Martin went back to his pearl-diving article, which would have been finished sooner if it had not been broken in upon so frequently by his attempts to write poetry. His poems were love poems, inspired by Ruth, but they were never completed. Not in a day could he learn to chant in noble verse. Rhyme and metre and structure were serious enough in themselves, but there was, over and beyond them, an intangible and evasive something that he caught in all great poetry, but which he could not catch and imprison in his own. It was the elusive spirit of poetry itself that he sensed and sought after but could not capture. It seemed a glow to him, a warm and trailing vapor, ever beyond his reaching, though sometimes he was rewarded by catching at shreds of it and weaving them into phrases that echoed in his brain with haunting notes or drifted across his vision in misty wafture of unseen beauty. It was baffling. He ached with desire to express and could but gibber prosaically as everybody gibbered. He read his fragments aloud. The metre marched along on perfect feet, and the rhyme pounded a longer and equally faultless rhythm, but the glow and high exaltation that he felt within were lacking. He could not understand, and time and again, in despair, defeated and depressed, he returned to his article. Prose was certainly an easier medium.

Following the "Pearl-diving," he wrote an article on the sea as a career, another on turtle-catching, and a third on the northeast trades. Then he tried, as an experiment, a short story, and before he broke his stride he had finished six short stories and despatched them to various magazines. He wrote prolifically, intensely, from morning till night, and late at night, except when he broke off to go to the reading-room, draw books from the library, or to call on Ruth. He was profoundly happy. Life was pitched high. He was in a fever that never broke. The joy of creation that is supposed to belong to the gods was his. All the life about him - the odors of stale vegetables and soapsuds, the slatternly form of his sister, and the jeering face of Mr. Higginbotham - was a dream. The real world was in his mind, and the stories he wrote were so many pieces of reality out of his mind.

The days were too short. There was so much he wanted to study. He cut his sleep down to five hours and found that he could get along upon it. He tried four hours and a half, and regretfully came back to five. He could joyfully have spent all his waking hours upon any one of his pursuits. It was with regret that he ceased from writing to study, that he ceased from study to go to the library, that he tore himself away from that chart-room of knowledge or from the magazines in the reading-room that were filled with the secrets of writers who succeeded in selling their wares. It was like severing heart strings, when he was with Ruth, to stand up and go; and he scorched through the dark streets so as to get home to his books at the least possible expense of time. And hardest of all was it to shut up the algebra or physics, put note-book and pencil aside, and close his tired eyes in sleep. He hated the thought of ceasing to live, even for so short a time, and his sole consolation was that the alarm clock was set five hours ahead. He would lose only five hours anyway, and then the jangling bell would jerk him out of unconsciousness and he would have before him another glorious day of nineteen hours.

In the meantime the weeks were passing, his money was ebbing low, and there was no money coming in. A month after he had mailed it, the adventure serial for boys was returned to him by THE YOUTH'S COMPANION. The rejection slip was so tactfully worded that he felt kindly toward the editor. But he did not feel so kindly toward the editor of the SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER. After waiting two whole weeks, Martin had written to him. A week later he wrote again. At the end of the month, he went over to San Francisco and personally called upon the editor. But he did not meet that exalted personage, thanks to a Cerberus of an office boy, of tender years and red hair, who guarded the portals. At the end of the fifth week the manuscript came back to him, by mail, without comment. There was no rejection slip, no explanation, nothing. In the same way his other articles were tied up with the other leading San Francisco papers. When he recovered them, he sent them to the magazines in the East, from which they were returned more promptly, accompanied always by the printed rejection slips.

The short stories were returned in similar fashion. He read them over and over, and liked them so much that he could not puzzle out the cause of their rejection, until, one day, he read in a newspaper that manuscripts should always be typewritten. That explained it. Of course editors were so busy that they could not afford the time and strain of reading handwriting. Martin rented a typewriter and spent a day mastering the machine. Each day he typed what he composed, and he typed his earlier manuscripts as fast as they were returned him. He was surprised when the typed ones began to come back. His jaw seemed to become squarer, his chin more aggressive, and he bundled the manuscripts off to new editors.

The thought came to him that he was not a good judge of his own work. He tried it out on Gertrude. He read his stories aloud to her. Her eyes glistened, and she looked at him proudly as she said:-

"Ain't it grand, you writin' those sort of things."

