It was a hard summer for Martin. Manuscript readers and editors were away on vacation, and publications that ordinarily returned a decision in three weeks now retained his manuscript for three months or more. The consolation he drew from it was that a saving in postage was effected by the deadlock. Only the robber- publications seemed to remain actively in business, and to them Martin disposed of all his early efforts, such as "Pearl-diving," "The Sea as a Career," "Turtle-catching," and "The Northeast Trades." For these manuscripts he never received a penny. It is true, after six months' correspondence, he effected a compromise, whereby he received a safety razor for "Turtle-catching," and that THE ACROPOLIS, having agreed to give him five dollars cash and five yearly subscriptions: for "The Northeast Trades," fulfilled the second part of the agreement.
For a sonnet on Stevenson he managed to wring two dollars out of a Boston editor who was running a magazine with a Matthew Arnold taste and a penny-dreadful purse. "The Peri and the Pearl," a clever skit of a poem of two hundred lines, just finished, white hot from his brain, won the heart of the editor of a San Francisco magazine published in the interest of a great railroad. When the editor wrote, offering him payment in transportation, Martin wrote back to inquire if the transportation was transferable. It was not, and so, being prevented from peddling it, he asked for the return of the poem. Back it came, with the editor's regrets, and Martin sent it to San Francisco again, this time to THE HORNET, a pretentious monthly that had been fanned into a constellation of the first magnitude by the brilliant journalist who founded it. But THE HORNET'S light had begun to dim long before Martin was born. The editor promised Martin fifteen dollars for the poem, but, when it was published, seemed to forget about it. Several of his letters being ignored, Martin indicted an angry one which drew a reply. It was written by a new editor, who coolly informed Martin that he declined to be held responsible for the old editor's mistakes, and that he did not think much of "The Peri and the Pearl" anyway.
But THE GLOBE, a Chicago magazine, gave Martin the most cruel treatment of all. He had refrained from offering his "Sea Lyrics" for publication, until driven to it by starvation. After having been rejected by a dozen magazines, they had come to rest in THE GLOBE office. There were thirty poems in the collection, and he was to receive a dollar apiece for them. The first month four were published, and he promptly received a cheek for four dollars; but when he looked over the magazine, he was appalled at the slaughter. In some cases the titles had been altered: "Finis," for instance, being changed to "The Finish," and "The Song of the Outer Reef" to "The Song of the Coral Reef." In one case, an absolutely different title, a misappropriate title, was substituted. In place of his own, "Medusa Lights," the editor had printed, "The Backward Track." But the slaughter in the body of the poems was terrifying. Martin groaned and sweated and thrust his hands through his hair. Phrases, lines, and stanzas were cut out, interchanged, or juggled about in the most incomprehensible manner. Sometimes lines and stanzas not his own were substituted for his. He could not believe that a sane editor could be guilty of such maltreatment, and his favorite hypothesis was that his poems must have been doctored by the office boy or the stenographer. Martin wrote immediately, begging the editor to cease publishing the lyrics and to return them to him.
He wrote again and again, begging, entreating, threatening, but his letters were ignored. Month by month the slaughter went on till the thirty poems were published, and month by month he received a check for those which had appeared in the current number.
Despite these various misadventures, the memory of the WHITE MOUSE forty-dollar check sustained him, though he was driven more and more to hack-work. He discovered a bread-and-butter field in the agricultural weeklies and trade journals, though among the religious weeklies he found he could easily starve. At his lowest ebb, when his black suit was in pawn, he made a ten-strike - or so it seemed to him - in a prize contest arranged by the County Committee of the Republican Party. There were three branches of the contest, and he entered them all, laughing at himself bitterly the while in that he was driven to such straits to live. His poem won the first prize of ten dollars, his campaign song the second prize of five dollars, his essay on the principles of the Republican Party the first prize of twenty-five dollars. Which was very gratifying to him until he tried to collect. Something had gone wrong in the County Committee, and, though a rich banker and a state senator were members of it, the money was not forthcoming. While this affair was hanging fire, he proved that he understood the principles of the Democratic Party by winning the first prize for his essay in a similar contest. And, moreover, he received the money, twenty-five dollars. But the forty dollars won in the first contest he never received.
Driven to shifts in order to see Ruth, and deciding that the long walk from north Oakland to her house and back again consumed too much time, he kept his black suit in pawn in place of his bicycle. The latter gave him exercise, saved him hours of time for work, and enabled him to see Ruth just the same. A pair of knee duck trousers and an old sweater made him a presentable wheel costume, so that he could go with Ruth on afternoon rides. Besides, he no longer had opportunity to see much of her in her own home, where Mrs. Morse was thoroughly prosecuting her campaign of entertainment. The exalted beings he met there, and to whom he had looked up but a short time before, now bored him. They were no longer exalted. He was nervous and irritable, what of his hard times, disappointments, and close application to work, and the conversation of such people was maddening. He was not unduly egotistic. He measured the narrowness of their minds by the minds of the thinkers in the books he read. At Ruth's home he never met a large mind, with the exception of Professor Caldwell, and Caldwell he had met there only once. As for the rest, they were numskulls, ninnies, superficial, dogmatic, and ignorant. It was their ignorance that astounded him. What was the matter with them? What had they done with their educations? They had had access to the same books he had. How did it happen that they had drawn nothing from them?
