But Brissenden, breathing painfully, had dropped off to sleep, his chin buried in a scarf and resting on his sunken chest, his body wrapped in the long overcoat and shaking to the vibration of the propellers.
“来，来，我让你见识见识真正的草芥之民。”一月份的某一个晚上布里森登对他说。
两人刚在旧金山吃完晚饭，要回奥克兰，来到了轮渡大厦。这时布世森登心血来潮，要叫他看看“草芥之民”。他转过身来，他那外衣飘闪的瘦削的身影飘过了海岸，马丁努力跟着。布卫森登在一家批发饮料站买了两大瓶陈年葡萄酒，大胜瓶装的，一手拎一瓶上了教会街的电车。马丁拿了几瓶夸脱装的威士忌紧跟在后。
他心里想，这要是叫露丝看见可不得了，同时猜测那“真正的草芥之民”是怎么回事。“也许那儿一个人也没有，”两人下了车，便直奔市场街南面工人阶级贫民窟的中心，这时布里森登说，“那你就会错过你长期想找的人了。”
“究竟是什么呀？”
“人，聪明的人，而不是我发现你在那个生意人窝周交往的卿卿喳喳的无聊的人。你已经读了些书，发现自己完全孤独了。今天晚上我要叫你见识见识一些也读过书的人，那你就再也不会孤独了。
“我对他们的讨论没有兴趣，”他来到一个街区的尽头时说，“书本上的哲学打动不了我，但你会发现这些人是聪明人，不是资产阶级的猪猡。可你得小动，他们会就太阳之下的任何题目对你唠叨个没完的。
“我希望诺尔屯在那甲，”说到这儿他有一点气喘，却拒绝了马丁把他那两个大肚子酒瓶接过手去的好意。“诺尔屯是个理想主义者——哈佛大学的，有惊人的记忆力。理想主义把他引向了哲学上的无政府主义，被家庭赶了出来。他爸爸是一条铁路的总裁，有好几百万家产，可儿子却在旧金山挨饿，编着一份无政府主义报纸，每月二十五块。”
马丁对旧金山不熟，对市场街以南更是一无所知。因此他不知道自己已被领到了什么地方。
“讲吧，”他说，“先给我介绍介绍。他们靠什么过日子？怎么会到这儿来的？”
“但愿汉密尔顿也在这几，”市里森登站了一会儿，歇了歇手。“他的姓是斯特罗恩一汉密尔顿（中间是个连字符），出身南方世家。一个流浪汉——我所见过的最懒的人，虽然他在一家社会主义的合作社里做职员（或者说勉强凑合作着做），每周六块钱，可他是个积习难改的占普赛人，是流浪到这儿来的。我曾见他在一张长凳上坐过一整天，一点东西都没进嘴，到了晚上我请他吃饭——只须走两段街就到了馆子，他却回答说：‘太麻烦，老兄，给我买盒烟就行了！’他原来跟你一样，是斯宾塞主义者，后来被克瑞斯转变成了个唯物主义的一元论者。我如果能够，倒想跟他谈谈一元论；诺尔屯也是个一元论者——不过他只肯定精神，对其他的一切都怀疑。而他却可以提供克瑞斯和汉密尔顿所缺少的一切。”
“克瑞斯是谁呀、马丁问道。
“我们就是到他的屋里去呢，当过大学教授——被开除了——老一套的故事。那张嘴像刀子，用一切古老的形式混着饭吃。我知道他倒霉的时候在街上摆过摊，什么都满不在乎地干，连死人的尸衣也偷——什么都偷。他跟资产阶级不同，偷时并不制造假象。他谈尼采，谈叔本华，谈康德，什么都谈。但在世界上他真正关心的只有他的一元论，别的他都不放在心上，包括圣母玛利亚在内。海克尔是他崇拜的一个小偶像，你要侮辱他有一个办法法，打海克尔一耳光就行。
“咱们的老窝到了，”布里森登把他的大肚子酒瓶在阶梯口放了一会儿，做好上楼准备。那是常见的一楼一底的街角房，楼下是一间沙龙和一间杂货店。“这帮家伙就住这儿——楼上整个凡是他们的天下。只有克瑞斯一人住两间。来吧。”
