CHAPTER XXXIX

Over the coffee, in his little room, Martin read next morning’s paper. It was a novel experience to find himself head-lined, on the first page at that; and he was surprised to learn that he was the most notorious leader of the Oakland socialists. He ran over the violent speech the cub reporter had constructed for him, and, though at first he was angered by the fabrication, in the end he tossed the paper aside with a laugh.

“Either the man was drunk or criminally malicious,” he said that afternoon, from his perch on the bed, when Brissenden had arrived and dropped limply into the one chair.

“But what do you care?” Brissenden asked. “Surely you don’t desire the approval of the bourgeois swine that read the newspapers?”

Martin thought for a while, then said:—

“No, I really don’t care for their approval, not a whit. On the other hand, it’s very likely to make my relations with Ruth’s family a trifle awkward. Her father always contended I was a socialist, and this miserable stuff will clinch his belief. Not that I care for his opinion—but what’s the odds? I want to read you what I’ve been doing today. It’s ‘Overdue,’ of course, and I’m just about halfway through.”

He was reading aloud when Maria thrust open the door and ushered in a young man in a natty suit who glanced briskly about him, noting the oil-burner and the kitchen in the corner before his gaze wandered on to Martin.

“Sit down,” Brissenden said.

Martin made room for the young man on the bed and waited for him to broach his business.

“I heard you speak last night, Mr. Eden, and I’ve come to interview you,” he began.

Brissenden burst out in a hearty laugh.

“A brother socialist?” the reporter asked, with a quick glance at Brissenden that appraised the color-value of that cadaverous and dying man.

“And he wrote that report,” Martin said softly. “Why, he is only a boy!”

“Why don’t you poke him?” Brissenden asked. “I’d give a thousand dollars to have my lungs back for five minutes.”

The cub reporter was a trifle perplexed by this talking over him and around him and at him. But he had been commended for his brilliant description of the socialist meeting and had further been detailed to get a personal interview with Martin Eden, the leader of the organized menace to society.

“You do not object to having your picture taken, Mr. Eden?” he said. “I’ve a staff photographer outside, you see, and he says it will be better to take you right away before the sun gets lower. Then we can have the interview afterward.”

“A photographer,” Brissenden said meditatively. “Poke him, Martin! Poke him!”

“I guess I’m getting old,” was the answer. “I know I ought, but I really haven’t the heart. It doesn’t seem to matter.”

“For his mother’s sake,” Brissenden urged.

“It’s worth considering,” Martin replied; “but it doesn’t seem worth while enough to rouse sufficient energy in me. You see, it does take energy to give a fellow a poking. Besides, what does it matter?”

“That’s right—That’s the way to take it,” the cub announced airily, though he had already begun to glance anxiously at the door.

“But it wasn’t true, not a word of what he wrote,” Martin went on, confining his attention to Brissenden.

“It was just in a general way a description, you understand,” the cub ventured, “and besides, it’s good advertising. That’s what counts. It was a favor to you.”

“It’s good advertising, Martin, old boy,” Brissenden repeated solemnly.

“And it was a favor to me—think of that!” was Martin’s contribution.

“Let me see—where were you born, Mr. Eden?” the cub asked, assuming an air of expectant attention.

“He doesn’t take notes,” said Brissenden. “He remembers it all.”

“That is sufficient for me.” The cub was trying not to look worried. “No decent reporter needs to bother with notes.”

“That was sufficient—for last night.” But Brissenden was not a disciple of quietism, and he changed his attitude abruptly. “Martin, if you don’t poke him, I’ll do it myself, if I fall dead on the floor the next moment.”

“How will a spanking do?” Martin asked.

Brissenden considered judicially, and nodded his head.

The next instant Martin was seated on the edge of the bed with the cub face downward across his knees.

“Now don’t bite,” Martin warned, “or else I’ll have to punch your face. It would be a pity, for it is such a pretty face.”

