Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning. It was late afternoon before he came out of his delirium and gazed with aching eyes about the room. Mary, one of the tribe of Silva, eight years old, keeping watch, raised a screech at sight of his returning consciousness. Maria hurried into the room from the kitchen. She put her work-calloused hand upon his hot forehead and felt his pulse.
"You lika da eat?" she asked.
He shook his head. Eating was farthest from his desire, and he wondered that he should ever have been hungry in his life.
"I'm sick, Maria," he said weakly. "What is it? Do you know?"
"Grip," she answered. "Two or three days you alla da right. Better you no eat now. Bimeby plenty can eat, to-morrow can eat maybe."
Martin was not used to sickness, and when Maria and her little girl left him, he essayed to get up and dress. By a supreme exertion of will, with rearing brain and eyes that ached so that he could not keep them open, he managed to get out of bed, only to be left stranded by his senses upon the table. Half an hour later he managed to regain the bed, where he was content to lie with closed eyes and analyze his various pains and weaknesses. Maria came in several times to change the cold cloths on his forehead. Otherwise she left him in peace, too wise to vex him with chatter. This moved him to gratitude, and he murmured to himself, "Maria, you getta da milka ranch, all righta, all right."
Then he remembered his long-buried past of yesterday.
It seemed a life-time since he had received that letter from the TRANSCONTINENTAL, a life-time since it was all over and done with and a new page turned. He had shot his bolt, and shot it hard, and now he was down on his back. If he hadn't starved himself, he wouldn't have been caught by La Grippe. He had been run down, and he had not had the strength to throw off the germ of disease which had invaded his system. This was what resulted.
"What does it profit a man to write a whole library and lose his own life?" he demanded aloud. "This is no place for me. No more literature in mine. Me for the counting-house and ledger, the monthly salary, and the little home with Ruth."
Two days later, having eaten an egg and two slices of toast and drunk a cup of tea, he asked for his mail, but found his eyes still hurt too much to permit him to read.
"You read for me, Maria," he said. "Never mind the big, long letters. Throw them under the table. Read me the small letters."
"No can," was the answer. "Teresa, she go to school, she can."
So Teresa Silva, aged nine, opened his letters and read them to him. He listened absently to a long dun from the type-writer people, his mind busy with ways and means of finding a job. Suddenly he was shocked back to himself.
"'We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in your story,'" Teresa slowly spelled out, "'provided you allow us to make the alterations suggested.'"
"What magazine is that?" Martin shouted. "Here, give it to me!"
He could see to read, now, and he was unaware of the pain of the action. It was the WHITE MOUSE that was offering him forty dollars, and the story was "The Whirlpool," another of his early horror stories. He read the letter through again and again. The editor told him plainly that he had not handled the idea properly, but that it was the idea they were buying because it was original. If they could cut the story down one-third, they would take it and send him forty dollars on receipt of his answer.
He called for pen and ink, and told the editor he could cut the story down three-thirds if he wanted to, and to send the forty dollars right along.
The letter despatched to the letter-box by Teresa, Martin lay back and thought. It wasn't a lie, after all. The WHITE MOUSE paid on acceptance. There were three thousand words in "The Whirlpool." Cut down a third, there would be two thousand. At forty dollars that would be two cents a word. Pay on acceptance and two cents a word - the newspapers had told the truth. And he had thought the WHITE MOUSE a third-rater! It was evident that he did not know the magazines. He had deemed the TRANSCONTINENTAL a first-rater, and it paid a cent for ten words. He had classed the WHITE MOUSE as of no account, and it paid twenty times as much as the TRANSCONTINENTAL and also had paid on acceptance.
Well, there was one thing certain: when he got well, he would not go out looking for a job. There were more stories in his head as good as "The Whirlpool," and at forty dollars apiece he could earn far more than in any job or position. Just when he thought the battle lost, it was won. He had proved for his career. The way was clear. Beginning with the WHITE MOUSE he would add magazine after magazine to his growing list of patrons. Hack-work could be put aside. For that matter, it had been wasted time, for it had not brought him a dollar. He would devote himself to work, good work, and he would pour out the best that was in him. He wished Ruth was there to share in his joy, and when he went over the letters left lying on his bed, he found one from her. It was sweetly reproachful, wondering what had kept him away for so dreadful a length of time. He reread the letter adoringly, dwelling over her handwriting, loving each stroke of her pen, and in the end kissing her signature.
And when he answered, he told her recklessly that he had not been to see her because his best clothes were in pawn. He told her that he had been sick, but was once more nearly well, and that inside ten days or two weeks (as soon as a letter could travel to New York City and return) he would redeem his clothes and be with her.