"Yes, yes," he demanded impatiently. "But the story - how did you like it?"

"Just grand," was the reply. "Just grand, an' thrilling, too. I was all worked up."

He could see that her mind was not clear. The perplexity was strong in her good-natured face. So he waited.

"But, say, Mart," after a long pause, "how did it end? Did that young man who spoke so highfalutin' get her?"

And, after he had explained the end, which he thought he had made artistically obvious, she would say:-

"That's what I wanted to know. Why didn't you write that way in the story?"

One thing he learned, after he had read her a number of stories, namely, that she liked happy endings.

"That story was perfectly grand," she announced, straightening up from the wash-tub with a tired sigh and wiping the sweat from her forehead with a red, steamy hand; "but it makes me sad. I want to cry. There is too many sad things in the world anyway. It makes me happy to think about happy things. Now if he'd married her, and - You don't mind, Mart?" she queried apprehensively. "I just happen to feel that way, because I'm tired, I guess. But the story was grand just the same, perfectly grand. Where are you goin' to sell it?"

"That's a horse of another color," he laughed.

"But if you DID sell it, what do you think you'd get for it?"

"Oh, a hundred dollars. That would be the least, the way prices go."

"My! I do hope you'll sell it!"

"Easy money, eh?" Then he added proudly: "I wrote it in two days. That's fifty dollars a day."

He longed to read his stories to Ruth, but did not dare. He would wait till some were published, he decided, then she would understand what he had been working for. In the meantime he toiled on. Never had the spirit of adventure lured him more strongly than on this amazing exploration of the realm of mind. He bought the text-books on physics and chemistry, and, along with his algebra, worked out problems and demonstrations. He took the laboratory proofs on faith, and his intense power of vision enabled him to see the reactions of chemicals more understandingly than the average student saw them in the laboratory. Martin wandered on through the heavy pages, overwhelmed by the clews he was getting to the nature of things. He had accepted the world as the world, but now he was comprehending the organization of it, the play and interplay of force and matter. Spontaneous explanations of old matters were continually arising in his mind. Levers and purchases fascinated him, and his mind roved backward to hand-spikes and blocks and tackles at sea. The theory of navigation, which enabled the ships to travel unerringly their courses over the pathless ocean, was made clear to him. The mysteries of storm, and rain, and tide were revealed, and the reason for the existence of trade-winds made him wonder whether he had written his article on the northeast trade too soon. At any rate he knew he could write it better now. One afternoon he went out with Arthur to the University of California, and, with bated breath and a feeling of religious awe, went through the laboratories, saw demonstrations, and listened to a physics professor lecturing to his classes.

But he did not neglect his writing. A stream of short stories flowed from his pen, and he branched out into the easier forms of verse - the kind he saw printed in the magazines - though he lost his head and wasted two weeks on a tragedy in blank verse, the swift rejection of which, by half a dozen magazines, dumfounded him. Then he discovered Henley and wrote a series of sea-poems on the model of "Hospital Sketches." They were simple poems, of light and color, and romance and adventure. "Sea Lyrics," he called them, and he judged them to be the best work he had yet done. There were thirty, and he completed them in a month, doing one a day after having done his regular day's work on fiction, which day's work was the equivalent to a week's work of the average successful writer. The toil meant nothing to him. It was not toil. He was finding speech, and all the beauty and wonder that had been pent for years behind his inarticulate lips was now pouring forth in a wild and virile flood.

He showed the "Sea Lyrics" to no one, not even to the editors. He had become distrustful of editors. But it was not distrust that prevented him from submitting the "Lyrics." They were so beautiful to him that he was impelled to save them to share with Ruth in some glorious, far-off time when he would dare to read to her what he had written. Against that time he kept them with him, reading them aloud, going over them until he knew them by heart.

He lived every moment of his waking hours, and he lived in his sleep, his subjective mind rioting through his five hours of surcease and combining the thoughts and events of the day into grotesque and impossible marvels. In reality, he never rested, and a weaker body or a less firmly poised brain would have been prostrated in a general break-down. His late afternoon calls on Ruth were rarer now, for June was approaching, when she would take her degree and finish with the university. Bachelor of Arts! - when he thought of her degree, it seemed she fled beyond him faster than he could pursue.

