CHAPTER XLIII

“The Shame of the Sun” was published in October. As Martin cut the cords of the express package and the half-dozen complimentary copies from the publishers spilled out on the table, a heavy sadness fell upon him. He thought of the wild delight that would have been his had this happened a few short months before, and he contrasted that delight that should have been with his present uncaring coldness. His book, his first book, and his pulse had not gone up a fraction of a beat, and he was only sad. It meant little to him now. The most it meant was that it might bring some money, and little enough did he care for money.

He carried a copy out into the kitchen and presented it to Maria.

“I did it,” he explained, in order to clear up her bewilderment. “I wrote it in the room there, and I guess some few quarts of your vegetable soup went into the making of it. Keep it. It’s yours. Just to remember me by, you know.”

He was not bragging, not showing off. His sole motive was to make her happy, to make her proud of him, to justify her long faith in him. She put the book in the front room on top of the family Bible. A sacred thing was this book her lodger had made, a fetich of friendship. It softened the blow of his having been a laundryman, and though she could not understand a line of it, she knew that every line of it was great. She was a simple, practical, hard-working woman, but she possessed faith in large endowment.

Just as emotionlessly as he had received “The Shame of the Sun” did he read the reviews of it that came in weekly from the clipping bureau. The book was making a hit, that was evident. It meant more gold in the money sack. He could fix up Lizzie, redeem all his promises, and still have enough left to build his grass-walled castle.

Singletree, Darnley & Co. had cautiously brought out an edition of fifteen hundred copies, but the first reviews had started a second edition of twice the size through the presses; and ere this was delivered a third edition of five thousand had been ordered. A London firm made arrangements by cable for an English edition, and hot-footed upon this came the news of French, German, and Scandinavian translations in progress. The attack upon the Maeterlinck school could not have been made at a more opportune moment. A fierce controversy was precipitated. Saleeby and Haeckel indorsed and defended “The Shame of the Sun,” for once finding themselves on the same side of a question. Crookes and Wallace ranged up on the opposing side, while Sir Oliver Lodge attempted to formulate a compromise that would jibe with his particular cosmic theories. Maeterlinck’s followers rallied around the standard of mysticism. Chesterton set the whole world laughing with a series of alleged non-partisan essays on the subject, and the whole affair, controversy and controversialists, was well-nigh swept into the pit by a thundering broadside from George Bernard Shaw. Needless to say the arena was crowded with hosts of lesser lights, and the dust and sweat and din became terrific.

“It is a most marvellous happening,” Singletree, Darnley & Co. wrote Martin, “a critical philosophic essay selling like a novel. You could not have chosen your subject better, and all contributory factors have been unwarrantedly propitious. We need scarcely to assure you that we are making hay while the sun shines. Over forty thousand copies have already been sold in the United States and Canada, and a new edition of twenty thousand is on the presses. We are overworked, trying to supply the demand. Nevertheless we have helped to create that demand. We have already spent five thousand dollars in advertising. The book is bound to be a record-breaker.”

“Please find herewith a contract in duplicate for your next book which we have taken the liberty of forwarding to you. You will please note that we have increased your royalties to twenty per cent, which is about as high as a conservative publishing house dares go. If our offer is agreeable to you, please fill in the proper blank space with the title of your book. We make no stipulations concerning its nature. Any book on any subject. If you have one already written, so much the better. Now is the time to strike. The iron could not be hotter.”

“On receipt of signed contract we shall be pleased to make you an advance on royalties of five thousand dollars. You see, we have faith in you,and we are going in on this thing big. We should like, also, to discuss with you the drawing up of a contract for a term of years, say ten, during which we shall have the exclusive right of publishing in book-form all that you produce. But more of this anon.”

Martin laid down the letter and worked a problem in mental arithmetic, finding the product of fifteen cents times sixty thousand to be nine thousand dollars. He signed the new contract, inserting “The Smoke of Joy” in the blank space, and mailed it back to the publishers along with the twenty storiettes he had written in the days before he discovered the formula for the newspaper storiette. And promptly as the United States mail could deliver and return, came Singletree, Darnley & Co.’s check for five thousand dollars.

“I want you to come down town with me, Maria, this afternoon about two o’clock,” Martin said, the morning the check arrived. “Or, better, meet me at Fourteenth and Broadway at two o’clock. I’ll be looking out for you.”

