候。他那一向向她流泻的力量在他那激动的声音和炯炯的目光里开出了花朵，在澎湃于他体内的生命和智慧的活力里开出了花朵。在那时，也只在那时，她意识到了她的信心出现了一道裂缝——通过那裂缝她瞥见了那真正的马丁·伊登，灿烂的，不可战胜的马丁·伊登。有如驯兽师有时也会犹豫一样，她一时也怀疑自己是否有力量驯服这个精灵般的野蛮人。
“还有一件事，”他滔滔不绝地说下去，“你爱我，可你为什么爱我？吸引你的爱情的正是在我心里强迫我写作的东西。你爱我，正因为我跟你所认识的人，可能爱的人，有所不同。我不是坐办公桌和会计室的料，不是凭嘴劲谈生意，上法庭玩条文的料。叫我于这种事，把我变成别的人，做他们的工作，呼吸他们的空气，发挥他们的论点，你就毁灭了我和他们的差异，也毁灭了我，毁灭了你所爱的东西。我对写作的渴望对我是最举足轻重的东西。我如果是块顽石，我就不会想写作，你也就不会要我做丈夫了。”
“但是你忘了，”她插嘴道，她心灵的敏捷的外层瞥见了一个类似的东西。“过去有过古怪的发明家，为了追求永动机这种奇特玩意让全家人忍饥挨饿。他们的妻子们无疑是爱他们的，为了他们和他们一起受苦，可并不是因为对永动机的迷醉而是不计较他们那迷醉。”
“说得对，”回答是，“可是也有并不奇特的发明家，他们在追求现实的发明时也挨饿。而有时他们却成功了，这是有记录的，我并没有想入非非——”
“可你说过，‘要做做不到的事’。”她打断了他的话。
“我那是打比喻。我追求的是前人成功了的事——写作，靠写作为生。”
她保持沉默，这又逼得他说了下去。
“那么，你认为我的目标是跟永动机一样的怪物么？”他问。
她捏了捏他的手，他明白了她的意思——那是怜爱的母亲在捏受伤的孩子的手。那时他对她不过是个受伤的孩子。是一个着了迷的人，在追求着不可能的东西。
两人谈话快结束时她再次提醒他她父母的反对。
“可是你爱我么？”
“我爱你！爱你！”她叫了起来。
“我爱的是你，不是他们，他们无论做什么都伤害不了我。”他的声音里震响着胜利。“因为我对你的爱有信心，也不怕他们的反对。在这个世界上，一切都可能迷路，爱情是决不会迷路的。只要爱情不是个弱者，一路畏畏缩缩，磕磕绊绊，就不会走错。”
Chapter 31
Martin had encountered his sister Gertrude by chance on Broadway - as it proved, a most propitious yet disconcerting chance. Waiting on the corner for a car, she had seen him first, and noted the eager, hungry lines of his face and the desperate, worried look of his eyes. In truth, he was desperate and worried. He had just come from a fruitless interview with the pawnbroker, from whom he had tried to wring an additional loan on his wheel. The muddy fall weather having come on, Martin had pledged his wheel some time since and retained his black suit.
"There's the black suit," the pawnbroker, who knew his every asset, had answered. "You needn't tell me you've gone and pledged it with that Jew, Lipka. Because if you have - "
The man had looked the threat, and Martin hastened to cry:-
"No, no; I've got it. But I want to wear it on a matter of business."
"All right," the mollified usurer had replied. "And I want it on a matter of business before I can let you have any more money. You don't think I'm in it for my health?"
"But it's a forty-dollar wheel, in good condition," Martin had argued. "And you've only let me have seven dollars on it. No, not even seven. Six and a quarter; you took the interest in advance."
"If you want some more, bring the suit," had been the reply that sent Martin out of the stuffy little den, so desperate at heart as to reflect it in his face and touch his sister to pity.
Scarcely had they met when the Telegraph Avenue car came along and stopped to take on a crowd of afternoon shoppers. Mrs. Higginbotham divined from the grip on her arm as he helped her on, that he was not going to follow her. She turned on the step and looked down upon him. His haggard face smote her to the heart again.
