CHAPTER XXVI

Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning. It was late afternoon before he came out of his delirium and gazed with aching eyes about the room. Mary, one of the tribe of Silva, eight years old, keeping watch, raised a screech at sight of his returning consciousness. Maria hurried into the room from the kitchen. She put her work-calloused hand upon his hot forehead and felt his pulse.

“You lika da eat?” she asked.

He shook his head. Eating was farthest from his desire, and he wondered that he should ever have been hungry in his life.

“I’m sick, Maria,” he said weakly. “What is it? Do you know?”

“Grip,” she answered. “Two or three days you alla da right. Better you no eat now. Bimeby plenty can eat, tomorrow can eat maybe.”

Martin was not used to sickness, and when Maria and her little girl left him, he essayed to get up and dress. By a supreme exertion of will, with rearing brain and eyes that ached so that he could not keep them open, he managed to get out of bed, only to be left stranded by his senses upon the table. Half an hour later he managed to regain the bed, where he was content to lie with closed eyes and analyze his various pains and weaknesses. Maria came in several times to change the cold cloths on his forehead. Otherwise she left him in peace, too wise to vex him with chatter. This moved him to gratitude, and he murmured to himself, “Maria, you getta da milka ranch, all righta, all right.”

Then he remembered his long-buried past of yesterday. It seemed a life-time since he had received that letter from the Transcontinental,a life-time since it was all over and done with and a new page turned. He had shot his bolt, and shot it hard, and now he was down on his back. If he hadn’t starved himself, he wouldn’t have been caught by La Grippe. He had been run down,and he had not had the strength to throw off the germ of disease which had invaded his system. This was what resulted.

“What does it profit a man to write a whole library and lose his own life?” he demanded aloud. “This is no place for me. No more literature in mine. Me for the counting-house and ledger, the monthly salary, and the little home with Ruth.”

Two days later, having eaten an egg and two slices of toast and drunk a cup of tea, he asked for his mail, but found his eyes still hurt too much to permit him to read.

“You read for me, Maria,” he said. “Never mind the big, long letters. Throw them under the table. Read me the small letters.”

“No can,” was the answer. “Teresa, she go to school, she can.”

So Teresa Silva, aged nine, opened his letters and read them to him. He listened absently to a long dun from the typewriter people, his mind busy with ways and means of finding a job. Suddenly he was shocked back to himself.

“‘We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in your story,’”Teresa slowly spelled out, “’provided you allow us to make the alterations suggested.’”

“What magazine is that?” Martin shouted. “Here, give it to me!”

He could see to read, now, and he was unaware of the pain of the action. It was the White Mouse that was offering him forty dollars, and the story was “The Whirlpool,” another of his early horror stories. He read the letter through again and again. The editor told him plainly that he had not handled the idea properly, but that it was the idea they were buying because it was original. If they could cut the story down one-third, they would take it and send him forty dollars on receipt of his answer.

He called for pen and ink, and told the editor he could cut the story down three-thirds if he wanted to, and to send the forty dollars right along.

The letter despatched to the letter-box by Teresa, Martin lay back and thought.It wasn’t a lie,after all.The White Mouse paid on acceptance.There were three thousand words in “The Whirlpool.” Cut down a third, there would be two thousand. At forty dollars that would be two cents a word. Pay on acceptance and two cents a word—the newspapers had told the truth. And he had thought the White Mouse a third-rater!It was evident that he did not know the magazines.He had deemed the Transcontinental a first-rater,and it paid a cent for ten words.He had classed the White Mouse as of no account, and it paid twenty times as much as the Transcontinental and also had paid on acceptance.

Well, there was one thing certain: when he got well, he would not go out looking for a job. There were more stories in his head as good as “The Whirlpool,” and at forty dollars apiece he could earn far more than in any job or position. Just when he thought the battle lost, it was won. He had proved for his career.The way was clear.Beginning with the White Mouse he would add magazine after magazine to his growing list of patrons. Hack-work could be put aside. For that matter, it had been wasted time, for it had not brought him a dollar. He would devote himself to work, good work, and he would pour out the best that was in him. He wished Ruth was there to share in his joy, and when he went over the letters left lying on his bed, he found one from her. It was sweetly reproachful, wondering what had kept him away for so dreadful a length of time. He reread the letter adoringly, dwelling over her handwriting, loving each stroke of her pen, and in the end kissing her signature.

And when he answered, he told her recklessly that he had not been to see her because his best clothes were in pawn. He told her that he had been sick, but was once more nearly well, and that inside ten days or two weeks (as soon as a letter could travel to New York City and return) he would redeem his clothes and be with her.

But Ruth did not care to wait ten days or two weeks. Besides, her lover was sick. The next afternoon, accompanied by Arthur, she arrived in the Morse carriage, to the unqualified delight of the Silva tribe and of all the urchins on the street, and to the consternation of Maria. She boxed the ears of the Silvas who crowded about the visitors on the tiny front porch, and in more than usual atrocious English tried to apologize for her appearance. Sleeves rolled up from soap-flecked arms and a wet gunny-sack around her waist told of the task at which she had been caught. So flustered was she by two such grand young people asking for her lodger, that she forgot to invite them to sit down in the little parlor. To enter Martin’s room, they passed through the kitchen, warm and moist and steamy from the big washing in progress. Maria, in her excitement, jammed the bedroom and bedroom-closet doors together, and for five minutes, through the partly open door, clouds of steam, smelling of soap-suds and dirt, poured into the sick chamber.