At the appointed time she was there;but shoes was the only clue to the mystery her mind had been capable of evolving, and she suffered a distinct shock of disappointment when Martin walked her right by a shoe-store and dived into a real estate office. What happened thereupon resided forever after in her memory as a dream. Fine gentlemen smiled at her benevolently as they talked with Martin and one another; a typewriter clicked; signatures were affixed to an imposing document; her own landlord was there, too, and affixed his signature; and when all was over and she was outside on the sidewalk, her landlord spoke to her, saying, “Well, Maria, you won’t have to pay me no seven dollars and a half this month.”

Maria was too stunned for speech.

“Or next month, or the next, or the next,” her landlord said.

She thanked him incoherently, as if for a favor. And it was not until she had returned home to North Oakland and conferred with her own kind, and had the Portuguese grocer investigate, that she really knew that she was the owner of the little house in which she had lived and for which she had paid rent so long.

“Why don’t you trade with me no more?” the Portuguese grocer asked Martin that evening, stepping out to hail him when he got off the car; and Martin explained that he wasn’t doing his own cooking any more, and then went in and had a drink of wine on the house. He noted it was the best wine the grocer had in stock.

“Maria,” Martin announced that night, “I’m going to leave you. And you’re going to leave here yourself soon. Then you can rent the house and be a landlord yourself. You’ve a brother in San Leandro or Haywards, and he’s in the milk business. I want you to send all your washing back unwashed—understand?—unwashed, and to go out to San Leandro tomorrow, or Haywards, or wherever it is, and see that brother of yours. Tell him to come to see me. I’ll be stopping at the Metropole down in Oakland. He’ll know a good milk-ranch when he sees one.”

And so it was that Maria became a landlord and the sole owner of a dairy, with two hired men to do the work for her and a bank account that steadily increased despite the fact that her whole brood wore shoes and went to school. Few persons ever meet the fairy princes they dream about; but Maria, who worked hard and whose head was hard, never dreaming about fairy princes, entertained hers in the guise of an ex-laundryman.

In the meantime the world had begun to ask: “Who is this Martin Eden?” He had declined to give any biographical data to his publishers, but the newspapers were not to be denied. Oakland was his own town, and the reporters nosed out scores of individuals who could supply information. All that he was and was not, all that he had done and most of what he had not done, was spread out for the delectation of the public, accompanied by snapshots and photographs—the latter procured from the local photographer who had once taken Martin’s picture and who promptly copyrighted it and put it on the market. At first, so great was his disgust with the magazines and all bourgeois society, Martin fought against publicity; but in the end, because it was easier than not to, he surrendered. He found that he could not refuse himself to the special writers who travelled long distances to see him. Then again, each day was so many hours long, and, since he no longer was occupied with writing and studying, those hours had to be occupied somehow; so he yielded to what was to him a whim, permitted interviews, gave his opinions on literature and philosophy, and even accepted invitations of the bourgeoisie. He had settled down into a strange and comfortable state of mind. He no longer cared. He forgave everybody, even the cub reporter who had painted him red and to whom he now granted a full page with specially posed photographs.

He saw Lizzie occasionally, and it was patent that she regretted the greatness that had come to him. It widened the space between them. Perhaps it was with the hope of narrowing it that she yielded to his persuasions to go to night school and business college and to have herself gowned by a wonderful dressmaker who charged outrageous prices. She improved visibly from day to day, until Martin wondered if he was doing right, for he knew that all her compliance and endeavor was for his sake. She was trying to make herself of worth in his eyes—of the sort of worth he seemed to value. Yet he gave her no hope, treating her in brotherly fashion and rarely seeing her.

“Overdue” was rushed upon the market by the Meredith-Lowell Company in the height of his popularity, and being fiction, in point of sales it made even a bigger strike than “The Shame of the Sun.” Week after week his was the credit of the unprecedented performance of having two books at the head of the list of best-sellers. Not only did the story take with the fiction-readers, but those who read “The Shame of the Sun” with avidity were likewise attracted to the sea-story by the cosmic grasp of mastery with which he had handled it. First he had attacked the literature of mysticism, and had done it exceeding well; and, next, he had successfully supplied the very literature he had exposited, thus proving himself to be that rare genius, a critic and a creator in one.