His uplifted hand descended, and thereafter rose and fell in a swift and steady rhythm. The cub struggled and cursed and squirmed, but did not offer to bite. Brissenden looked on gravely, though once he grew excited and gripped the whiskey bottle, pleading, “Here, just let me swat him once.”

“Sorry my hand played out,” Martin said, when at last he desisted. “It is quite numb.”

He uprighted the cub and perched him on the bed.

“I’ll have you arrested for this,” he snarled, tears of boyish indignation running down his flushed cheeks. “I’ll make you sweat for this. You’ll see.”

“The pretty thing,” Martin remarked. “He doesn’t realize that he has entered upon the downward path. It is not honest, it is not square, it is not manly, to tell lies about one’s fellow-creatures the way he has done, and he doesn’t know it.”

“He has to come to us to be told,” Brissenden filled in a pause.

“Yes, to me whom he has maligned and injured. My grocery will undoubtedly refuse me credit now. The worst of it is that the poor boy will keep on this way until he deteriorates into a first-class newspaper man and also a first-class scoundrel.”

“But there is yet time,” quoth Brissenden. “Who knows but what you may prove the humble instrument to save him. Why didn’t you let me swat him just once? I’d like to have had a hand in it.”

“I’ll have you arrested, the pair of you, you b-b-big brutes,” sobbed the erring soul.

“No, his mouth is too pretty and too weak.” Martin shook his head lugubriously. “I’m afraid I’ve numbed my hand in vain. The young man cannot reform. He will become eventually a very great and successful newspaper man. He has no conscience. That alone will make him great.”

With that the cub passed out the door in trepidation to the last for fear that Brissenden would hit him in the back with the bottle he still clutched.

In the next morning’s paper Martin learned a great deal more about himself that was new to him. “We are the sworn enemies of society,” he found himself quoted as saying in a column interview. “No, we are not anarchists but socialists.” When the reporter pointed out to him that there seemed little difference between the two schools, Martin had shrugged his shoulders in silent affirmation. His face was described as bilaterally asymmetrical, and various other signs of degeneration were described. Especially notable were his thuglike hands and the fiery gleams in his blood-shot eyes.

He learned, also, that he spoke nightly to the workmen in the City Hall Park, and that among the anarchists and agitators that there inflamed the minds of the people he drew the largest audiences and made the most revolutionary speeches. The cub painted a high-light picture of his poor little room, its oil-stove and the one chair, and of the death’s-head tramp who kept him company and who looked as if he had just emerged from twenty years of solitary confinement in some fortress dungeon.

The cub had been industrious. He had scurried around and nosed out Martin’s family history, and procured a photograph of Higginbotham’s Cash Store with Bernard Higginbotham himself standing out in front. That gentleman was depicted as an intelligent, dignified businessman who had no patience with his brother-in-law’s socialistic views, and no patience with the brother-in-law, either, whom he was quoted as characterizing as a lazy good-for-nothing who wouldn’t take a job when it was offered to him and who would go to jail yet. Hermann Von Schmidt, Marian’s husband, had likewise been interviewed. He had called Martin the black sheep of the family and repudiated him. “He tried to sponge off of me, but I put a stop to that good and quick,” Von Schmidt had said to the reporter. “He knows better than to come bumming around here. A man who won’t work is no good, take that from me.”

This time Martin was genuinely angry. Brissenden looked upon the affair as a good joke, but he could not console Martin, who knew that it would be no easy task to explain to Ruth. As for her father, he knew that he must be overjoyed with what had happened and that he would make the most of it to break off the engagement. How much he would make of it he was soon to realize. The afternoon mail brought a letter from Ruth. Martin opened it with a premonition of disaster, and read it standing at the open door when he had received it from the postman. As he read, mechanically his hand sought his pocket for the tobacco and brown paper of his old cigarette days. He was not aware that the pocket was empty or that he had even reached for the materials with which to roll a cigarette.