Ruth succeeded in veering right and left and right again, and in running the narrow passage between table and bed to Martin’s side; but Arthur veered too wide and fetched up with clatter and bang of pots and pans in the corner where Martin did his cooking. Arthur did not linger long. Ruth occupied the only chair, and having done his duty, he went outside and stood by the gate, the centre of seven marvelling Silvas, who watched him as they would have watched a curiosity in a side-show. All about the carriage were gathered the children from a dozen blocks, waiting and eager for some tragic and terrible denouement. Carriages were seen on their street only for weddings and funerals. Here was neither marriage nor death: therefore, it was something transcending experience and well worth waiting for.

Martin had been wild to see Ruth. His was essentially a love-nature, and he possessed more than the average man’s need for sympathy. He was starving for sympathy, which, with him, meant intelligent understanding;and he had yet to learn that Ruth’s sympathy was largely sentimental and tactful, and that it proceeded from gentleness of nature rather than from understanding of the objects of her sympathy. So it was while Martin held her hand and gladly talked, that her love for him prompted her to press his hand in return, and that her eyes were moist and luminous at sight of his helplessness and of the marks suffering had stamped upon his face.

But while he told her of his two acceptances, of his despair when he received the one from the Transcontinental,and of the corresponding delight with which he received the one from the White Mouse, she did not follow him. She heard the words he uttered and understood their literal import, but she was not with him in his despair and his delight. She could not get out of herself. She was not interested in selling stories to magazines. What was important to her was matrimony. She was not aware of it, however, any more than she was aware that her desire that Martin take a position was the instinctive and preparative impulse of motherhood. She would have blushed had she been told as much in plain, set terms, and next, she might have grown indignant and asserted that her sole interest lay in the man she loved and her desire for him to make the best of himself. So, while Martin poured out his heart to her, elated with the first success his chosen work in the world had received, she paid heed to his bare words only, gazing now and again about the room, shocked by what she saw.

For the first time Ruth gazed upon the sordid face of poverty. Starving lovers had always seemed romantic to her,—but she had had no idea how starving lovers lived. She had never dreamed it could be like this. Ever her gaze shifted from the room to him and back again. The steamy smell of dirty clothes, which had entered with her from the kitchen, was sickening. Martin must be soaked with it, Ruth concluded, if that awful woman washed frequently. Such was the contagiousness of degradation. When she looked at Martin, she seemed to see the smirch left upon him by his surroundings. She had never seen him unshaven, and the three days’ growth of beard on his face was repulsive to her. Not alone did it give him the same dark and murky aspect of the Silva house, inside and out, but it seemed to emphasize that animal-like strength of his which she detested. And here he was, being confirmed in his madness by the two acceptances he took such pride in telling her about. A little longer and he would have surrendered and gone to work. Now he would continue on in this horrible house, writing and starving for a few more months.

“What is that smell?” she asked suddenly.

“Some of Maria’s washing smells, I imagine,” was the answer. “I am growing quite accustomed to them.”

“No, no; not that. It is something else. A stale, sickish smell.”

Martin sampled the air before replying.

“I can’t smell anything else, except stale tobacco smoke,” he announced.

“That’s it. It is terrible. Why do you smoke so much, Martin?”

“I don’t know, except that I smoke more than usual when I am lonely. And then, too, it’s such a long-standing habit. I learned when I was only a youngster.”

“It is not a nice habit, you know,” she reproved. “It smells to heaven.”

“That’s the fault of the tobacco. I can afford only the cheapest. But wait until I get that forty-dollar check. I’ll use a brand that is not offensive even to the angels. But that wasn’t so bad, was it, two acceptances in three days? That forty-five dollars will pay about all my debts.”

“For two years’ work?” she queried.

“No, for less than a week’s work. Please pass me that book over on the far corner of the table, the account book with the gray cover.” He opened it and began turning over the pages rapidly. “Yes, I was right. Four days for ‘The Ring of Bells,’ two days for ‘The Whirlpool.’ That’s forty-five dollars for a week’s work, one hundred and eighty dollars a month. That beats any salary I can command. And, besides, I’m just beginning. A thousand dollars a month is not too much to buy for you all I want you to have. A salary of five hundred a month would be too small. That forty-five dollars is just a starter. Wait till I get my stride. Then watch my smoke.”

Ruth misunderstood his slang, and reverted to cigarettes.

“You smoke more than enough as it is, and the brand of tobacco will make no difference. It is the smoking itself that is not nice, no matter what the brand may be. You are a chimney, a living volcano, a perambulating smokestack, and you are a perfect disgrace, Martin dear, you know you are.”