Money poured in on him, fame poured in on him; he flashed, comet-like, through the world of literature, and he was more amused than interested by the stir he was making. One thing was puzzling him, a little thing that would have puzzled the world had it known. But the world would have puzzled over his bepuzzlement rather than over the little thing that to him loomed gigantic. Judge Blount invited him to dinner. That was the little thing, or the beginning of the little thing, that was soon to become the big thing. He had insulted Judge Blount, treated him abominably, and Judge Blount, meeting him on the street, invited him to dinner. Martin bethought himself of the numerous occasions on which he had met Judge Blount at the Morses’ and when Judge Blount had not invited him to dinner. Why had he not invited him to dinner then? he asked himself. He had not changed. He was the same Martin Eden. What made the difference? The fact that the stuff he had written had appeared inside the covers of books? But it was work performed. It was not something he had done since. It was achievement accomplished at the very time Judge Blount was sharing this general view and sneering at his Spencer and his intellect. Therefore it was not for any real value, but for a purely fictitious value that Judge Blount invited him to dinner.

Martin grinned and accepted the invitation, marvelling the while at his complacence. And at the dinner, where, with their womankind, were half a dozen of those that sat in high places, and where Martin found himself quite the lion, Judge Blount, warmly seconded by Judge Hanwell, urged privately that Martin should permit his name to be put up for the Styx—the ultra-select club to which belonged, not the mere men of wealth, but the men of attainment. And Martin declined, and was more puzzled than ever.

He was kept busy disposing of his heap of manuscripts. He was overwhelmed by requests from editors. It had been discovered that he was a stylist, with meat under his style. The Northern Review, after publishing“The Cradle of Beauty,” had written him for half a dozen similar essays, which would have been supplied out of the heap,had not Burton’s Magazine, in a speculative mood, offered him five hundred dollars each for five essays. He wrote back that he would supply the demand, but at a thousand dollars an essay. He remembered that all these manuscripts had been refused by the very magazines that were now clamoring for them. And their refusals had been cold-blooded, automatic, stereotyped. They had made him sweat, and now he intended to make them sweat.Burton’s Magazine paid his price for five essays, and the remaining four, at the same rate, were snapped up by Mackintosh’s Monthly,The Northern Review being too poor to stand the pace. Thus went out to the world “The High Priests of Mystery,” “The Wonder-Dreamers,” “The Yardstick of the Ego,” “Philosophy of Illusion,” “God and Clod,” “Art and Biology,” “Critics and Test-tubes,” “Star-dust,” and “The Dignity of Usury,”—to raise storms and rumblings and mutterings that were many a day in dying down.

Editors wrote to him telling him to name his own terms, which he did, but it was always for work performed. He refused resolutely to pledge himself to any new thing. The thought of again setting pen to paper maddened him. He had seen Brissenden torn to pieces by the crowd, and despite the fact that him the crowd acclaimed, he could not get over the shock nor gather any respect for the crowd. His very popularity seemed a disgrace and a treason to Brissenden. It made him wince, but he made up his mind to go on and fill the money-bag.

He received letters from editors like the following: “About a year ago we were unfortunate enough to refuse your collection of love-poems. We were greatly impressed by them at the time, but certain arrangements already entered into prevented our taking them. If you still have them, and if you will be kind enough to forward them, we shall be glad to publish the entire collection on your own terms. We are also prepared to make a most advantageous offer for bringing them out in book-form.”

Martin recollected his blank-verse tragedy, and sent it instead. He read it over before mailing, and was particularly impressed by its sophomoric amateurishness and general worthlessness. But he sent it; and it was published, to the everlasting regret of the editor. The public was indignant and incredulous. It was too far a cry from Martin Eden’s high standard to that serious bosh. It was asserted that he had never written it, that the magazine had faked it very clumsily, or that Martin Eden was emulating the elder Dumas and at the height of success was hiring his writing done for him. But when he explained that the tragedy was an early effort of his literary childhood, and that the magazine had refused to be happy unless it got it, a great laugh went up at the magazine’s expense and a change in the editorship followed. The tragedy was never brought out in book-form, though Martin pocketed the advance royalties that had been paid.

Coleman’s Weekly sent Martin a lengthy telegram,costing nearly three hundred dollars, offering him a thousand dollars an article for twenty articles. He was to travel over the United States, with all expenses paid, and select whatever topics interested him. The body of the telegram was devoted to hypothetical topics in order to show him the freedom of range that was to be his. The only restriction placed upon him was that he must confine himself to the United States. Martin sent his inability to accept and his regrets by wire“collect.”

“Wiki-Wiki,”published in Warren’s Monthly, was an instantaneous success. It was brought out forward in a wide-margined, beautifully decorated volume that struck the holiday trade and sold like wildfire. The critics were unanimous in the belief that it would take its place with those two classics by two great writers, “The Bottle Imp” and “The Magic Skin.”