But Ruth did not care to wait ten days or two weeks. Besides, her lover was sick. The next afternoon, accompanied by Arthur, she arrived in the Morse carriage, to the unqualified delight of the Silva tribe and of all the urchins on the street, and to the consternation of Maria. She boxed the ears of the Silvas who crowded about the visitors on the tiny front porch, and in more than usual atrocious English tried to apologize for her appearance. Sleeves rolled up from soap-flecked arms and a wet gunny-sack around her waist told of the task at which she had been caught. So flustered was she by two such grand young people asking for her lodger, that she forgot to invite them to sit down in the little parlor. To enter Martin's room, they passed through the kitchen, warm and moist and steamy from the big washing in progress. Maria, in her excitement, jammed the bedroom and bedroom-closet doors together, and for five minutes, through the partly open door, clouds of steam, smelling of soap-suds and dirt, poured into the sick chamber.
Ruth succeeded in veering right and left and right again, and in running the narrow passage between table and bed to Martin's side; but Arthur veered too wide and fetched up with clatter and bang of pots and pans in the corner where Martin did his cooking. Arthur did not linger long. Ruth occupied the only chair, and having done his duty, he went outside and stood by the gate, the centre of seven marvelling Silvas, who watched him as they would have watched a curiosity in a side-show. All about the carriage were gathered the children from a dozen blocks, waiting and eager for some tragic and terrible denouement. Carriages were seen on their street only for weddings and funerals. Here was neither marriage nor death: therefore, it was something transcending experience and well worth waiting for.
Martin had been wild to see Ruth. His was essentially a love- nature, and he possessed more than the average man's need for sympathy. He was starving for sympathy, which, with him, meant intelligent understanding; and he had yet to learn that Ruth's sympathy was largely sentimental and tactful, and that it proceeded from gentleness of nature rather than from understanding of the objects of her sympathy. So it was while Martin held her hand and gladly talked, that her love for him prompted her to press his hand in return, and that her eyes were moist and luminous at sight of his helplessness and of the marks suffering had stamped upon his face.
But while he told her of his two acceptances, of his despair when he received the one from the TRANSCONTINENTAL, and of the corresponding delight with which he received the one from the WHITE MOUSE, she did not follow him. She heard the words he uttered and understood their literal import, but she was not with him in his despair and his delight. She could not get out of herself. She was not interested in selling stories to magazines. What was important to her was matrimony. She was not aware of it, however, any more than she was aware that her desire that Martin take a position was the instinctive and preparative impulse of motherhood. She would have blushed had she been told as much in plain, set terms, and next, she might have grown indignant and asserted that her sole interest lay in the man she loved and her desire for him to make the best of himself. So, while Martin poured out his heart to her, elated with the first success his chosen work in the world had received, she paid heed to his bare words only, gazing now and again about the room, shocked by what she saw.
For the first time Ruth gazed upon the sordid face of poverty. Starving lovers had always seemed romantic to her, - but she had had no idea how starving lovers lived. She had never dreamed it could be like this. Ever her gaze shifted from the room to him and back again. The steamy smell of dirty clothes, which had entered with her from the kitchen, was sickening. Martin must be soaked with it, Ruth concluded, if that awful woman washed frequently. Such was the contagiousness of degradation. When she looked at Martin, she seemed to see the smirch left upon him by his surroundings. She had never seen him unshaven, and the three days' growth of beard on his face was repulsive to her. Not alone did it give him the same dark and murky aspect of the Silva house, inside and out, but it seemed to emphasize that animal-like strength of his which she detested. And here he was, being confirmed in his madness by the two acceptances he took such pride in telling her about. A little longer and he would have surrendered and gone to work. Now he would continue on in this horrible house, writing and starving for a few more months.
"What is that smell?" she asked suddenly.
"Some of Maria's washing smells, I imagine," was the answer. "I am growing quite accustomed to them."
"No, no; not that. It is something else. A stale, sickish smell."
Martin sampled the air before replying.
"I can't smell anything else, except stale tobacco smoke," he announced.
"That's it. It is terrible. Why do you smoke so much, Martin?"
"I don't know, except that I smoke more than usual when I am lonely. And then, too, it's such a long-standing habit. I learned when I was only a youngster."
"It is not a nice habit, you know," she reproved. "It smells to heaven."
"That's the fault of the tobacco. I can afford only the cheapest. But wait until I get that forty-dollar check. I'll use a brand that is not offensive even to the angels. But that wasn't so bad, was it, two acceptances in three days? That forty-five dollars will pay about all my debts."
"For two years' work?" she queried.
"No, for less than a week's work. Please pass me that book over on the far corner of the table, the account book with the gray cover." He opened it and began turning over the pages rapidly. "Yes, I was right. Four days for 'The Ring of Bells,' two days for 'The Whirlpool.' That's forty-five dollars for a week's work, one hundred and eighty dollars a month. That beats any salary I can command. And, besides, I'm just beginning. A thousand dollars a month is not too much to buy for you all I want you to have. A salary of five hundred a month would be too small. That forty-five dollars is just a starter. Wait till I get my stride. Then watch my smoke."