She leaned toward him, entreaty in her eyes, and as he looked at her delicate face and into her pure, limpid eyes, as of old he was struck with his own unworthiness.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke any more,” she whispered. “Please, for—my sake.”

“All right, I won’t,” he cried. “I’ll do anything you ask, dear love, anything; you know that.”

A great temptation assailed her. In an insistent way she had caught glimpses of the large, easy-going side of his nature, and she felt sure, if she asked him to cease attempting to write, that he would grant her wish. In the swift instant that elapsed, the words trembled on her lips. But she did not utter them. She was not quite brave enough; she did not quite dare. Instead, she leaned toward him to meet him, and in his arms murmured:—

“You know, it is really not for my sake, Martin, but for your own. I am sure smoking hurts you; and besides, it is not good to be a slave to anything, to a drug least of all.”

“I shall always be your slave,” he smiled.

“In which case, I shall begin issuing my commands.”

She looked at him mischievously, though deep down she was already regretting that she had not preferred her largest request.

“I live but to obey, your majesty.”

“Well, then, my first commandment is, Thou shalt not omit to shave every day. Look how you have scratched my cheek.”

And so it ended in caresses and love-laughter. But she had made one point, and she could not expect to make more than one at a time. She felt a woman’s pride in that she had made him stop smoking. Another time she would persuade him to take a position, for had he not said he would do anything she asked?

She left his side to explore the room, examining the clothes-lines of notes overhead, learning the mystery of the tackle used for suspending his wheel under the ceiling, and being saddened by the heap of manuscripts under the table which represented to her just so much wasted time. The oil-stove won her admiration, but on investigating the food shelves she found them empty.

“Why, you haven’t anything to eat, you poor dear,” she said with tender compassion. “You must be starving.”

“I store my food in Maria’s safe and in her pantry,” he lied. “It keeps better there. No danger of my starving. Look at that.”

She had come back to his side, and she saw him double his arm at the elbow, the biceps crawling under his shirt-sleeve and swelling into a knot of muscle, heavy and hard. The sight repelled her. Sentimentally, she disliked it. But her pulse, her blood, every fibre of her, loved it and yearned for it, and, in the old, inexplicable way, she leaned toward him, not away from him. And in the moment that followed, when he crushed her in his arms, the brain of her, concerned with the superficial aspects of life, was in revolt; while the heart of her, the woman of her, concerned with life itself, exulted triumphantly. It was in moments like this that she felt to the uttermost the greatness of her love for Martin, for it was almost a swoon of delight to her to feel his strong arms about her, holding her tightly, hurting her with the grip of their fervor. At such moments she found justification for her treason to her standards, for her violation of her own high ideals, and, most of all, for her tacit disobedience to her mother and father. They did not want her to marry this man. It shocked them that she should love him. It shocked her, too, sometimes, when she was apart from him, a cool and reasoning creature. With him, she loved him—in truth, at times a vexed and worried love; but love it was, a love that was stronger than she.

“This La Grippe is nothing,” he was saying. “It hurts a bit, and gives one a nasty headache, but it doesn’t compare with break-bone fever.”

“Have you had that, too?” she queried absently, intent on the heaven-sent justification she was finding in his arms.

And so, with absent queries, she led him on, till suddenly his words startled her.

He had had the fever in a secret colony of thirty lepers on one of the Hawaiian Islands.

“But why did you go there?” she demanded.

Such royal carelessness of body seemed criminal.

“Because I didn’t know,” he answered. “I never dreamed of lepers. When I deserted the schooner and landed on the beach, I headed inland for some place of hiding. For three days I lived off guavas, ohia-apples, and bananas, all of which grew wild in the jungle. On the fourth day I found the trail—a mere foot-trail. It led inland, and it led up. It was the way I wanted to go, and it showed signs of recent travel. At one place it ran along the crest of a ridge that was no more than a knife-edge. The trail wasn’t three feet wide on the crest, and on either side the ridge fell away in precipices hundreds of feet deep. One man, with plenty of ammunition, could have held it against a hundred thousand.

“It was the only way in to the hiding-place. Three hours after I found the trail I was there, in a little mountain valley, a pocket in the midst of lava peaks. The whole place was terraced for taro-patches, fruit trees grew there, and there were eight or ten grass huts. But as soon as I saw the inhabitants I knew what I’d struck. One sight of them was enough.”

“What did you do?” Ruth demanded breathlessly, listening, like any Desdemona, appalled and fascinated.

“Nothing for me to do. Their leader was a kind old fellow, pretty far gone, but he ruled like a king. He had discovered the little valley and founded the settlement—all of which was against the law. But he had guns, plenty of ammunition, and those Kanakas, trained to the shooting of wild cattle and wild pig, were dead shots. No, there wasn’t any running away for Martin Eden. He stayed—for three months.”

“But how did you escape?”