The public, however, received the “Smoke of Joy” collection rather dubiously and coldly. The audacity and unconventionality of the storiettes was a shock to bourgeois morality and prejudice; but when Paris went mad over the immediate translation that was made, the American and English reading public followed suit and bought so many copies that Martin compelled the conservative house of Singletree, Darnley & Co. to pay a flat royalty of twenty-five per cent for a third book, and thirty per cent flat for a fourth. These two volumes comprised all the short stories he had written and which had received, or were receiving, serial publication. “The Ring of Bells”and his horror stories constituted one collection; the other collection was composed of “Adventure,” “The Pot,” “The Wine of Life,” “The Whirlpool,”“The Jostling Street,” and four other stories. The Lowell-Meredith Company captured the collection of all his essays, and the Maxmillian Company got his“Sea Lyrics” and the “Love-cycle,” the latter receiving serial publication in the Ladies’Home Companion after the payment of an extortionate price.

Martin heaved a sigh of relief when he had disposed of the last manuscript. The grass-walled castle and the white, coppered schooner were very near to him. Well, at any rate he had discovered Brissenden’s contention that nothing of merit found its way into the magazines. His own success demonstrated that Brissenden had been wrong.

And yet, somehow, he had a feeling that Brissenden had been right, after all. “The Shame of the Sun” had been the cause of his success more than the stuff he had written. That stuff had been merely incidental. It had been rejected right and left by the magazines. The publication of “The Shame of the Sun” had started a controversy and precipitated the landslide in his favor. Had there been no “Shame of the Sun” there would have been no landslide, and had there been no miracle in the go of “The Shame of the Sun”there would have been no landslide. Singletree, Darnley & Co. attested that miracle. They had brought out a first edition of fifteen hundred copies and been dubious of selling it. They were experienced publishers and no one had been more astounded than they at the success which had followed. To them it had been in truth a miracle. They never got over it, and every letter they wrote him reflected their reverent awe of that first mysterious happening. They did not attempt to explain it. There was no explaining it. It had happened. In the face of all experience to the contrary, it had happened.

So it was, reasoning thus, that Martin questioned the validity of his popularity. It was the bourgeoisie that bought his books and poured its gold into his money-sack, and from what little he knew of the bourgeoisie it was not clear to him how it could possibly appreciate or comprehend what he had written. His intrinsic beauty and power meant nothing to the hundreds of thousands who were acclaiming him and buying his books. He was the fad of the hour, the adventurer who had stormed Parnassus while the gods nodded. The hundreds of thousands read him and acclaimed him with the same brute non-understanding with which they had flung themselves on Brissenden’s “Ephemera” and torn it to pieces—a wolf-rabble that fawned on him instead of fanging him. Fawn or fang, it was all a matter of chance. One thing he knew with absolute certitude: “Ephemera” was infinitely greater than anything he had done. It was infinitely greater than anything he had in him. It was a poem of centuries. Then the tribute the mob paid him was a sorry tribute indeed, for that same mob had wallowed “Ephemera” into the mire. He sighed heavily and with satisfaction. He was glad the last manuscript was sold and that he would soon be done with it all.

第四十三章

《太阳的耻辱》于十月份出版了。马丁割断快递邮包上的绳子，出版商赠送的六本样书掉落到了桌子上，可他心中此刻感到的却是一阵深深的悲哀。他暗忖，如果这发生在短短的几个月前，他一定会欣喜若狂，于是他不由把应该有的那种喜悦与眼下自己的淡泊和冷漠做了一番比较。这是他写的书，他出版的第一本书，可是他脉搏的跳动一丝一毫都没有加快，心里只有悲哀。现在，这对他已失去了意义，充其量只能给他带来一些钱，可是他对金钱一点也不在乎呀。

他拿着一本书来到厨房里，把它送给了玛丽亚。

“这是我写的，”他解释道，希望能打消对方的疑团，“就是在那间小屋里写的。依我看，你送去的那几夸脱菜汤也在中间起了作用。收下吧，书是你的了。全当我的一件纪念品吧。”

他不是在炫耀和卖弄，心里唯一的动机就是让她高兴，让她为他感到骄傲，并且向她证明，她长期以来对他抱有的信念是正确的。她走进前厅，把书放到了家用《圣经》上。她家的房客撰写的这本书是一件圣品，是友谊的象征。他当过洗衣匠一事曾给她以沉重的打击，而今这本书减弱了她的痛苦。书中的内容她一句也看不懂，但她认为里面的每一个句子都是伟大的。她是一个单纯、实际和勤劳的女性，然而却崇拜杰出的人才。