Ruth misunderstood his slang, and reverted to cigarettes.
"You smoke more than enough as it is, and the brand of tobacco will make no difference. It is the smoking itself that is not nice, no matter what the brand may be. You are a chimney, a living volcano, a perambulating smoke-stack, and you are a perfect disgrace, Martin dear, you know you are."
She leaned toward him, entreaty in her eyes, and as he looked at her delicate face and into her pure, limpid eyes, as of old he was struck with his own unworthiness.
"I wish you wouldn't smoke any more," she whispered. "Please, for - my sake."
"All right, I won't," he cried. "I'll do anything you ask, dear love, anything; you know that."
A great temptation assailed her. In an insistent way she had caught glimpses of the large, easy-going side of his nature, and she felt sure, if she asked him to cease attempting to write, that he would grant her wish. In the swift instant that elapsed, the words trembled on her lips. But she did not utter them. She was not quite brave enough; she did not quite dare. Instead, she leaned toward him to meet him, and in his arms murmured:-
"You know, it is really not for my sake, Martin, but for your own. I am sure smoking hurts you; and besides, it is not good to be a slave to anything, to a drug least of all."
"I shall always be your slave," he smiled.
"In which case, I shall begin issuing my commands."
She looked at him mischievously, though deep down she was already regretting that she had not preferred her largest request.
"I live but to obey, your majesty."
"Well, then, my first commandment is, Thou shalt not omit to shave every day. Look how you have scratched my cheek."
And so it ended in caresses and love-laughter. But she had made one point, and she could not expect to make more than one at a time. She felt a woman's pride in that she had made him stop smoking. Another time she would persuade him to take a position, for had he not said he would do anything she asked?
She left his side to explore the room, examining the clothes-lines of notes overhead, learning the mystery of the tackle used for suspending his wheel under the ceiling, and being saddened by the heap of manuscripts under the table which represented to her just so much wasted time. The oil-stove won her admiration, but on investigating the food shelves she found them empty.
"Why, you haven't anything to eat, you poor dear," she said with tender compassion. "You must be starving."
"I store my food in Maria's safe and in her pantry," he lied. "It keeps better there. No danger of my starving. Look at that."
She had come back to his side, and she saw him double his arm at the elbow, the biceps crawling under his shirt-sleeve and swelling into a knot of muscle, heavy and hard. The sight repelled her. Sentimentally, she disliked it. But her pulse, her blood, every fibre of her, loved it and yearned for it, and, in the old, inexplicable way, she leaned toward him, not away from him. And in the moment that followed, when he crushed her in his arms, the brain of her, concerned with the superficial aspects of life, was in revolt; while the heart of her, the woman of her, concerned with life itself, exulted triumphantly. It was in moments like this that she felt to the uttermost the greatness of her love for Martin, for it was almost a swoon of delight to her to feel his strong arms about her, holding her tightly, hurting her with the grip of their fervor. At such moments she found justification for her treason to her standards, for her violation of her own high ideals, and, most of all, for her tacit disobedience to her mother and father. They did not want her to marry this man. It shocked them that she should love him. It shocked her, too, sometimes, when she was apart from him, a cool and reasoning creature. With him, she loved him - in truth, at times a vexed and worried love; but love it was, a love that was stronger than she.
"This La Grippe is nothing," he was saying. "It hurts a bit, and gives one a nasty headache, but it doesn't compare with break-bone fever."
"Have you had that, too?" she queried absently, intent on the heaven-sent justification she was finding in his arms.
And so, with absent queries, she led him on, till suddenly his words startled her.
He had had the fever in a secret colony of thirty lepers on one of the Hawaiian Islands.
"But why did you go there?" she demanded.
Such royal carelessness of body seemed criminal.
"Because I didn't know," he answered. "I never dreamed of lepers. When I deserted the schooner and landed on the beach, I headed inland for some place of hiding. For three days I lived off guavas, OHIA-apples, and bananas, all of which grew wild in the jungle. On the fourth day I found the trail - a mere foot-trail. It led inland, and it led up. It was the way I wanted to go, and it showed signs of recent travel. At one place it ran along the crest of a ridge that was no more than a knife-edge. The trail wasn't three feet wide on the crest, and on either side the ridge fell away in precipices hundreds of feet deep. One man, with plenty of ammunition, could have held it against a hundred thousand.
"It was the only way in to the hiding-place. Three hours after I found the trail I was there, in a little mountain valley, a pocket in the midst of lava peaks. The whole place was terraced for taro- patches, fruit trees grew there, and there were eight or ten grass huts. But as soon as I saw the inhabitants I knew what I'd struck. One sight of them was enough."