It was not a passionate letter. There were no touches of anger in it. But all the way through, from the first sentence to the last, was sounded the note of hurt and disappointment. She had expected better of him. She had thought he had got over his youthful wildness, that her love for him had been sufficiently worth while to enable him to live seriously and decently. And now her father and mother had taken a firm stand and commanded that the engagement be broken. That they were justified in this she could not but admit. Their relation could never be a happy one. It had been unfortunate from the first. But one regret she voiced in the whole letter, and it was a bitter one to Martin. “If only you had settled down to some position and attempted to make something of yourself,”she wrote. “But it was not to be. Your past life had been too wild and irregular. I can understand that you are not to be blamed. You could act only according to your nature and your early training. So I do not blame you, Martin. Please remember that. It was simply a mistake. As father and mother have contended, we were not made for each other, and we should both be happy because it was discovered not too late.” ... “There is no use trying to see me,” she said toward the last. “It would be an unhappy meeting for both of us, as well as for my mother. I feel, as it is, that I have caused her great pain and worry. I shall have to do much living to atone for it.”

He read it through to the end, carefully, a second time, then sat down and replied. He outlined the remarks he had uttered at the socialist meeting, pointing out that they were in all ways the converse of what the newspaper had put in his mouth. Toward the end of the letter he was God’s own lover pleading passionately for love. “Please answer,” he said, “and in your answer you have to tell me but one thing. Do you love me? That is all—the answer to that one question.”

But no answer came the next day, nor the next. “Overdue” lay untouched upon the table, and each day the heap of returned manuscripts under the table grew larger. For the first time Martin’s glorious sleep was interrupted by insomnia, and he tossed through long, restless nights. Three times he called at the Morse home, but was turned away by the servant who answered the bell. Brissenden lay sick in his hotel, too feeble to stir out, and, though Martin was with him often, he did not worry him with his troubles.

For Martin’s troubles were many. The aftermath of the cub reporter’s deed was even wider than Martin had anticipated. The Portuguese grocer refused him further credit, while the greengrocer, who was an American and proud of it, had called him a traitor to his country and refused further dealings with him—carrying his patriotism to such a degree that he cancelled Martin’s account and forbade him ever to attempt to pay it. The talk in the neighborhood reflected the same feeling, and indignation against Martin ran high. No one would have anything to do with a socialist traitor. Poor Maria was dubious and frightened, but she remained loyal. The children of the neighborhood recovered from the awe of the grand carriage which once had visited Martin, and from safe distances they called him “hobo” and “bum.”The Silva tribe, however, stanchly defended him, fighting more than one pitched battle for his honor, and black eyes and bloody noses became quite the order of the day and added to Maria’s perplexities and troubles.

Once, Martin met Gertrude on the street, down in Oakland, and learned what he knew could not be otherwise—that Bernard Higginbotham was furious with him for having dragged the family into public disgrace, and that he had forbidden him the house.

“Why don’t you go away, Martin?” Gertrude had begged. “Go away and get a job somewhere and steady down. Afterwards, when this all blows over, you can come back.”

Martin shook his head, but gave no explanations. How could he explain? He was appalled at the awful intellectual chasm that yawned between him and his people. He could never cross it and explain to them his position,—the Nietzschean position, in regard to socialism. There were not words enough in the English language, nor in any language, to make his attitude and conduct intelligible to them. Their highest concept of right conduct, in his case, was to get a job. That was their first word and their last. It constituted their whole lexicon of ideas. Get a job! Go to work! Poor, stupid slaves, he thought, while his sister talked. Small wonder the world belonged to the strong. The slaves were obsessed by their own slavery. A job was to them a golden fetich before which they fell down and worshipped.

He shook his head again, when Gertrude offered him money, though he knew that within the day he would have to make a trip to the pawnbroker.

“Don’t come near Bernard now,” she admonished him. “After a few months, when he is cooled down, if you want to, you can get the job of drivin’ delivery-wagon for him. Any time you want me, just send for me an’ I’ll come. Don’t forget.”