他对《太阳的耻辱》一书的出版无动于衷，在阅读剪报公司每周寄来的书评时也同样无动于衷。他的书引起了轰动，这是显而易见的。这意味着他的钱袋里可以装入更多的金币。他可以为丽茜做点安排，可以兑现他所有的许诺，之后还能剩下足够的钱建造干草打墙的城堡。

辛格尔屈利·达恩莱出版公司小心翼翼地一版印了一千五百本；他们看到第一批书评，二版又印了三千本；这批书还未发出去，第三版便接到了五千本的订单。伦敦的一家出版公司拍来电报，商谈在英国出书，接踵而来的是法国、德国以及北欧都在翻译该书的消息。这本抨击梅特林克派的书出版得再合时宜也不过了，引发了一场激烈的论战。萨利倍和海克尔持拥护的态度，为《太阳的耻辱》进行辩护，这两人总算在一次论战中站到了同一边。克罗克斯[1]和华莱士[2]则站在反对的一边，而奥列佛·洛其爵士[3]根据自己的那套宇宙学说，企图提出一种折中的看法。梅特林克的信徒们团结在神秘主义的旗帜周围。切斯特顿[4]就这个问题连篇累牍写了一些被公认为不偏不倚的论文，逗得全世界都捧腹大笑；后来，乔治·萧伯纳的一顿炮火，把所有的一切，包括这场论战以及参加论战的人，几乎全都轰到了阴沟里。不用说，战场上还有一群群的牙将，真是灰尘蔽日，喊杀声连天，煞是热闹。

“哲学性的论文集竟和小说一样畅销，实在是天大的奇迹。”辛格尔屈利·达恩莱出版公司在给马丁的信中说，“你的选题恰到好处，所有的一切都异常顺利。不说你也明白，我们正在抓住有利时机。四万余册书在美国和加拿大销售一空，新版两万册已付印。为了满足市场的需求，我们加班加点地工作。不过，这种需求是我们自己创造的，光广告费就花了五千块钱。这本书一定会打破以往的纪录。

“我们冒昧地附上一份合同书的副本，向你预约第二部书稿。恭请注意，我们把版权税提高到了百分之二十，这是一个稳重的出版社所敢于提出的最高版权税。如果你对我们的条件感到满意，请将书名填入‘书名’一栏。我们对书的内容不做规定，什么样的题材都可以。倘若你手头有完稿的作品，那就更好。眼下是最佳时机，万不可坐失。

“收到你签过的合同书后，我们愿预支给你五千块钱的版权税。我们对你是有信心的，打算大张旗鼓地干一场，我们还想同你商量签订一份长期合同，譬如说以十年为期，凡是你写的书，都由我们独家刊行。详情容以后再谈。”

马丁放下信，在心里列了个算术题，算出一角五分乘六万的得数是九千块钱。于是，他签了那份新合同，在书名栏填上了《欢乐的烟雾》，寄还给出版商，还寄去二十篇短篇小说，那是他在尚未找到报刊小说公式之前撰写的。只隔了美国邮政一来一回所需的那么长时间，辛格尔屈利·达恩莱出版公司就寄来了一张五千块的支票。

“今天下午两点钟左右，我想请你跟我一道进城去，玛丽亚。”马丁早晨收到支票后，这样说道，“要不这样吧，你两点钟到第十四大街和百老汇大街的拐角处等我。到时候，我去找你。”

按着约定的时间，她赶到了那里。她那困惑的脑袋瓜所能想到的唯一东西就是买鞋子，所以，当马丁领着她从一家鞋店门前走过，钻进一家不动产事务所时，她流露出了一种诧异和失望的表情。随后发生的事情似梦一般，使她一辈子都忘不了。几位体面的先生一边冲她和蔼地微笑，一边跟马丁讲话，他们自己之间也谈上几句；打字机啪嗒啪嗒响了一阵；大家在一份很正规的文件上签了字；她的房东也在，也签了名字；待一切手续办完，她走到街上时，房东对她说道：“喂，玛丽亚，这个月的那七块半钱的房租不用交啦。”

玛丽亚一下子惊得说不出话来了。

“下个月，下下个月，以及下下下个月，都不用交房租了。”房东又说道。

她结结巴巴道了谢，像受了人家的恩惠似的，直至回到北奥克兰的家中，找自己圈里的人商量了一下，还请那位葡萄牙食品商调查了一番，她才算真正明白过来。原来，她住的这幢小屋，这幢她交了多年房钱的小屋，现在归她所有啦。

