英文
CHAPTER XXXVII
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 halfbaked 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.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you do not believe in regulating these various outrageous exercises of power?”
“That’s not the point. I mean to tell you that you are a poor diagnostician. I mean to tell you that I am not suffering from the microbe of socialism. I mean to tell you that it is you who are suffering from the emasculating ravages of that same microbe. As for me, I am an inveterate opponent of socialism just as I am an inveterate opponent of your own mongrel democracy that is nothing else than pseudo-socialism masquerading under a garb of words that will not stand the test of the dictionary.”
“I am a reactionary—so complete a reactionary that my position is incomprehensible to you who live in a veiled lie of social organization and whose sight is not keen enough to pierce the veil. You make believe that you believe in the survival of the strong and the rule of the strong. I believe. That is the difference. When I was a trifle younger,—a few months younger,—I believed the same thing. You see, the ideas of you and yours had impressed me. But merchants and traders are cowardly rulers at best; they grunt and grub all their days in the trough of money-getting, and I have swung back to aristocracy, if you please. I am the only individualist in this room. I look to the state for nothing. I look only to the strong man, the man on horseback, to save the state from its own rotten futility.”
“Nietzsche was right. I won’t take the time to tell you who Nietzsche was, but he was right. The world belongs to the strong—to the strong who are noble as well and who do not wallow in the swine-trough of trade and exchange. The world belongs to the true nobleman, to the great blond beasts, to the noncompromisers, to the ‘yes-sayers.’ And they will eat you up, you socialists—who are afraid of socialism and who think yourselves individualists. Your slave-morality of the meek and lowly will never save you. —Oh, it’s all Greek, I know, and I won’t bother you any more with it. But remember one thing. There aren’t half a dozen individualists in Oakland, but Martin Eden is one of them.”
He signified that he was done with the discussion, and turned to Ruth.
“I’m wrought up today,” he said in an undertone. “All I want to do is to love, not talk.”
He ignored Mr. Morse, who said:—
“I am unconvinced. All socialists are Jesuits. That is the way to tell them.”
“We’ll make a good Republican out of you yet,” said Judge Blount.
“The man on horseback will arrive before that time,” Martin retorted with good humor, and returned to Ruth.
But Mr. Morse was not content. He did not like the laziness and the disinclination for sober, legitimate work of this prospective son-in-law of his, for whose ideas he had no respect and of whose nature he had no understanding. So he turned the conversation to Herbert Spencer. Judge Blount ably seconded him, and Martin, whose ears had pricked at the first mention of the philosopher’s name, listened to the judge enunciate a grave and complacent diatribe against Spencer. From time to time Mr. Morse glanced at Martin, as much as to say, “There, my boy, you see.”
“Chattering daws,” Martin muttered under his breath, and went on talking with Ruth and Arthur.
But the long day and the “real dirt” of the night before were telling upon him; and, besides, still in his burnt mind was what had made him angry when he read it on the car.
“What is the matter?” Ruth asked suddenly alarmed by the effort he was making to contain himself.
“There is no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is its prophet,” Judge Blount was saying at that moment.
Martin turned upon him.
“A cheap judgment,” he remarked quietly. “I heard it first in the City Hall Park, on the lips of a workingman who ought to have known better. I have heard it often since, and each time the clap-trap of it nauseates me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. To hear that great and noble man’s name upon your lips is like finding a dew-drop in a cesspool. You are disgusting.”
It was like a thunderbolt. Judge Blount glared at him with apoplectic countenance, and silence reigned. Mr. Morse was secretly pleased. He could see that his daughter was shocked. It was what he wanted to do—to bring out the innate ruffianism of this man he did not like.
Ruth’s hand sought Martin’s beseechingly under the table, but his blood was up. He was inflamed by the intellectual pretence and fraud of those who sat in the high places. A Superior Court Judge! It was only several years before that he had looked up from the mire at such glorious entities and deemed them gods.
Judge Blount recovered himself and attempted to go on, addressing himself to Martin with an assumption of politeness that the latter understood was for the benefit of the ladies. Even this added to his anger. Was there no honesty in the world?
“You can’t discuss Spencer with me,” he cried. “You do not know any more about Spencer than do his own countrymen. But it is no fault of yours, I grant. It is just a phase of the contemptible ignorance of the times. I ran across a sample of it on my way here this evening. I was reading an essay by Saleeby on Spencer. You should read it. It is accessible to all men. You can buy it in any book-store or draw it from the public library. You would feel ashamed of your paucity of abuse and ignorance of that noble man compared with what Saleeby has collected on the subject. It is a record of shame that would shame your shame.
