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Mr. Morse met Martin in the office of the Hotel Metropole. Whether he had happened there just casually, intent on other affairs, or whether he had come there for the direct purpose of inviting him to dinner, Martin never could quite make up his mind, though he inclined toward the second hypothesis. At any rate, invited to dinner he was by Mr. Morse - Ruth's father, who had forbidden him the house and broken off the engagement.
Martin was not angry. He was not even on his dignity. He tolerated Mr. Morse, wondering the while how it felt to eat such humble pie. He did not decline the invitation. Instead, he put it off with vagueness and indefiniteness and inquired after the family, particularly after Mrs. Morse and Ruth. He spoke her name without hesitancy, naturally, though secretly surprised that he had had no inward quiver, no old, familiar increase of pulse and warm surge of blood.
He had many invitations to dinner, some of which he accepted. Persons got themselves introduced to him in order to invite him to dinner. And he went on puzzling over the little thing that was becoming a great thing. Bernard Higginbotham invited him to dinner. He puzzled the harder. He remembered the days of his desperate starvation when no one invited him to dinner. That was the time he needed dinners, and went weak and faint for lack of them and lost weight from sheer famine. That was the paradox of it. When he wanted dinners, no one gave them to him, and now that he could buy a hundred thousand dinners and was losing his appetite, dinners were thrust upon him right and left. But why? There was no justice in it, no merit on his part. He was no different. All the work he had done was even at that time work performed. Mr. and Mrs. Morse had condemned him for an idler and a shirk and through Ruth had urged that he take a clerk's position in an office. Furthermore, they had been aware of his work performed. Manuscript after manuscript of his had been turned over to them by Ruth. They had read them. It was the very same work that had put his name in all the papers, and, it was his name being in all the papers that led them to invite him.
One thing was certain: the Morses had not cared to have him for himself or for his work. Therefore they could not want him now for himself or for his work, but for the fame that was his, because he was somebody amongst men, and - why not? - because he had a hundred thousand dollars or so. That was the way bourgeois society valued a man, and who was he to expect it otherwise? But he was proud. He disdained such valuation. He desired to be valued for himself, or for his work, which, after all, was an expression of himself. That was the way Lizzie valued him. The work, with her, did not even count. She valued him, himself. That was the way Jimmy, the plumber, and all the old gang valued him. That had been proved often enough in the days when he ran with them; it had been proved that Sunday at Shell Mound Park. His work could go hang. What they liked, and were willing to scrap for, was just Mart Eden, one of the bunch and a pretty good guy.
Then there was Ruth. She had liked him for himself, that was indisputable. And yet, much as she had liked him she had liked the bourgeois standard of valuation more. She had opposed his writing, and principally, it seemed to him, because it did not earn money. That had been her criticism of his "Love-cycle." She, too, had urged him to get a job. It was true, she refined it to "position," but it meant the same thing, and in his own mind the old nomenclature stuck. He had read her all that he wrote - poems, stories, essays - "Wiki-Wiki," "The Shame of the Sun," everything. And she had always and consistently urged him to get a job, to go to work - good God! - as if he hadn't been working, robbing sleep, exhausting life, in order to be worthy of her.
So the little thing grew bigger. He was healthy and normal, ate regularly, slept long hours, and yet the growing little thing was becoming an obsession. WORK PERFORMED. The phrase haunted his brain. He sat opposite Bernard Higginbotham at a heavy Sunday dinner over Higginbotham's Cash Store, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from shouting out:-
"It was work performed! And now you feed me, when then you let me starve, forbade me your house, and damned me because I wouldn't get a job. And the work was already done, all done. And now, when I speak, you check the thought unuttered on your lips and hang on my lips and pay respectful attention to whatever I choose to say. I tell you your party is rotten and filled with grafters, and instead of flying into a rage you hum and haw and admit there is a great deal in what I say. And why? Because I'm famous; because I've a lot of money. Not because I'm Martin Eden, a pretty good fellow and not particularly a fool. I could tell you the moon is made of green cheese and you would subscribe to the notion, at least you would not repudiate it, because I've got dollars, mountains of them. And it was all done long ago; it was work performed, I tell you, when you spat upon me as the dirt under your feet."
But Martin did not shout out. The thought gnawed in his brain, an unceasing torment, while he smiled and succeeded in being tolerant. As he grew silent, Bernard Higginbotham got the reins and did the talking. He was a success himself, and proud of it. He was self- made. No one had helped him. He owed no man. He was fulfilling his duty as a citizen and bringing up a large family. And there was Higginbotham's Cash Store, that monument of his own industry and ability. He loved Higginbotham's Cash Store as some men loved their wives. He opened up his heart to Martin, showed with what keenness and with what enormous planning he had made the store. And he had plans for it, ambitious plans. The neighborhood was growing up fast. The store was really too small. If he had more room, he would be able to put in a score of labor-saving and money- saving improvements. And he would do it yet. He was straining every effort for the day when he could buy the adjoining lot and put up another two-story frame building. The upstairs he could rent, and the whole ground-floor of both buildings would be Higginbotham's Cash Store. His eyes glistened when he spoke of the new sign that would stretch clear across both buildings.