“为什么不买我的东西啦？”这天晚上，马丁下了电车，葡萄牙食品商走出来迎住他，问他道。马丁解释说，他现在不自己做饭了。随后，他应邀走进店里，喝了杯酒。他留意到，那是食品店里存的最好的酒。

“玛丽亚，我要和你分手了。”马丁当天夜里宣布道，“不久，你也会离开这里的。到时候你可以把这房子租出去，当当房东，你不是有个哥哥在圣莱安德罗或海华滋做牛奶生意么。我要你把人家的衣服都退回去，不要洗了——懂吗？明天你就到圣莱安德罗或海华滋什么来着，去找你的那个哥哥，让他来见我。我住奥克兰的都市饭店。他懂行，知道什么样的牛奶场好。”

就这样，玛丽亚当上了房东，还成了一个牛奶场唯一的主人，她雇了两个人为她干活，在银行里有了存款。尽管家里的孩子都穿上了新鞋，并到学校里念书，她的存款依然持续增加。有人梦到神话中的王子，然而却无人亲眼见到过；辛勤劳动、讲求实际的玛丽亚从未梦到过神话中的王子，可是却收一个曾经当过洗衣匠的王子当了房客。

这个时候，世人开始发问：“这位马丁·伊登是何许人？”马丁拒绝向出版商提供自己的履历材料，但报界就不好对付了。奥克兰是他的家乡，于是记者们一下就发掘出了几十个能够提供情况的人。凡是关于他的情况，无论是真实的还是虚构的，凡是他干过的事情以及许多他没干过的事情，全都登载出来供公众欣赏，并附着快照和相片——相片是当地的一个摄影师提供的，此人曾为马丁照过相，这时即刻为他的相片弄到版权，推向市场。起初，马丁对新闻界和资产阶级社会的做法十分厌恶，反对它们的宣传；可最后他终于屈服了，因为屈服比反对省力气。他觉得自己无法将远道而来的特派记者拒之门外。再说，一天的时间这么长，既然不再埋头写作和读书，总得有点事情做以打发这些钟点。于是，他便逆来顺受，由着一时的兴致，允许采访，并对文学和哲学发表看法，甚至还接受资产阶级的邀请去赴宴。他的心情处于一种古怪而舒畅的状态。他对什么都不计较，对所有的人都宽恕，甚至宽恕了那个曾经把他描绘成暴力分子的小记者。他允许小记者为他写了一整版采访记，还登了特摄的照片。

他偶尔也和丽茜见见面。很明显，她不愿让他有这么显赫的名声，因为这加宽了他们之间的距离。也许是抱着一种缩短距离的希望，她听从了他的劝告，上夜校和商学院读书，并让索价昂贵的高级裁缝为她做时装。她每天都有显著的进步，后来马丁竟然怀疑起自己的决定是否正确，因为他知道她的依从和努力全都是为了他。她竭力使自己在他眼中有价值——有那种他看起来似乎十分重视的价值。然而，他不给她以指望，像哥哥一样对待她，而且很少去看她。

趁着他声名鹊起之际，梅瑞迪斯-罗威尔出版公司急忙把《逾期》推上了市场。由于这是部小说，销路甚至比《太阳的耻辱》还好。每个星期的畅销书目中，他的两本书都名列榜首，这是史无前例的高尚荣誉。《逾期》不仅受到小说读者的青睐，《太阳的耻辱》的热情读者也被这部海洋小说深深地吸引住，从中可以欣赏到他博大精深的写作技巧。首先，他抨击了神秘主义文学，而且干得非常出色；接着，他成功地端出了自己所提倡的文学观，这证明他是一个罕见的天才，集评论家和创作家的素质于一身。

金钱滚滚而来，名声愈来愈大；他宛如一颗彗星，猛地在文坛上散发出光彩，可他对自己引起的轰动却不感兴趣，反而觉得好笑。有一件事让他想不通。那是一件小事，如果叫世人知道了缘由，他们会感到困惑的。他把那件小事看成天大的事，但别人不会为那件事困惑，而只会为他想不通感到困惑。勃朗特法官请他去吃饭。就是这么件小事，或者说，开始时这是件小事，但它很快就会演变为大事。他曾当面羞辱过勃朗特法官，态度十分恶劣，可勃朗特法官在街上碰到他，竟邀请他去吃饭。马丁心想，他在摩斯府上屡次遇见勃朗特法官，对方从未请他吃过饭，为什么偏偏现在就请他吃饭呢？他问自己。他人没有变，仍是那个马丁·伊登。问题在哪里呢？是因为他写的东西在书上发表了吗？可那是早已完稿的作品呀，又不是后来才写的。当勃朗特法官抱着普通人的那种看法，讥笑斯宾塞的学说以及他的观点时，这些作品已经完成了呀。如此看来，勃朗特法官请他吃饭并非为了某种真正的价值，而是看重于某种虚幻的价值。