“I’d have been there yet, if it hadn’t been for a girl there, a half-Chinese, quarter-white, and quarter-Hawaiian. She was a beauty, poor thing, and well educated. Her mother, in Honolulu, was worth a million or so. Well, this girl got me away at last. Her mother financed the settlement, you see, so the girl wasn’t afraid of being punished for letting me go. But she made me swear, first, never to reveal the hiding-place; and I never have. This is the first time I have even mentioned it. The girl had just the first signs of leprosy. The fingers of her right hand were slightly twisted, and there was a small spot on her arm. That was all. I guess she is dead, now.”

“But weren’t you frightened? And weren’t you glad to get away without catching that dreadful disease?”

“Well,” he confessed, “I was a bit shivery at first; but I got used to it. I used to feel sorry for that poor girl, though. That made me forget to be afraid. She was such a beauty, in spirit as well as in appearance, and she was only slightly touched; yet she was doomed to lie there, living the life of a primitive savage and rotting slowly away. Leprosy is far more terrible than you can imagine it.”

“Poor thing,” Ruth murmured softly. “It’s a wonder she let you get away.”

“How do you mean?” Martin asked unwittingly.

“Because she must have loved you,” Ruth said, still softly. “Candidly, now, didn’t she?”

Martin’s sunburn had been bleached by his work in the laundry and by the indoor life he was living, while the hunger and the sickness had made his face even pale; and across this pallor flowed the slow wave of a blush. He was opening his mouth to speak, but Ruth shut him off.

“Never mind, don’t answer; it’s not necessary,” she laughed.

But it seemed to him there was something metallic in her laughter, and that the light in her eyes was cold. On the spur of the moment it reminded him of a gale he had once experienced in the North Pacific. And for the moment the apparition of the gale rose before his eyes—a gale at night, with a clear sky and under a full moon, the huge seas glinting coldly in the moonlight. Next, he saw the girl in the leper refuge and remembered it was for love of him that she had let him go.

“She was noble,” he said simply. “She gave me life.”

That was all of the incident, but he heard Ruth muffle a dry sob in her throat, and noticed that she turned her face away to gaze out of the window. When she turned it back to him, it was composed, and there was no hint of the gale in her eyes.

“I’m such a silly,” she said plaintively. “But I can’t help it. I do so love you, Martin, I do, I do. I shall grow more catholic in time, but at present I can’t help being jealous of those ghosts of the past, and you know your past is full of ghosts.”

“It must be,” she silenced his protest. “It could not be otherwise. And there’s poor Arthur motioning me to come. He’s tired waiting. And now goodby, dear.”

“There’s some kind of a mixture, put up by the druggists, that helps men to stop the use of tobacco,” she called back from the door, “and I am going to send you some.”

The door closed, but opened again.

“I do, I do,” she whispered to him; and this time she was really gone.

Maria, with worshipful eyes that none the less were keen to note the texture of Ruth’s garments and the cut of them (a cut unknown that produced an effect mysteriously beautiful), saw her to the carriage. The crowd of disappointed urchins stared till the carriage disappeared from view, then transferred their stare to Maria, who had abruptly become the most important person on the street. But it was one of her progeny who blasted Maria’s reputation by announcing that the grand visitors had been for her lodger. After that Maria dropped back into her old obscurity and Martin began to notice the respectful manner in which he was regarded by the small fry of the neighborhood. As for Maria, Martin rose in her estimation a full hundred per cent, and had the Portuguese grocer witnessed that afternoon carriage-call he would have allowed Martin an additional three-dollars-and-eighty-five-cents’ worth of credit.

第二十六章

这天早晨，马丁没有出去找工作。直至傍晚时分，他才从昏迷中苏醒，用发痛的眼睛望了望四周。西尔瓦家一个叫玛丽的八岁孩子一直守候在旁边，这时见他恢复了知觉，便尖声叫喊起来。玛丽亚闻声从厨房赶来，用干活干得满是老茧的手摸摸他滚烫的额头，又替他量了量脉搏。

“想吃点东西吗？”她问。

他摇了摇头。他没有一点想进食的欲望，不知自己这辈子是不是还会有饥饿感。

“我病了，玛丽亚，”他有气无力地说，“你知道是什么病吗？”

“是流行性感冒，”她答道，“过两三天就会好的。现在最好吃点东西。多吃点，也许明天胃口就开了。”

马丁对生病是不习惯的，待玛丽亚带着小女儿离开后，就想起床穿衣服。他头脑发晕，眼睛痛得睁都睁不开，靠着意志的力量，才挣扎着起了床，但伏到案头便又昏迷了过去。半个小时后，他回到床上，只好闭起眼睛躺在那儿，把自己的种种疼痛和虚弱思来想去。玛丽亚来过几次，为他更换敷在额头上的湿布，除此之外不来打搅他，因为她是个明白人，不愿唠唠叨叨地惹他心烦。他对此感激不尽，喃喃自语地说：“玛丽亚，你会得到奶牛场的，会的，一定会的。”

后来，他记起了已遗忘许久的昨日的往事。自从收到《横贯大陆月刊》的那封信，好像已经过了一辈子，因为他觉得过去的历史已经完结，打算重新开始生活。他尽了自己的努力，而且是拼命的努力，现在只落得仰面朝天卧倒病榻。如果不是把自己饿得死去活来，他就不会患流感。他垮了下来，无力击退侵入肌体的病菌。这就是他的下场。