One afternoon a week she gave to him, and arriving late, he usually stayed for dinner and for music afterward. Those were his red- letter days. The atmosphere of the house, in such contrast with that in which he lived, and the mere nearness to her, sent him forth each time with a firmer grip on his resolve to climb the heights. In spite of the beauty in him, and the aching desire to create, it was for her that he struggled. He was a lover first and always. All other things he subordinated to love.

Greater than his adventure in the world of thought was his love- adventure. The world itself was not so amazing because of the atoms and molecules that composed it according to the propulsions of irresistible force; what made it amazing was the fact that Ruth lived in it. She was the most amazing thing he had ever known, or dreamed, or guessed.

But he was oppressed always by her remoteness. She was so far from him, and he did not know how to approach her. He had been a success with girls and women in his own class; but he had never loved any of them, while he did love her, and besides, she was not merely of another class. His very love elevated her above all classes. She was a being apart, so far apart that he did not know how to draw near to her as a lover should draw near. It was true, as he acquired knowledge and language, that he was drawing nearer, talking her speech, discovering ideas and delights in common; but this did not satisfy his lover's yearning. His lover's imagination had made her holy, too holy, too spiritualized, to have any kinship with him in the flesh. It was his own love that thrust her from him and made her seem impossible for him. Love itself denied him the one thing that it desired.

And then, one day, without warning, the gulf between them was bridged for a moment, and thereafter, though the gulf remained, it was ever narrower. They had been eating cherries - great, luscious, black cherries with a juice of the color of dark wine. And later, as she read aloud to him from "The Princess," he chanced to notice the stain of the cherries on her lips. For the moment her divinity was shattered. She was clay, after all, mere clay, subject to the common law of clay as his clay was subject, or anybody's clay. Her lips were flesh like his, and cherries dyed them as cherries dyed his. And if so with her lips, then was it so with all of her. She was woman, all woman, just like any woman. It came upon him abruptly. It was a revelation that stunned him. It was as if he had seen the sun fall out of the sky, or had seen worshipped purity polluted.

Then he realized the significance of it, and his heart began pounding and challenging him to play the lover with this woman who was not a spirit from other worlds but a mere woman with lips a cherry could stain. He trembled at the audacity of his thought; but all his soul was singing, and reason, in a triumphant paean, assured him he was right. Something of this change in him must have reached her, for she paused from her reading, looked up at him, and smiled. His eyes dropped from her blue eyes to her lips, and the sight of the stain maddened him. His arms all but flashed out to her and around her, in the way of his old careless life. She seemed to lean toward him, to wait, and all his will fought to hold him back.

"You were not following a word," she pouted.

Then she laughed at him, delighting in his confusion, and as he looked into her frank eyes and knew that she had divined nothing of what he felt, he became abashed. He had indeed in thought dared too far. Of all the women he had known there was no woman who would not have guessed - save her. And she had not guessed. There was the difference. She was different. He was appalled by his own grossness, awed by her clear innocence, and he gazed again at her across the gulf. The bridge had broken down.

But still the incident had brought him nearer. The memory of it persisted, and in the moments when he was most cast down, he dwelt upon it eagerly. The gulf was never again so wide. He had accomplished a distance vastly greater than a bachelorship of arts, or a dozen bachelorships. She was pure, it was true, as he had never dreamed of purity; but cherries stained her lips. She was subject to the laws of the universe just as inexorably as he was. She had to eat to live, and when she got her feet wet, she caught cold. But that was not the point. If she could feel hunger and thirst, and heat and cold, then could she feel love - and love for a man. Well, he was a man. And why could he not be the man? "It's up to me to make good," he would murmur fervently. "I will be THE man. I will make myself THE man. I will make good."