“‘The philosopher of the half-educated,’ he was called by an academic Philosopher who was not worthy to pollute the atmosphere he breathed. I don’t think you have read ten pages of Spencer, but there have been critics, assumably more intelligent than you, who have read no more than you of Spencer, who publicly challenged his followers to adduce one single idea from all his writings—from Herbert Spencer’s writings, the man who has impressed the stamp of his genius over the whole field of scientific research and modern thought; the father of psychology; the man who revolutionized pedagogy, so that today the child of the French peasant is taught the three R’s according to principles laid down by him. And the little gnats of men sting his memory when they get their very bread and butter from the technical application of his ideas. What little of worth resides in their brains is largely due to him. It is certain that had he never lived, most of what is correct in their parrot-learned knowledge would be absent.
“And yet a man like Principal Fairbanks of Oxford—a man who sits in an even higher place than you, Judge Blount—has said that Spencer will be dismissed by posterity as a poet and dreamer rather than a thinker. Yappers and blatherskites, the whole brood of them! ‘“First Principles” is not wholly destitute of a certain literary power,’ said one of them. And others of them have said that he was an industrious plodder rather than an original thinker. Yappers and blatherskites! Yappers and blatherskites!”
Martin ceased abruptly, in a dead silence. Everybody in Ruth’s family looked up to Judge Blount as a man of power and achievement, and they were horrified at Martin’s outbreak. The remainder of the dinner passed like a funeral, the judge and Mr. Morse confining their talk to each other, and the rest of the conversation being extremely desultory. Then afterward, when Ruth and Martin were alone, there was a scene.
“You are unbearable,” she wept.
But his anger still smouldered, and he kept muttering, “The beasts! The beasts!”
When she averred he had insulted the judge, he retorted:—
“By telling the truth about him?”
“I don’t care whether it was true or not,” she insisted. “There are certain bounds of decency, and you had no license to insult anybody.”
“Then where did Judge Blount get the license to assault truth?” Martin demanded. “Surely to assault truth is a more serious misdemeanor than to insult a pygmy personality such as the judge’s. He did worse than that. He blackened the name of a great, noble man who is dead. Oh, the beasts! The beasts!”
His complex anger flamed afresh, and Ruth was in terror of him. Never had she seen him so angry, and it was all mystified and unreasonable to her comprehension. And yet, through her very terror ran the fibres of fascination that had drawn and that still drew her to him—that had compelled her to lean towards him, and, in that mad, culminating moment, lay her hands upon his neck. She was hurt and outraged by what had taken place, and yet she lay in his arms and quivered while he went on muttering, “The beasts! The beasts!” And she still lay there when he said: “I’ll not bother your table again, dear. They do not like me, and it is wrong of me to thrust my objectionable presence upon them. Besides, they are just as objectionable to me. Faugh! They are sickening. And to think of it, I dreamed in my innocence that the persons who sat in the high places, who lived in fine houses and had educations and bank accounts, were worth while!”
