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马丁·伊登(MARTIN EDEN)第四十五章

本文属阅读资料
Kreis came to Martin one day - Kreis, of the "real dirt"; and Martin turned to him with relief, to receive the glowing details of a scheme sufficiently wild-catty to interest him as a fictionist rather than an investor. Kreis paused long enough in the midst of his exposition to tell him that in most of his "Shame of the Sun" he had been a chump.

"But I didn't come here to spout philosophy," Kreis went on. "What I want to know is whether or not you will put a thousand dollars in on this deal?"

"No, I'm not chump enough for that, at any rate," Martin answered. "But I'll tell you what I will do. You gave me the greatest night of my life. You gave me what money cannot buy. Now I've got money, and it means nothing to me. I'd like to turn over to you a thousand dollars of what I don't value for what you gave me that night and which was beyond price. You need the money. I've got more than I need. You want it. You came for it. There's no use scheming it out of me. Take it."

Kreis betrayed no surprise. He folded the check away in his pocket.

"At that rate I'd like the contract of providing you with many such nights," he said.

"Too late." Martin shook his head. "That night was the one night for me. I was in paradise. It's commonplace with you, I know. But it wasn't to me. I shall never live at such a pitch again. I'm done with philosophy. I want never to hear another word of it."

"The first dollar I ever made in my life out of my philosophy," Kreis remarked, as he paused in the doorway. "And then the market broke."

Mrs. Morse drove by Martin on the street one day, and smiled and nodded. He smiled back and lifted his hat. The episode did not affect him. A month before it might have disgusted him, or made him curious and set him to speculating about her state of consciousness at that moment. But now it was not provocative of a second thought. He forgot about it the next moment. He forgot about it as he would have forgotten the Central Bank Building or the City Hall after having walked past them. Yet his mind was preternaturally active. His thoughts went ever around and around in a circle. The centre of that circle was "work performed"; it ate at his brain like a deathless maggot. He awoke to it in the morning. It tormented his dreams at night. Every affair of life around him that penetrated through his senses immediately related itself to "work performed." He drove along the path of relentless logic to the conclusion that he was nobody, nothing. Mart Eden, the hoodlum, and Mart Eden, the sailor, had been real, had been he; but Martin Eden! the famous writer, did not exist. Martin Eden, the famous writer, was a vapor that had arisen in the mob-mind and by the mob-mind had been thrust into the corporeal being of Mart Eden, the hoodlum and sailor. But it couldn't fool him. He was not that sun-myth that the mob was worshipping and sacrificing dinners to. He knew better.

He read the magazines about himself, and pored over portraits of himself published therein until he was unable to associate his identity with those portraits. He was the fellow who had lived and thrilled and loved; who had been easy-going and tolerant of the frailties of life; who had served in the forecastle, wandered in strange lands, and led his gang in the old fighting days. He was the fellow who had been stunned at first by the thousands of books in the free library, and who had afterward learned his way among them and mastered them; he was the fellow who had burned the midnight oil and bedded with a spur and written books himself. But the one thing he was not was that colossal appetite that all the mob was bent upon feeding.

There were things, however, in the magazines that amused him. All the magazines were claiming him. WARREN'S MONTHLY advertised to its subscribers that it was always on the quest after new writers, and that, among others, it had introduced Martin Eden to the reading public. THE WHITE MOUSE claimed him; so did THE NORTHERN REVIEW and MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE, until silenced by THE GLOBE, which pointed triumphantly to its files where the mangled "Sea Lyrics" lay buried. YOUTH AND AGE, which had come to life again after having escaped paying its bills, put in a prior claim, which nobody but farmers' children ever read. The TRANSCONTINENTAL made a dignified and convincing statement of how it first discovered Martin Eden, which was warmly disputed by THE HORNET, with the exhibit of "The Peri and the Pearl." The modest claim of Singletree, Darnley & Co. was lost in the din. Besides, that publishing firm did not own a magazine wherewith to make its claim less modest.

The newspapers calculated Martin's royalties. In some way the magnificent offers certain magazines had made him leaked out, and Oakland ministers called upon him in a friendly way, while professional begging letters began to clutter his mail. But worse than all this were the women. His photographs were published broadcast, and special writers exploited his strong, bronzed face, his scars, his heavy shoulders, his clear, quiet eyes, and the slight hollows in his cheeks like an ascetic's. At this last he remembered his wild youth and smiled. Often, among the women he met, he would see now one, now another, looking at him, appraising him, selecting him. He laughed to himself. He remembered Brissenden's warning and laughed again. The women would never destroy him, that much was certain. He had gone past that stage.

Once, walking with Lizzie toward night school, she caught a glance directed toward him by a well-gowned, handsome woman of the bourgeoisie. The glance was a trifle too long, a shade too considerative. Lizzie knew it for what it was, and her body tensed angrily. Martin noticed, noticed the cause of it, told her how used he was becoming to it and that he did not care anyway.

"You ought to care," she answered with blazing eyes. "You're sick. That's what's the matter."

"Never healthier in my life. I weigh five pounds more than I ever did."

"It ain't your body. It's your head. Something's wrong with your think-machine. Even I can see that, an' I ain't nobody."

He walked on beside her, reflecting.

"I'd give anything to see you get over it," she broke out impulsively. "You ought to care when women look at you that way, a man like you. It's not natural. It's all right enough for sissy- boys. But you ain't made that way. So help me, I'd be willing an' glad if the right woman came along an' made you care."

When he left Lizzie at night school, he returned to the Metropole.

Once in his rooms, he dropped into a Morris chair and sat staring straight before him. He did not doze. Nor did he think. His mind was a blank, save for the intervals when unsummoned memory pictures took form and color and radiance just under his eyelids. He saw these pictures, but he was scarcely conscious of them - no more so than if they had been dreams. Yet he was not asleep. Once, he roused himself and glanced at his watch. It was just eight o'clock. He had nothing to do, and it was too early for bed. Then his mind went blank again, and the pictures began to form and vanish under his eyelids. There was nothing distinctive about the pictures. They were always masses of leaves and shrub-like branches shot through with hot sunshine.

A knock at the door aroused him. He was not asleep, and his mind immediately connected the knock with a telegram, or letter, or perhaps one of the servants bringing back clean clothes from the laundry. He was thinking about Joe and wondering where he was, as he said, "Come in."

He was still thinking about Joe, and did not turn toward the door. He heard it close softly. There was a long silence. He forgot that there had been a knock at the door, and was still staring blankly before him when he heard a woman's sob. It was involuntary, spasmodic, checked, and stifled - he noted that as he turned about. The next instant he was on his feet.