马丁又回头来写他的《潜水采珠》。若不是他多次中途转而写诗，写完那篇文章会要早得多。他的诗都是爱情诗，灵感来自露丝，但都没有写成。用高雅的诗篇歌唱并非一朝一夕之功。韵脚、格律和结构已经够难的了，何况还有一种他在一切伟大的诗歌里都能感觉到却总是捉摸不定的东西，这东西他把捉不住，写不进诗里。他感觉得到，孜孜以求却无法抓住的是诗歌那闪烁不定的神韵。那东西于他宛若一道微明的亮光，一片温馨的流云，永远可望而不可即，他偶然抓住了一丝半缕编织成几个诗句，那维绕的音韵便在他脑子里回荡往复，而那以前从未见过的芙便如膝俄的雾雷在他的视野中涌现。这真叫人惶惑。他渴望表达，渴望得头疼，可诌出来的却总是些准都能诌出的东西，平淡无奇。他把自己写成的片断大声朗读，那格悻中规中矩，十至十美，韵脚敲出的节奏虽然舒缓，也同样无懈可击，但总没有他认为应当有的光芒与激情。他不知道为什么，只能一次又一次地失望、失败、泄气，又回来写他的故事。散文毕竟是较为容易的文体。

写完《潜水采珠》，他又写了一篇有关海上生涯的东西，一篇捉海龟的东西，一篇关于东北贸易风的东西。然后他试着写短篇小说，原只想试试手，还没撒开大步，已经写成了六个，寄给了六家不同的杂志。除了去阅览室查资料、图书馆借书，或看露丝之外，他紧张地起早贪黑地写着，成果累累。他感到由衷地痛快，他的生活格调高雅，创作的狂热从不间断。他感到了过去以为只有神灵才能享有的创造的欢乐。他周围的一切全成了幻影——陈腐的蔬菜的气味，肥皂沫的气味，姐姐遍遇的样子，希金波坦先生那冷嘲热讽的脸。他心里有的才是现实世界，他写出的小说只是他心中的现实的许多片断。

日子太短，他要研究的太多。他把睡眠削减为五小时，觉得也过得去。他又试了试四小时半，却只能遗憾地放弃。把醒着的时刻用于他所追求的任河项目他都高兴。停止写作去做研究他感到遗憾，停止研究会图书馆他感到遗憾，离开知识的海图室或阅览室的杂志他也感到遗憾（杂志里充满了卖文成功的作家们的窍门）。跟露丝在一起却又得站起来离开，更像是扯断了心里的琴弦。可随即又心急火燎地穿过黑暗的街道，要尽早回到地的书本中去。而最叫他难受的却是关上代数或物理书、放开铅笔和笔记本闭上疲劳的双眼去睡觉。一想到要暂停生活（哪怕是短短的几小时）他便遗憾，他唯一的安慰是闹钟定在五个小时之后。损失毕竟只有五个小时，然后那叮铃铃的钟声便会把他从酣睡中震醒，那时地面前又会有个光辉的日子——十九个小时。

时间一周周过去，他的钱越来越少，却没有分文进项。他那篇为男孩子们写的冒险连载故事一个月之后由《青年伙伴》退了回来。退稿信措辞委婉得体，使他对编者发生了好感。但对《旧金山检验者》的编辑他却反感。等了两个礼拜，给编辑去了信，一月以后又写了一封信，满了一个月，他又亲自到旧金山去拜访编辑，可总见不到那位高高在上的人物，因为有那么一位年纪不大满头红发的办公室小厮像只塞伯勒斯狗一样把着大门。第五周周末稿件邮寄了回来，没有个交代：没有退稿单，没有解释，什么都没有。他的别的文章在旧金山主要的报纸的遭遇也完全一样。他收到之后又送到了东部去，退稿更快，总是附着印好的退稿条子。

几个短篇小说也以类似的形式退了回来。他把它们读来读去，仍很喜欢。他真想不出为什么会退稿。直到有一天地在报上读到稿件总应当用打字机打好的，这才明白过来。当然啦，编辑们都很忙，没有功夫，也不育费事去读手稿。马丁租来一部打字机，花了一天功夫学会了打字，把每天写的东西用打字机打好。以前的稿件一退给他，他也立即打好送出，可他打好的稿件仍然给退了回来的时候他吃惊了，腮帮子似乎更有棱有角了，下巴似乎更咄咄逼人了。他又把手稿寄给了别的编辑。

他开始想到自己未必是对自己的作品的好评判员，便让格特露听听。他向她朗诵了自己的小说。她的眼里闪着光，骄傲地望着他说：

“你还能写这样的东西，可真棒！”

“好了，好了，”他不耐烦地追问，“可是那故事——你觉得怎么样？”

“就是摔呗，”她回答，“就是棒，好听极了，听得我好激动。”