楼上大厅里没有灯光，但布里森登却在沉沉的黑暗里穿来穿去，像个熟悉环境的幽灵。他停下脚步对马丁说：
“这儿有一个人叫史梯劳斯，是个通神论者，话匣子一打开可热闹呢。他现在在一家饭馆院盘子。喜欢抽高级雪茄烟。我见过他在一家‘一角餐厅’吃饭，然后花五角钱买雪茄抽。他要是来了，我兜里还为他准备了几支雪茄。
“还有一个家伙叫巴瑞，澳洲人‘统计学家，是一部挺有趣的百科全书。你问他一九０三年巴拉圭的粮食产量是多少，一八九０年英国向中国输出的床单是多少，吉米·布里特对杀手纳尔逊拳击战是哪个量级，一八六八年全美次重最级冠军是谁，都可以得到迅速准确的答案，像从自动售货机里出来的一样。还有安迪，是个五匠，对什么都有自己的看法，棋艺极棒。还有个家伙叫哈里，面包师傅，激烈的社会主义者和坚定的工联主义者。附带说一句，你记得厨工待者大罢工么？就是他组织了工会搞的——事先对一切都作了安排，地点就在这儿：克瑞斯家里。他搞罢工只是为了好玩，可是太懒，不愿留在工会里。他只要愿意是可以爬上去的。那家伙要不是懒得出奇，他的能量可以说是无穷无尽。”
布里森登在黑暗里穿行，直到一缕微光指明了门槛的所在。他敲了敲门，有人回答，门开了。马丁发现自己已在跟克瑞斯握着手。克瑞斯是个漂亮的人，浅黑色皮肤，黑色八字胡，牙齿白得耀眼，眼睛黑而且大，目光炯炯。玛丽是个金头发白皮肤的年轻妇女，主妇模样，正在后面一间小屋里洗碟子。那小屋是厨房，兼作饭厅；前屋是客厅，兼作寝室。一周来的衣服洗过了，像万国旗一样低低地晾在屋里，马丁刚进来时竟没看见有两个人在一个角落里谈话。两人用欢呼迎接了布里森登和他的大肚子酒瓶。经过介绍马丁知道他们是安迪和巴瑞。马丁来到一两人身边，仔细听巴瑞描述他头天晚上看过的拳击赛，这时布巴森登便用葡萄酒和威士忌苏打得意杨扬地调制好甜威士忌，端了上来。他一声令下“把那伙人请来”，那两人便到各个房间去叫人。
“我们运气不错，大部分人都在，”布里森登悄悄对马丁说，“诺尔屯和汉密尔顿在，来，跟他们见面吧。听说斯梯芬斯不在。如果能办到我就设法让他们谈一元论。先等他们喝两杯酒‘热热身’再说。”
谈话开始时有点凌乱，但马丁仍可以欣赏到他们那敏锐的心灵活动。全都是有思想的人，尽管常常互相碰撞；每个人都聪明风趣，但决不浅薄。很快他就发现他们无论谈什么问题都能综合地运用知识，对社会和宇宙具有深沉而系统的理解。他们都是某种类型的叛逆者，他们的思想不是任何人预先炮制好的，嘴里没有陈词滥调，讨论的问题多得惊人，那是马丁在莫尔斯家从没见过的。他们感到兴趣的问题若不是受到时间限制似乎可以无穷无尽。他们从亨福雷·华尔德夫人的新书谈到萧伯纳的最新剧本；从戏剧的前途谈到对曼殊菲尔的回忆。他们对早报的社论表示欣赏或是鄙弃；他们从新西兰的劳工条件猛然转入亨利·詹姆斯和布兰德·马修斯，又转入德国的远东阴谋和黄祸的经济侧面；他们争论德国的选举和倍倍尔的最新讲话；然后又落到当他的政治，联合劳工党政权的最新计划和丑闻；还有那导致了海岸海员罢工的幕后牵线情况。他们所掌握的内幕新闻之多个马丁震惊。他们知道报纸上从没有发表的东西——那操纵着木偶们跳舞的一条条线和一只只手。还有一件事也令马丁吃惊：玛丽也参加了谈话，并表现了在他所接触过的少数妇女身上从未见到过的智慧。她和他一起讨论史文朋和罗塞蒂，然后便把他引进了马丁感到陌生的法国文学的小胡同已去。等到她为梅特林克辩护时，马丁便把他在《太阳的耻辱押深思熟虑的理论使用出来，算是有了回敬她的机会。
另外的人也参加了讨论，空气里是浓烈的香烟味，这时布里森登挥动了辩论的红旗。