马丁笑了笑，接受了邀请，同时又为自己的心安理得感到诧异。六七位达官贵人带着他们的女眷参加了宴会，马丁发现自己成了中心人物，勃朗特法官由汉威尔法官起劲地帮着腔，私下劝他加入冥河俱乐部——那是个极端严格的俱乐部，其成员不仅仅要有钱，还必须有成就。马丁谢绝了，心里愈加想不通了。

他忙得焦头烂额，把那堆手稿朝外卖。编辑们求稿的信弄得他难以应付。人们发现他是个讲究风格的作家，而且讲的是货真价实的风格。《北方评论》刊载了他的《美之发祥地》后，写信来又要六篇同样性质的论文。原来可以从稿件堆里挑六篇给他们寄去，可是《勃顿氏杂志》出于投机的心理，先一步问他要五篇论文，每篇愿出五百块钱的稿酬。他回信说愿意满足他们的要求，但每篇论文要一千块钱。他记得这些稿子以前正是被这几家杂志社退了回来，可现在他们又趋之若鹜地来要稿。他们的退稿单冷酷无情，机械而千篇一律。他们让他吃过苦头，而今他也要让他们吃吃苦头。《勃顿氏杂志》按他要的价买走了五篇论文，剩下的四篇被《麦金托许氏杂志》以同样的价格抢了去，而《北方评论》太穷，竞争不过别人。就这样，《神秘的祭司长》、《奇迹梦想家》、《衡量自我的尺度》、《错觉论》、《天神与血肉之躯》、《艺术与生物学》、《批评家和试验管》、《星尘》和《高利贷的尊严》相继问世，所引起的议论、哀叹和抱怨久久不能平息。

编辑们写信让他提自己的条件，他照办了，但拿出的总是现成的作品。他铁了心，不愿再写新作。一想到重新操笔耕耘，他就要发狂。他亲眼看见了勃力森登被读者们批得体无完肤的景象，所以那些读者尽管为他喝彩，他仍然余悸难消，无法对他们产生好感。他显赫的名声对勃力森登似乎是一种侮辱和背叛，这一点，叫他泄气，可他打定主意维持下去，非得把钱袋装满不可。

他收到的编辑来信中有这样的话：“约一年前，没能刊用你的爱情诗集，实乃敝社之大不幸。其实，我们对诗稿十分欣赏，只因出版计划已定，才没能采用你的稿子。假如大作仍在手头，恳请惠赐，我等将不胜欣喜，愿意把那些诗按你的条件全部刊出。敝社愿意提供最优厚的稿酬，并打算将诗作成册出版。”

马丁没寄爱情诗，却把无韵的悲剧诗收集在一起，寄了去。在邮寄之前，他把诗稿又看了一遍，深深觉得里边学生的幼稚腔调太浓，从各方面看都缺乏价值。可是，他把稿子寄出去了；诗作刊载后，才叫编辑抱恨终天。读者义愤填膺，狐疑满腹，认为这样蹩脚的劣作与马丁·伊登高标准的创作简直是天壤之别。人们一口咬定这绝不是他写的，而是杂志社拙劣的仿造品，要不就是马丁·伊登模仿大仲马[5]的做法，乘着自己功成名就之际，雇人捉刀代笔。后来他解释说这部悲剧诗是他初涉文坛的早期作品，那家杂志社非要不可，这么一解释惹得公众对杂志社的枉费心机大大嘲笑了一通，结果使杂志社换了编辑。马丁把预付的版权税装进了口袋，但悲剧诗始终未成册出版。

《考尔门氏周刊》花了近三百块钱，给马丁拍了一封冗长的电报，请他写二十篇文章，每篇愿付给他一千块钱的稿酬。他可以到美国各地旅游，费用全部报销，愿选什么样的题材就选什么样的题材，电文中虚拟了一些题目，目的是想向他表明他可以任意选择。对他的唯一限制是——他只能在美国国内旅游。马丁拍了回电，说自己很遗憾，不能接受，并注明电报费由对方支付。