"What did you do?" Ruth demanded breathlessly, listening, like any Desdemona, appalled and fascinated.
"Nothing for me to do. Their leader was a kind old fellow, pretty far gone, but he ruled like a king. He had discovered the little valley and founded the settlement - all of which was against the law. But he had guns, plenty of ammunition, and those Kanakas, trained to the shooting of wild cattle and wild pig, were dead shots. No, there wasn't any running away for Martin Eden. He stayed - for three months."
"But how did you escape?"
"I'd have been there yet, if it hadn't been for a girl there, a half-Chinese, quarter-white, and quarter-Hawaiian. She was a beauty, poor thing, and well educated. Her mother, in Honolulu, was worth a million or so. Well, this girl got me away at last. Her mother financed the settlement, you see, so the girl wasn't afraid of being punished for letting me go. But she made me swear, first, never to reveal the hiding-place; and I never have. This is the first time I have even mentioned it. The girl had just the first signs of leprosy. The fingers of her right hand were slightly twisted, and there was a small spot on her arm. That was all. I guess she is dead, now."
"But weren't you frightened? And weren't you glad to get away without catching that dreadful disease?"
"Well," he confessed, "I was a bit shivery at first; but I got used to it. I used to feel sorry for that poor girl, though. That made me forget to be afraid. She was such a beauty, in spirit as well as in appearance, and she was only slightly touched; yet she was doomed to lie there, living the life of a primitive savage and rotting slowly away. Leprosy is far more terrible than you can imagine it."
"Poor thing," Ruth murmured softly. "It's a wonder she let you get away."
"How do you mean?" Martin asked unwittingly.
"Because she must have loved you," Ruth said, still softly. "Candidly, now, didn't she?"
Martin's sunburn had been bleached by his work in the laundry and by the indoor life he was living, while the hunger and the sickness had made his face even pale; and across this pallor flowed the slow wave of a blush. He was opening his mouth to speak, but Ruth shut him off.
"Never mind, don't answer; it's not necessary," she laughed.
But it seemed to him there was something metallic in her laughter, and that the light in her eyes was cold. On the spur of the moment it reminded him of a gale he had once experienced in the North Pacific. And for the moment the apparition of the gale rose before his eyes - a gale at night, with a clear sky and under a full moon, the huge seas glinting coldly in the moonlight. Next, he saw the girl in the leper refuge and remembered it was for love of him that she had let him go.
"She was noble," he said simply. "She gave me life."
That was all of the incident, but he heard Ruth muffle a dry sob in her throat, and noticed that she turned her face away to gaze out of the window. When she turned it back to him, it was composed, and there was no hint of the gale in her eyes.
"I'm such a silly," she said plaintively. "But I can't help it. I do so love you, Martin, I do, I do. I shall grow more catholic in time, but at present I can't help being jealous of those ghosts of the past, and you know your past is full of ghosts."
"It must be," she silenced his protest. "It could not be otherwise. And there's poor Arthur motioning me to come. He's tired waiting. And now good-by, dear."
"There's some kind of a mixture, put up by the druggists, that helps men to stop the use of tobacco," she called back from the door, "and I am going to send you some."
The door closed, but opened again.
"I do, I do," she whispered to him; and this time she was really gone.
Maria, with worshipful eyes that none the less were keen to note the texture of Ruth's garments and the cut of them (a cut unknown that produced an effect mysteriously beautiful), saw her to the carriage. The crowd of disappointed urchins stared till the carriage disappeared from view, then transferred their stare to Maria, who had abruptly become the most important person on the street. But it was one of her progeny who blasted Maria's reputation by announcing that the grand visitors had been for her lodger. After that Maria dropped back into her old obscurity and Martin began to notice the respectful manner in which he was regarded by the small fry of the neighborhood. As for Maria, Martin rose in her estimation a full hundred per cent, and had the Portuguese grocer witnessed that afternoon carriage-call he would have allowed Martin an additional three-dollars-and-eighty-five- cents' worth of credit.