"Ruth!" he said, amazed and bewildered.

Her face was white and strained. She stood just inside the door, one hand against it for support, the other pressed to her side. She extended both hands toward him piteously, and started forward to meet him. As he caught her hands and led her to the Morris chair he noticed how cold they were. He drew up another chair and sat down on the broad arm of it. He was too confused to speak. In his own mind his affair with Ruth was closed and sealed. He felt much in the same way that he would have felt had the Shelly Hot Springs Laundry suddenly invaded the Hotel Metropole with a whole week's washing ready for him to pitch into. Several times he was about to speak, and each time he hesitated.

"No one knows I am here," Ruth said in a faint voice, with an appealing smile.

"What did you say?"

He was surprised at the sound of his own voice.

She repeated her words.

"Oh," he said, then wondered what more he could possibly say.

"I saw you come in, and I waited a few minutes."

"Oh," he said again.

He had never been so tongue-tied in his life. Positively he did not have an idea in his head. He felt stupid and awkward, but for the life of him he could think of nothing to say. It would have been easier had the intrusion been the Shelly Hot Springs laundry. He could have rolled up his sleeves and gone to work.

"And then you came in," he said finally.

She nodded, with a slightly arch expression, and loosened the scarf at her throat.

"I saw you first from across the street when you were with that girl."

"Oh, yes," he said simply. "I took her down to night school."

"Well, aren't you glad to see me?" she said at the end of another silence.

"Yes, yes." He spoke hastily. "But wasn't it rash of you to come here?"

"I slipped in. Nobody knows I am here. I wanted to see you. I came to tell you I have been very foolish. I came because I could no longer stay away, because my heart compelled me to come, because - because I wanted to come."

She came forward, out of her chair and over to him. She rested her hand on his shoulder a moment, breathing quickly, and then slipped into his arms. And in his large, easy way, desirous of not inflicting hurt, knowing that to repulse this proffer of herself was to inflict the most grievous hurt a woman could receive, he folded his arms around her and held her close. But there was no warmth in the embrace, no caress in the contact. She had come into his arms, and he held her, that was all. She nestled against him, and then, with a change of position, her hands crept up and rested upon his neck. But his flesh was not fire beneath those hands, and he felt awkward and uncomfortable.

"What makes you tremble so?" he asked. "Is it a chill? Shall I light the grate?"

He made a movement to disengage himself, but she clung more closely to him, shivering violently.

"It is merely nervousness," she said with chattering teeth. "I'll control myself in a minute. There, I am better already."

Slowly her shivering died away. He continued to hold her, but he was no longer puzzled. He knew now for what she had come.

"My mother wanted me to marry Charley Hapgood," she announced.

"Charley Hapgood, that fellow who speaks always in platitudes?" Martin groaned. Then he added, "And now, I suppose, your mother wants you to marry me."

He did not put it in the form of a question. He stated it as a certitude, and before his eyes began to dance the rows of figures of his royalties.

"She will not object, I know that much," Ruth said.

"She considers me quite eligible?"

Ruth nodded.

"And yet I am not a bit more eligible now than I was when she broke our engagement," he meditated. "I haven't changed any. I'm the same Martin Eden, though for that matter I'm a bit worse - I smoke now. Don't you smell my breath?"

In reply she pressed her open fingers against his lips, placed them graciously and playfully, and in expectancy of the kiss that of old had always been a consequence. But there was no caressing answer of Martin's lips. He waited until the fingers were removed and then went on.

"I am not changed. I haven't got a job. I'm not looking for a job. Furthermore, I am not going to look for a job. And I still believe that Herbert Spencer is a great and noble man and that Judge Blount is an unmitigated ass. I had dinner with him the other night, so I ought to know."

"But you didn't accept father's invitation," she chided.

"So you know about that? Who sent him? Your mother?"

She remained silent.

"Then she did send him. I thought so. And now I suppose she has sent you."

"No one knows that I am here," she protested. "Do you think my mother would permit this?"

"She'd permit you to marry me, that's certain."

She gave a sharp cry. "Oh, Martin, don't be cruel. You have not kissed me once. You are as unresponsive as a stone. And think what I have dared to do." She looked about her with a shiver, though half the look was curiosity. "Just think of where I am."

"I COULD DIE FOR YOU! I COULD DIE FOR YOU!" - Lizzie's words were ringing in his ears.

"Why didn't you dare it before?" he asked harshly. "When I hadn't a job? When I was starving? When I was just as I am now, as a man, as an artist, the same Martin Eden? That's the question I've been propounding to myself for many a day - not concerning you merely, but concerning everybody. You see I have not changed, though my sudden apparent appreciation in value compels me constantly to reassure myself on that point. I've got the same flesh on my bones, the same ten fingers and toes. I am the same. I have not developed any new strength nor virtue. My brain is the same old brain. I haven't made even one new generalization on literature or philosophy. I am personally of the same value that I was when nobody wanted me. And what is puzzling me is why they want me now. Surely they don't want me for myself, for myself is the same old self they did not want. Then they must want me for something else, for something that is outside of me, for something that is not I! Shall I tell you what that something is? It is for the recognition I have received. That recognition is not I. It resides in the minds of others. Then again for the money I have earned and am earning. But that money is not I. It resides in banks and in the pockets of Tom, Dick, and Harry. And is it for that, for the recognition and the money, that you now want me?"

"You are breaking my heart," she sobbed. "You know I love you, that I am here because I love you."

"I am afraid you don't see my point," he said gently. "What I mean is: if you love me, how does it happen that you love me now so much more than you did when your love was weak enough to deny me?"

"Forget and forgive," she cried passionately. "I loved you all the time, remember that, and I am here, now, in your arms."

"I'm afraid I am a shrewd merchant, peering into the scales, trying to weigh your love and find out what manner of thing it is."

She withdrew herself from his arms, sat upright, and looked at him long and searchingly. She was about to speak, then faltered and changed her mind.

"You see, it appears this way to me," he went on. "When I was all that I am now, nobody out of my own class seemed to care for me. When my books were all written, no one who had read the manuscripts seemed to care for them. In point of fact, because of the stuff I had written they seemed to care even less for me. In writing the stuff it seemed that I had committed acts that were, to say the least, derogatory. 'Get a job,' everybody said."

She made a movement of dissent.

