“不过他那全胡说。他发表的东西没有一句真话。”马丁的眼睛只看布里森登。
“那只不过是一般性的描写，你明白的，”那半瓶醋记者大着胆地回答，“何况，那也是很好的宣传。对你可是一种优惠，很合算的。”
“那可是很好的宣传呀，马丁老弟。”布里森登然有介事地重复记者的话。
“那还是给我的优惠呢——你看！”马丁附和。
“我看看——你生在什么地方，伊登先生？”半瓶醋记者问，摆出仔细听的样子。
“你看，他连笔记也不做，”布里森登说，“全靠脑子记。”
“我只用脑子记就行了，”那半瓶醋记者装出并不担心的样子。
“他昨天晚上也全是靠脑子记的，”布里森登可不是沉默主义的信徒。他突然改变了态度。“马丁，你要是不揍他，我就自己动手了，哪怕会叫我马上摔死在地上。”
“打他一顿屁股怎么样？”马丁问。
布里森登冷静地考虑了一会儿，点了点头。
转瞬之间马丁已坐到了床边，那半瓶醋记者已经趴在了他的膝盖上。
“现在你可别咬，”马丁警告他，“否则我就揍你的脸。你那张脸挺漂亮的，捧破了就太遗憾了。”
他挥起的手落了下来，接着就迅速地、有节奏地揍了起来。那半瓶醋记者挣扎着、咒骂着、扭动着，的确没有动口咬。布里森登一本正经地望着，尽管他有一回激动了起来，抓起了威士忌酒瓶，请求道：“来，让我也砸他一家伙。”
“抱歉，我的手没有劲了，”马丁终于停住，说，“打麻木了。”
他放掉了记者，让他坐在床上。
“我会叫人把你们抓起来的，”那人龇牙咧嘴地说，通红的面颊上眼泪婆娑，像满肚子委屈的孩子。“我会叫你们够受的。你们走着瞧。”
“小白脸，”马丁评论道，“他还不知道自己已经走上堕落的路了呢。像他那样拿他自己的同胞撒谎是不诚实的、不公正的，也不像个男子汉，而他竟然不觉得。”
“他得到我们这儿来听我们告诉他，”一阵沉默之后，布里森登说了下去。
“是的，对于受到他的诬蔑诽谤的我，那就意味着杂货店老板再也不会赊帐给我了。而最糟糕的是这可怜的娃娃就会这么继续胡闹下去，直到堕落成为一个头等的新闻记者兼头等流氓。”
“不过也许还来得及，”布里森登说，“你这个不算高明的手段说不定还能救他。你为什么不让我也敲他一家伙？我也想拉他一把呢。”
“我要把你们俩都抓起来，你们俩，大——大——大坏蛋，”那误入歧途的灵魂抽抽搭搭地说。
“不，他那嘴太好看，也太差劲，”马丁板着脸摇摇头说，“我担心是白白地打麻了我的手。这小伙子怕是改不了了，他最终会变成一个成功的大记者的。他没有良心，就凭这一条他就能飞黄腾达。”
那半瓶醋记者就这样走出了门。他心惊胆战，生怕布里森登会拿他还攥在手里的酒瓶从背后敲他一家伙。
马丁从第二天的报纸上读到了许多关于他自己的东西，那些东西他自己也觉得新鲜。“我们是社会的不共戴夫之敌，”他发现自己在一个专栏采访里说，“不，我们不是无政府主义者，而是社会主义者。”而在记者向他指出这两个派别似乎没有差异的时候，马丁便耸了耸肩，默认了。他的脸被描写成两面不对称，还涂上了些别的堕落迹象。特别引人注目的还有他那一双打手般的手，和充血的双眼里露出的凶光。
他还读到他每天晚上都要在市政厅公园向工人们演说，在那些蛊惑群众的无政府主义者和煽动家之中是听众最多、发言最激烈的一个。那半瓶醋记者对他那贫穷的小屋、煤油炉子、唯一的椅子，和跟他做伴的骷髅一样的流浪汉做了特写。说那人就像刚在什么要塞的地牢里单独囚禁了二十年之后才放出来的。
那半瓶醋记者很花了一点功夫。他四面打听，嗅出了一些马丁的家庭历史，弄到了一张希金波坦现金商店的照片，照片上伯纳德·希金波坦站在门口。那位先生被描写成了一个聪明庄重的商人，对于他的小舅子的社会主义观点和那位小舅子本人都受不了。据他说马丁的特点就是无所事事，游手好闲，给他工作也不做，早晚是会去蹲班房的。他也采访到了茉莉安的丈夫冯·史密特。史密特把马丁称作他们家族的害群之马，表示和他绝了交。“他想揩我的油，可我立即让他完全断了那念头，”冯·史密特告诉记者，“他知道从我这地捞不到什么，就不来鬼混了。不干活的人是不会干好事的，相信我。”