早上马丁·伊登没有出去找工作。等他从昏迷中醒来，用疼痛的眼睛望着屋子时已经是下半晌。西尔伐家一个八岁的孩子玛丽在守着他，一见他醒来便尖声大叫。玛利亚急忙从国房赶来，用她长满了老茧的手摸了摸地滚烫的前额，还把了把他的脉。
“想吃东西么？”她问。
他摇摇头。他毫无食欲，仿佛不知道自己这辈子什么时候肚子饿过。
“我病了，玛利亚，”他有气没力地说，“你知道是什么病么？”
“流感，”她回答，“两三天就会好的。现在你最好别吃东西，慢慢地就可以多吃了。也许明天吧。”
马丁不习惯于害病。玛利亚和她的小姑娘一离开地使试着站起来穿衣服。却脑袋发昏，眼睛也痛得睁不开。他凭着最大的意志力才挣扎着下了床，却一阵晕旋靠在桌上昏了过去。半小时之后才又挣扎着回到床上，老老实实躺着，闭着眼睛去体会各种痛苦和疲惫。玛利亚进来过几次，给他换额头上的冷敷。然后便让他静静躺着。她很知趣，不去哈叨，打扰他。这叫他激动，也很感谢。他自言自语地喃喃说：“玛利亚，你会得到牛奶场的。一定，一定。”
于是他回忆起了他昨天已埋葬的过去。自从他接到《跨越大陆》的通知以后，似乎已过了一辈子。一切都完了，一切都放弃了，他已翻开了新的一页。他曾竭尽全力作过斗争，可现在躺下了。他若没有让自己挨饿是不会染上流感的。他被打败了。连细菌进入了他的肌体也没有力气赶出去。这就是他的下场。
“一个人即使写了一图书馆的书，却死掉了，又有什么好处呢？”他大声地问，“这不是我的世界。我心里再也没有文学了。我要到会计室去管帐簿，拿月薪，跟露丝建立小家庭。”
两天以后，他吃了两个鸡蛋，两片面包，喝了一杯茶；便问起邮件，却发现眼睛还痛得无法读信。
“你给我读读吧，玛利亚，”他说，“那些厚信、长信都别管，全扔到桌子底下去，只给我读薄信。”
“我不识字，”她回答，“特利莎在上学，她识字。”
于是九岁的特利莎·西尔代便拆开信读给他听。他心不在焉地听着打字机店的一封催款的长信，心里忙着考虑找工作的种种办法，却突然一震，清醒过来。
“我们愿给你四十块钱，购买你故事的连载权，”特利莎吃力地拼读着，“只要你同意我们提出的修改方案。”
“那是什么杂志？”马丁叫道，“这儿，给我！”
现在他能看得见了，行动也不疼痛了。提出给他四十元的是《白鼠》杂志，那故事是《漩涡》，是他早期的一个恐怖故事。他把那信反复地读。编辑坦率地告诉他他对主题处理不当，而他们要买的恰好是主题，因为它别致。若是能砍掉故事的三分之一他们就准备采用，得到他同意的信后立即给他汇四十元来。
他要来了笔和墨水，告诉编辑只要他需要，可以砍去三分之一，并要他们立即把四十元汇来。
打发特利莎送信到邮简去之后，马丁又躺下来想看。毕竟没有撒谎，《白鼠》确是一经采用立即付酬的。《漩涡》有三千字，砍掉三分之一是两千字，四十元是两分钱一个字。每字两分，一经采用立即付酬——报纸说的是真话。可他却把《白鼠》看作是三流杂志！他显然对杂志并不内行。他曾把《跨越大陆》看作一流杂志，可它的稿酬却是一分钱十个字；他也曾认为《白鼠》无足轻重，可它付的稿酬却是《跨越大陆》的二十倍，而且一经采用立即付酬。
好了，有一点可以肯定了：他病好之后是不会去找工作的了。他脑子里还有许多像《漩涡》那样的好故事呢。按四十元一篇计算，他能赚到的钱比任何工作或职位都多得多。他以为失败了，没想到却胜利了。他的事业已得到证明，道路已经清楚。从《白鼠》开始他要不断增加接受他稿件的杂志。下锅之作可以休矣。那简直是浪费时间，一块钱也没有给他挣来过。他要写出作品来，优秀的作品，要让心里最优秀的东西滔滔不绝地流泻。他真希望露丝也在那儿和他共享欢乐。他检查床上剩下的信，却发现有一封正是露丝写的。那信委婉地批评了他，不知道出了什么事，他竟然那么久没有来看她——久得可怕呢。他满怀崇拜他重读了她的信，端详着她的手迹，钟爱看她的一笔一划，最后还亲吻了她的签名。
他回信时坦率地告诉露丝他之所以无法去看她是因为他最好的衣服已送进了当铺。他也告诉她地病了，但已差不多痊愈，在十天或两个礼拜之内（也就是信件去纽约一个来回的时间里）赎回了衣服就可以来看她。