"Ain't you comin'?" she asked
The next moment she had descended to his side.
"I'm walking - exercise, you know," he explained.
"Then I'll go along for a few blocks," she announced. "Mebbe it'll do me good. I ain't ben feelin' any too spry these last few days."
Martin glanced at her and verified her statement in her general slovenly appearance, in the unhealthy fat, in the drooping shoulders, the tired face with the sagging lines, and in the heavy fall of her feet, without elasticity - a very caricature of the walk that belongs to a free and happy body.
"You'd better stop here," he said, though she had already come to a halt at the first corner, "and take the next car."
"My goodness! - if I ain't all tired a'ready!" she panted. "But I'm just as able to walk as you in them soles. They're that thin they'll bu'st long before you git out to North Oakland."
"I've a better pair at home," was the answer.
"Come out to dinner to-morrow," she invited irrelevantly. "Mr. Higginbotham won't be there. He's goin' to San Leandro on business."
Martin shook his head, but he had failed to keep back the wolfish, hungry look that leapt into his eyes at the suggestion of dinner.
"You haven't a penny, Mart, and that's why you're walkin'. Exercise!" She tried to sniff contemptuously, but succeeded in producing only a sniffle. "Here, lemme see."
And, fumbling in her satchel, she pressed a five-dollar piece into his hand. "I guess I forgot your last birthday, Mart," she mumbled lamely.
Martin's hand instinctively closed on the piece of gold. In the same instant he knew he ought not to accept, and found himself struggling in the throes of indecision. That bit of gold meant food, life, and light in his body and brain, power to go on writing, and - who was to say? - maybe to write something that would bring in many pieces of gold. Clear on his vision burned the manuscripts of two essays he had just completed. He saw them under the table on top of the heap of returned manuscripts for which he had no stamps, and he saw their titles, just as he had typed them - "The High Priests of Mystery," and "The Cradle of Beauty." He had never submitted them anywhere. They were as good as anything he had done in that line. If only he had stamps for them! Then the certitude of his ultimate success rose up in him, an able ally of hunger, and with a quick movement he slipped the coin into his pocket.
"I'll pay you back, Gertrude, a hundred times over," he gulped out, his throat painfully contracted and in his eyes a swift hint of moisture.
"Mark my words!" he cried with abrupt positiveness. "Before the year is out I'll put an even hundred of those little yellow-boys into your hand. I don't ask you to believe me. All you have to do is wait and see."
Nor did she believe. Her incredulity made her uncomfortable, and failing of other expedient, she said:-
"I know you're hungry, Mart. It's sticking out all over you. Come in to meals any time. I'll send one of the children to tell you when Mr. Higginbotham ain't to be there. An' Mart - "
He waited, though he knew in his secret heart what she was about to say, so visible was her thought process to him.
"Don't you think it's about time you got a job?"
"You don't think I'll win out?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Nobody has faith in me, Gertrude, except myself." His voice was passionately rebellious. "I've done good work already, plenty of it, and sooner or later it will sell."
"How do you know it is good?"
"Because - " He faltered as the whole vast field of literature and the history of literature stirred in his brain and pointed the futility of his attempting to convey to her the reasons for his faith. "Well, because it's better than ninety-nine per cent of what is published in the magazines."
"I wish't you'd listen to reason," she answered feebly, but with unwavering belief in the correctness of her diagnosis of what was ailing him. "I wish't you'd listen to reason," she repeated, "an' come to dinner to-morrow."
After Martin had helped her on the car, he hurried to the post- office and invested three of the five dollars in stamps; and when, later in the day, on the way to the Morse home, he stopped in at the post-office to weigh a large number of long, bulky envelopes, he affixed to them all the stamps save three of the two-cent denomination.