She went away weeping audibly, and he felt a pang of sorrow shoot through him at sight of her heavy body and uncouth gait. As he watched her go, the Nietzschean edifice seemed to shake and totter. The slave-class in the abstract was all very well, but it was not wholly satisfactory when it was brought home to his own family. And yet, if there was ever a slave trampled by the strong, that slave was his sister Gertrude. He grinned savagely at the paradox. A fine Nietzsche-man he was, to allow his intellectual concepts to be shaken by the first sentiment or emotion that strayed along—ay, to be shaken by the slave-morality itself, for that was what his pity for his sister really was. The true noble men were above pity and compassion. Pity and compassion had been generated in the subterranean barracoons of the slaves and were no more than the agony and sweat of the crowded miserables and weaklings.

第三十九章

次日早晨，马丁在自己的那间斗室里边喝咖啡边看报纸。他发现他的名字上了标题，而且登在第一版，这可是前所未有的事情；他还不无诧异地从报上看到，自己成了奥克兰社会主义者最臭名昭著的领袖。他把那位小记者为他杜撰的措辞激烈的演讲稿匆匆浏览了一遍，起初还为记者的无中生有感到愤怒，但最后却大笑一声，丢开了报纸。

当天下午，勃力森登来访，无精打采地一屁股坐到了仅有的那把椅子上，只听马丁坐在床沿上说道：“那位记者不是喝醉了酒，便是恶意中伤。”

“这有什么可耿耿于怀的呢？”勃力森登说，“你总不会希望那些看报纸的资产阶级猪猡赞同你的观点吧？”

马丁略加思忖，然后说道：

“是的，我的确不在乎他们赞同不赞同，一点也不在乎。可是，这很可能会使我和露丝家的关系有些尴尬。她父亲一直认为我是一个社会主义者，这篇晦气的文章将让他更加深信不疑。这倒不是我在乎他对我的看法——他怎么看又有什么要紧的呢？我想把今天写的东西念给你听。当然还是《逾期》喽，我才写了有一半的样子。”

在他朗读之际，玛丽亚猛地推开门，引进一个衣着光鲜的小伙子，来客飞眼扫了一下四周，看了看那只油炉和屋角的“厨房”，随后把目光移到了马丁身上。

“请坐。”勃力森登说。

马丁在床沿上挪了挪身子，给小伙子让出点地方，然后便等他说明来意。

“我昨晚听了你的演讲，伊登先生，今日登门采访。”小伙子启口说道。

勃力森登放声大笑起来。

“这位也是社会主义者吧？”记者问道，同时飞快地打量了勃力森登一眼，估量着这位面色苍白的垂死之人有多大的新闻价值。

“那篇报道就是他写的，”马丁低声说，“看起来还只是个毛孩子！”

“为什么不揍他一顿呢？”勃力森登问，“要是能让我的肺病痊愈，哪怕是五分钟，我都情愿出一千块钱。”

小记者有一些困惑不解，因为这通谈话没有直接冲着他，但却以他为中心，以他为目标。他的那篇关于社会主义者大聚会的报道写得很精彩，受到了表扬，他因此而受命来采访对社会造成威胁的那个组织的领袖，马丁·伊登。

“你不反对给你照张相吧，伊登先生？”他说，“我们报社的一位摄影师等在外边，他说最好马上为你拍照，不然太阳要落山了。照完后咱们再谈话。”

“还来了个照相的，”勃力森登若有所思地说，“揍他，马丁！揍他！”

“我大概真是老了，”马丁答道，“我明明知道该揍他，可就是没那份心思，像是无所谓一样。”

“看在他母亲的分上，揍他一顿。”勃力森登怂恿着。

“这倒值得考虑，”马丁说，“可是，花那么大的气力似乎有点划不来。你知道，要打人总得使力气呀。再说，揍他一顿又管什么用呢？”