但是露丝却不能等十天或两个礼拜，何况她爱的人还在生病。第二天下午，她就由亚瑟陪同，坐着莫尔斯家的马车到达了。这叫西尔伐家的孩子们和街道上的顽童们说不出地欢喜，却叫玛利亚大吃了一惊。在小小的前门门廊边西尔伐家的孩子往客人身边乱挤，她就扇他们耳光，然后又以可怕得出奇的英语为自己的外表致歉。她的袖子卷了起来，露出了挂着肥皂泡的胳膊，腰上还系着一根湿漉漉的麻布口袋，表明了她正在从事的工作。两位这么体面的年轻人来问起她的房客，弄得她不知所措，忘了请他们在小客厅里坐下。客人要进马丁的房间得从那暖烘烘、湿准流雳气腾腾、正在大洗其衣服的厨房里经过。马利亚一激动又让寝室门跟厕所门挂住了。于是阵阵带着肥皂泡沫和污物昧的水气便涌入了房间，达五分钟之久。
露丝成功地拐完了之字拐，穿过了桌子跟床之间的狭窄通道，来到了马丁身边。但是亚瑟的弯却拐得太大，在马丁做饭的角落里碰到了他的盆盆罐罐，弄出了一片叮当之声。亚瑟没有多逗留。露丝占了唯一的椅子，他只好在完成仔务之后退了出来，站到门口，成了西尔伐家七个孩子的中心。孩子们望着他像看什么新鲜玩意。十来个街区的孩子们都围到了马车旁边，急切地等着看什么悲惨可怕的结局。在他们的街道上马车只是用于婚礼或葬礼。可这儿并没有婚礼或葬礼，超出了他们的经验之外，因此很值得等着看个究竟。
马丁一直急于见到露丝。他本质上原是个多情种子，而又比平常人更需要同情——他渴望同情，那对于地意味着思想上的理解。可他还不了解露丝的同清大体是情绪上的，礼貌上的，与其说是出于对对象的理解，毋宁说是出于她温柔的天性。因此，在马丁抓住她的手向她倾诉时，她出于对他的爱便也握着他的手。一见他那孤苦伶订的样子和脸上受苦的迹象她的眼里便湿润了，闪出了泪花。
但是在他告诉她他有两篇作品被采用，又告诉她他在接到《跨越大陆》的通知时的失望和接《白鼠》的通知时的欢欣时，她却没有跟上他的情绪。她听见他说的话，知道那表面的意思，却不懂得它蕴涵的意义和他的失望和欢乐。她无法摆脱自己。她对卖稿子给杂志不感兴趣，她感到重要的是结婚，但她并没有意识到——那正如她不明白自己希望马丁找工作是一种本能的冲动，是替当妈妈作准备。若是有人把这话直截了当告诉了她，她是会脸红的，而且会生气，会坚持说她唯一的兴趣是希望她所爱的人能充分施展他的才能。因此，尽管马丁为自己在世上所选择的工作的第一次成功而兴高采烈，向她倾诉心曲的时候，她听见的也只是词语。她眼睛正望着屋子，为眼前的景象惊呆了。
露丝是第一次细看到贫穷的肮脏面貌。在她眼里饿肚子的情人似乎永远是浪漫的，却不知道饿肚子的情人究竟怎样生活。她做梦也没有想到会是这样。她的眼睛望望他，又望望屋子，然后又望回来。跟着她送到屋里的水蒸气里的脏衣服味儿叫人恶心。露丝认为若是那可怕的女人经常洗衣服的话，马丁准是泡在了那味儿里的。堕落怕就是这样传染开的吧。她望着马丁，仿佛看到周围环境在他身上留下的脏污。她从没有见过他没刮胡子的样子，他那三天没刮的胡子令她反感，不但给了她阴沉黑暗的印象，跟西尔代家里里外外相同，而且似乎突出了那种她所抵触的粗野的力。而现在他还在走火火魔，得意洋洋地向她讲述着他的两篇作品被采用的事。再受几天苦他原是可以投降，走向工作的，现在怕是又得在这个可怕的屋子里过下去，饿着肚子再写上几个月了。
“那是什么味呀？”她突然问道。
“玛利亚的有些衣服是有味道的，我猜想。我已经很习惯了。”
“不，不，不是那味儿，是另外的什么，一种叫人恶心的腐败味儿。”
“除了陈旧的烟草味，我没有闻到什么。”他宣布。
“就是烟草，太难闻了。你为什么抽那么多烟，马丁？”
“不知道，只是孤独时就想多抽。抽烟时间太长了。我是从少年时代就抽起的。”
“那可不是好习惯，你知道，”她责备他，“简直臭气熏天。”
“那是烟的毛病，我只能买最便宜的。你等着，等我拿到那四十元的支票，找要买一种连天使也不会讨厌的牌子。不过，三天之内就有两篇稿子被采用，不能算坏吧？四十块钱差不多可以还清我的全部欠债了呢。”
“那是两年的工作报酬吧？”她问。