"Yes, yes," he said; "except in your case you told me to get a position. The homely word JOB, like much that I have written, offends you. It is brutal. But I assure you it was no less brutal to me when everybody I knew recommended it to me as they would recommend right conduct to an immoral creature. But to return. The publication of what I had written, and the public notice I received, wrought a change in the fibre of your love. Martin Eden, with his work all performed, you would not marry. Your love for him was not strong enough to enable you to marry him. But your love is now strong enough, and I cannot avoid the conclusion that its strength arises from the publication and the public notice. In your case I do not mention royalties, though I am certain that they apply to the change wrought in your mother and father. Of course, all this is not flattering to me. But worst of all, it makes me question love, sacred love. Is love so gross a thing that it must feed upon publication and public notice? It would seem so. I have sat and thought upon it till my head went around."

"Poor, dear head." She reached up a hand and passed the fingers soothingly through his hair. "Let it go around no more. Let us begin anew, now. I loved you all the time. I know that I was weak in yielding to my mother's will. I should not have done so. Yet I have heard you speak so often with broad charity of the fallibility and frailty of humankind. Extend that charity to me. I acted mistakenly. Forgive me."

"Oh, I do forgive," he said impatiently. "It is easy to forgive where there is really nothing to forgive. Nothing that you have done requires forgiveness. One acts according to one's lights, and more than that one cannot do. As well might I ask you to forgive me for my not getting a job."

"I meant well," she protested. "You know that I could not have loved you and not meant well."

"True; but you would have destroyed me out of your well-meaning."

"Yes, yes," he shut off her attempted objection. "You would have destroyed my writing and my career. Realism is imperative to my nature, and the bourgeois spirit hates realism. The bourgeoisie is cowardly. It is afraid of life. And all your effort was to make me afraid of life. You would have formalized me. You would have compressed me into a two-by-four pigeonhole of life, where all life's values are unreal, and false, and vulgar." He felt her stir protestingly. "Vulgarity - a hearty vulgarity, I'll admit - is the basis of bourgeois refinement and culture. As I say, you wanted to formalize me, to make me over into one of your own class, with your class-ideals, class-values, and class-prejudices." He shook his head sadly. "And you do not understand, even now, what I am saying. My words do not mean to you what I endeavor to make them mean. What I say is so much fantasy to you. Yet to me it is vital reality. At the best you are a trifle puzzled and amused that this raw boy, crawling up out of the mire of the abyss, should pass judgment upon your class and call it vulgar."

She leaned her head wearily against his shoulder, and her body shivered with recurrent nervousness. He waited for a time for her to speak, and then went on.

"And now you want to renew our love. You want us to be married. You want me. And yet, listen - if my books had not been noticed, I'd nevertheless have been just what I am now. And you would have stayed away. It is all those damned books - "

"Don't swear," she interrupted.

Her reproof startled him. He broke into a harsh laugh.

"That's it," he said, "at a high moment, when what seems your life's happiness is at stake, you are afraid of life in the same old way - afraid of life and a healthy oath."

She was stung by his words into realization of the puerility of her act, and yet she felt that he had magnified it unduly and was consequently resentful. They sat in silence for a long time, she thinking desperately and he pondering upon his love which had departed. He knew, now, that he had not really loved her. It was an idealized Ruth he had loved, an ethereal creature of his own creating, the bright and luminous spirit of his love-poems. The real bourgeois Ruth, with all the bourgeois failings and with the hopeless cramp of the bourgeois psychology in her mind, he had never loved.

She suddenly began to speak.

"I know that much you have said is so. I have been afraid of life. I did not love you well enough. I have learned to love better. I love you for what you are, for what you were, for the ways even by which you have become. I love you for the ways wherein you differ from what you call my class, for your beliefs which I do not understand but which I know I can come to understand. I shall devote myself to understanding them. And even your smoking and your swearing - they are part of you and I will love you for them, too. I can still learn. In the last ten minutes I have learned much. That I have dared to come here is a token of what I have already learned. Oh, Martin! - "

She was sobbing and nestling close against him.

For the first time his arms folded her gently and with sympathy, and she acknowledged it with a happy movement and a brightening face.

"It is too late," he said. He remembered Lizzie's words. "I am a sick man - oh, not my body. It is my soul, my brain. I seem to have lost all values. I care for nothing. If you had been this way a few months ago, it would have been different. It is too late, now."

"It is not too late," she cried. "I will show you. I will prove to you that my love has grown, that it is greater to me than my class and all that is dearest to me. All that is dearest to the bourgeoisie I will flout. I am no longer afraid of life. I will leave my father and mother, and let my name become a by-word with my friends. I will come to you here and now, in free love if you will, and I will be proud and glad to be with you. If I have been a traitor to love, I will now, for love's sake, be a traitor to all that made that earlier treason."

She stood before him, with shining eyes.

"I am waiting, Martin," she whispered, "waiting for you to accept me. Look at me."

It was splendid, he thought, looking at her. She had redeemed herself for all that she had lacked, rising up at last, true woman, superior to the iron rule of bourgeois convention. It was splendid, magnificent, desperate. And yet, what was the matter with him? He was not thrilled nor stirred by what she had done. It was splendid and magnificent only intellectually. In what should have been a moment of fire, he coldly appraised her. His heart was untouched. He was unaware of any desire for her. Again he remembered Lizzie's words.

"I am sick, very sick," he said with a despairing gesture. "How sick I did not know till now. Something has gone out of me. I have always been unafraid of life, but I never dreamed of being sated with life. Life has so filled me that I am empty of any desire for anything. If there were room, I should want you, now. You see how sick I am."

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes; and like a child, crying, that forgets its grief in watching the sunlight percolate through the tear-dimmed films over the pupils, so Martin forgot his sickness, the presence of Ruth, everything, in watching the masses of vegetation, shot through hotly with sunshine that took form and blazed against this background of his eyelids. It was not restful, that green foliage. The sunlight was too raw and glaring. It hurt him to look at it, and yet he looked, he knew not why.

He was brought back to himself by the rattle of the door-knob. Ruth was at the door.

"How shall I get out?" she questioned tearfully. "I am afraid."

"Oh, forgive me," he cried, springing to his feet. "I'm not myself, you know. I forgot you were here." He put his hand to his head. "You see, I'm not just right. I'll take you home. We can go out by the servants' entrance. No one will see us. Pull down that veil and everything will be all right."

She clung to his arm through the dim-lighted passages and down the narrow stairs.

"I am safe now," she said, when they emerged on the sidewalk, at the same time starting to take her hand from his arm.

"No, no, I'll see you home," he answered.

"No, please don't," she objected. "It is unnecessary."