这一回马丁真生气了。布里森登把这事看作一个大玩笑，却无法安慰马丁。马丁知道很难向露丝解释清楚。至于她的父亲，他知道他会因为这事喜出望外，一定会尽量利用它解除他们俩的婚约。
他马上就明白了那老人利用此事到了什么程度。午后的一班邮件带来了一封露丝的信。马丁预感到会有灾难，从邮递员手上接过信，拆开，就站在门口看了起来。读信时机械地摸着日袋，想跟以往抽烟时一样掏出烟叶和棕色纸，他没有意识到口袋里早已空空如也，也没有意识到伸手掏过卷烟材料，想卷烟抽。
那信没有热情，也没有愤怒的迹象。但是从第一句到最后一句全是受到伤害和失望的调子。她曾期望他比现在更好，曾以为他青年时期的胡闹已经过去，曾以为她对他的爱情已足够促使他过起严肃正派的生活。而现在她的父亲和母亲已经采取了坚决的立场，命令她解除婚约，而她却只好承认他们是有道理的。他们俩的这种关系决不会幸福，从开头就没有幸福过。在整封信里她只表示了一点遗憾：对马丁的严重遗憾。“如果你一开头就找个职位安下心来做出点成绩，那就好了，”她写道，“可是你不肯，你过去的生活太胡闹，太放纵。那不能怪你，这我可以理解。你只能按照你的天性和早期受到的培养行动。因此我并不责备你，马丁。请记住这一点。那只是一个错误。正如爸爸妈妈所坚持的，我们注定了不是一对，因此我们俩都应当高兴，高兴发现得还不算太晚。”……“别想来看我了，那没有用，”结尾时她写道，“见面对我们俩和我的母亲都是不会愉快的。就像现在这样，我已经觉得给了她极大的痛苦和烦恼了。我得过好多日子才能弥补起来。”
他又把信从头到尾仔仔细细读了一遍，然后坐下来写回信。他概括地介绍了一下他在社会党会上的发言，指出他说的话跟报上讲的他的发言恰好相反。在信末他又成了上帝的情人，热情洋溢地表白了爱情。“请回信，”他说，“回信时只需回答我一个问题：你是否爱我？就这一个问题。”
可是第二天却没有回信，第三天也没有。《过期》躺在桌上，他也没有去碰。桌下的退稿一天天增加。马丁的睡眠一向极酣畅，现在却第一次遭到了失眠的干扰。漫长的夜里他辗转反侧，通宵不寐。他到莫尔斯家去拜访了三次，三次都叫应门的仆人挡了驾。布里森登病了，躺在旅馆里，身体虚弱，不能行动。马丁虽然常和他在一起，却没有拿自己的烦恼去麻烦他。
马丁的麻烦很多，那半瓶醋记者的行为带来的后果比马丁预计的大了许多。葡萄牙杂货商拒绝赊给他东西了。蔬菜商是个美国人，并以此而自豪。他把他叫做卖国贼，拒绝跟他再有往来。他的爱国情绪竟高涨到划掉马丁的欠帐不准他还的程度。左邻右舍的谈话也反映了这种情绪，对马丁的义愤越来越严重。没有人愿意跟一个相信社会主义的卖国贼有来往。可怜的玛利亚也糊涂了，害怕了。可她对他还忠实。附近的孩子们摆脱了从拜访马丁的大马车所引起的敬畏之情，躲在安全的距离以外叫他“二流子”、“瘪三”。可是西尔伐家的孩子们仍然忠心耿耿地保卫着他，为了他的荣誉不止一次安营扎寨大打出手。眼睛打乌鼻子出血在那段时间成了家常便饭，那叫玛利亚更加惶惑、更加烦恼了。
有一回马丁在奥克兰街上遇见了格特露，听她说了些他知道必然会发生的事——伯纳德·希金波坦因为他在公众面前丢了全家人的脸对他大为光火，不许他再进他的屋。
“你怎么不离开这儿，马丁？”格特露求他，“到别的什么地方去找个工作，安定下来吧。等这阵风刮过了再回来。”
马丁摇摇头，却没有解释。他能怎么解释？他和他的家人之间大张着一个可怕的智力鸿沟，他为那鸿沟感到恐怖。他无法跨越那鸿沟向他们解释自己的立场——他对社会主义的尼采式的立场。在英语里，在一切语言里，都找不到足够的词汇去向他们解释清楚他的态度和行为。在他们心目中他的良好行为的最高观念就是找个工作。那就是他们的第一个也是最后一个意见，也就是他们思想的全部词汇。找一份工作！干活儿去！可怜的、愚昧的奴隶们，他想道。他姐姐还在说话。难怪世界属于强者。奴隶们都为自己能做奴隶感到陶醉呢。一份工作便是他们崇拜的黄金偶像，他们在工作面前五体投地，顶礼膜拜。