He knew that the great minds, the deep and rational thinkers, existed. He had his proofs from the books, the books that had educated him beyond the Morse standard. And he knew that higher intellects than those of the Morse circle were to be found in the world. He read English society novels, wherein he caught glimpses of men and women talking politics and philosophy. And he read of salons in great cities, even in the United States, where art and intellect congregated. Foolishly, in the past, he had conceived that all well-groomed persons above the working class were persons with power of intellect and vigor of beauty. Culture and collars had gone together, to him, and he had been deceived into believing that college educations and mastery were the same things.
Well, he would fight his way on and up higher. And he would take Ruth with him. Her he dearly loved, and he was confident that she would shine anywhere. As it was clear to him that he had been handicapped by his early environment, so now he perceived that she was similarly handicapped. She had not had a chance to expand. The books on her father's shelves, the paintings on the walls, the music on the piano - all was just so much meretricious display. To real literature, real painting, real music, the Morses and their kind, were dead. And bigger than such things was life, of which they were densely, hopelessly ignorant. In spite of their Unitarian proclivities and their masks of conservative broadmindedness, they were two generations behind interpretative science: their mental processes were mediaeval, while their thinking on the ultimate data of existence and of the universe struck him as the same metaphysical method that was as young as the youngest race, as old as the cave-man, and older - the same that moved the first Pleistocene ape-man to fear the dark; that moved the first hasty Hebrew savage to incarnate Eve from Adam's rib; that moved Descartes to build an idealistic system of the universe out of the projections of his own puny ego; and that moved the famous British ecclesiastic to denounce evolution in satire so scathing as to win immediate applause and leave his name a notorious scrawl on the page of history.
So Martin thought, and he thought further, till it dawned upon him that the difference between these lawyers, officers, business men, and bank cashiers he had met and the members of the working class he had known was on a par with the difference in the food they ate, clothes they wore, neighborhoods in which they lived. Certainly, in all of them was lacking the something more which he found in himself and in the books. The Morses had shown him the best their social position could produce, and he was not impressed by it. A pauper himself, a slave to the money-lender, he knew himself the superior of those he met at the Morses'; and, when his one decent suit of clothes was out of pawn, he moved among them a lord of life, quivering with a sense of outrage akin to what a prince would suffer if condemned to live with goat-herds.
"You hate and fear the socialists," he remarked to Mr. Morse, one evening at dinner; "but why? You know neither them nor their doctrines."
The conversation had been swung in that direction by Mrs. Morse, who had been invidiously singing the praises of Mr. Hapgood. The cashier was Martin's black beast, and his temper was a trifle short where the talker of platitudes was concerned.
"Yes," he had said, "Charley Hapgood is what they call a rising young man - somebody told me as much. And it is true. He'll make the Governor's Chair before he dies, and, who knows? maybe the United States Senate."
"What makes you think so?" Mrs. Morse had inquired.
"I've heard him make a campaign speech. It was so cleverly stupid and unoriginal, and also so convincing, that the leaders cannot help but regard him as safe and sure, while his platitudes are so much like the platitudes of the average voter that - oh, well, you know you flatter any man by dressing up his own thoughts for him and presenting them to him."
"I actually think you are jealous of Mr. Hapgood," Ruth had chimed in.
"Heaven forbid!"
The look of horror on Martin's face stirred Mrs. Morse to belligerence.
"You surely don't mean to say that Mr. Hapgood is stupid?" she demanded icily.
"No more than the average Republican," was the retort, "or average Democrat, either. They are all stupid when they are not crafty, and very few of them are crafty. The only wise Republicans are the millionnaires and their conscious henchmen. They know which side their bread is buttered on, and they know why."
"I am a Republican," Mr. Morse put in lightly. "Pray, how do you classify me?"
"Oh, you are an unconscious henchman."
"Henchman?"
"Why, yes. You do corporation work. You have no working-class nor criminal practice. You don't depend upon wife-beaters and pickpockets for your income. You get your livelihood from the masters of society, and whoever feeds a man is that man's master. Yes, you are a henchman. You are interested in advancing the interests of the aggregations of capital you serve."
Mr. Morse's face was a trifle red.
"I confess, sir," he said, "that you talk like a scoundrelly socialist."
Then it was that Martin made his remark:
"You hate and fear the socialists; but why? You know neither them nor their doctrines."
"Your doctrine certainly sounds like socialism," Mr. Morse replied, while Ruth gazed anxiously from one to the other, and Mrs. Morse beamed happily at the opportunity afforded of rousing her liege lord's antagonism.