“不，是不到一周工作的报酬。请把桌子那边那个本子递给我，那个灰皮的帐本。”他打开帐本迅速地翻了起来。“对，我没有错。《钟声激越》写了四天，《漩涡》写了两天。就是说一周的工作得了四十五块钱，每月一百八十块。比我所能得到的任何工作的报酬都高。而且这才是开头。我要想给你买的东西就是每月花一千块也不算多；每月五百块太少。四十五块不过是起步而已。等着看我大踏步前进吧。那时候我还要腾云驾雾呢。”
腾云驾雾是句俗话，露丝不懂，她又想到抽烟上去了。
“像现在这样你已经抽得太多，牌子造成的差别并不大，有害的是抽烟本身，不管牌子如何。你是个烟囱、活火山、会走路的烟筒子呢，简直丢脸透了，亲爱的马丁，你知道你是的。”
她带着请求的眼神向他便了过去。他望着她那娇嫩的脸儿，看着她那清澈纯洁的眼睛，又像过去一样感到自己配不上她了。
“我希望你别再抽了，”她细声地说，“我求你了，为了——我。”
“好，我不抽了，”他叫道，“你要我做什么都行，李爱的宝口，你知道的。”
她受到一种巨大的诱惑。她多次一厢情愿地曾见过他那宽厚随和的天性，因而认为若是她要求他放弃写作，他也准会答应。刹邵门话语已在她嘴唇上颤抖，她却忍住了。她不够勇敢，有几分胆怯，反倒迎着他靠了过去，倒在他的怀里喃喃地说：
“确实不是为了我，而是为了你自己呢，马丁。而且，做奴隶总不是好事，尤其是做毒品的奴隶。”
“可我却永远是你的奴隶呢。”他笑了。
“那，我就要颁布命令了。”
她调皮地望着他，虽然心里因为没有提出最大的要求而懊悔。
“服从乃是小臣的天职，陛下。”
“那么，朕的第一戒乃是：勿忘每日刮胡子。你看你把我脸都扎了。”
随之而来的是男欢女爱的调笑和爱抚。可是她已经提出了一个要求，不能一次提得太多。因为让他戒了烟，她感到一种女性的骄傲。下一回他就要要求他找工作了，他不是说过为了她他什么事都愿意做么？
她离开了他身边，去看了看房间。她检查了挂在头顶洗衣绳上的笔记，明白了用以把自行车吊在天花板下的辘轳的秘密，也为桌下那一大堆稿子感到难受——她认为那不知浪费了他多少时间。煤油炉子倒使她欣慰，可一看食品架，却空空如也。
“怎么啦，可怜的宝贝，你没有东西吃了？”她带着温柔的同情说，“你准是饿肚子了。”
“我把我的食物放在玛利亚的柜橱和储藏室里，”他撒了个谎，“在那儿保存得更好。我没有挨饿的危险的，你看这儿。”
她已经回到他的身边，看见他弯过的手肘，袖子底下二头肌滚动起来，结成了一块隆起的肌肉，又大又结实。从感情上讲，她并不喜欢它，但她的脉搏、血液，全身上下都爱它，都渴望着它。因此她便像过去一样不是避开他，而是无法解释地向他靠了过去。在随之而来的时刻里，在他紧紧拥抱着她的时候，她那关心着生活表面现象的脑子虽感到抵触，她的心，她那关心着生命本身的女性的心却因胜利而心花怒放。她正是在这种时候最深刻地感到了自己对马丁的刻骨铭心的爱的。因为在她感到他那健壮的胳膊伸过来，搂紧她，由于狂热楼得她生疼时，她已快乐得几乎要晕了过去。在这个时刻她找到了背叛自己的原则和崇高理想的根据，尤其是不作声地违背了父母意愿的根据。他们不愿意她嫁给这个人，因为她爱上了这个人而惊讶；就连她自己有时也惊讶——那是在她不在他身边、头脑冷静、能够思考的时候。可跟他在一起她便要爱他。那有时确实是一种令人烦恼、痛苦的爱情。但毕竟是爱情，比她要强有力的爱情。
“流感算不了什么，”他说，“有点痛苦，脑袋痛得难受，但跟登格热却不能比。”
“你也害过登格热么？”她心不在焉地问道，陶醉于躺在他怀里所得到的那种天赐的自我辩解。
她就这样心不在焉地引着他说着话儿。突然，他说出的话竟叫她大吃了一惊。
原来他是在一个秘密的麻风寨里得的登格热，那是在夏威夷群岛的一个小岛上，寨里有三十个麻风病人。
“你为什么会到那儿去？”她问。
对自己身子这种大大咧咧的忽视几乎是犯罪。