Again she started to remove her hand. He felt a momentary curiosity. Now that she was out of danger she was afraid. She was in almost a panic to be quit of him. He could see no reason for it and attributed it to her nervousness. So he restrained her withdrawing hand and started to walk on with her. Halfway down the block, he saw a man in a long overcoat shrink back into a doorway. He shot a glance in as he passed by, and, despite the high turned- up collar, he was certain that he recognized Ruth's brother, Norman.

During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation. She was stunned. He was apathetic. Once, he mentioned that he was going away, back to the South Seas, and, once, she asked him to forgive her having come to him. And that was all. The parting at her door was conventional. They shook hands, said good night, and he lifted his hat. The door swung shut, and he lighted a cigarette and turned back for his hotel. When he came to the doorway into which he had seen Norman shrink, he stopped and looked in in a speculative humor.

"She lied," he said aloud. "She made believe to me that she had dared greatly, and all the while she knew the brother that brought her was waiting to take her back." He burst into laughter. "Oh, these bourgeois! When I was broke, I was not fit to be seen with his sister. When I have a bank account, he brings her to me."

As he swung on his heel to go on, a tramp, going in the same direction, begged him over his shoulder.

"Say, mister, can you give me a quarter to get a bed?" were the words.

But it was the voice that made Martin turn around. The next instant he had Joe by the hand.

"D'ye remember that time we parted at the Hot Springs?" the other was saying. "I said then we'd meet again. I felt it in my bones. An' here we are."

"You're looking good," Martin said admiringly, "and you've put on weight."

"I sure have." Joe's face was beaming. "I never knew what it was to live till I hit hoboin'. I'm thirty pounds heavier an' feel tiptop all the time. Why, I was worked to skin an' bone in them old days. Hoboin' sure agrees with me."

"But you're looking for a bed just the same," Martin chided, "and it's a cold night."

"Huh? Lookin' for a bed?" Joe shot a hand into his hip pocket and brought it out filled with small change. "That beats hard graft," he exulted. "You just looked good; that's why I battered you."

Martin laughed and gave in.

"You've several full-sized drunks right there," he insinuated.

Joe slid the money back into his pocket.

"Not in mine," he announced. "No gettin' oryide for me, though there ain't nothin' to stop me except I don't want to. I've ben drunk once since I seen you last, an' then it was unexpected, bein' on an empty stomach. When I work like a beast, I drink like a beast. When I live like a man, I drink like a man - a jolt now an' again when I feel like it, an' that's all."

Martin arranged to meet him next day, and went on to the hotel. He paused in the office to look up steamer sailings. The Mariposa sailed for Tahiti in five days.

"Telephone over to-morrow and reserve a stateroom for me," he told the clerk. "No deck-stateroom, but down below, on the weather- side, - the port-side, remember that, the port-side. You'd better write it down."

Once in his room he got into bed and slipped off to sleep as gently as a child. The occurrences of the evening had made no impression on him. His mind was dead to impressions. The glow of warmth with which he met Joe had been most fleeting. The succeeding minute he had been bothered by the ex-laundryman's presence and by the compulsion of conversation. That in five more days he sailed for his loved South Seas meant nothing to him. So he closed his eyes and slept normally and comfortably for eight uninterrupted hours. He was not restless. He did not change his position, nor did he dream. Sleep had become to him oblivion, and each day that he awoke, he awoke with regret. Life worried and bored him, and time was a vexation.

有一天克瑞斯来看马丁了,克瑞斯是“真正的贱民”之一。马丁听着他叙述起一个辉煌计划的细节,放下心来。那计划相当想入非非,他怀着小说家的兴趣而不是投资人的兴趣听他讲述。解释到中途,克瑞斯还分出了点时间告诉马丁,他在他那《太阳的耻辱》里简直是块木头。

“可我并不是到这儿来侃哲学的,”克瑞斯说下去,“我想知道你是否肯在这桩买卖上投上一千元资本。”

“不,我无论如?#25105;不?#27809;有木头到那种程度,”马丁回答,“不过我要告诉你我的打算。你曾经给了我平生最精?#23454;?#19968;夜,给了我用金钱买不到的东西。现在我有钱了,而钱对于我又毫无意义。我认为你那桩买卖并无价值,但?#20197;?#24847;给你一千元,回报你给我的那个无价之宝的一夜。你需要的是钱,而我的钱又多?#27809;ú煌輳?#20320;既然需要钱,又来要钱,就用不着耍什么花枪来骗?#20234;耍?#20320;拿去吧。”

克瑞斯没有表现丝毫惊讶,折好支票,放进了口袋。

“照这个价钱我倒想订个合同,为你提供许多那样的夜晚,”他说。

“太晚了,”马丁摇摇头,“对于我来?#30340;?#26159;唯一的一夜。那天晚上我简?#26412;?#26159;在天堂里。我知道那对于你们是?#39029;?#20415;饭,可对我却大不相同。我以后再也不会生活在那样的高度了,我跟哲学分手了?#36824;?#20110;哲学的话我一个字也不想听了。”

“这可是我平生凭哲学谦到的第一?#26159;?#20811;瑞斯走到门口,站住了,说,“可是市场又垮掉了。”

有一天莫尔斯太太在街上开车路过马丁身边,向他点了点头,微笑了一下;马丁也脱帽,微笑作答。此事对他毫无影响,要是在一个月以前他一定会生气,好奇,而?#19968;?#25571;测她的心理状态;可现在事情一过他便?#36745;?#24819;,转瞬便忘,就像路过中央银行大楼或是市政厅便立即忘记一样。可不好理解的是:他的思维仍然活跃,总绕着一个圆圈转来转去?#36745;?#22280;的中心是?#30333;?#21697;早已完成?#20445;?#37027;念头像一大堆永不死亡的蛆虫咬啮着他的脑子,早?#20064;?#20182;咬醒,晚上咬啮他的梦。周围生活里每一件进入他感官的事物都立即和?#30333;?#21697;早已完成”联系了起来。他沿着冷酷无情的逻辑推论下去,结论是他自己已无足轻重,什么也不是。流氓马·伊登和水手马·伊登是真实的,那就是他。可那著名的作家马丁·伊登?#35789;?#20174;群氓心理产生的一团迷雾,是由群氓心理硬塞进流氓和水手马·伊登的臭皮囊里去的。那骗不了他,他并不是群纸献牲膜拜的那个太阳神话。他有自知之明。