"Because I say Republicans are stupid, and hold that liberty, equality, and fraternity are exploded bubbles, does not make me a socialist," Martin said with a smile. "Because I question Jefferson and the unscientific Frenchmen who informed his mind, does not make me a socialist. Believe me, Mr. Morse, you are far nearer socialism than I who am its avowed enemy."
"Now you please to be facetious," was all the other could say.
"Not at all. I speak in all seriousness. You still believe in equality, and yet you do the work of the corporations, and the corporations, from day to day, are busily engaged in burying equality. And you call me a socialist because I deny equality, because I affirm just what you live up to. The Republicans are foes to equality, though most of them fight the battle against equality with the very word itself the slogan on their lips. In the name of equality they destroy equality. That was why I called them stupid. As for myself, I am an individualist. I believe the race is to the swift, the battle to the strong. Such is the lesson I have learned from biology, or at least think I have learned. As I said, I am an individualist, and individualism is the hereditary and eternal foe of socialism."
"But you frequent socialist meetings," Mr. Morse challenged.
"Certainly, just as spies frequent hostile camps. How else are you to learn about the enemy? Besides, I enjoy myself at their meetings. They are good fighters, and, right or wrong, they have read the books. Any one of them knows far more about sociology and all the other ologies than the average captain of industry. Yes, I have been to half a dozen of their meetings, but that doesn't make me a socialist any more than hearing Charley Hapgood orate made me a Republican."
"I can't help it," Mr. Morse said feebly, "but I still believe you incline that way."
Bless me, Martin thought to himself, he doesn't know what I was talking about. He hasn't understood a word of it. What did he do with his education, anyway?
Thus, in his development, Martin found himself face to face with economic morality, or the morality of class; and soon it became to him a grisly monster. Personally, he was an intellectual moralist, and more offending to him than platitudinous pomposity was the morality of those about him, which was a curious hotchpotch of the economic, the metaphysical, the sentimental, and the imitative.
A sample of this curious messy mixture he encountered nearer home. His sister Marian had been keeping company with an industrious young mechanic, of German extraction, who, after thoroughly learning the trade, had set up for himself in a bicycle-repair shop. Also, having got the agency for a low-grade make of wheel, he was prosperous. Marian had called on Martin in his room a short time before to announce her engagement, during which visit she had playfully inspected Martin's palm and told his fortune. On her next visit she brought Hermann von Schmidt along with her. Martin did the honors and congratulated both of them in language so easy and graceful as to affect disagreeably the peasant-mind of his sister's lover. This bad impression was further heightened by Martin's reading aloud the half-dozen stanzas of verse with which he had commemorated Marian's previous visit. It was a bit of society verse, airy and delicate, which he had named "The Palmist." He was surprised, when he finished reading it, to note no enjoyment in his sister's face. Instead, her eyes were fixed anxiously upon her betrothed, and Martin, following her gaze, saw spread on that worthy's asymmetrical features nothing but black and sullen disapproval. The incident passed over, they made an early departure, and Martin forgot all about it, though for the moment he had been puzzled that any woman, even of the working class, should not have been flattered and delighted by having poetry written about her.
Several evenings later Marian again visited him, this time alone. Nor did she waste time in coming to the point, upbraiding him sorrowfully for what he had done.
"Why, Marian," he chided, "you talk as though you were ashamed of your relatives, or of your brother at any rate."
"And I am, too," she blurted out.
Martin was bewildered by the tears of mortification he saw in her eyes. The mood, whatever it was, was genuine.
"But, Marian, why should your Hermann be jealous of my writing poetry about my own sister?"
"He ain't jealous," she sobbed. "He says it was indecent, ob - obscene."
Martin emitted a long, low whistle of incredulity, then proceeded to resurrect and read a carbon copy of "The Palmist."
"I can't see it," he said finally, proffering the manuscript to her. "Read it yourself and show me whatever strikes you as obscene - that was the word, wasn't it?"
"He says so, and he ought to know," was the answer, with a wave aside of the manuscript, accompanied by a look of loathing. "And he says you've got to tear it up. He says he won't have no wife of his with such things written about her which anybody can read. He says it's a disgrace, an' he won't stand for it."
"Now, look here, Marian, this is nothing but nonsense," Martin began; then abruptly changed his mind.
He saw before him an unhappy girl, knew the futility of attempting to convince her husband or her, and, though the whole situation was absurd and preposterous, he resolved to surrender.
"All right," he announced, tearing the manuscript into half a dozen pieces and throwing it into the waste-basket.
He contented himself with the knowledge that even then the original type-written manuscript was reposing in the office of a New York magazine. Marian and her husband would never know, and neither himself nor they nor the world would lose if the pretty, harmless poem ever were published.
Marian, starting to reach into the waste-basket, refrained.
"Can I?" she pleaded.