格特震要给他钱，他又摇了摇头，虽然他明白那天他就非得去上当铺不可。
“现在可别到伯纳德身边去，”她急忙劝告他，“你若是愿意，等他几个月以后冷静下来，可以让他把开送货车的工作给你。需要我的时候就通知我，我会立即来的，别忘了。”
她走掉了，他能听见她的哭声。望着她那沉重的身影和蹒跚的脚步，一阵凄凉的辛酸不禁穿过他。心里。他望着她走掉时，他那尼采式的华厦似乎动摇了，垮塌了。抽象的奴隶阶级倒没有什么，但是奴隶阶级到了自己家里就不那么圆满了。而且，若是真有什么奴隶在受到强者蹂躏的话，那就是他的姐姐格特露。面临着这个矛盾怪圈他放肆地笑了。好个尼采的信徒！他那理性的思想竟会团第一次的情绪波动而动摇——是的，因奴隶道德而动摇，因为他对他的姐姐的怜悯事实上便是奴隶道德。真正高贵的人是超越怜悯和同情的。怜悯和同情产生于关押和贩卖奴隶的地窖里，不过是挤成一团的受苦者和软弱者的痛苦和汗水而已。
Chapter 40
"Overdue" still continued to lie forgotten on the table. Every manuscript that he had had out now lay under the table. Only one manuscript he kept going, and that was Brissenden's "Ephemera." His bicycle and black suit were again in pawn, and the type-writer people were once more worrying about the rent. But such things no longer bothered him. He was seeking a new orientation, and until that was found his life must stand still.
After several weeks, what he had been waiting for happened. He met Ruth on the street. It was true, she was accompanied by her brother, Norman, and it was true that they tried to ignore him and that Norman attempted to wave him aside.
"If you interfere with my sister, I'll call an officer," Norman threatened. "She does not wish to speak with you, and your insistence is insult."
"If you persist, you'll have to call that officer, and then you'll get your name in the papers," Martin answered grimly. "And now, get out of my way and get the officer if you want to. I'm going to talk with Ruth."
"I want to have it from your own lips," he said to her.
She was pale and trembling, but she held up and looked inquiringly.