“克瑞斯，你那板斧有了新对象了，”他说，“一个纯洁得像白玫瑰的青年，对斯宾塞怀着恋人一样的热情。让他改信海克尔吧——你要是有本领的话！”
克瑞斯似乎醒了过来，像某种带磁性的金属一样闪出了光＃。此时诺尔屯同情地望着马丁，发出一个姑娘般的甜笑，似乎在告诉他他可以得到强有力的保护。
克瑞斯直接向马丁开了火。可是诺尔中逐步进行了干预，辩论便转而在他们俩之间进行了。马丁听着听着几乎不相信自己的眼睛了：这简直是不可能的，尤其是在市场街以南的劳工贫民窟里。这些人书读得很灵活，谈话时怀着烈火和激情。他们为智慧的力量驱使时有如马丁见到别人受到酒精和愤怒驱使时一样激动。他所听见的东西不再是出自康德或斯宾塞这种神秘的仙灵笔下，不再是书本上的枯燥的哲学文字，而是奔流着鲜红的热血的活生生的哲学。那哲学体现在他们俩身上，直到它热情澎湃地显露出了本来面目。别的人也偶然插几句嘴。所有的人都紧跟着讨论的进程，手上的香烟渐渐熄灭，脸上露出敏锐的专注的神色。
唯心主义从来没有吸引过马丁，但经过诺尔屯一解释却给了他启示。唯心论的值得赞扬的逻辑启发了他的智力，但克瑞斯和汉密尔顿对之却似乎充耳不闻。他们嘲笑诺尔屯是个玄学鬼。诺尔屯也嗤之以鼻，回敬他们以玄学鬼的称号。他们用现象和本体两个字互相攻击。克瑞斯和汉密尔顿攻击诺尔屯企图以意识解释意识；诺尔屯则攻击他们俩玩弄词语，思考时从词语到理论，而不是从实际到理论。诺尔屯的话把他们俩惊呆了——他们的推理模式的根本信条一向是从事实出发，绘事实加上些名词术语。
诺尔屯钻进了康德的复杂世界，这时克瑞斯便提醒他说德国所有的小哲学学派死亡之后都跑到牛津去落户。不久诺尔屯又反提醒他们汉密尔顿的悭吝律。他们随即宣称他们的每一个推理过程都是应用着这一规律的。马丁抱着膝头听着，感到兴高采烈。但是诺尔屯并不是个斯宾塞主义者，他也在努力理解马丁哲学的精髓，一面对他的对手说话一面也对马丁说话。
“你知道贝克莱提出的问题谁也没有回答出来，”他直面着马丁，说，“赫伯特·斯宾塞的回答最接近于解决，但距离仍不算近。即使斯宾塞的最坚强的信徒也难于再前进了。那天我读了撤里比的一篇论文，撒里比所能说出的最好的话不过是：赫伯特·斯宾塞几乎回答了贝克莱的问题。”
“你知道休谟的话么？”汉密尔顿问道。诺尔屯点点头，但是汉密尔顿为了让大家明白，把它交代了出来。“他说贝克莱的那些论点虽无可辩驳，却不具说服力。”
“那是休谟的思想，”回答是，“而休谟的思想正和你的思想相同——只有一点不同：他很聪明，承认了贝克莱的问题无法回答。”
诺尔屯虽然从来不会糊涂，却敏感而易于冲动利而克瑞斯和汉密尔顿却像一对冷血的野蛮人，专找他的弱点戳他，顶他。夜色渐深，诺尔屯受到了反复的攻击，他们说他是个官学鬼，把他刺痛了，诺尔克怕自己会跳起来，忙攥住了椅子；他灰色的眼睛闪亮着，姑娘一样的面孔变得严厉而坚毅了。他对他们的立场发表了一通精彩的攻忐。
“好吧，你们这些海克尔主义者，就算我的思维像个定方郎中，可请问，你们是怎么推理的？你们这些不科学的教条主义者，你们没何立．足之地，老把你们的实证科学往它并无权利进去的地方乱搡。在唯物的一元论学派出现以前很久你们那根据早就被挖掉了，早没了基础。挖掉它的是洛克，约翰·洛克两百年以前．甚至更早以前，在他的论文《论人的理解》里他已经证明了没有与生俱来的意念。最精彩的是：你们的说法也正如此，今晚你们所一再肯定的正是没有与生俱来的意念。”
“你那话是什么意思？那正说明了你无法知道终极的现实，你出生时头脑里空空如上。表象，或者说现象，就是你的心灵从五种感官所能获得的全部内容。因此本体，你出生时所没有的东西，是没有法子进入——”
“我否认——”克瑞斯开始插嘴。