He nodded his head, regarding her thoughtfully as she gathered the torn pieces of manuscript and tucked them into the pocket of her jacket - ocular evidence of the success of her mission. She reminded him of Lizzie Connolly, though there was less of fire and gorgeous flaunting life in her than in that other girl of the working class whom he had seen twice. But they were on a par, the pair of them, in dress and carriage, and he smiled with inward amusement at the caprice of his fancy which suggested the appearance of either of them in Mrs. Morse's drawing-room. The amusement faded, and he was aware of a great loneliness. This sister of his and the Morse drawing-room were milestones of the road he had travelled. And he had left them behind. He glanced affectionately about him at his few books. They were all the comrades left to him.
"Hello, what's that?" he demanded in startled surprise.
Marian repeated her question.
"Why don't I go to work?" He broke into a laugh that was only half-hearted. "That Hermann of yours has been talking to you."
She shook her head.
"Don't lie," he commanded, and the nod of her head affirmed his charge.
"Well, you tell that Hermann of yours to mind his own business; that when I write poetry about the girl he's keeping company with it's his business, but that outside of that he's got no say so. Understand?
"So you don't think I'll succeed as a writer, eh?" he went on. "You think I'm no good? - that I've fallen down and am a disgrace to the family?"
"I think it would be much better if you got a job," she said firmly, and he saw she was sincere. "Hermann says - "
"Damn Hermann!" he broke out good-naturedly. "What I want to know is when you're going to get married. Also, you find out from your Hermann if he will deign to permit you to accept a wedding present from me."
He mused over the incident after she had gone, and once or twice broke out into laughter that was bitter as he saw his sister and her betrothed, all the members of his own class and the members of Ruth's class, directing their narrow little lives by narrow little formulas - herd-creatures, flocking together and patterning their lives by one another's opinions, failing of being individuals and of really living life because of the childlike formulas by which they were enslaved. He summoned them before him in apparitional procession: Bernard Higginbotham arm in arm with Mr. Butler, Hermann von Schmidt cheek by jowl with Charley Hapgood, and one by one and in pairs he judged them and dismissed them - judged them by the standards of intellect and morality he had learned from the books. Vainly he asked: Where are the great souls, the great men and women? He found them not among the careless, gross, and stupid intelligences that answered the call of vision to his narrow room. He felt a loathing for them such as Circe must have felt for her swine. When he had dismissed the last one and thought himself alone, a late-comer entered, unexpected and unsummoned. Martin watched him and saw the stiff-rim, the square-cut, double-breasted coat and the swaggering shoulders, of the youthful hoodlum who had once been he.
"You were like all the rest, young fellow," Martin sneered. "Your morality and your knowledge were just the same as theirs. You did not think and act for yourself. Your opinions, like your clothes, were ready made; your acts were shaped by popular approval. You were cock of your gang because others acclaimed you the real thing. You fought and ruled the gang, not because you liked to, - you know you really despised it, - but because the other fellows patted you on the shoulder. You licked Cheese-Face because you wouldn't give in, and you wouldn't give in partly because you were an abysmal brute and for the rest because you believed what every one about you believed, that the measure of manhood was the carnivorous ferocity displayed in injuring and marring fellow-creatures' anatomies. Why, you whelp, you even won other fellows' girls away from them, not because you wanted the girls, but because in the marrow of those about you, those who set your moral pace, was the instinct of the wild stallion and the bull-seal. Well, the years have passed, and what do you think about it now?"
As if in reply, the vision underwent a swift metamorphosis. The stiff-rim and the square-cut vanished, being replaced by milder garments; the toughness went out of the face, the hardness out of the eyes; and, the face, chastened and refined, was irradiated from an inner life of communion with beauty and knowledge. The apparition was very like his present self, and, as he regarded it, he noted the student-lamp by which it was illuminated, and the book over which it pored. He glanced at the title and read, "The Science of AEsthetics." Next, he entered into the apparition, trimmed the student-lamp, and himself went on reading "The Science of AEsthetics."