中文
第三十七章
第二天早晨，马丁做的头一件事便与勃力森登的建议和叮咛背道而驰。他把《太阳的耻辱》装进信封，邮给了《卫城》。他坚信自己能够找到机会在杂志上发表，认为一经杂志扬名，便会赢得书籍出版社的青睐。而且，他把《蜉蝣》也塞进信封，给一家杂志寄了去。尽管勃力森登对杂志持有十分强烈的偏见，可马丁觉得这首伟大的诗篇应该得到发表。不过，他并无意于在没得到对方允许的情况下把它刊登出来。他的计划是先让一家高品味的杂志把这篇诗稿收下，他便可以此为根据和勃力森登死缠硬磨，最终征得他的同意。
这天上午，马丁开始动手写一篇小说。几个星期之前他就拟出了小说的提纲，自那以后这篇小说就不断地干扰着他的生活，非要他付诸笔端不可，显而易见，这是一篇精彩的海洋小说，一篇二十世纪的冒险传奇性小说，描写的是真实世界中在真实的情况下的真实人物。但在跌宕起伏的故事情节下还隐藏着另外一种东西——只看表面意思的读者是永远也分辨不出来这种东西的，可话又说回来，它也绝不会使读者感到乏味，削弱小说的趣味性。正是这种东西，而非故事本身，在督促着马丁操笔写作。说起来，历来都是这种伟大、广阔的主题使他构思出故事情节。找到了这样一个主题，他才考虑该用哪些特点的人物，以及在哪些时空条件下的哪些特定的地点，来表现这种广阔的主题。他决定用《逾期》作标题，认为小说的长度不应超过六万字——这对具有旺盛创作精力的他来说，只是区区小事。头一天动笔，他就感到自己已掌握了语言工具，并感到由衷的高兴。他再不用担心那锋利的工具会出错，破坏他的作品了。长期的艰苦磨炼和钻研结出了硕果。如今，他能够胸有成竹地描绘心里构思出的伟大事物了。他写了一个钟点又一个钟点，觉得自己对生活以及生活中的种种事情都有了可靠和全面的了解，这在以前是从没有过的。《逾期》将是一篇忠实地反映特定人物和特定事件的小说；而且，他深信它讲述的还将是伟大不朽的事物，适合于任何时代、任何海洋和任何生活——他把身子从桌旁挪开，朝后靠了一会儿，心里想着这全都归功于赫伯特·斯宾塞。是啊，得感谢赫伯特·斯宾塞，感谢斯宾塞放入他手中的那把万能钥匙——进化论。
他心里清楚自己正在写一篇伟大的作品。“一定能轰动！一定能轰动！”——这句话一遍遍鸣响在他的耳畔。毫无疑问，这篇作品将一炮打响。他终于要写出能叫杂志界趋之若鹜的作品了。整篇故事如道道闪电出现在他的眼前。他丢下稿纸，把一个章节写进了笔记本。这将是《逾期》的结尾篇；他在大脑中已把整部小说构思得点滴不漏，所以他在尚未结尾之时，就可以提前几个星期把结尾篇写出来。他把这篇未完稿的小说跟那些海洋作家的作品做一比较，觉得它不知要精彩多少倍。“只有一个人的作品能与之媲美，”他喃喃出声道，“那就是康拉德[1]。这部小说甚至叫他也会震惊，使他握着我的手说：‘写得好啊，马丁，我的孩子。’”
他写了整整一天，最后才想起自己要到摩斯家吃晚饭。多亏勃力森登给了他钱，他赎回了黑西装，现在又有资格参加晚宴了。他在市中心下了车，跑进图书馆去寻找萨利倍的著作。他把《生命的周期》借到手，上了电车后将书翻到诺顿提起过的那篇关于斯宾塞的文章。他愈读愈生气，只见他咬牙切齿、脸色涨红，不由自主地把拳头攥紧了又松开，然后又攥紧，仿佛刚刚抓住了一个可恶的人似的，非把对方扼死不可。下了电车后，他沿着人行道大步流星走去，那步态让人一看就知道是个气得发疯的人。来到摩斯家，他按响了门铃，铃声使他清醒过来，意识到了自己的境况。他觉得自己很可笑，于是便脸上堆起笑容，和蔼可亲地走了进去。然而刚一踏入门槛，他的心头就袭上了一阵深深的忧郁感。在这一整天里，他扇动着灵感的翅膀凌空飞翔，而现在却跌入了尘埃。“资产阶级”、“商人的窝”——勃力森登给这儿冠以的名称又浮现在他的脑海之中。不过，这又怎么样呢？他愤怒地责问道。他要娶的是露丝，而不是她的家庭。