“一个人即便著作满天飞，却命丧黄泉，又有什么用呢？”他出声地问，“这不是我的事业，再也不能从事文学写作了。我只配进会计室管管账目，按月领薪水，跟露丝过小日子。”

两天过后，他吃了个鸡蛋和两片烤面包，又喝了杯茶，然后让把他的邮件拿来，可眼睛还是痛得厉害，无法看信。

“你给我读读，玛丽亚，”他说，“别去管那些又大又长的信件，把它们全扔到桌子底下。拣小的信件念给我听。”

“我不会读信，”对方答道，“特丽莎会读，她已经上学了。”

于是，九岁的特丽莎·西尔瓦拆开信，读了起来。他心不在焉地听着打字机租赁店寄来的冗长的催债信，脑子里却在思索着如何去找工作。猛然之间，他惊得醒过了神。

“如果同意做适当修改，”特丽莎慢吞吞地读道，“我们愿出四十块钱买下你的小说连载权。”

“这是哪家杂志社？”马丁喊叫了起来，“来，把信递给我！”

他一下子可以看信了，连疼痛也不觉得了。愿出四十块钱给他的是《白鼠》杂志社，他们想买下《漩涡》——也是他早期写的恐怖小说。他把信看了一遍又一遍。编辑坦率地指出，他对素材的处理并不完美，他们之所以要买这篇小说，是因为里面不乏独特的观点。如果同意他们删掉三分之一的内容，他们就定稿，而且一接到回音就给他寄来四十块钱。

他要来笔墨，写信告诉那位编辑，说他如果高兴，可以删掉三分之三的内容，只要把四十块钱马上寄来就行了。

信由特丽莎拿去投进邮箱，而马丁又躺回床上，陷入了沉思。看来，事情并非骗局。《白鼠》一采用稿件就付钱。《漩涡》共三千字，删掉三分之一，还剩下两千字，稿酬每字按两分钱计算，刚好是四十块钱。一用稿件就付钱，每字两分钱——报上讲的全是实话。他原来还以为《白鼠》是三流杂志呢！显然他并不了解杂志界的情况。他以前把《横贯大陆月刊》视为一流杂志，可是它每十个字才付一分钱的稿酬。他总把《白鼠》看得一钱不值，然而它付的稿酬却高出《横贯大陆月刊》二十倍，而且一用稿就付钱。

现在，有一点可以肯定：病好后，他不打算出外找工作了。他的头脑中可以发掘出更多和《漩涡》同样好的文章，每篇按四十块钱取酬，他的收入会比干任何工作、从事任何职业都高。正当他以为战败的时候，却获得了胜利。经证明，他是干事业的料。道路已经畅通。从《白鼠》起始，他要把各家杂志社列成一份长长的主顾名单。卖钱的文章可以暂且搁置一旁。说实在的，那纯粹是浪费时间，未给他带来一块钱的收入。他要献身于事业，写出好文章来，把内心最出色的构思展现于纸面。他希望露丝能在跟前和他分享喜悦；他翻阅放在床头的信件时，发现了一封露丝的来信。她在信中娇嗔地责备他，问他到底出了什么事，这么长时间不去看她。他把信爱不释手地又读了一遍，仔细欣赏她的笔迹，对她的每一道笔画都充满了爱心，最后还吻了吻她的签名。

他回信时不顾后果地告诉她，他把最好的衣服送进了当铺，所以才没有去看她。他还说自己染上了病，不过现在已快康复，用不了十天或两个星期（这是一封信到纽约市去打个来回的时间），待把衣服赎回来，他就回到她身旁。

然而，露丝可不愿等十天或两个星期。再说，她的恋人在生病呢。第二天下午，在阿瑟的陪同下，她乘着摩斯府内的马车不期而至，这让西尔瓦家的孩子以及街上的那帮顽童喜不自胜，但是却叫玛丽亚慌了手脚。她扇了自家孩子几记耳光，因为他们挤在小前廊里围观客人。随后，她用比平时更糟糕的英语充满歉意地说自己的衣着不成体统。从她那高高挽起的袖子、沾着肥皂沫的胳膊以及系在腰间的湿麻袋片便可以看得出，她刚才在干什么活。这两位高贵的年轻人向她问起她的房客时，慌得她六神无主，竟忘了请他们到小客厅坐坐。要到马丁的房间去，得穿过厨房，此刻那儿由于正在大规模洗衣服，被弄得温暖潮湿、雾气腾腾。玛丽亚激动之中猛一推卧室的门，使房门和室内小橱的门卡在了一起，结果一团团带有肥皂水和尘土气息的水蒸气透过半开的门直往病人的房间灌，足足灌了有五分钟。