那个夏天马丁过得很艰难。审稿人和编辑们都放假走掉了。报刊杂志平时三个礼拜就能回信，现在一拖三个月，有时更久。他感到安慰的是邮费倒是因为这僵局而省掉了。出版仍然活跃的是那些强盗报刊。马丁把他早期的作品如《潜水采珠》、《海上生涯》、《捕鳖》、《东北季候风》全寄给了它们，没有从这些稿子得到分文稿酬。不过，在六个月书信往返之后他取得了一项折中：从《捕鳖》得到了一把刮胡刀；刊登他的《东北季候风》的《卫城》则同意给他五元现金和五年赠阅——后来只执行了协议的第二部分。
他把一首咏史蒂文森的十四行诗卖给了波士顿一个编辑，从那儿挤出了两元钱。那编辑办的杂志虽饶有马修·阿诺德风格，钱袋子却攥得极紧。他新写成的一首二百行的巧妙的讽刺诗《仙女与珍珠》，刚从脑子里热腾腾出笼，得到了旧金山一家杂志编辑的青睐。那杂志是为一条大铁路办的。杂志编辑写信问他是否可以用免费乘车证代替稿费，他回信问那乘车证可否转让，回答是不能转让。既然不能转让他只好要求退稿。稿子退了回来，编辑表示遗憾，马丁又把它寄到旧金山，给了《大黄蜂》，一家神气十足的杂志，是一个精明的报人一手创办并吹嘘成最辉煌的明星杂志的。但是《大黄蜂》的光芒在马丁出世以前早已暗淡。编辑同意给马丁十五元钱买那首诗，不过在刊出之后却似乎忘了寄稿费的事。马丁去了几封信都没有回音，便写去了一封措辞尖刻的信，算是引来了回答。那是一个新任编辑写的，冷冰冰地告诉马丁他不能对他前任编辑的错误负责。而且他认为《仙女与珍珠》也并不怎么样。
但是给予马丁最残酷打击的却是一家芝加哥的杂志《环球》。马丁一直不肯把他的《海上抒情诗》送出去发表，实在是因为太饿才终于改变了初衷。在遭到十多家杂志拒绝之后，那稿子来到了《环球》的办公室。那集子里一共有三十首诗，一首诗能给他一块钱。第一个月发表了四首，他立即得到了四块钱支票。但是一看杂志，他却为那屠杀式的窜改气得发疯。连标题都改了，《结局》给改成了《完》；《外礁之歌》给改成了《珊瑚礁之歌》；还有一处标题改得文不对题，《美杜莎的目光》被改成了《倒退的轨迹》。诗歌本身的胡涂乱改更是可怕。马丁嗷嗷叫着，满身冷汗，揪着头发。用词、诗行和小节都被莫名其妙地划掉了、交换了、颠倒了、混淆了。有时又凭空飞来些诗节，代替了他的原作。他很难相信一个头脑清醒的编辑竟会这样横行霸道。若是说那诗是叫一个跑街小厮或是速记员动了手术，他倒比较相信。马丁立即去信请求原诗退回，别再发表。他一封又一封地写信，要求，央告，乞请，威胁，都没有回音。那蹂躏屠杀一个月一个月地继续下去，直到他的三十首诗一一发表完毕。支票倒是每月作品一发就寄来的。
尽管有这些倒霉的事，关于《白鼠》的那四十元支票的记忆仍然支持着他，只是他不得不越来越多地写下锅之作。他在农业周刊和行业刊物里找到了奶油面包，也发现靠宗教周刊容易饿饭。在他最倒霉、连那套黑色礼服也进了当辅以后，却在共和党县委组织的一次有奖比赛里得了个满分——或者是自以为如此。竞赛分作三项，他全参加了——他不禁对自己苦笑，竟弄到了这种山穷水尽的地步！他的诗歌得了一等奖，十元；他的竞选歌曲得了二等奖，五元；他的论述共和党原则的论文得了一等奖，二十五元。这叫他心满意足，可到他去领奖时才发现还有问题。原来县委内部出了差错，尽管县委里有一个有钱的银行家和一个州参议员，奖金却迟迟没有发了来。这个问题还悬而未决，他又在另一项论文竞赛里得了个一等奖，不但证明了自己也懂得民主党的原则，而且到手了二十五元奖金。不过共和党竞赛的那四十元却泡了汤。
他不得不设计和露丝见面的办法。考虑到从北奥克兰步行到露丝家再走回来路程太远，他决定把黑色礼服送进了当铺，以保留自行车。自行车照样能让他跟露丝见面，却又能锻炼身材，而且能省下时间来工作。他只须穿上一条细帆布齐膝短裤和一件旧毛线衣，也能算有了过得去的骑车装，下午便能够和露丝一起骑车兜风了。而且，他在她家里见到她的机会也不多，因为莫尔斯太太正全力以赴推行她的请客计划。他在那儿见到的不久前还叫他莫测高深的上流人士现在已叫他生厌。他们再也不神气了。他因为自己日子过得艰难，屡遭挫折，工作又太辛苦，本来就敏感易怒，而他们的谈吐又总惹他生气。他的这种自满未始没有道理。他用自己在书上读到的思想家作尺度来衡量那些人狭隘的心灵，除却考德威尔教授以外，他在露丝家就没有遇见过一个心灵博大的人，而考德威尔教授他也只见过一次。其他的人全都是些蠢材，笨蛋，又浅薄，又武断，又无知。最叫他吃惊的是他们的无知。他们是怎么了？他们受过的教育到哪儿去了？他读过的书他们都是读过的，可是为什么他们从那些书里就什么都没有学到？