他觉得，他以前从没见过露丝这般美丽、这般脱俗、这般幽雅，同时又这般健康。她双颊带着红晕，两汪秋水一次次吸引着他——起初他就是在这两汪秋水里看到了什么是不朽性。近来他已把不朽性抛到了脑后，因为他读的科学著作与不朽性唱的是反调。可是在这里，在露丝的眼睛中，他看到了一种无言无语的论证，而这超越于一切用语言表述的论证。他在她的一双秀目中看到了一种令所有的辩驳之辞都敬而远之的力量，因为他在那里看到了爱情。他自己的眼睛里也有着爱情的倩影，而爱情是无可辩驳的。这就是他深信不疑的原则。
入席之前，他跟她在一起待了半个小时，这使他感到无限幸福，对生活感到心满意足。然而一坐到饭桌旁，辛苦劳作的一天所带来的无法避免的衰弱和疲倦感便开始折磨他。他觉得眼皮发沉，心情烦躁。记得就是在这张他现在所鄙视和经常感到厌倦的饭桌旁，他曾经有生第一次在一种他自以为是高度文明和幽雅的气氛中，跟一群文明人一起就餐。他又看到了很久以前那个可怜巴巴的自己，那个自惭形秽的野人，痛苦不安得每个毛孔都在冒汗，给叫人为难的分门别类的餐具弄得不知所措，被一个可怕的仆人折磨得痛苦不堪，妄图跃上令人目眩的社会高度，过上流人的生活，可最后却决定保持自己的本来面目，没知识就不装有知识，没修养不装有修养。
他瞧了一眼露丝寻找安慰，活像一位乘客，一想到轮船很可能沉没，便猛然惊慌起来，拼命想弄清救生圈在何处。这下好啦，总算找到了——那就是爱情和露丝。所有的一切都经不起书本知识的考验，唯有露丝和爱情能经得起。他从生物学的角度为这两者寻觅到了证据。爱情是生活最崇高的表现形式。造物主像对待所有普通的人一样，不断地塑造着他，使他能够去爱。创造工作花去了造物主一百万年的时间——不，是一千万年，一亿年的时间，而他则是造物主的最佳杰作。造物主使他心中燃起最强烈的爱火，以赋予他想象，使爱情的力量加强千百万倍，随即便把他送入人间，在这里寻求刺激、柔情和配偶。他把手伸到桌下，握住了身旁露丝的那只手，这一握使一股暖流在两人之间奔涌。她飞眼瞧了瞧他，目中异彩闪闪、柔情缱绻。他激动万分，眼睛也情意缠绵。岂不知，她多半是由于看到了他眼里的神情，两汪秋水中才闪出异彩和涌出柔情。
当地高级法院的勃朗特法官就坐在他的斜对角，位于摩斯先生的右侧。马丁见过这个人几次，但并不喜欢他。此人正和露丝的父亲谈论工会运动、当地的局势以及社会主义，而摩斯先生就社会主义这个话题想把马丁挖苦一通。最后，勃朗特法官隔着饭桌投来慈祥的目光，显露出父辈的怜悯之情。马丁心里觉得好笑。
“年轻人，你会成熟起来的，”法官安慰道，“治疗这类年轻人的通病，时间是最好的良药。”他又转过脸来对摩斯先生说：“我认为，对这种病例，讨论是无济于事的，因为它只会让病情更加顽固。”
“的确如此，”对方以严肃的口吻承认说，“不过，常常提醒一下病人，让他了解自己的病情，也是有好处的。”
马丁乐得笑了起来，但笑得很吃力。这一天太长了，而写作时又太紧张，所以他现在筋疲力尽，感到痛苦不堪。
“毫无疑问，你们俩都是高明的医生。”他说，“不过，如果你们肯听听病人的看法，他会告诉你们，你们的诊断实在糟糕。你们以为在我身上发现了疾病，其实那是你们俩的通病。至于我，是具有免疫力的。你们俩血管里涌动的那种半生不熟的社会主义病毒，并没有感染我。”
“高明，真高明，”法官嘟哝着，“对于辩论实在技高一筹，一下就能反守为攻。”
“有些话是你亲口说过的。”马丁眼里直冒火，但他控制住了自己，“要知道，法官，我听过你的竞选演讲。遵循着巧妙的逻辑——哦，我喜欢用‘巧妙’这个词，此处别人并不理解其含义——你按照巧妙的逻辑，一方面自欺欺人地信仰竞争制度和强者生存的原则，一方面却又不遗余力地采取一切措施削弱强者的实力。”
“我的年轻人——”
“别忘了，我听过你的竞选演讲。”马丁又提醒道，“一切都是有案可稽的。你主张控制州际贸易、铁路托拉斯和美孚石油公司，提倡保护森林资源，还赞成采取千百种限制性措施，这些完全都是社会主义者的论调。”