露丝右拐左转，然后再向右调头，沿着桌与床之间的狭窄通道顺利地来到了马丁身旁；可是阿瑟转的弯太大，把放在马丁做饭的那个墙角的盆盆罐罐碰得叮当响。阿瑟没在屋里多待。仅有的一把椅子给露丝坐了，他见自己的任务已经完成，便走出去守立在大门口。西尔瓦家的七个孩子好奇地将他围在中间，不住眼地打量着他，就像观看杂技团的一个奇特节目。十几个街区的孩子都跑了来，把马车围了个水泄不通，急切地等待着什么悲惨吓人的事情发生。在他们这条街上，只有遇到婚丧大事才可以看得到马车。这次既没人结婚又无人死亡，所以肯定出了什么他们没经历过的事，值得一等。

马丁早就盼望着能见到露丝。从根本上来说，他天性多情，比普通人更需要同情。他朝思暮想的同情对他意味着明智的理解；但他全然不知，露丝所怀有的大半是多愁善感和礼节性的同情，与其说是出于对同情对象的理解，倒不如说是出自于她那善良的天性。所以，当马丁拉着她的手高兴地说话时，她在爱情的驱使下也握紧了他的手，而且一看到孤苦、艰难的生活在他脸上烙下的痕迹，眼睛里便发湿，闪动着泪花。

他告诉她，他的两篇文章已被采用，说他在接到《横贯大陆月刊》的来信时是怎样陷入了绝望，而收到《白鼠》的来信又是多么高兴，然而她却没有仔细倾听。她听到了他说的话，也理解这些话的字面含义，可是对他的绝望和高兴却缺乏共鸣。她无法摆脱自己的看法，对卖文章给杂志社这种事不感兴趣。对她来说，成家立业才是重要的。不过，她当时并未意识到这一点，也未意识到自己希望马丁谋个职业是出自一个向往做母亲的女人本能的冲动。要是有人用清楚、肯定的语言把这话向他讲明，她会脸发烧，闹不定还会恼羞成怒，一口咬定她只对自己爱恋的人感兴趣，只希望他有一个锦绣前程。所以，当马丁向她倾吐衷曲，为自己选中的事业在这个世界上崭露头角而扬扬得意时，她只是听听表面的意思，还时不时四处张望，为自己看到的景象吃惊不已。

露丝平生第一次看到了贫困生活的凄惨面目。以前，她总以为饿肚子的恋人富有浪漫色彩，却不知饿肚子的恋人是怎样生活。万万想不到会是这样一种情形。她的目光游移不定，一会儿扫视房间，一会儿打量马丁。随着她一道从厨房进来的带有水蒸气的脏衣服味令人作呕。露丝心想，如果那个可怕的女人经常洗衣服，马丁身上一定浸透了这种气味。堕落的生活就是这样侵蚀人的。她望望马丁，似乎看到了周围环境在他身上留下的污痕。以前她所见到的他总是把脸修得干干净净，而今他脸上那三天未刮的胡须叫她觉得反感。那胡须不仅使他显得又黑又脏，和西尔瓦家的屋里屋外一样，还突出了他身上那种令她厌恶的兽性。可是他却扬扬得意地炫耀自己的两篇文章已被采用，对自己疯狂的追求更加坚定了信念。这转机要是晚来一些，他肯定会认输，老老实实去找职业。现在，他却要继续留在这幢可怕的房子里，再过上几个月忍饥挨饿的写作生活。

“这是什么味儿？”她突然问。

“我想是玛丽亚洗衣服散发出的味，”对方答道，“我已经闻惯了。”

“不，不，不是那种味，而是别的什么气味，是一种发腐的难闻气味。”

马丁先用鼻子嗅了嗅，才做出了回答。

“除了发腐的烟草味，别的闻不出什么来。”他说。

“正是烟草味，真是难闻死啦。你为什么要抽这么多烟呢，马丁？”“不知道。我只知道感到寂寞时，就比平时抽得多。再说，这是多年养成的老习惯了。小的时候我就会抽烟。”

“这习惯不好，你要知道，”她责备道，“烟味要多难闻有多难闻。”“这得怪烟不好，因为我只能买得起最低廉的烟。等我拿到那四十块钱的支票，就买好牌子的烟抽，那时连天使闻到也不会讨厌。要说三天之内就有两篇稿子被采用，成绩不算坏吧？四十五块钱的稿酬差不多可以还清我所有的债务。”

“两年的心血就为的是这个？”她问。

“不对，应该是不足一个星期的心血。请把桌子角的那本书递给我，就是那个灰色封面的账簿。”他打开账簿，一页页飞快翻动着。“哈，我说的一点不错。写《嘹亮的钟声》用了四天，《漩涡》用了两天。一星期挣四十五块钱，一个月就是一百八十块钱，比我干任何工作都强。再说，我这是刚刚起步。我要给你买许多东西，所以每月就是挣一千块钱也不嫌多。每月五百块钱的薪水就太低了。这四十五块钱仅仅是个开始。等走上正轨，那时再瞧我的本事吧。[1]”

露丝误解了他最后的这句俚语，便把话题又扯到了抽烟上。

“你抽烟抽得太厉害啦，问题并不在于更换烟的牌子。抽烟本身是有害的，不管什么牌子的烟都是如此。你真是个大烟囱、活火山和会走路的排烟筒，实在不成体统，亲爱的马丁，你要明白这一点。”