他看出她的心里其实并不清楚。她那善良的脸上露出了强烈的困惑，便等她说下去。

“可是，马，”过了好一会儿她才说，“这故事到末了是怎么回事？那位说了那么多好听的话的年青人最后得到她了么？”

他向她解释了故事的结局（他原以为已巧妙而明显地作了交代的），她却说：

“我想弄清楚的就是这个。你为什么不在故事里那么写呢、

在他朗读了几个故事之后他明白了一点：她喜欢大团圆的结局。

“那故事捧得不得了，”她在洗衣盆边直起身子疲劳地叹了一口气，用一只红通通冒着水汽的手抹掉了额上的汗，宣布，“可这故事叫我难受，想哭。世界上的伤心事就是太多了。想想快活的事能叫我快活。如果那小伙子娶了她，而且——你不会生气吧，马？”她胆怯地问，“我是随便发表意见的。我看是因为我太累了。这毕竟是个了不起的故事，挑不出毛病的。你打算把它卖到哪儿去？”

“那就是另一码子事了。”他哈哈一笑。

“若要真实了，你能得多少钱？”

“啊，一百块，还是最少的，按时价算。”

“天呐！我真希望你能卖掉！”

“这钱好赚，是吧？”他又骄傲地补充道，“是两天就写成的。五十块钱一天呢。”

他很想把自己的故事读给露丝听，却不敢。他决定等到发表了几篇之后再说，那时她就能明白他在忙些什么了。目前他还继续干着。他的冒险精神过去从没有这样强有力地促使他在心灵的领域做过这种惊人的探索。除了代数，他还买了物理和化学课本，做演算和求证。他对实验室实验采取相信书本的态度。他那强大的想像力使他对于化学物质之间的反应比一般学生经过实验所了解的更深刻。他在艰苦的学问里继续漫游，因为获得了对事物本质的了解而高兴得不得了。以前他只把世界看作世界，现在他懂得了世界的构造，力与物质之间的相互作用。对旧有事物的理解在他心里自然涌出。杠杆与支点的道理令他着迷，他的心回到了海上，在撬棍、滑车和复滑车中倘佯。他现在懂得了能让船只在没有道路的海上航行不致迷路的航海理论，揭开了风暴、雨和潮汐的奥秘。季候风成因的理论使他担心自己那篇描写东北季候风的文章写得太早。至少他知道了自己现在能够写得更好。有一天下午他跟亚瑟去了一趟加州大学，在那里带着宗教的敬畏屏神静气地在许多实验室走了一圈，看了演示，听了一个物理学教授上课。

但他并没有忽视写作。从他笔下流出了一连串短篇小说。他有时又拐弯写起较为平易的诗来——他在杂志纪见到的那种。他还一时头脑发热花了两个礼拜用素体诗写了个悲剧。那剧本校六七个杂志退了稿，叫他大吃了一惊。然后他发现了亨雷，便按照《病院速写》的模式写了一系列海上诗歌嘟是些朴实的，有光有色，浪漫和冒险的诗。他把它们命名为《海上抒情诗》，认为那是他的最佳作品。一共三十首，他一个月就写成了，每天写完了额定分最（相当于一般成功作家一周的工作量）之后再写一首。他对这样的刻苦用功并不在平。那不算刻苦。他不过是寻找着表达的语言而已。在他那结结巴巴的嘴唇后面关闭了多少年的美与奇迹现在化作了一道狂野道劲的急流滔滔不绝地流泻着而且。

他不把《海上抒情诗》给任何人看，连编辑也不给。他已经信不过编辑。但他不肯叫人看的原因并不在信不过，而是因为他觉得那些诗太美，只能保留下来，等到很久以后的某个光辉时到跟露丝共同欣赏，那时他已敢于向她即读自己的作品了。他把这些诗珍藏起来就为的那个时刻。他反复地朗读它们，读得滚瓜烂熟。

醒着的时候他分秒必争地生活着，睡着的时候他仍然生活着，他主观的心灵在五小时的暂停里骚乱着，把白天的思想和事件组合成为离奇荒谬的奇迹。实际上他从不曾休息过。身作稍差脑子稍不稳定的人早就崩溃了。他后半下午对露丝的拜访次数也在减少，因为六月快到了，那时她要取得学位，从大学毕业。文学学士——一想到她的学位她便似乎从他身边飞走了，其速度之快他根本赶不上。