“你是不是想告诉我，你认为不应该限制种种滥用权力的现象？”
“这不是问题的所在。我想告诉你的是，你对我的诊断是错误的。我想告诉你，我没有受到社会主义病毒的感染。我想告诉你，被这种病毒蹂躏得衰弱无力的正是你自己。而我，怀着刻骨仇恨反对社会主义，也坚决反对你们的那种杂牌民主思想，因为你们的民主完完全全是拿空话做外衣的伪社会主义，那套空话经不住词典的考验。
“我是一个反动分子——一个彻头彻尾的反动分子。你们无法理解我的立场，因为你们眼前罩着一层关于社会秩序的由谎言织成的薄纱，而你们目光不够敏锐，看不透这层薄纱。你们假装信仰‘强者生存’和‘强者治人’的原则，可我却真的信仰。这就是区别。不久之前，几个月以前，我相信的正是这种原则。你们以及你们亲友的见解曾一度给我留下过深刻印象。可商人充其量只是怯懦的统治者；他们整日在钱堆里打滚，沾满了铜臭味，所以恕我冒昧，我倒赞成恢复贵族统治。在这间房屋里，唯独我一个是个人主义者。我对国家一无指望，仅指望一位强者，一位马背上的英雄把国家从一事无成的腐败状态中拯救出来。
“尼采的话是对的。我不愿费口舌解释尼采是何许人，只想说他是对的。世界属于强者——这种强者也是高贵的，他们绝不会浸泡在臭气熏天的买卖人的圈子里。世界属于名副其实的贵人，属于伟大的‘金发野兽’[2]，属于绝不妥协的人，属于‘敢说敢干者’。你们这些社会主义者既害怕社会主义又自以为是个人主义者，他们会把你们生吞活剥的。你们那一套逆来顺受、唯唯诺诺的奴隶伦理，绝对挽救不了你们。——唉，我知道这些话你们听不懂，所以我再不用这话让你们心烦了。但有一点可别忘了——马丁·伊登是位个人主义者，而这样的人在奥克兰屈指可数。”
他表示不愿再辩论下去，把身子转向了露丝一边。
“我今天太激动了。”他压低嗓门说道，“我想要的是爱情，而不是高谈阔论。”
他没理睬摩斯先生，而对方却说道：“我还是不服。社会主义者都是诡辩家。这是鉴别他们的方法。”
“尽管如此，我们还是要把你改造成一个出色的共和党人。”勃朗特法官说。
“不等你们如愿，马背上的英雄便会来到。”马丁幽默地回敬了一句，又掉回头来跟露丝谈话。
可摩斯先生却不肯就此罢休。他这位未来的女婿懒惰成性，不肯脚踏实地干正经的工作，这叫他很不高兴，再说，他瞧不起对方的见解，理解不透对方的性格。这时，他将话头转到了赫伯特·斯宾塞的身上。勃朗特法官在一旁一唱一和地敲着边鼓。一提起那位哲学家的名字，马丁的耳朵便竖了起来，听着法官以严肃和得意的言辞在讽刺斯宾塞。摩斯先生时不时地望一眼马丁，似乎在说：“哼，小子，知道厉害了吧。”
“真像叽叽喳喳的乌鸦。”马丁低声咕哝了一句，随后又继续跟露丝和阿瑟说话。
可是，整整写作了一天，昨天晚上又见到了一帮“真正的精英”，这一切都对他产生了影响；另外，在电车上读的那篇叫他气愤的文章，此刻仍在烧灼着他的大脑。
“你怎么啦？”露丝见他拼命地在控制自己，不由吃了一惊，便突然问道。
“世上没有上帝，只有不可知论，而赫伯特·斯宾塞则是它的先知。”此刻，只听勃朗特法官这样说道。
马丁把目光转向了他。
“庸人之见。”他不动声色地说，“我头一次听到这话是在市政厅公园，那是出自一个狗屁不通的工人之口。以后常听人引用，那哗众取宠的腔调叫我作呕。你应当为自己感到羞愧。那个伟大高尚的名字经你的嘴讲出来，就像是一滴甘露落入了污水池。真令人恶心。”
这段言语像是晴天霹雳一般。勃朗特对他怒目而视，脸色似中风一般难看，四周鸦雀无声。摩斯先生暗自高兴。他看得出女儿的内心十分震惊。这正是他所希图的——让这个他不喜欢的人暴露出粗野的本性。
露丝把手伸到桌下，恳求地握住马丁的手，可他气愤得热血沸腾。那些身居高位的人们不学无术、装腔作势的态度激怒了他。哼，亏他还是高级法院的法官呢！仅仅在几年之前，他还从泥沼里仰望这些荣光披身的人物，把他们奉为天神呢。