It proved a momentous night for Martin, for after dinner he met Russ Brissenden. How he chanced to come there, whose friend he was or what acquaintance brought him, Martin did not know. Nor had he the curiosity to inquire about him of Ruth. In short, Brissenden struck Martin as anaemic and feather-brained, and was promptly dismissed from his mind. An hour later he decided that Brissenden was a boor as well, what of the way he prowled about from one room to another, staring at the pictures or poking his nose into books and magazines he picked up from the table or drew from the shelves. Though a stranger in the house he finally isolated himself in the midst of the company, huddling into a capacious Morris chair and reading steadily from a thin volume he had drawn from his pocket. As he read, he abstractedly ran his fingers, with a caressing movement, through his hair. Martin noticed him no more that evening, except once when he observed him chaffing with great apparent success with several of the young women.
It chanced that when Martin was leaving, he overtook Brissenden already half down the walk to the street.
"Hello, is that you?" Martin said.
The other replied with an ungracious grunt, but swung alongside. Martin made no further attempt at conversation, and for several blocks unbroken silence lay upon them.
"Pompous old ass!"
The suddenness and the virulence of the exclamation startled Martin. He felt amused, and at the same time was aware of a growing dislike for the other.
"What do you go to such a place for?" was abruptly flung at him after another block of silence.
"Why do you?" Martin countered.
"Bless me, I don't know," came back. "At least this is my first indiscretion. There are twenty-four hours in each day, and I must spend them somehow. Come and have a drink."
"All right," Martin answered.
The next moment he was nonplussed by the readiness of his acceptance. At home was several hours' hack-work waiting for him before he went to bed, and after he went to bed there was a volume of Weismann waiting for him, to say nothing of Herbert Spencer's Autobiography, which was as replete for him with romance as any thrilling novel. Why should he waste any time with this man he did not like? was his thought. And yet, it was not so much the man nor the drink as was it what was associated with the drink - the bright lights, the mirrors and dazzling array of glasses, the warm and glowing faces and the resonant hum of the voices of men. That was it, it was the voices of men, optimistic men, men who breathed success and spent their money for drinks like men. He was lonely, that was what was the matter with him; that was why he had snapped at the invitation as a bonita strikes at a white rag on a hook. Not since with Joe, at Shelly Hot Springs, with the one exception of the wine he took with the Portuguese grocer, had Martin had a drink at a public bar. Mental exhaustion did not produce a craving for liquor such as physical exhaustion did, and he had felt no need for it. But just now he felt desire for the drink, or, rather, for the atmosphere wherein drinks were dispensed and disposed of. Such a place was the Grotto, where Brissenden and he lounged in capacious leather chairs and drank Scotch and soda.
They talked. They talked about many things, and now Brissenden and now Martin took turn in ordering Scotch and soda. Martin, who was extremely strong-headed, marvelled at the other's capacity for liquor, and ever and anon broke off to marvel at the other's conversation. He was not long in assuming that Brissenden knew everything, and in deciding that here was the second intellectual man he had met. But he noted that Brissenden had what Professor Caldwell lacked - namely, fire, the flashing insight and perception, the flaming uncontrol of genius. Living language flowed from him. His thin lips, like the dies of a machine, stamped out phrases that cut and stung; or again, pursing caressingly about the inchoate sound they articulated, the thin lips shaped soft and velvety things, mellow phrases of glow and glory, of haunting beauty, reverberant of the mystery and inscrutableness of life; and yet again the thin lips were like a bugle, from which rang the crash and tumult of cosmic strife, phrases that sounded clear as silver, that were luminous as starry spaces, that epitomized the final word of science and yet said something more - the poet's word, the transcendental truth, elusive and without words which could express, and which none the less found expression in the subtle and all but ungraspable connotations of common words. He, by some wonder of vision, saw beyond the farthest outpost of empiricism, where was no language for narration, and yet, by some golden miracle of speech, investing known words with unknown significances, he conveyed to Martin's consciousness messages that were incommunicable to ordinary souls.
Martin forgot his first impression of dislike. Here was the best the books had to offer coming true. Here was an intelligence, a living man for him to look up to. "I am down in the dirt at your feet," Martin repeated to himself again and again.
"You've studied biology," he said aloud, in significant allusion.