"The question I asked in my letter," he prompted.
Norman made an impatient movement, but Martin checked him with a swift look.
She shook her head.
"Is all this of your own free will?" he demanded.
"It is." She spoke in a low, firm voice and with deliberation. "It is of my own free will. You have disgraced me so that I am ashamed to meet my friends. They are all talking about me, I know. That is all I can tell you. You have made me very unhappy, and I never wish to see you again."
"Friends! Gossip! Newspaper misreports! Surely such things are not stronger than love! I can only believe that you never loved me."
A blush drove the pallor from her face.
"After what has passed?" she said faintly. "Martin, you do not know what you are saying. I am not common."
"You see, she doesn't want to have anything to do with you," Norman blurted out, starting on with her.
Martin stood aside and let them pass, fumbling unconsciously in his coat pocket for the tobacco and brown papers that were not there.
It was a long walk to North Oakland, but it was not until he went up the steps and entered his room that he knew he had walked it. He found himself sitting on the edge of the bed and staring about him like an awakened somnambulist. He noticed "Overdue" lying on the table and drew up his chair and reached for his pen. There was in his nature a logical compulsion toward completeness. Here was something undone. It had been deferred against the completion of something else. Now that something else had been finished, and he would apply himself to this task until it was finished. What he would do next he did not know. All that he did know was that a climacteric in his life had been attained. A period had been reached, and he was rounding it off in workman-like fashion. He was not curious about the future. He would soon enough find out what it held in store for him. Whatever it was, it did not matter. Nothing seemed to matter.
For five days he toiled on at "Overdue," going nowhere, seeing nobody, and eating meagrely. On the morning of the sixth day the postman brought him a thin letter from the editor of THE PARTHENON. A glance told him that "Ephemera" was accepted. "We have submitted the poem to Mr. Cartwright Bruce," the editor went on to say, "and he has reported so favorably upon it that we cannot let it go. As an earnest of our pleasure in publishing the poem, let me tell you that we have set it for the August number, our July number being already made up. Kindly extend our pleasure and our thanks to Mr. Brissenden. Please send by return mail his photograph and biographical data. If our honorarium is unsatisfactory, kindly telegraph us at once and state what you consider a fair price."
Since the honorarium they had offered was three hundred and fifty dollars, Martin thought it not worth while to telegraph. Then, too, there was Brissenden's consent to be gained. Well, he had been right, after all. Here was one magazine editor who knew real poetry when he saw it. And the price was splendid, even though it was for the poem of a century. As for Cartwright Bruce, Martin knew that he was the one critic for whose opinions Brissenden had any respect.
Martin rode down town on an electric car, and as he watched the houses and cross-streets slipping by he was aware of a regret that he was not more elated over his friend's success and over his own signal victory. The one critic in the United States had pronounced favorably on the poem, while his own contention that good stuff could find its way into the magazines had proved correct. But enthusiasm had lost its spring in him, and he found that he was more anxious to see Brissenden than he was to carry the good news. The acceptance of THE PARTHENON had recalled to him that during his five days' devotion to "Overdue" he had not heard from Brissenden nor even thought about him. For the first time Martin realized the daze he had been in, and he felt shame for having forgotten his friend. But even the shame did not burn very sharply. He was numb to emotions of any sort save the artistic ones concerned in the writing of "Overdue." So far as other affairs were concerned, he had been in a trance. For that matter, he was still in a trance. All this life through which the electric car whirred seemed remote and unreal, and he would have experienced little interest and less shook if the great stone steeple of the church he passed had suddenly crumbled to mortar-dust upon his head.
At the hotel he hurried up to Brissenden's room, and hurried down again. The room was empty. All luggage was gone.
"Did Mr. Brissenden leave any address?" he asked the clerk, who looked at him curiously for a moment.
"Haven't you heard?" he asked.
Martin shook his head.
"Why, the papers were full of it. He was found dead in bed. Suicide. Shot himself through the head."