他知道世界上确实有博大的心灵和深沉合理的思想。这是他从书本上验证过的。那些书本给他的教育超过了莫尔斯家的标准。他也明白世上有高于莫尔斯圈子的聪明才智。他阅读英国的社交小说，在其中瞥见过一些讨论政治和哲学的绅士淑女。他也读到过大都会里的沙龙，艺术和聪明都在那里会集，而这种沙龙美国也有。他过去曾愚昧地以为：高踞于工人阶级以上的衣冠楚楚的人们全都智慧过人，情操优美。他曾以为文化总伴随着白领；他曾受过骗，以为大学教育就是博学多才。
是的，他要奋斗，要向上，还要把露丝留在身边。他对她一往情深，深信她所到之处都一路光辉。他明白自己少时的环境限制过自己；也明白露丝的环境也会限制她。她没有发展的机会。她父亲架上的书、墙上的画和钢琴上的乐曲至多也不过是些平庸的装饰。莫尔斯一家和类似的人对真正的文学、绘画和音乐全都迟钝，而生活却比那一切宏伟多了。他们对生活愚昧得无可救药。尽管他们倾向于唯一神教，戴了一副具有保守开明思想的面具，实际上他们已落后于解释世界的科学两代之久。他们的思想还处在中世纪阶段。同时，他也感到，他们看待生命和宇宙的终极事实的方法还是形而上学的，那种看法阻地球上最年轻的种族的看法一样幼稚；也跟穴居人的看法一样古老，甚至更古老——那看法使第一个更新世的猿人害怕黑暗；使第一个匆促的希伯来野蛮人用亚当的肋骨造成了夏娃；使笛卡尔通过反射渺小的自我建立了唯心主义的宇宙体系；使那有名的英格兰传教士用尖刻的讽刺来谴责进化论，并立即博得了喝彩，从而在历史的篇章里草草留下了一个臭名。
马丁想着，又想了开去。他终于明白过来，他所见过的这些律师。军官、商人和银行经理跟他所认识的工人阶级成员们之间的差异是跟他们的食物、服装和人事环境一致的。他们每个人都肯定缺少了某种东西，而那东西他在书本里和自己具上已经找到。莫尔斯一家向他展示了他们的社会地位所能提供的最佳事物，可他并不觉得那些事物有什么了不起。他一贫如洗，成了放债人的奴隶。可他明白自己要比在莫尔斯家见到的那些人高明。他只要把他那身见客服装赎出来，就能像生命的主宰一样周旋在他们之间，带着受到侮辱的战栗，其感受有如被罢黜到牧羊人中间的王子。
“你仇恨而且害怕社会主义者，”有一天晚餐时他对莫尔斯先生说，“可那是为什么？你并不认识社会主义者，也不懂得他们的学说。”
话头是由莫尔斯太太引起的。她一直在令人厌烦地歌颂着哈外古德先生。那银行家在马丁心目中是一匹黑色的野兽，一提起那个满口陈词滥调的家伙他就免不了要生气。
“是的，”他说，“查理·哈补占德是所谓的扶摇直上的青年——有人这么说。这话不错，他也许在去世之前能当上州长，说不定还能进合众国的参议院，谁也说不准。”
“你凭什么这么想？”莫尔斯太太问。
“我听他发表过竞选演说。愚蠢得非常聪明，尤其擅长人云亦云，还很有说服力。当头头的准会认为他安全可靠。他的陈词滥调跟普通的投票人的陈词滥调非常相似——不错，你知道，只要你能把任何人的话美化一番，再送还给他，你准保能得到他的欢心。”
“我的确认为你是妒忌哈扑古德先生。”露丝插话说。
“上天不允许！”
马丁脸上的厌恶之情挑起了莫尔斯太大的敌对情绪。
“你肯定不是说哈扑古德先生愚蠢吧？”她冷冷地质问。
“并不比一般的共和党人更愚蠢，”他针锋相对，“或者说，也不比民主党人更愚蠢。他们不耍手腕时都很愚蠢，而他们之中善于要手腕的并不多。聪明的共和党人是那些百万富翁们和他们的自觉的仆从们。他们明白自己的利害所在，也深知此中的奥妙。”
“我就是个共和党，”莫尔斯先生不动声色地插了一句，“请问，你把我归于哪一类？”
“哦，你是个不自觉的仆从。”
“仆从？”
“不错，不过那也没什么。你在公司工作，你不替工人打官司，也不打刑事官司；你的律师收入不靠打老婆的穷人，也不靠扒手。你从主宰着社会的人讨生活——谁养活别人，谁就是别人的主宰。不错，你就是个仆从。你只对如何增进资本集团的利益感到兴趣。”
莫尔斯先生涨红了脸。
“我得承认，先生，”他说，“你的话跟流氓式的社会主义者差不多。”
这时马丁回答的就是上面那句话：——