“你等我说完，”诺尔屯叫道，“对于力与物质的作用和两者的相互作用你所能知道的就那么一点点，因为它们以某种形式触动了你们的感官。你看，为了辩论，我倒是乐意承认物质是存在的。因为我打算以子之矛攻子之盾，只好先承认它，因为你们俩天生就无法理解哲学的抽象。
“那么，根据你们的实证科学，你们对物质又知道什么呢？你们只能通过它的现象，它的表象，知道它，你们只知道它的变化，或者说通过它的变化所引起的你们的意识的变化去知道它。实证科学只能处理现象，而你们却很策，偏要努力去做本体论者，去研究本体。然而就从实证科学的定义出发也很清楚，科学是只关心现象的。有人说过，从现象得来的知识是无法超越现象的。
“即使你们打倒了康德，你们也回答不了贝克莱的问题。但是，也许你们在确认科学证明了上帝并不存在，或者差不多证明了物质的存在时就已假定贝克莱错了。你们知道我承认物质的现实性只是为了能让你们懂得我的意思。你们要是高兴，就做实证科学家吧，但是本体论在实证科学里并没有地位，因此别去谈什么实证科学。斯宾塞的怀疑主义是对的。但是如果斯宾塞——”
不过，已经到了去赶最后一班轮渡回奥克兰的时候了。布里森登和马丁溜了出来，留下诺尔屯还在那里侃侃而谈，而克瑞斯和汉密尔顿则像两条措拘一样，等他一住目就扑上去。
“你让我瞥见了神仙的世界，”马丁在轮渡上说，“跟那样的人见面使生活变得有了价值。我的头脑全调动起来了。以前我从没有欣赏过唯心主义，尽管我仍然接受不了。我知道我永远是个现实主义者。我估计那是天生的。可我倒很想回答克瑞斯和汉密尔顿几句，也对诺尔屯发表点意见。我并不认为斯宾塞已被打倒。我很激动，像小孩第一次见到马戏团一样激动。我看我还得多读点书。我要找撒里比来读读。我仍然认为斯宾塞无懈可击。下一回我就要自己上阵了。”
但是布里森登已经睡着了。他痛苦地呼吸着，下巴顶住他那凹陷的胸口，埋在围巾里，身子裹在长大衣里随着推进器的震动而摇晃着。
Chapter 37
The first thing Martin did next morning was to go counter both to Brissenden's advice and command. "The Shame of the Sun" he wrapped and mailed to THE ACROPOLIS. He believed he could find magazine publication for it, and he felt that recognition by the magazines would commend him to the book-publishing houses. "Ephemera" he likewise wrapped and mailed to a magazine. Despite Brissenden's prejudice against the magazines, which was a pronounced mania with him, Martin decided that the great poem should see print. He did not intend, however, to publish it without the other's permission. His plan was to get it accepted by one of the high magazines, and, thus armed, again to wrestle with Brissenden for consent.