他测览?#21448;?#19978;有关自己的文章,细读上面发表的关于他的描写,始?#31449;?#24471;无法把那些描绘跟自己对上号。他确实是那个曾经生活过、欢乐过、恋爱过的人;那个随遇而安。宽容生活里的弱点的人;他确实在水手舱当过水手,曾在异国他乡漂泊,曾在打架的日子里带领过自己一帮人;他最初见到免费图书馆书架上那千千万万的藏书时确实曾目瞪口呆;以后又在书城之中钻研出了门道,掌握了书本;他确实曾经点着灯熬夜读书,带着铁刺睡觉,也写过好几本书。但有一桩本领他却没?#26657;?#20182;没有所有的群氓都想填塞的那么个硕大无朋的胃。

不过,?#21448;?#19978;?#34892;?#19996;西也令他觉得好玩。所有的?#21448;?#37117;在争夺他。《华伦月刊》向他的订户宣传它总在发现新作家;别的且不说,马丁·伊登就是他们向读者大众推荐的。《?#36164;蟆吩又?#23459;称马丁·伊登是他们发现的;发表同样消息的还?#23567;?#21271;方评论》和《麦金托什?#21448;尽罰?#21487;他们却?#23567;痘非頡?#25171;哑了,《?#38750;頡?#32988;利地提出了埋藏在他们的文献中那份被窜改得面目全非的《海上抒情诗》;逃掉了债务又转世还魂的《青年与时代》提出了马丁一篇更早的作品,那东西除了农民的孩子之外再也没有人读。《跨越大陆》发表了一篇振振?#20889;?#30340;庄严声明,说他们是如何物色到马丁·伊登的,《大黄蜂》却展示了他们出版的《仙女与珍珠》,进行?#24605;?#28872;的反驳。在这一片吵嚷声中欣格垂、达思利公司那温和的声明被淹没了,何况欣格垂出版社没有?#21448;荊?#26080;法发表更为响亮的声明。

报纸计算着马丁的版税收入。某几?#20197;又?#32473;他的豪华稿酬不知道怎么泄?#35835;?#20986;去,于是奥克兰的牧师们便来对他作友谊拜访;职业性的求助信也充斥了他的信箱。而比这一切更糟的则是女人。他的照片广泛发表,于是有了专门的作家拿他那晒黑了的结实的面?#21360;?#19978;面的?#31246;獺?#20581;壮的肩头、沉静清澈的眼光、苦行僧式的凹陷的面颊大做文章。这让他想起了自己少年时代的野性,不禁微笑了。他在自己?#29004;?#30340;妇女中不时发现有人打?#20811;?#21697;评他,垂青于他。他暗暗好笑,想起了布里森登的警告,笑得更有趣了。女人是无法毁掉他的,这可以肯定,他早已过?#22235;?#26679;的年龄。

有一回他送丽齐去夜校。丽齐看见一位穿着华丽的长袍的资产阶级美女膘了他一眼。那一眼瞟得长了一点,深沉了一点,其意思丽齐最是明白。她愤怒了,身子僵直了,马丁看了出来,也注意到?#22235;?#24847;思,便告诉她这种事他早已见惯不惊,并不放在心主。

“你应当注意的,”她回答时满眼怒火,“问题就在,你已经有了毛病。”

“我一辈子也没有更健康过,我的体重比过去增加了五磅呢。”

“不是你身体有病,而是你脑子有病,是你那思想的机器出了毛病。连我这样的小角色也看出来了。”

他走在她身旁想着。

“只要能治好你这病,我什么都不在乎,”她冲动地叫喊起来,“像你这样的人,女人像那样看你,你就得小心。太不自然,你如果是个打打扮扮的男?#22235;?#20498;没什么,可你天生不是那种人。?#31995;?#20445;佑,要是出了一个能?#24515;?#21916;欢的人,我倒是心?#26159;?#24895;,而且高兴的。”

他把丽齐留在夜校,一个人回到了大都会旅馆。

一进屋他就倒在一张莫里斯安乐椅里,茫然地望着前面。他没?#20889;?#30457;,也没有想问题,心里一片空白,只?#26082;?#26377;一些回忆镜头带着形象、色彩和闪光从他眼帘下掠过。他感到?#22235;?#20123;镜头,却几乎没有意识到——它们并不比梦境更清晰,可他?#32622;?#26377;睡着。有一次他醒?#26031;?#26469;,看了看表:才?#35828;恪?#20182;无事可做。要睡觉又嫌太早。他心里又成了空白,眼帘下又有影像形成和消失。那些影像都模糊不清,永远如阳光穿透的层层树叶和灌木丛的乱技。

敲门声惊醒了他。他没有睡着,那声音令他想起了电报、信件或是洗?#36335;?#30340;仆役送来的洗好的衣物。他在想着乔,猜想着他在什么地方,同时嘴里说:“请进。”

他还在想着乔,没有向门口转过身去。他听见门轻轻关上,然后是长久的沉默。他忘记了曾经有过敲门声,仍茫然地望着前面,却听见了女人的哭泣。他对哭声转过身子,注意到那哭声抽搐、压抑。难以控制。不由自主、带着呜咽。他立即站了起来。

“露丝!”他说,又惊讶又惶惑。

露丝脸色苍白,紧张。她站在门口,怕站立不稳,一只手扶住门框,另一只手抚住腰。她向他可怜巴巴地伸出了双手,走?#26031;?#26469;。他抓住她的手,领她来到?#22235;?#37324;斯安乐椅前,让她坐下。他注意到她的双?#30452;?#20937;。他拉过来另一把椅子,坐在它巨大的扶手上。他心里一片混乱,说?#24576;?#35805;来。在他的心里他跟露丝的关系早已结束,打上了封蜡。他内心的感觉是:那像是雪莉温泉旅馆突然给大都会旅馆送来了一个礼拜脏?#36335;?#35201;他赶快洗出来一样。他好几?#25105;?#24819;说话,却迟疑不决。

“没有人知道我在这儿,”露丝细声说,带着楚楚动人的微笑。

“你说什么?”他?#23454;饋?br>
他为自己说话时的声音吃惊。

她又说了一遍。

“啊,”他说,然后便再无话可说。

“我看见你进旅馆来的,然后我又等了一会儿。”

“啊,”他说。

他一辈子也?#36745;?#37027;么结巴过。他脑子里确实一句话也没?#26657;?#20182;感到尴尬,狼狈,可仍然想?#24576;?#35805;来。这次的闯入如果发生在雪莉温泉旅馆也说?#27426;?#20250;好些,他还可以卷起袖子?#20064;?#21435;。

“然后你才进来,”他终于说。

她点了点头,略带了些顽皮,然后解开了她脖子上的围巾。

“你在街那边和那个姑娘在一起时我就看见你了。”

“啊,是的,”他简短地说,“我送她上夜校去。”

“那么,你见了我高兴么??#32972;?#40664;了一会儿,她说。

“高兴,高兴,”他急忙说,“可你到这儿来不是有点冒失么?”