“你仇恨而且害怕社会主义者，可那是为什么？你并不认识社会主义者，也不知道他们的学说。”
‘你的学说听起来就像社会主义。”莫尔斯先生回答。这时露丝焦急地望着他们俩，而莫尔斯太太则快活得满脸放光，因为她终于找到了机会，挑起了老爷子的不满。
“不能因为我说共和党人愚蠢，认为自由平等博爱已经成了破灭的肥皂泡，就把我算成社会主义者。”马丁望尔一笑，说，“我虽对杰怫逊和那些向他提供材料的不科学的法国人提出怀疑，却不能算是社会主义者。请相信我，莫尔斯先生，你比我还要接近社会主义得多，反之，我倒是社会主义的死敌。”
“现在你倒有心思开玩笑。”对方无可奈何地说。
“一点也不开玩笑。我说话可是一本正经的。你还相信平等，可你为公司干活，而公司是每天都在埋葬着平等的。你因为我否认平等，揭穿了你的所作所为的实质就说我是社会主义者。共和党人是平等的敌人，虽然他们大部分人嘴上都挂着平等的口号在进行着反对平等的斗争。他们其实是在以平等的名义摧毁着平等。因此我说他们愚昧。至于我自己，我是个个人主义者，我相信赛跑是腿脚快的得奖，打架是力气大的获胜。这就是我从生物学学到的，至少是自以为学到的东西。我说过我是个个人主义者，而个人主义天生就是社会主义的敌人，永远的敌人。”
“但是你参加社会主义的聚会，”莫尔斯先生反驳道。
“当然，正如间谍要打入敌人营垒里去一样，否则你怎么能知道敌人呢？何况我参加他们的集会还感到快活。他们是优秀的战士，而且，无论他们是否正确，他们都读过书。他们中的任何一个人所懂得的社会学和别的学问也比一般企业老板多得多。是的，我参加过他们六七次会议，但那也不能把我变成社会主义者，正如听了查理·哈外古德的讲演并不能把我变成共和党人一样。”
“我是情不自禁产生这种想法的，”莫尔斯先生冷冷地说，“我仍然觉得你倾向于社会主义。”
上帝保佑，马丁心想，他不懂我的意思，我的话他一句话也没有听懂。他当初那教育是怎么受的？马丁就像这样在发展之中让自己面对了经济地位所形成的道德观，也就是阶级的道德，那东西在他面前很快就化作了一个狰狞的怪物。他本人是个理性的道德家，而在他眼里他周围这些人的道德观却比大言不惭的陈词监调更为可厌，那是一种经济道德、形而上学道德、伤感主义道德跟人云亦云的道德的妙不盯言的大杂烩。
他在自己的家里就尝到了一口这种离奇的混合道德的美味。他的妹妹茉莉安和一个年轻勤奋的德国血统技工有了来往。那人在学会了全部技术之后开了一家自行车修理铺，站住了脚跟。以后他又获得了一种低级牌子的自行车的代销权，于是富了起来。茉莉安前不久到马丁那小屋来看他，告诉了他她订婚的事。那时她还开玩笑，给马丁看了看手相。第二次她来时带来了赫尔曼·冯·史密特。马丁表示欢迎，并用了很为流畅优美的言辞向两人祝贺，可那却引起工妹妹的情人那农民心灵的抵触。马丁又朗诵了他为纪念跟茉莉安上次的见面所写的六七小节诗，却加深了恶劣的印象。那是些社交诗，巧妙精美，他把它叫做《手相家》。他朗诵完毕，却没有见到妹妹脸上有高兴的表情出现，不禁感到吃惊。相反，妹妹的眼睛却盯住了她的未婚夫。马丁跟随她的目光看去，却在那位重要人物歪扭的脸上看见了阴沉、慢怒的不以为然的神气。这事过去了，客人很早就离开了，马丁也把它全忘了。不过，他一时总觉得奇怪，即使是工人阶级的妇女，别人为她写诗，能有什么叫她不得意、不高兴的呢？
几天以后，茉莉安又来看他，这回是一个人来的。他倒是开门见山，没有浪费时间就痛苦地责备起他的行为来。
“怎么啦，茉莉安，”他也责备她，“你说话那样子好像为你的亲人，至少是为你哥哥感到丢脸似的。”
“我的确感到丢脸。”她爆发了出来。
马丁在她的眼里看到了屈辱的泪水，感到莫名其妙。可无论那是什么情绪，却是真实的。
“可是茉莉安，我为我的亲妹妹写诗，赫尔文凭什么嫉妒呀？”
“他不是嫉妒，”她抽抽搭搭地哭了起来，“他说那诗不正经，下——流。”
马丁低吹了一声长长的口哨，表示难以置信，回过神来之后，又读了读《手相家》的复写稿。
“我可看不出诗里有什么下流之处，”他终于说，把稿子递给了她。“你自己看看，再告诉我你觉得是什么地方下流——他用的是这个词吧。”
“那是他说的，他总该知道，”妹妹回答，带着厌恶的表情一挥手，推开了稿子。“他说你应该把它撕掉。他说，他不要这样的老婆，叫人写这样的话，还要去让人家读。他说那太丢脸，他不能忍受。”
“听着，茉莉安，他这是胡说八道。”马丁刚开口，随即改变了主意。