“对，这样考虑问题才是正确的。”小记者嘴上说得很轻松，但眼睛却已经开始担忧地朝门外望了。

“可他净扯谎，文章中没有一句话属实。”马丁又说道，同时只把目光盯在勃力森登身上。

“从大体上来看，那只不过是篇描写文嘛。”小记者壮着胆子说，“再说，那是很好的广告。价值就在此处。这可是为你涂金抹彩呀。”

“那是很好的广告，马丁老伙计。”勃力森登一本正经地也这样说道。

“这是为我涂金抹彩——真是感激不尽！”马丁也凑趣道。

“让我想想——你是在哪儿出生的，伊登先生？”小记者换上一副专注和期待的表情，这样问道。

“他连笔记也不做，”勃力森登说，“他全都记在心里。”

“这一点我是可以做得到的。”小记者尽量不表露出内心的不安，“正儿八经的记者是不需要笔录的。”

“昨天晚上——你就做得不错嘛。”可勃力森登毕竟不是寂静教[1]的信徒，这时只见他的态度来了个一百八十度大转弯。“马丁，你要是不揍他，我可要亲自动手了，即便过后马上倒毙也在所不惜。”

“打一顿屁股可以不可以？”马丁问。

勃力森登慎重地考虑了一下，然后点了点头。

一眨眼的工夫，坐在床沿上的马丁便把小记者脸冲下地扳倒在他的膝上。

“喂，你可别咬人啊，”马丁警告道，“如若不然，我就打扁你的脸。这张脸这么俊俏，打烂了就太可惜了。”

他举起手，一起一落地打了起来，又快又有节奏。小记者扭动着身子，挣扎和咒骂，但就是不敢咬马丁。勃力森登沉着脸在一旁看着，不过有一回却激动了起来，抓起那只威士忌酒瓶，恳求道：“嘿，让我也来一下吧。”

“很遗憾，我可是累了，”马丁最后终于住了手，说道，“手都打麻了。”

他把小记者扶起来，让他坐在床上。

“你打人，我要让你蹲监狱，”小记者号叫了起来，孩子般使着性子，泪水顺着他那涨红的脸直朝下流，“我要让你吃苦头。你就等着瞧吧！”

“多漂亮的小伙子，”马丁说道，“他却不明白自己在走下坡路呢。像他那样造别人的谣，是一种不诚实、不光明正大的行为，缺乏男子汉的气味，而他自己还意识不到呢。”

“这得由咱们来告诉他。”勃力森登乘着对方停顿的当儿插嘴说。

“是啊，我得教导教导他，因为他对我进行过恶意中伤。以后，食品店肯定再也不会让我赊账了。最为糟糕的是，这可怜的孩子再这样干下去，就会堕落成一个头号新闻记者，同时也是头号无赖。”

“不过，事情还来得及。”勃力森登说，“谁说得来着，也许你会成为挽救他的得力工具呢。刚才你为什么不让我也揍他一下呢？我也想贡献自己的一份力量。”

“我要叫人把你们俩都抓起来，你们这些大……大……大……大坏蛋。”执迷不悟的小记者抽泣着说。

“不行呀，他的嘴巴太漂亮、太娇嫩了，”马丁故作悲伤地摇头晃脑地说，“恐怕我是白白把手打麻了。这位小伙子反正改不了啦。他将来一定会成为一个伟大和有成就的新闻记者。他是没有心肝的。单凭这一点，他就可以成为伟人。”

这时，小记者溜出了房门，心里一直怀着恐惧，生怕勃力森登用手中紧攥的那只酒瓶从背后给他一下。

第二天早晨，马丁从报上又看到了许多叫他感到新奇的有关于他自己的情况。“我们与社会不共戴天，”一栏采访记把这样的话安到他头上，引用说，“我们不是无政府主义者，而是社会主义者。”文章的作者指出，这两种主义之间似乎没有什么区别，据说马丁耸了耸肩膀，表示默认。根据文章的描绘，他的脸两侧生得不对称，而且身上还显露出别的种种堕落痕迹，其中尤为醒目的是他那双暴徒的手以及他那布满血丝的眼睛里闪射出的凶光。