Martin began, that morning, a story which he had sketched out a number of weeks before and which ever since had been worrying him with its insistent clamor to be created. Apparently it was to be a rattling sea story, a tale of twentieth-century adventure and romance, handling real characters, in a real world, under real conditions. But beneath the swing and go of the story was to be something else - something that the superficial reader would never discern and which, on the other hand, would not diminish in any way the interest and enjoyment for such a reader. It was this, and not the mere story, that impelled Martin to write it. For that matter, it was always the great, universal motif that suggested plots to him. After having found such a motif, he cast about for the particular persons and particular location in time and space wherewith and wherein to utter the universal thing. "Overdue" was the title he had decided for it, and its length he believed would not be more than sixty thousand words - a bagatelle for him with his splendid vigor of production. On this first day he took hold of it with conscious delight in the mastery of his tools. He no longer worried for fear that the sharp, cutting edges should slip and mar his work. The long months of intense application and study had brought their reward. He could now devote himself with sure hand to the larger phases of the thing he shaped; and as he worked, hour after hour, he felt, as never before, the sure and cosmic grasp with which he held life and the affairs of life. "Overdue" would tell a story that would be true of its particular characters and its particular events; but it would tell, too, he was confident, great vital things that would be true of all time, and all sea, and all life - thanks to Herbert Spencer, he thought, leaning back for a moment from the table. Ay, thanks to Herbert Spencer and to the master-key of life, evolution, which Spencer had placed in his hands.
He was conscious that it was great stuff he was writing. "It will go! It will go!" was the refrain that kept, sounding in his ears. Of course it would go. At last he was turning out the thing at which the magazines would jump. The whole story worked out before him in lightning flashes. He broke off from it long enough to write a paragraph in his note-book. This would be the last paragraph in "Overdue"; but so thoroughly was the whole book already composed in his brain that he could write, weeks before he had arrived at the end, the end itself. He compared the tale, as yet unwritten, with the tales of the sea-writers, and he felt it to be immeasurably superior. "There's only one man who could touch it," he murmured aloud, "and that's Conrad. And it ought to make even him sit up and shake hands with me, and say, 'Well done, Martin, my boy.'"
He toiled on all day, recollecting, at the last moment, that he was to have dinner at the Morses'. Thanks to Brissenden, his black suit was out of pawn and he was again eligible for dinner parties. Down town he stopped off long enough to run into the library and search for Saleeby's books. He drew out 'The Cycle of Life," and on the car turned to the essay Norton had mentioned on Spencer. As Martin read, he grew angry. His face flushed, his jaw set, and unconsciously his hand clenched, unclenched, and clenched again as if he were taking fresh grips upon some hateful thing out of which he was squeezing the life. When he left the car, he strode along the sidewalk as a wrathful man will stride, and he rang the Morse bell with such viciousness that it roused him to consciousness of his condition, so that he entered in good nature, smiling with amusement at himself. No sooner, however, was he inside than a great depression descended upon him. He fell from the height where he had been up-borne all day on the wings of inspiration. "Bourgeois," "trader's den" - Brissenden's epithets repeated themselves in his mind. But what of that? he demanded angrily. He was marrying Ruth, not her family.