他看见了眼前这个伤心的姑娘，他明白要说服她和她的丈夫是不可能的。尽管事情整个儿地荒唐可笑，他仍然决定投降。
“好了好了，”他宣布，把手稿撕成了五六片，扔进了字纸篓。
他心里别有安慰，他知道那时他的打字稿已经躺在纽约一家杂志社的办公室里。这是茉莉安和她的丈夫都不会知道的。而且，即使那无害的诗发表了，也不会妨害他自己、茉莉安夫妇或任何人。
茉莉安向字纸篓伸了伸手，却忍住了。
“我可以吗？”她请求。
他点了点头。她把那些手稿破片收拾起来，塞进了短衫口袋——那是她任务完成的物证。他沉思地望着她。她叫他想起了丽齐·康诺利，虽然茉莉安没有他只见过两面的那个工人阶级姑娘那么火热、耀眼、精力充沛，但她们的服装和姿态是一样的，她们是一对。他又设想若是这两个姑娘之一在莫尔斯太太的厅堂里出现，又会怎么样。这一想，他又不禁心里一乐，笑了起来。笑意淡去，他又感到了孤独。他的这个妹妹和莫尔斯太太家的厅堂是他生命旅途上的两个里程碑。他已经把两者都扔到了身后。他深情地环视着他的那几本书。那是他现在仅有的志同道合者了。
“啊，什么？”他吃了一惊，问道。
茉莉安把她的问题再说了一遍。
“我为什么不去干活？”他有心没肠地笑了起来。“你的那位赫尔曼教训了你吧。”
她摇摇头。
“别撒谎。”他命令道，她点了点头，承认了他的判断。
“好了，你告诉你那位赫尔曼，还是多为自己的事操点心吧。我为他的女朋友写诗可以算得是他的事，但对此外的问题他是没有发言权的。明白了么？”
“你说我想当作家是办不到的么，呢？”他继续说，“你认为我不行么？——认为我倒了霉，给家庭丢了脸，是么？”
“我认为你若是有了工作就会好得多，”她理直气壮地说，他明白那话是出于至诚。“赫尔曼说——”
“滚你耶赫尔曼的蛋吧！”他叫了起来，态度却挺好，“我想知道你们什么时候结婚。还有，请征求征求你那位赫尔曼的意见，可否委屈地同意你接受我一个礼物。”
妹妹离开之后他考虑了一下这事，不禁一再苦笑。他看见妹妹和她的未婚夫、工人阶级的全部成员、还有露丝那阶级的全部成员，人人都按照自己渺小的公式过着自己的狭隘生活——他们是过着集体生活的群居动物，他们用彼此的舆论塑造着彼此的生活。他们受到那些奴役着他们的幼稚公式的控制，都不再是单个的个人，也都过不到真正的生活。马丁把他们像幽灵队伍一样召唤到了自己面前。和巴特勒先生手牵着手的是伯纳德·希金波坦；和查理·哈扑古德胜贴着脸的是赫尔曼·冯·史密特。他把他们一个一个，一对一对作了评判，然后全部打发掉。他用书本上学来的智慧和道德标准对他们作了评判，然后茫然地问道：那些伟大的灵魂、伟大的人到哪里去了？他在响应他幻觉的号召来到他小屋里的轻浮、粗野、愚昧的聪明人中寻找，一个也没有找到。他厌恶这群人，女巫喀耳刻也一定像他一样厌恶着她那群猪的。等到他把最后一个幼象都赶走，觉得自己已是单独一人时，却来了一个迟到者，这人不期而至，是个不速之客。马丁望着他，看见了那硬檐帽，方襟双排扣短外衣和大摇大摆的肩头，他看见了那个流氓，当年的他。
“你也和这些人是一路货色，小年青，”马丁冷笑说，“你那道德和知识水平当初也跟他们一模一样。你并不按照自己的本意去思想和行动。你的思想和你的衣服一样，都是预先做好的。大家的赞许规定了你的行为。你是你那帮人的头头，因为别人说你有种，为你喝彩。你打架，你指挥别人，并不是因为你喜欢那样做——你知道实际上你讨厌那样做——而是因为别人拍你的肩膀表示赞许。你打垮了干酪脸是因为你不肯认输。而你不肯认输则一部分是因为你好勇斗狠，一部分是因为你相信着你身边的人相信的东西，认为男子汉的本领就在敢于残酷凶狠地伤害和折磨别人的肉体。哼，兔意于，你甚至抢走伙伴的女朋友，并不因为你想要那些姑娘，而只是因为你身边的人在骨髓里存在的就是野蛮的公马和雄海豹的本能，而你的道德规范又由他们决定。好了，那样的年代过去了，你现在对它是怎么看的？”
转瞬之间那幻影改变了，好像作出了回答。硬檐帽和方襟短外衣不见了，为较为平和的装束所代替。脸上的蛮横之气，眼里的粗野之光也不见了；因为受到熏陶磨练，脸上闪出了心灵跟美和知识契合无间的光芒。那幻影非常像他现在的自己。他打量着幻影，看见了那映照着幻影的台灯和灯光照耀的书本。他瞥了一眼那书名，读道：《美的科学》，然后便进入幻影，挑亮台灯，读起《美的科学》来。