报上还写到，他每天晚上都在市政厅公园向工人们发表演讲，而且，他在那些煽动人们思想的无政府主义者和鼓动家当中，吸引的听众最多，言辞也最激烈。小记者还花重墨描绘了他那寒碜的斗室、斗室中的油炉以及仅有的那把椅子，描绘了那个跟他做伴的死尸般的浪人，说那个浪人就好像是在某个城堡的地牢里被单独监禁了二十年，刚刚放出来一样。

小记者是个勤奋的人。他东奔西跑，打听到了马丁的家世，还搞到一张希金波森零售店的照片，而伯纳德·希金波森本人就站在店门外。报道中说，这位先生是个明智、体面的生意人，他无法容忍小舅子的社会主义观点，也无法容忍小舅子本人，说他是一个懒惰成性的窝囊废，给他工作他不愿干，早晚都得蹲班房。玛丽安的丈夫，赫尔曼·冯·施米特也受到了采访。他把马丁称作家里的害群之马，跟马丁断绝了来往。“他企图揩我的油水，可我当即就跟他彻底一刀两断，”冯·施米特告诉记者说，“他总算识相，不再来纠缠了。要让我说，一个人不愿工作就不是个好人。”

这一回，马丁真的生气了。勃力森登把这件事视为精彩的玩笑，可他安慰不了马丁，因为马丁知道自己将很难向露丝说得清。马丁还知道，她的父亲一定会为所发生的事情大喜过望，还会利用这次机会解除他们的婚约。具体会利用到什么程度，很快就能知晓。当天下午，邮差送来了一封露丝写的信。马丁拆信时有一种不祥的预感，索性站在他刚从邮差手中接过信的那扇敞开的大门旁读了起来。读着读着，他不由自主又像往日抽烟时一样，伸手到口袋里去取烟叶以及卷烟用的棕色纸。却不知口袋里是空的，也觉察不到自己在用手取卷烟用的东西。

信中没有热情的词句，也不见发泄愤怒的话语。可是，从第一句始到末一句终，通篇都响彻着一种伤心和失望的调子。她说，她原以为他已经克服了少年时的疯狂劲，以为她对他的爱值得珍惜，使他认认真真、正正派派过日子。现在，她的父母采取了坚决的态度，要他们解除婚约。她不得不承认他们有理由这样做。他们俩的关系绝不可能美满，从一开始就是不幸的。她在全信中只写了一段遗憾的话，而这段话使马丁感到非常痛苦。“早先你如果谋个职业，努力发展自己，事情就不会是这样的了，”她写道，“但偏偏出现了现在的结果。你过去的生活太狂放，太不正统了。我知道这不能怪你。你只能按自己的天性，根据早年的教养做事情。所以，我不责怪你，马丁。请你记住，这只是一个错误。我父母认为咱们俩不般配，说幸亏发现得不算太迟，咱们应该感到高兴。”……“你不用再来找我了，”她在临近结尾时这样说道，“再见面，只会让你我以及我的母亲不快。我觉得，我实际上已经给她老人家带来了许多痛苦和忧虑。这伤口得花好长时间才能弥合。”

他把信又从头至尾仔细看了一遍，然后坐下来写回信。他把自己在社会主义者大会上的发言概括地复述了一下，指明他所说的话与报纸硬安在他头上的那通言论在各个方面都是截然相反的。在信尾，他以一种狂热的恋人口气，苦苦哀求对方爱他。“请回信，”他写道，“在你的回信中，你必须告诉我一点——你是不是爱我！别的都不重要——只要你回答这一个问题。”