"Is he buried yet?" Martin seemed to hear his voice, like some one else's voice, from a long way off, asking the question.
"No. The body was shipped East after the inquest. Lawyers engaged by his people saw to the arrangements."
"They were quick about it, I must say," Martin commented.
"Oh, I don't know. It happened five days ago."
"Five days ago?"
"Yes, five days ago."
"Oh," Martin said as he turned and went out.
At the corner he stepped into the Western Union and sent a telegram to THE PARTHENON, advising them to proceed with the publication of the poem. He had in his pocket but five cents with which to pay his carfare home, so he sent the message collect.
Once in his room, he resumed his writing. The days and nights came and went, and he sat at his table and wrote on. He went nowhere, save to the pawnbroker, took no exercise, and ate methodically when he was hungry and had something to cook, and just as methodically went without when he had nothing to cook. Composed as the story was, in advance, chapter by chapter, he nevertheless saw and developed an opening that increased the power of it, though it necessitated twenty thousand additional words. It was not that there was any vital need that the thing should be well done, but that his artistic canons compelled him to do it well. He worked on in the daze, strangely detached from the world around him, feeling like a familiar ghost among these literary trappings of his former life. He remembered that some one had said that a ghost was the spirit of a man who was dead and who did not have sense enough to know it; and he paused for the moment to wonder if he were really dead did unaware of it.
Came the day when "Overdue" was finished. The agent of the type- writer firm had come for the machine, and he sat on the bed while Martin, on the one chair, typed the last pages of the final chapter. "Finis," he wrote, in capitals, at the end, and to him it was indeed finis. He watched the type-writer carried out the door with a feeling of relief, then went over and lay down on the bed. He was faint from hunger. Food had not passed his lips in thirty- six hours, but he did not think about it. He lay on his back, with closed eyes, and did not think at all, while the daze or stupor slowly welled up, saturating his consciousness. Half in delirium, he began muttering aloud the lines of an anonymous poem Brissenden had been fond of quoting to him. Maria, listening anxiously outside his door, was perturbed by his monotonous utterance. The words in themselves were not significant to her, but the fact that he was saying them was. "I have done," was the burden of the poem.
"'I have done - Put by the lute. Song and singing soon are over As the airy shades that hover In among the purple clover. I have done - Put by the lute. Once I sang as early thrushes Sing among the dewy bushes; Now I'm mute. I am like a weary linnet, For my throat has no song in it; I have had my singing minute. I have done. Put by the lute.'"
Maria could stand it no longer, and hurried away to the stove, where she filled a quart-bowl with soup, putting into it the lion's share of chopped meat and vegetables which her ladle scraped from the bottom of the pot. Martin roused himself and sat up and began to eat, between spoonfuls reassuring Maria that he had not been talking in his sleep and that he did not have any fever.
After she left him he sat drearily, with drooping shoulders, on the edge of the bed, gazing about him with lack-lustre eyes that saw nothing until the torn wrapper of a magazine, which had come in the morning's mail and which lay unopened, shot a gleam of light into his darkened brain. It is THE PARTHENON, he thought, the August PARTHENON, and it must contain "Ephemera." If only Brissenden were here to see!
He was turning the pages of the magazine, when suddenly he stopped. "Ephemera" had been featured, with gorgeous head-piece and Beardsley-like margin decorations. On one side of the head-piece was Brissenden's photograph, on the other side was the photograph of Sir John Value, the British Ambassador. A preliminary editorial note quoted Sir John Value as saying that there were no poets in America, and the publication of "Ephemera" was THE PARTHENON'S. "There, take that, Sir John Value!" Cartwright Bruce was described as the greatest critic in America, and he was quoted as saying that "Ephemera" was the greatest poem ever written in America. And finally, the editor's foreword ended with: "We have not yet made up our minds entirely as to the merits of "Ephemera"; perhaps we shall never be able to do so. But we have read it often, wondering at the words and their arrangement, wondering where Mr. Brissenden got them, and how he could fasten them together." Then followed the poem.