It seemed to him that he had never seen Ruth more beautiful, more spiritual and ethereal and at the same time more healthy. There was color in her cheeks, and her eyes drew him again and again - the eyes in which he had first read immortality. He had forgotten immortality of late, and the trend of his scientific reading had been away from it; but here, in Ruth's eyes, he read an argument without words that transcended all worded arguments. He saw that in her eyes before which all discussion fled away, for he saw love there. And in his own eyes was love; and love was unanswerable. Such was his passionate doctrine.
The half hour he had with her, before they went in to dinner, left him supremely happy and supremely satisfied with life. Nevertheless, at table, the inevitable reaction and exhaustion consequent upon the hard day seized hold of him. He was aware that his eyes were tired and that he was irritable. He remembered it was at this table, at which he now sneered and was so often bored, that he had first eaten with civilized beings in what he had imagined was an atmosphere of high culture and refinement. He caught a glimpse of that pathetic figure of him, so long ago, a self-conscious savage, sprouting sweat at every pore in an agony of apprehension, puzzled by the bewildering minutiae of eating- implements, tortured by the ogre of a servant, striving at a leap to live at such dizzy social altitude, and deciding in the end to be frankly himself, pretending no knowledge and no polish he did not possess.
He glanced at Ruth for reassurance, much in the same manner that a passenger, with sudden panic thought of possible shipwreck, will strive to locate the life preservers. Well, that much had come out of it - love and Ruth. All the rest had failed to stand the test of the books. But Ruth and love had stood the test; for them he found a biological sanction. Love was the most exalted expression of life. Nature had been busy designing him, as she had been busy with all normal men, for the purpose of loving. She had spent ten thousand centuries - ay, a hundred thousand and a million centuries - upon the task, and he was the best she could do. She had made love the strongest thing in him, increased its power a myriad per cent with her gift of imagination, and sent him forth into the ephemera to thrill and melt and mate. His hand sought Ruth's hand beside him hidden by the table, and a warm pressure was given and received. She looked at him a swift instant, and her eyes were radiant and melting. So were his in the thrill that pervaded him; nor did he realize how much that was radiant and melting in her eyes had been aroused by what she had seen in his.
Across the table from him, cater-cornered, at Mr. Morse's right, sat Judge Blount, a local superior court judge. Martin had met him a number of times and had failed to like him. He and Ruth's father were discussing labor union politics, the local situation, and socialism, and Mr. Morse was endeavoring to twit Martin on the latter topic. At last Judge Blount looked across the table with benignant and fatherly pity. Martin smiled to himself.
"You'll grow out of it, young man," he said soothingly. "Time is the best cure for such youthful distempers." He turned to Mr. Morse. "I do not believe discussion is good in such cases. It makes the patient obstinate."
"That is true," the other assented gravely. "But it is well to warn the patient occasionally of his condition."
Martin laughed merrily, but it was with an effort. The day had been too long, the day's effort too intense, and he was deep in the throes of the reaction.
"Undoubtedly you are both excellent doctors," he said; "but if you care a whit for the opinion of the patient, let him tell you that you are poor diagnosticians. In fact, you are both suffering from the disease you think you find in me. As for me, I am immune. The socialist philosophy that riots half-baked in your veins has passed me by."
"Clever, clever," murmured the judge. "An excellent ruse in controversy, to reverse positions."
"Out of your mouth." Martin's eyes were sparkling, but he kept control of himself. "You see, Judge, I've heard your campaign speeches. By some henidical process - henidical, by the way is a favorite word of mine which nobody understands - by some henidical process you persuade yourself that you believe in the competitive system and the survival of the strong, and at the same time you indorse with might and main all sorts of measures to shear the strength from the strong."
"My young man - "
"Remember, I've heard your campaign speeches," Martin warned. "It's on record, your position on interstate commerce regulation, on regulation of the railway trust and Standard Oil, on the conservation of the forests, on a thousand and one restrictive measures that are nothing else than socialistic."