“我是溜进来的,没有人知道。我想见你。我是来向你承认我过去的愚蠢的。我是因为再也受不了和你分手才来的。是我的心强迫我来的。因为——因为我自己想来。”

她从椅边站起,向他走来,把手放到他的肩上。她呼吸急促,过了一会儿便倒进了他的怀里。他不希望伤害别人,他明白若是拒绝了她的自荐,便会给予她一个女人所能受到的最残酷的伤害,便大量地、轻松地伸出胳臂,把她紧紧搂住。但那?#24403;?#27809;有暖意,那接触没有温情。她倒进了他的怀里,他抱住了她,如此而已。她往他的怀里钻了钻,然后换了一个姿势,双手搂住了他的脖?#21360;H欢?#22905;手下的肉体没有火焰,马丁只觉得尴尬,吃力。

“你怎么抖得这么厉害?”他?#23454;潰?#20919;么?要我点?#24613;?#28809;么?”

他动了一下,想脱开身子,可她却往他身上靠得更紧了,并猛烈地颤抖着。

“只不过有点紧张,”她牙齿答答地响,说,“我一会儿就能控制住自己的。好了,我已经好些了。”

她的颤抖慢慢停止,他继续?#24403;?#30528;她。?#19997;?#20182;已?#36745;?#24822;惑,也已明白了她的来意。

“我妈妈要我嫁给查理·哈?#26031;?#24503;,”她宣称。

“查理·哈?#26031;?#24503;,那个一说话就满口陈词滥调的?#19968;?#20040;?”马丁抱怨道,接着又说,“那么现在,我看,是你妈妈要你嫁给?#20234;耍俊?#20182;这话不是提出问题,而是当作肯定的事实。他那一行行的版税数字开始在他眼前飞舞。

“她是不会反对的,这一点我知道,”露?#20811;怠?br>
“他觉得我般配么?”

露丝点点头。

“可我现在并不?#20154;?#35299;除我们俩婚约的时候更般配,”他沉思着说,“我丝毫也没有改变,?#19968;?#26159;?#32972;?#37027;个马丁·伊登,尽管无论从哪个角度看来我都更?#35805;?#37197;了。我现在又抽烟了。你没有闻到我的烟味么?”

她伸出?#31181;?#21387;到他的嘴上,作为回答,动作优美,像撒娇,只等着他来吻她。那在以前是必然的结果。但是马丁的嘴?#35762;?#26410;作出怜爱的响应。?#20154;?#30340;?#31181;?#22836;移开之后,他继续说了下去。

“我没有变。我没有找工作,而且不打算去找工作。我依旧相信赫伯特·斯宾塞是个了?#40644;?#30340;高贵的人?#27426;?#24067;朗特法官是个十足的蠢驴。前不久的一个晚上?#19968;?#36319;他一起吃过晚饭,因此我应该明白。”

“但是你没有接受?#32844;?#30340;邀请,”她责备他。

“那么你是知道的了?是谁打发他来邀请的?你妈妈么?”

她保持沉默。

“那么,确实是你妈妈叫他出面来邀请的?#19969;U以?#26469;就这样想。那么,我现在估计,你也是她打发到这儿来的?#19969;!?br>
“我到这儿?#35789;?#35841;也不知道的,”她抗议道,“你以为我妈妈会同意我这样做么?”

“可她会同意你嫁给我,这可以肯定。”

她尖声叫了起来:“啊;马丁,别那么残酷。你还一次都没有亲吻我呢。你简直死板得像块石头。你得想想我冒了多大的风险。”她打了一个寒噤,四面望望,尽管有一半的神色还是期待,“你想想看,我现在在什么地方。”

“我可以为你死!为你死!”丽齐的话在马丁的耳边震响。

“可你以前为什么不敢冒风险呢?”他不客气地?#23454;潰?#22240;为那时我没有工作么?因为我在挨饿么?那时我也是个男人,也是个艺术家,跟现在的马丁·伊登完全一样。这个问题我研究了多少日子了——倒并不专?#38405;?#19968;个人,而是对所有的人。你看,我并没有变,尽管我表面价值的突然变化强迫我经常确认这一点。我的骨架上挂的还是这些肉,我长的还是十个?#31181;?#22836;和十个脚趾头。?#19968;?#26159;我;我的力气没有新的变化,道德也没有新的发展;我的脑子还是?#32972;?#37027;副脑子;在文学上或是在哲学上我一条新的概括也没有作出。我这个人的价值还跟没人要时一个样。叫我百思不得其解的是;他们为什么现在又要?#20234;恕?#20182;们肯定不是因为我自己而要我的,因为?#19968;?#26159;他们原来不想要的那个人。那么他们肯定是因为别的原因要?#20234;耍?#22240;为?#25345;?#25105;以外的东西了,因为?#25345;?#24182;不是我的东西了!你要听我告诉你那是什么吗?那是因为我得到了承认。可那承认存在别人心里,并不是我。还有就是因为我已经挣到的钱,和还要挣到的钱。可那钱也不是我。那东西存在银行里,存在甲乙丙丁人人的口袋里。你现在又要?#20234;耍?#26159;不是也是因为这个呢,是不是也因为我得到的承认和金钱呢?”

“你叫我心都碎了,”她抽泣起来,“你知道我是爱你的,我来,是因为我爱你。”

“我怕是你并没有明白我的意思,”他温和地说,“我的意思是:如果你爱我的话,为什么你现在爱?#19968;?#27604;那时深了许多呢?那时你对我的爱是很软弱的,你否定了我。”

“忘掉吧,原谅吧,”她激动地叫道,“我一直爱着你,记住这一点,而我现在又到了这儿,在你的怀抱里。”

“我怕我是个精明的生意人,得要仔细看看?#20248;蹋?#24471;要称一称你的爱情,看看它究竟是什么货品呢。”

她从他怀里抽出身子,坐直了,探索地打量了他许久。她欲言?#31181;梗?#32456;于改变了主意。

“你看,我觉得事情是这样的,”马丁说了下去,“那时?#19968;?#26159;现在的我,那?#32972;?#20102;我本阶级的人之外似乎谁?#35760;撇黄?#25105;。那时我所有的书?#23478;?#32463;写成,可读过那些手稿的人似乎谁也?#35805;?#23427;们放在心上。事实上他们反倒因此更瞧?#40644;鷂伊恕?#25105;写?#22235;?#20123;东西好像至少是做了什么丢脸的事。每个人?#26082;?#25105;:‘找个活儿干吧。’”