勃朗特法官恢复了镇静，还想继续下去，佯装出一副礼致彬彬的样子跟马丁讲话，这让马丁觉得对方全是为了顾及有女士在场的缘故。这一来，马丁的怒火就更旺了。这个世界上难道就没有诚实可言吗？“你不配跟我谈论斯宾塞，”他高声说道，“你对斯宾塞的了解比不上他自己国家的同胞。不过，我承认这并非你的过错。这只是一个卑鄙、愚昧的时代留下的一个侧影。今晚来这儿的路上，我遇见了一个实例。我读到了萨利倍的一篇攻击斯宾塞的文章。你应该看一看。那文章随处可见，你可以到书店买，也可以从公共图书馆借。你把自己对那位高尚人物的诋毁，跟萨利倍在这方面收集到的材料一比较，就会觉得自己是多么贫乏和无知，不害臊才怪呢。萨利倍的文章是一段可耻的记录，会使你在可耻的程度上自叹弗如。
“有个学究型的哲学家，连给斯宾塞提鞋都不配，却把斯宾塞称为‘半文明人的哲学家’。依我看，你所读过的斯宾塞的作品不会超过十页，可有些据猜想比你有文化，但读过的斯宾塞的作品并不比你多的批评家，却公开向斯宾塞的信徒们挑战，让他们从他——斯宾塞所有的作品中理出一条中心思想，岂不知，斯宾塞在科学研究和现代思想的整个园地里都留下了天才的烙印；他是心理学的鼻祖；他改革了教育学，所以当今的法国农民子弟才能够根据他制订的原则学到‘读写算’。一群蚊虫般的小人，一边不折不扣地把他的思想付诸实践以获取实利，一边又毁坏他的名声。他们大脑中唯一一点有价值的知识，主要都归功于他。我敢说，如果没有他，他们亦步亦趋学来的知识当中就不会有多少正确的成分。
“像牛津大学的校长费尔班克斯这样一个人——一个论地位比你还高的人，勃朗特法官——，他竟然声称后人不会把斯宾塞看作思想家，而会将其视为诗人及梦想家。那伙人简直是胡言乱语、满嘴放屁！他们当中有个人曾说：‘《第一原理》不能说一点也不具有某种文学的因素。’另外一些人却说，斯宾塞与其说是一个有独到之见的思想家，倒不如说是位孜孜不倦的务实主义者。一派胡言！一派胡言！”马丁倏然收住了话头，随即便是一片死一般的寂静。露丝一家尊敬勃朗特法官，把他看作一个有权势、有成就的人，现在听到马丁的一顿抨击，都感到惶恐不安。接下来，这顿饭吃得就像办丧事一样。法官和摩斯先生两人只顾自己谈话，而其他的人则东拉西扯地闲聊。后来，当露丝和马丁单独在一起时，他们俩闹了一场。
“你让人无法忍受。”她哭着说。
而他的怒火尚未完全平息，只听他不住地喃喃着：“这群畜生！这群畜生！”
她硬说他侮辱了法官，他则还嘴道：
“难道就因为揭露了他的真面目吗？”
“我不管你说的话是否属实，”她固执己见地说，“反正总得讲礼貌和懂分寸呀，你没权利侮辱任何人。”
“那么，勃朗特法官凭什么权利攻击真理呢？”马丁责问道，“我敢说，攻击真理，和侮辱法官那种人微不足道的人格相比较，是一种更为严重的罪行。他不仅攻击真理，还玷污一个已经辞世的伟大、高尚人的名声。呸，畜生！畜生！”
他那起因复杂的怒火又燃烧了起来，露丝对他感到害怕。她从未见他发过这样大的火，在她看来，这通火发得莫名其妙，不合情理。然而，尽管她惊恐万状，那股曾经吸引过她的魔力，此刻仍在把她朝他跟前拉——这种魔力曾经诱使她靠入他的怀里，诱使她在那个如痴如醉的时刻将自己的手搭到他的脖颈上。她为刚才发生的事情感到既伤心又气愤，可她还是躺在他怀里，哆嗦着身子听他一遍遍喃喃着：“畜生！畜生！”她仍躺在那里，听他这样说道，“我再也不来你们家吃饭了，亲爱的。他们不喜欢我，所以我不应该闯到这里来惹他们讨厌。再说，我也讨厌他们。呸！他们真叫人恶心。我真是鬼迷心窍，当初还天真地认为那些身居高位、住着漂亮房子、受过教育并有银行存款的人，全都是出类拔萃的呢！”
* * *
[1] 19世纪英国小说家，原籍波兰，其作品多以海洋生活为题材。
[2] 根据尼采的超人哲学，金发碧眼的北欧原始民族为优秀的理想人种，后来喻指强者。