她把身子朝着他靠过去，眼睛里闪出祈求的神情；他望着她娇嫩的脸蛋，望着她纯洁、清澈的眼睛，又像过去一样，觉得自己是那样卑微。

“希望你以后不要再抽烟了，”她悄语道，“求求你，看在我的分上。”“好吧，我不抽了。”他高声说，“你让我干什么我就干什么，无论是任何事情，亲爱的，这你应该知道。”

她听后芳心大动。她清清楚楚看到了他天性中宽厚及随和的一面，坚信只要她要求他放弃写作，他一定会满足她愿望。在短暂的一瞬间，这种话在她的唇边颤抖。但她没把话说出来，因为她还不够大胆，仍然缺乏这份勇气。她迎着他凑过身去，偎在他怀里喃喃低语：“你知道，实际上这并不是为了我，马丁，而是为了你自己。我觉得抽烟对你是有害的；最好不要当任何东西的奴隶，尤其不要当麻醉品的奴隶。”“我要永远当你的奴隶。”他微笑着说。

“那我可就要发号施令喽。”

她以顽皮的目光望着他，但内心深处已经在后悔没提出自己最大的要求。

“愿听候吩咐，王后陛下。”

“我的第一道旨令是要你别忘了天天刮脸。你的胡子把我的脸扎得生疼。”

接着，两人相互抚摸，发出爱的欢笑。她已经达到了一个目的，一次一个，不能贪多。她涌起一股女性的自豪感，因为她使他戒了烟。下一次，她要劝他去谋个职业。他不是说过，她让他干什么他就干什么吗？

她从他身旁走开，去巡视整个房间。她仔细查看头顶晾绳上挂的笔记，还琢磨那架用来把自行车往天花板上吊的神秘滑车。看到桌下堆积如山的手稿，她黯然神伤，觉得那里面耗费了太多的时间。那只油炉赢得了她的敬慕，但在检查食品架时，却发现那儿空无一物。

“天哪，一点吃的东西都没有，可怜的亲人儿，”她又体贴又同情地说，“你一定饿坏了。”

“我的食物都存在玛丽亚的柜子里和厨房里，”他扯了个谎说，“存在那种地方比较好。不要担心我会饿肚子，你瞧瞧这个就知道了。”

她回到他身边，看他弯起胳膊肘，衣袖下的二头肌隆起和膨胀，变成了一大团坚硬的肌肉。那情形令她厌恶。从感情上讲，她不喜欢那肌肉。可是，她身上的脉搏、血液和每一根神经却喜欢它，向往它。于是，她又如昔日一般，产生了一种说不清道不明的感觉，非但没有躲开，而是把身体贴了过去。紧接着，他将她紧紧搂在怀里。此刻，她那只考虑生活表面现象的大脑感到的是嫌恶，而她那颗对生活本身感兴趣的心以及她的女性本能却喜不自禁。在这种时刻，她才强烈地感受到自己对马丁的爱是多么深沉，因为当马丁用有力的胳膊紧紧地拥抱她、狂热地拥抱她，把她搂得身上发疼时，她高兴得几乎要晕过去。在这种时刻，她觉得背叛自己的原则、违背自己的崇高理想，尤其是暗地违抗父母，完全是正确行动。父母不愿让她嫁给这个男人，为她爱上他而感到震惊。有时她一离开他，就会变得冷静和理智，这一点也让她震惊。和他在一起时，她爱他——老实讲，她的爱里时时掺杂着烦恼和忧虑；但这毕竟是爱情，是一种比她本人坚强的爱情。

“这种流感算不了什么，”他说，“它只是让人感到有点疼痛，让人脑袋痛得难受，但和登革热相比便是小巫见大巫了。”

“怎么，你还患过登革热？”她一边在他的怀里寻觅天赐的超脱感，一边心不在焉地问。

就这样，她以心不在焉的提问引着他朝下说。直到最后，他的一席话令她猛然吃了一惊。

原来，他是在夏威夷的一个岛屿上，三十个麻风病人秘密居住的地方染上这种热病的。

“你为什么到那儿去？”她问。

这样拿自己的身体不当一回事，简直就是犯罪。

“我当时并不知道会是那样的情形，”他答道，“我怎么也想不到会有麻风病人。我逃离帆船后，登上沙滩，往岛屿的腹地走，想找个藏身的地方。我游荡了三天，靠丛林中野生的番石榴、马来苹果以及香蕉活命。第四天，我发现了一条小路——那只不过是条羊肠小径。它深入腹地，沿山而上。我正要到那个方向去，而且看出不久前有人在小径上走过。走到一处地方，小径爬上了一道山脊，那儿窄得犹如刀口剑锋。山脊上的小径宽不足三英尺，两旁是万丈深渊。只要弹药充足，一人把关，十万人也攻不过去。

“那可是通向藏身之地的唯一道路。沿着小径走了三个小时，我总算走到了一个小山谷里，那儿四周都围着熔岩山峰。整个谷地都筑成了梯田种植芋头，那儿还栽有果树，坐落着八九间乃至十间茅草屋。但是一看到当地的居民，我就知道自己遇到了什么命运，只要瞧一眼就全明白了。”