可是，第二天和第三天都没有见到回信。《逾期》放在桌子上，他一碰也不去碰，桌下的退稿一天一天愈积愈多。他的酣睡头一次受到了失眠的打搅，他辗转反侧，熬过了一个个漫长而烦躁的夜晚。他到摩斯家去了三次，但每一次都被听到门铃声前来开门的仆人支走。勃力森登在旅馆里卧床不起，身子虚弱得不能出来走动，马丁倒是常去陪他，却不愿讲出自己的心事让他不安。

对马丁而言，麻烦事的确很多。那位小记者的报道所产生的后果之严重，甚至超出了马丁的预料。那位葡萄牙食品商拒绝再赊账给他，而那位身为美国人并以此感到自豪的水果商则称他为“祖国的叛徒”，不愿再同他打交道，并且彻底贯彻爱国主义原则，把他欠的账一笔勾销，不许他再抱有还账的企图。街坊邻里的谈话中也反映出同样的情绪，对马丁抱着极大的愤慨。谁都不愿和一个叛逆的社会主义者来往。可怜的玛丽亚半信半疑，给吓坏了，可她仍对马丁忠心耿耿。附近的孩子们忘掉了曾经来找马丁的华贵马车给他们带来的敬畏感，现在隔着老远喊他“浪子”和“无业游民”。然而，西尔瓦家的孩子忠实地捍卫他，为了他的荣誉打了不止一次激烈的战争，于是，青紫的眼睛和淌血的鼻子成了家常便饭，这加重了玛丽亚的困惑和担忧。

一次，马丁在奥克兰的街上遇到了葛特露，从她嘴里听到了一件他知道势必会发生的事情——希金波森为他让全家人当众出丑感到非常恼火，禁止他再上门去。

“你为什么不离开这里呢，马丁？”葛特露央求道，“你走吧，到别的地方找个工作安顿下来。等风头过去之后，可以再回来嘛。”

马丁摇了摇头，一句解释的话也没说。叫他怎么解释呢？他痛心地看到自己跟家人之间，在思想上横着一道万丈鸿沟。他永远无法跨过这道鸿沟，无法跟他们解释自己的观点——即尼采关于社会主义的理论。要让他们理解他的态度和行为，英语的词汇是够用的，别的语种也一样。他们认为他应该找个工作，这是他们所能想得到的正确行为。他们自始至终只会说这一句话，因为这是他们思想宝库中的唯一内容。找个工作！去干活吧！当他的姐姐在一旁讲话的时候，他的心里却在为这些可怜、愚昧的奴隶惋惜。难怪这个世界属于强者，奴隶总摆脱不了被奴役的命运。一份工作对他们就是金身神像，叫他们顶礼膜拜。

尽管他明知自己当天就得去当东西，但葛特露要给他钱时，他却又一次摇了摇头。

“眼下可别靠近伯纳德。”她告诫他说，“过上几个月，待他的火气消了之后，如果你愿意，可以为他工作，赶马车去送货。一旦需要我，就叫人捎个口信，我会来的。可别忘了。”

她出声地哭泣，走掉了。望着她那沉重的躯体和笨拙的步态，他不由感到一阵悲哀。目送着她远去，他觉得尼采的理论大厦在颤抖，有点摇摇欲坠。以抽象的理论谈论奴隶倒真是无所谓，可一联系到自己家里的人，就不那么叫人痛快了。不过，只要有一个奴隶被强者践踏到脚下，那就是他的姐姐葛特露。一想到自己的矛盾心理，他便露出了野性的微笑。亏他还是一个杰出的尼采主义者呢，竟然一触动情思和感情，就让思想观念受到动摇——唉，受到奴隶伦理观的动摇，因为这实际上是由于他对姐姐的怜悯而致。真正高贵的人是不屑怜悯和同情的，怜悯和同情产生于处于底层的奴隶营中，无非是那些拥挤在一起的可怜人及弱者的苦难和血汗的产物。

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[1]　17世纪一种基督教的神秘主义教派，主张“清静无为”。