她做出个要表示异议的?#20174;Α?br>
“好了,好了,”他说,“只是你有点?#29004;?#20320;叫我找的是‘职位’。那个不好听的词‘活儿’和我写的大多数作品一样,令你不愉快。那词粗野。可我向你保证,所有我认识的人把那个词推荐给我时,它也并不好听一点,那是像叫一个不道德的角色?#30740;?#20026;放规矩一样的。还是回到本题吧。我写作的东西的出版和我所得到的名声使你的爱情的本质发生了变化。你?#36745;?#24847;嫁给写完了他的全部作品的马丁·伊登,你对他的爱不够坚强,没有能使你嫁给他。可现在你的爱情却坚强起来了。我无法逃避一个结论:你那爱情的力量产生于出版和声望。对于你我不提版税,虽然我可以肯定它在你?#25913;?#30340;转变里起着作用。当然,这一切是不会叫我高兴的。?#27426;?#26368;糟糕的是,它使?#19968;?#30097;起爱情,神圣的爱情了。?#35757;?#29233;情就那么庙俗,非?#27599;?#20986;版和声望来饲养不可么?可它好像正是这样。?#20197;?#32463;坐着想呀想吁,想得头昏脑涨。”

“我亲爱的可怜的头脑?#20581;!?#38706;?#21487;?#20986;一只手来,用指头在他的头发里抚慰地搓揉着,“那你就别头昏脑涨了吧。现在让我们来重新开始。我一向是爱你的。我知道?#20197;?#26381;从过我母亲的意志,那是一种软弱,是不应该的。可是?#20197;?#22810;次听见你以悲天悯人的胸怀谈起人性的脆弱和易于堕落。把你那悲天悯人的胸怀也推广到我身?#20064;傘?#25105;做了错事,希望你原谅。”

“啊,我是会原谅的,”他不?#22836;车?#35828;,“没有可原谅的东西时原谅是容易的。你做的事其实不需要原谅。每个人都按照自己的思想行动,超过了这个他就无法行动。同样,我也无法因为不去找工作而请求你原谅。”

“我是出于好意,”她解释道,“这你知道,我既?#35805;?#20320;就不会不存好意。”

“不错,可是你那一番好意却可能毁了我。

“的确,的确,”她正要抗议却被他阴住了,“你是可能毁了我的写作和事业的。现实主义支配着我的天性,而资产阶级精神却仇恨现实主义。资产阶级是?#20248;?#30340;,他门害怕生活,而你的全部努力就是让我害怕生活。你可能让我公式化,你可能把我塞进一个五尺长两尺宽的生活鸽子笼里,在那里生活的一切价值都是缥缈的,虚假的,庸俗的。”他感到她打算抗议。“庸俗性——?#26377;?#30524;里冒出来的庸俗性,我得承认——是资产阶级的风雅和文化的基础。正如我所说,你打算让我公式化,把我变成你们阶级的成?#20445;?#24576;着你们阶级的理想,承认你们阶级的价值观念和你们的阶级成见。”他忧?#35828;?#25671;摇头,“而你到了现在?#19981;?#19981;明白我说的是什么。我的话听在你耳里并不是我打算表达的意思。我说的话对于你简直是奇谈怪论,可对于我那?#35789;?#35201;命的现实。你至多只感到有点糊涂,有点滑稽,这个从深渊的泥?#26700;?#29228;出来的小伙子居然?#21494;阅?#20204;的阶级作出评价,说它庸?#20303;!?br>
她疲倦地把头靠在他身上,因为一阵阵紧张,身子战栗着。他?#20154;?#35828;话,停了一会儿,?#26088;?#32493;说了下去。

“现在你想让我们言归于好,想和我结婚,你需要我,可是,你听着——如果我的书没有引起注意,我现在还会依?#36824;?#25105;,而你仍然会离?#20197;对?#30340;。全都是因为那些他妈的书——”

“别骂粗话,”她插嘴说。

她的指责叫他大吃了一惊,他不客气地哈哈大笑起来。

“正好,”他说,“在关键时刻,在你似乎要拿一辈子的幸福孤注一掷的时候,你又?#34850;?#35268;矩害怕起生活来了——害怕生活,也害怕一句无伤大雅的粗话。”

他的话刺痛了她,让她意识到了自己行为的?#23383;傘?#19981;过她也觉得马丁夸大得过火了一些,心里感到愤慨。两?#22235;?#19981;作声,呆坐了许久。她心?#34987;?#29134;地考虑着,他却思量着自己已经消逝的爱情。现在他才明白他?#29992;?#26377;真正爱过她。他所爱的是一个理想化了的露丝,一个自己所?#19995;?#30340;虚无缥缈的露丝,是他的爱情诗篇里的光华?#27704;?#30340;精灵。这个现实的露丝,这个资产阶级的露丝,这个有着种种资产阶级的弱点。满脑子塞着无可救药的资产阶级成见的露?#20811;?#20174;来就?#36745;?#29233;过。

她突然开始说话了。

“我知道你的话大多是事实。我害怕过生活,我?#38405;?#30340;爱有过错误,可我已经学会了更正确地恋爱。我爱现在的你,过去的你,爱你所走过的道路。我因为你所提出的?#20234;?#22256;阶级?#29004;?#32780;产生的差异而爱你,因为你的信仰而爱你,虽然我不理解你的信仰,但我相信我可能理解。我要花功夫去理解它,甚至包括你的抽烟和粗话——它们都是你的一部分,因为它们我也要爱你。?#19968;?#21487;以学习。在刚才这十?#31181;?#37324;我就学到了许多东西。我能到这儿来就说明我已经学到了许多东西。啊,马丁!——”

她抽泣着向他靠?#26031;?#21435;。

他?#24403;?#22905;的?#30452;?#31532;一次表现了温柔和同情,她快活地动了动,脸上闪出?#26031;?#24425;,表明她已经明白他的意思。

“太晚了,”他说。他想起了丽齐那句话。“我是个有病的人——啊,不是身体有病,而是灵魂有病,是头脑有病。我好像失去了我的一切价值,什么都满不在乎了。你要是几个月以前这样做,情况会不相同,可是现在太迟了。”

“还不太迟,”她叫了起来,“我来告诉你。?#19968;?#21521;你证明我的爱情成长了。爱情比我的阶级和我所爱的一切都更重要。我要抛弃资产阶级最喜爱的一?#23567;?#25105;?#36745;?#23475;怕生活了。我要离开我的?#25913;福?#35753;我的名字成为朋友间的笑柄。我现在就要搬到你这儿来住,只要你愿意,可以和我随意相爱。我要以和你一起生活为?#26223;粒?#24863;到快乐。如果我以前曾经背叛过爱情的话,那么我现在为了爱情就要背叛过去使我背?#35757;?#19968;?#23567;!?br>
她眼里闪着光芒,站在他面前。