她只给他每周一个下午。他到得晚，常常留下来吃晚饭，听音乐。那便是他的喜庆日子，那屋里的气氛跟他所住的屋子形成的鲜明对比，还有跟她的亲近，使他每次离开时都更加下定了决心要往上爬。尽管他有满脑子的美，也迫切地想加以表现，他斗争的鸽的还是她。他首先是一个情人，而且永远是情人。他让别的一切拜阅于爱情足下。他的爱情探险要比他在思想世界的探险来得伟大，且并不因构成它的原子分子由不可抗拒的力量推动而化合从而显得神奇；叫世界显得神奇的是它上面活着个露丝，她是他所见过的。梦想过的或猜测过的最惊人的事物，但她的辽远却永远压迫着他。她离他太远，他不知道怎么靠近她。在他自己阶级的姑娘、妇女面前他一向顺利；可他从没有爱过其中任何一个；而他却爱上了她，更为难的是，她还不光属于另一个阶级。他对她的爱使她高于一切阶级。她是个辽远的人，报辽远，他就无法像一个情人那样靠近她。不错，他越学知识和语法就离她越近，说着她那种语言；发现跟她相同的思想和爱好；但那并不能满足他作为情人的渴望。他那情人的想像把她神圣化了，太神圣化了，精神化了，不可能跟他有任何肉体的往来。把她推开，使她跟他似乎好不起来的正是他自己的爱情。是爱惜自己向他否定了他所要求的唯一的东西。

于是有一天，两人之间的鸿沟突然暂时出现了桥梁。以后鸿沟虽仍存在，却在一天天变窄。那天两人在吃樱桃——味美粒大的黑樱桃，液汁黑得像深色的酒。后来，在她为他朗诵《公主》的时候他偶然注意到了她唇上有樱桃汁。就在那一刹那她的神圣感粉碎了。她也不过是血肉之躯，跟他和别人一样都要服从血肉之躯的法则。她的嘴唇也跟他的嘴唇一样是肉做的，樱桃既能污染他，也就能污染她。嘴唇如此，全身也如此。她是女人，全身都是女人，跟任何别的女人没有两样。这种突然闪过他心里的想法成了一种启示，叫他大吃了一惊。仿佛看见太阳飞出天外，受到膜拜的纯洁遭到站污。

然后地明白了此事的意义，心房便怦怦地跳了起来，要求他跟这个女人谈情说爱。她并非是天外世界的精灵，而是一个嘴唇也能为樱桃汁染污的女人。他这想法的胆大狂妄使他战栗，但他的整个灵魂都在歌唱，而理智则在胜利的赞歌中肯定了他的正确。他内心的变化一定多少落到了她的眼里，因为她暂停了朗诵，抬头看了看他，微笑了。他的目光从他蓝色的眼睛落到她的唇上，唇上的污迹使他疯狂了，使他几乎像他逍遥自在的时期一样伸出双臂去拥抱她。她也似乎在向他歪过身子，等待着，他是用全部的意志力才遏制住了自己的。

“你一个字也没听呢，”她极起了嘴。

于是她为他那狼狈的样子感到开心，笑了起来。他看看她那坦率的目光，发现她丝毫也没觉察到他的想法，便感到惭愧了。他的思想实在是太出格。他认识的女人除了她之外谁都会猜到的，可她没猜到。差异正在这里。她就是与众不同。他为自己的粗野感到骇然，对她的纯净无邪肃然起敬。又隔着鸿沟注视着她。矫断了。

可这件事让他跟她靠得更近了。心里老记着。在他最沮丧的时刻便使劲反复地想着它。鸿沟变窄了。他跨过了一段比一个文学士学位，比一打文学士学位还大得多的距离。确实，她很纯洁，纯洁到他梦想不到的程度，但是樱桃也能弄脏她的嘴唇。她也像他一样，必须服从无法抗拒的宇宙法则。要吃饭才能活命，脚潮了也着凉。但］和题还在于：她既然也会俄，会渴，知冷，知热，也就能爱——能爱上个什么人。而他，也是个人。他为什么就不能做那个人呢？“那得靠我自己去奋斗，”他常狂热地低语，“我就要做那个人。我要让自己成为那个人。我要奋斗。”