《维基-维基》在《沃伦月刊》上一登出，立刻赢得了青睐。后来出了册书面边缘空得很宽、装帧十分精美的单行本，轰动了正在度假的读者，似野火般销开了。评论家们一致认为，这部作品可以和两位伟大作家的不朽作品——《瓶中妖魔》[6]及《驴皮记》[7]同享殊荣。

公众对短篇故事集《欢乐的烟雾》，却态度相当暧昧和冷淡。这些短篇故事辛辣而不落俗套，迎头痛击了资产阶级的道德及偏见。不过，法译本一经出版，就弄得巴黎的读者若醉似狂，美国和英国的读者也附庸风雅，拼命地购书。马丁趁机向沉稳谨慎的辛格尔屈利·达恩莱出版公司施加压力，要他们把第三本书按百分之二十五的版税率付酬，第四本按百分之三十的版税率付酬。这两册书包含了他创作的全部短篇故事，有的已连载过，有的则正在连载之中。《嘹亮的钟声》和那些恐怖故事编成一册；另一册包括《冒险》、《罐子》、《生活的美酒》、《漩涡》、《拥挤的街道》以及另外四篇短篇故事。梅瑞迪斯-罗威尔出版公司抢走了他所有的论文集，而麦克斯密伦出版公司则买下了他的《海洋抒情诗》和《爱情组诗》。后来，《妇女家庭之友》付给他一笔可观的稿酬，又连载了《爱情组诗》。

马丁处理掉最后一部稿子，不由松了一口气，干草打墙的城堡和铜壳白帆船眼看就可以到手了。他总算弄清了勃力森登当初为什么要说真正有价值的东西上不了杂志。他的成功虽然表明勃力森登错了，可他有一种感觉，认为勃力森登的看法是千真万确的。他的成功，多是由于《太阳的耻辱》的问世，而不是因为他写了那些文章，那些文章只是次要的，它们屡次三番遭到杂志社的退稿。《太阳的耻辱》出版后，引起了一场论战，这才使他声名鹊起。没有《太阳的耻辱》，就不会引起轰动。没有《太阳的耻辱》创造出奇迹般的销量，他就不会出人头地。辛格尔屈利·达恩莱出版公司目睹了这一奇迹。第一版他们只印了一千五百册，而且还怀疑是否能销完。他们是经验丰富的出版商，但随之而来的成功却令他们万分惊奇。他们觉得这的确是一个奇迹，写给他的每封信中都要怀着敬畏的心情回顾一番当初所出现的神秘现象。他们并不想解释那一现象，因为根本无法解释。它就是那么发生了。他们尽管经验丰富，可是却料所未及。

遐想之际，马丁对自己是否徒有虚名提出了疑问。购买他的书的是资产阶级，正是他们让金钱流入了他的钱袋。他对资产阶级有一星半点的了解，但他弄不清他们怎么能够欣赏得了或理解得了他写的东西。他作品当中内在的美和力量，对成千上万赞美他和购买他的书的读者来说，是毫无意义的。他只是暂时走红，是一个乘天神打盹攻上帕那萨斯山[8]的冒险家。成千上万的人捧读他的书，对他众口皆碑，但他们简直一点也不理解作品的内容，想当初他们攻击勃力森登的《蜉蝣》，将其批得体无完肤时，也同样茫然无知。而今，这些豺狼似的暴民却没有攻击他，却竭尽奉承之能事。攻击也罢，奉承也罢，其实都是一种机遇。有一点他十分肯定：《蜉蝣》比他的任何作品都要强到天上去，那可是数世纪以来最优秀的诗作。如此看来，暴民们对他的称颂实在可悲，因为正是这么一批人把《蜉蝣》打入了十八层地狱。他深深叹了口气，同时也感到心满意足。他高兴的是最后一部稿件已经脱手，他很快就可以一了百了啦。

* * *

[1]　19世纪末20世纪初的英国化学家兼物理学家。

[2]　20世纪初的英国博物学家。

[3]　20世纪初的英国物理学家。

[4]　20世纪初的英国评论家。

[5]　19世纪法国著名小说家，曾请人为他草拟故事梗概，然后由他本人加工成稿。

[6]　史蒂文森的中篇小说。

[7]　巴尔扎克《人间喜剧》中的一部小说。

[8]　希腊神话中缪斯女神的住处，此处喻指文坛。