“因为我并不知道，”他回答，“我做梦也没有想到会有麻风病人。我脱离帆船之后从海滩上了岸，便往内陆跑，想找个地方躲起来。连续三天我都靠丛林中野生的芭拉果、奥夏苹果和香蕉过日子。第四天我找到了路——脚步踏出的通向内陆高处的路。那正是找要找的路，上面有新鲜的脚迹。它在有个地方通向一道山脊之顶，那儿窄得像刀刃，最高处还不到一英尺宽，两面都是几百英尺深的悬崖峭壁。只要有足够的武器弹药，一个人是可以在那儿堵住十万大军的。
“那是通向那隐藏他的唯一的路。在找到那路后三小时我已到达了那儿。那是一道山谷，是个火山熔岩的峰峦围成的口袋。全部修成了梯田，种着芋艿，也有水果。有八或十间草屋。但是我现到居民便知道闯到了什么地方。真是一目了然。”
“那你怎么办呢？”露丝像个苔丝德梦娜，及恐怖又入迷，喘不过气来。
“我什么办法都没有。他们的首领是个慈祥的老人，病相当重，却像个国王一样统治着。是他发现了这个小山谷，建立了这个麻风寨的——全都违法，可他们有枪，有大量的军火，而卡那卡人又是有名的神枪手，经受过打野牛野猪的训练的。没有办法，马丁·伊登进不了。他留下了——一留三个月。”
“后来你是怎么逃掉的？”
“要不是那儿有一个姑娘，我可能至今还在那儿。那姑娘有一半中国血统，四分之一白人血统，四分之一夏威夷人血统。可怜的人儿，很美丽的，而且受过良好的教育，她妈妈有檀香山有一百万左右的家产。好了，这个姑娘最终把我放掉了。他的妈妈资助着这麻风寨，她放了我不怕受到处分。可她让我发誓决不泄露这隐藏他的秘密。我也没有泄露过。这还是我第一次谈起呢。那姑娘刚开始出现麻风的症状，右手指头有些弯曲，手臂上有一个红色的斑点，如此而已。我估计她现在已经死了。”
“可你害怕不？你能逃出来而没有染上那可怕的病你高兴不？”
“害怕，”他承认，“我开头有点心惊胆战；后来也习惯了。不过我一直为那个可怜的姑娘感到难过。那也让我忘了害怕。那姑娘确实很美，外形美，精神也美，而巨只受到轻微的感染；可她却注定了要留在那儿，过着野蛮人的原始生活，慢慢烂掉。麻风病要比你想像的可怕多了。”
“可怜的姑娘，”露丝低声喃喃地说，“她竟然能让你去掉，真是个奇迹。”
“你是什么意思？”他不明白，问道。
“因为她一定是爱上你了，”露丝仍然低声地说，“现在，坦率地说吧，是不是？”
因为在洗衣店里工作过，现在又过着室内的生活，加上疾病和饥饿，马丁被太阳晒黑的脸已经褪色，甚至有些苍白。一阵红晕慢慢从苍白中透了出来。他正要开口说话，却被露丝打断了。
“没有关系，不必回答，没有必要，”她笑出了声。
但他仿佛觉得那笑声里有着某种生硬的东西，眼里的光芒也冷冷的。在那个瞬间他突然想起了自己在北太平洋经历的一次狂风。那风的幻影立即在他眼前升起——风起之前是个万里无云满月高照的夜，浩瀚的大海在月光下闪着冷冰冰的金属般的光。然后他看见了麻风寨的那个姑娘，记起她是因为爱上了他才让他逃掉的。
“她很高贵，”他简单地说，“是她给了我生命。”
关于这件事他只谈到这儿为止，但他却已听见露丝压抑住喉咙里一声嘶哑的呜咽，注意到她转过脸去对着窗户。再转过脸来时她已平静如初，眼里已没有了暴风雨的痕迹。
“我真傻，”她伤心地说，“可是我忍不住。我太爱你了，马丁，太爱了，太爱了，我会慢慢宽宏大量起来的，可是现在我却忍不住要嫉妒过去的幻影。而你知道你的过去里充满了幻影。
“肯定如此，”她不让他辩解，“不可能不如此。可怜的亚瑟已在向我做手势，要我走了。他等得太累了。现在再见吧，亲爱的。
“有药剂师推出了一种合剂，可以帮助戒烟，”她到了门口又回过头来，说，“我给你送一点来。”
门刚关上，又打开了。
“我非常爱你，爱你。”她悄悄对他说。这一次才真走掉了。
玛利亚用崇拜的眼光送她上了马车。她目光敏锐，注意到了露丝衣服的料子和剪裁。那是一种从没有见过的款式，有一种神秘的美。顽童们很失望，眼巴巴望着马车走掉了，然后回过头来望着玛利亚——她突然变成了街面上最显要的人物。可是她的一个孩子却破坏了她的威望，说那些体面的客人是来看他们家房客的。于是玛利亚又归于原先的默默无闻，而马丁却突然发现附近的娃娃们对自己肃然起敬了。在玛利亚心里马丁的身价也足足提高了十倍。那杂货店的葡萄牙老板怕也会同意再赊给马万三块八毛五的货品的，若是他亲眼看见了坐马车来的客人的话。