“我在等着你呢,马丁,”她低声说道,?#26263;?#30528;你接受我的爱,你看看我。”

他望着她想道,真是精彩。她就这样弥补了她所缺少的一切了,终于站了起来,真诚的女人,超越了资产阶级的传统。了?#40644;穡?#31934;彩,挺而走险。但是,他是怎么了?#20811;?#24182;?#36745;?#22240;为她的行为而狂欢,而激动。那了?#40644;?#30340;感觉,那精?#23454;?#24863;觉只是理智上的。在他应当燃烧时他却冷冷地估量着她。他的心没有被打动,他意识不到任何对她的欲望。他又想起了而齐那句话。

“我病了,病得很厉害,”他做了一个失望的手势,说道,“到目前为止,?#19968;?#19981;知道我病得这么厉害。我身上少了点东西,我从来没有害怕过生活,可我做?#25105;?#27809;有想到会叫生活填得太饱。我被填得太多,对一切都失去了兴趣。如果肚子还有缝隙,我现在是会需要你的。你看我病得多厉害。”

他头向后仰,闭上了眼睛,然后像一个哭泣的儿童望着阳光透过泪膜遮蔽的眼球忘记了悲伤一样忘掉了他的病,忘掉了露丝的存在,忘掉了一?#23567;?#20197;他的眼帘为背景的蓬勃生长的丛?#22278;?#26408;?#24576;?#28909;的阳光穿透了,他望着。绿色的叶丛并不恬静,阳光又太耀眼刺目,望着它使他觉得难受。可不知道为什么,他仍?#29004;?#30528;。

门把手的声音惊醒了他,露丝已经走到了门口。

“?#20197;?#20040;出去呢?”她眼泪汪汪地?#23454;潰?#25105;害怕。”

“啊,对?#40644;穡?#20182;跳了起来,叫道,“我出神了,你知道。我忘?#22235;?#22312;这儿。”他摸摸自己的脑袋。“你看,我刚才不大正常。我送你回家去吧。我们可以从仆役的门出去,没有人会看见的。把那窗帘拉下来,一切都会好的。”

她紧挨着他的?#30452;?#36208;过灯光暗淡的市道,走下狭窄的楼梯。

“我现在安全了,”两人来到人行道上,她说,同时从他?#30452;?#20102;抽出了手。

“不,不,我送你回家,”他回答。

“谢谢,不用了,”她拒绝,“没有必要。”

她第二?#25105;?#25277;掉手,他一时感到了好奇:现在她已无危险可言,为什么反而害怕了?#20811;?#20026;了摆脱他几乎?#32622;怕伊恕?#20182;想?#24576;?#29702;由,只以为她是紧张。他没有放掉她打算缩回的手,只带了她继续往?#30333;摺?#36208;过半段街区,看见一个穿长外套的?#26494;?#36827;了一家门口。他经过时瞥了一眼,尽管那人领子?#39057;?#24456;高,他却深信自己看见的是露丝的弟弟诺尔曼。

露丝和马丁走路时没大说话。她是惊呆了,他则冷漠。有一回他说他要走,要回南海去;有一回她要求他原谅她来看了他,然后两人便再没有话。到了门口,分手也是礼貌性的。两人握了握手,互道晚安,他又脱帽致意。门关上了,他点燃了一支香烟,走上回旅馆的路。他回到刚才诺尔曼躲进去的屋门口时,停住步子,带着特别的心清查看了一下。

“她撒谎了,”他大声说道,“她要我相信她冒了很大的危险,其实她一直知道她弟弟就在外面等着送她回家。”他不禁笑出声来。“啊!这些资产阶级!我倒霉的时候连跟他姐姐在一起也不配,怕叫人看见。我有了银?#20889;?#27454;他却亲自把姐姐给我送上门来。”

他转身正要离开,一个跟他走同一方向的流浪汉从身后走来向他乞讨。

“我说,先生,给我一个两毛五的角子住店好么?”他说。

那声音叫马丁转过身子,却随即跟乔握起手来。

“还记得我们在温泉告别的时候么?”那人说,“那时我就说我们会见面的。这一点我从骨头里都感觉得到。现在我们可不就在这儿遇见了么?”

“你看去挺不错嘛,”马丁带着欣赏的口气说,“你长胖了。”

“当?#24576;?#32982;了,”乔满脸欢喜,“我是直到开始了流?#30636;?#25026;得生活的。我体重增加了三十磅。可在那些日子?#35789;?#24471;皮包骨头。我倒的确适合于流浪。”

“可你仍然在找钱住店,”马丁刺他一句,“而今天晚上又很冷。”

“哈!找钱住店么?”乔一只手插进屁股口袋,抓出一大把角子,“这可比做苦工强多了。”他得意扬扬地说,“你看起来挺阔的,所以我就敲你一?#19968;鎩!?br>
马丁哈哈大笑,认了输。

“这一把钱倒够你大醉几回的,”他话外有话。

?#21069;?#38065;塞进了口袋。

“我从不大醉,”他宣布,“从不喝醉,虽然我要醉也没有谁会挡我。我和你分?#31181;?#21518;只醉过一回,那是意外,空肚子喝了酒。我干活像吉生的时候酒醉得也像畜生,我生活像人的时候喝酒也就像人了——高兴时?#32423;?#26469;上两杯,绝?#27426;?#21917;。”

马丁约好明天跟乔见面,就回到旅馆。他在办公室看了看船舶消息。五天后马里泊萨号就去塔希提岛。

“明天在电话?#32454;?#25105;订个豪华舱位,”他告诉服务?#20445;?#19981;要甲板上的,要下面的,迎风一面——在?#24076;?#35760;住,左?#20581;?#20320;最好是记下来。”

一回到房里他就钻进被窝像个孩子似的睡着了。那晚发生的事对他毫无影响。他的心已经死灭,留不下什么印象。他遇见乔时的温暖情绪也非常短暂,他随即因那往日的洗衣工的出现而厌?#24120;?#20026;不得不说话而难受。五天以后他就要到他心爱的南海去了,可那对他也没有了意思。他闭上眼,一睡八个小时,睡得正常,舒坦,没有?#21507;輳?#27809;有翻身,也没有梦。睡眠于他就是忘却。他每天都为醒来感到遗?#19969;?#29983;命使他烦恼了,厌倦了,时光叫他难?#21834;?
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