“后来怎么样呢？”露丝问道。她听得气也透不出来了，就像苔丝德梦娜[2]那样，既吃惊又入迷。

“我无计可施。他们的头儿是个善良的老叟，虽已病入膏肓，但还像君王一样统治着他们。小山谷是他发现的，居民点也是他创建的。这样做是违法的，但他有枪支和大量的弹药，而且那些卡拿加人打惯了野牛和野猪，个个都是神枪手。在那种情况下，马丁·伊登是绝对逃不出去的。于是，他在那儿待了三个月。”

“后来你是怎么逃走的呢？”

“多亏了当地的一个一半中国血统、四分之一白人血统和四分之一夏威夷血统的姑娘鼎力相助，不然现在我还被扣在那儿呢。她是个可怜的美人儿，受过良好的教育。她母亲住在檀香山，拥有百万家产。就是这样一位姑娘最后解救了我。你要知道，居民点是她母亲资助兴办的，所以她不害怕因放我走而遭惩罚。不过，她让我发誓永不泄露那个秘密的地方；我一直信守着诺言。这是我第一次吐露，以前可提也没向人提过。那姑娘刚露出麻风病的初期症状，右手指微微弯曲，胳膊上有个小斑点，就是这些，想来她现在已经死了。”

“你当时就不害怕吗？你侥幸脱逃，没染上那种可怕的病，你就不感到高兴吗？”

“嗯，”他承认道，“起初我有点心惊肉跳，后来就习惯了。不过，我倒常常为那位姑娘感到惋惜；这使我忘记了害怕。她的心灵和外表都是那样美，而且只是稍微受了点感染；可是她注定要留在那儿，过一种原始野人的生活，慢慢地死去。麻风病真是太可怕了，可怕得令你无法想象。”

“可怜的姑娘。”露丝用一种温柔的声音说道，“奇怪的是，她竟然放走了你。”

“这话是什么意思？”马丁漫不经心地问。

“她一定爱上了你，”露丝说道，声音仍很温柔，“老实说，难道她不爱你吗？”

马丁的那张脸在洗衣店干活时脱去了太阳晒出的黑色，后来足不出户，且受到饥饿和疾病的折磨，甚至蒙上了一层苍白；这当儿，他苍白的脸上慢慢涌起了红潮。他张口欲言，却被露丝挡了回去。

“没关系，别回答了；没有这个必要。”她笑着说。

他觉得她的笑声有些生硬，眼睛里的闪光也冰冷冷的。刹那间，这让他想起了他在北太平洋经历过的一场大风。立时，大风的魔影浮现在他眼前——那场大风起于夜间，当时万里无云、满月当空，浩瀚的大海在月光下闪耀着冰冷冷的光。紧接着，他仿佛看到了麻风病人隐居地的那位姑娘，想起她正是由于爱他，才放了他一条生路。

“她是个崇高的女子，”他直率地说，“是她救了我的命。”

事情的全部经过就是这样。他听见露丝咽下了喉管里的一声啜泣，发现她转过脸去朝窗外眺望。待她把脸扭回来时，表情已恢复了平静，从她的眼睛里再也看不到大风的踪影。

“我这是在冒傻气，”她凄哀地说，“但我欲禁不能，因为我太爱你了。是的，我爱你，马丁。我早晚会变得宽宏大量的，可现在我还是不能不忌妒过去的那些鬼魂。你知道，你的过去被鬼魂所充斥。”

“情况肯定是这样，”她未容他反驳，继续说道，“不可能会是别的一种样子。唉，可怜的阿瑟在打手势唤我走呢，他等得不耐烦了。再见吧，亲爱的。”

“药剂师配制出一种药，有助于戒烟，”她走到门口回过身来说，“到时候我给你送一些来。”

房门合上了，但又被打开了。

“我爱你，我爱你。”她悄声冲着他低语；话一说完，她真的走了。

玛丽亚送她上马车，目光中充满了崇拜但也不失敏锐，注意到了她衣服的质地和款式（这种款式从未见过，所产生的效果具有神奇的美）。那群顽童失望地目送着马车从视野中消失，然后把目光转移到玛丽亚身上，她一下子变成了街上最了不起的人物。可是，她自己的一个孩子却对大伙儿说那两位高贵的客人是来找他们家房客的，这一下算毁掉了她的声望。玛丽亚又成了原先的那个默默无闻的人，而马丁却发现邻里的小孩子们开始以毕恭毕敬的态度对待他。至于玛丽亚，马丁在她眼里的身价足足提高了一倍。那个葡萄牙食品商要是目睹了这天下午客人乘马车来访的场景，准会允许马丁再赊三元八角五分钱的账。

* * *

[1]　Watch my smoke（瞧我的本事），按字面可被误解为“瞧我抽烟”。

[2]　莎剧《奥赛罗》中的女主人公，被奥赛罗讲述的英勇经历迷住，终于不顾种族的不同嫁给了他。