Martin forgot to listen. The refrain of "Work performed," in his own brain, was drowning the other's clatter. The refrain maddened him, and he tried to escape from it.
"How much did you say it would cost?" he asked suddenly.
His brother-in-law paused in the middle of an expatiation on the business opportunities of the neighborhood. He hadn't said how much it would cost. But he knew. He had figured it out a score of times.
"At the way lumber is now," he said, "four thousand could do it."
"Including the sign?"
"I didn't count on that. It'd just have to come, onc't the buildin' was there."
"And the ground?"
"Three thousand more."
He leaned forward, licking his lips, nervously spreading and closing his fingers, while he watched Martin write a check. When it was passed over to him, he glanced at the amount-seven thousand dollars.
"I - I can't afford to pay more than six per cent," he said huskily.
Martin wanted to laugh, but, instead, demanded:-
"How much would that be?"
"Lemme see. Six per cent - six times seven - four hundred an' twenty."
"That would be thirty-five dollars a month, wouldn't it?"
Higginbotham nodded.
"Then, if you've no objection, well arrange it this way." Martin glanced at Gertrude. "You can have the principal to keep for yourself, if you'll use the thirty-five dollars a month for cooking and washing and scrubbing. The seven thousand is yours if you'll guarantee that Gertrude does no more drudgery. Is it a go?"
Mr. Higginbotham swallowed hard. That his wife should do no more housework was an affront to his thrifty soul. The magnificent present was the coating of a pill, a bitter pill. That his wife should not work! It gagged him.
"All right, then," Martin said. "I'll pay the thirty-five a month, and - "
He reached across the table for the check. But Bernard Higginbotham got his hand on it first, crying:
"I accept! I accept!"
When Martin got on the electric car, he was very sick and tired. He looked up at the assertive sign.
"The swine," he groaned. "The swine, the swine."
When MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE published "The Palmist," featuring it with decorations by Berthier and with two pictures by Wenn, Hermann von Schmidt forgot that he had called the verses obscene. He announced that his wife had inspired the poem, saw to it that the news reached the ears of a reporter, and submitted to an interview by a staff writer who was accompanied by a staff photographer and a staff artist. The result was a full page in a Sunday supplement, filled with photographs and idealized drawings of Marian, with many intimate details of Martin Eden and his family, and with the full text of "The Palmist" in large type, and republished by special permission of MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE. It caused quite a stir in the neighborhood, and good housewives were proud to have the acquaintances of the great writer's sister, while those who had not made haste to cultivate it. Hermann von Schmidt chuckled in his little repair shop and decided to order a new lathe. "Better than advertising," he told Marian, "and it costs nothing."
"We'd better have him to dinner," she suggested.
And to dinner Martin came, making himself agreeable with the fat wholesale butcher and his fatter wife - important folk, they, likely to be of use to a rising young man like Hermann Yon Schmidt. No less a bait, however, had been required to draw them to his house than his great brother-in-law. Another man at table who had swallowed the same bait was the superintendent of the Pacific Coast agencies for the Asa Bicycle Company. Him Von Schmidt desired to please and propitiate because from him could be obtained the Oakland agency for the bicycle. So Hermann von Schmidt found it a goodly asset to have Martin for a brother-in-law, but in his heart of hearts he couldn't understand where it all came in. In the silent watches of the night, while his wife slept, he had floundered through Martin's books and poems, and decided that the world was a fool to buy them.
And in his heart of hearts Martin understood the situation only too well, as he leaned back and gloated at Von Schmidt's head, in fancy punching it well-nigh off of him, sending blow after blow home just right - the chuckle-headed Dutchman! One thing he did like about him, however. Poor as he was, and determined to rise as he was, he nevertheless hired one servant to take the heavy work off of Marian's hands. Martin talked with the superintendent of the Asa agencies, and after dinner he drew him aside with Hermann, whom he backed financially for the best bicycle store with fittings in Oakland. He went further, and in a private talk with Hermann told him to keep his eyes open for an automobile agency and garage, for there was no reason that he should not be able to run both establishments successfully.
With tears in her eyes and her arms around his neck, Marian, at parting, told Martin how much she loved him and always had loved him. It was true, there was a perceptible halt midway in her assertion, which she glossed over with more tears and kisses and incoherent stammerings, and which Martin inferred to be her appeal for forgiveness for the time she had lacked faith in him and insisted on his getting a job.
"He can't never keep his money, that's sure," Hermann von Schmidt confided to his wife. "He got mad when I spoke of interest, an' he said damn the principal and if I mentioned it again, he'd punch my Dutch head off. That's what he said - my Dutch head. But he's all right, even if he ain't no business man. He's given me my chance, an' he's all right."
Invitations to dinner poured in on Martin; and the more they poured, the more he puzzled. He sat, the guest of honor, at an Arden Club banquet, with men of note whom he had heard about and read about all his life; and they told him how, when they had read "The Ring of Bells" in the TRANSCONTINENTAL, and "The Peri and the Pearl" in THE HORNET, they had immediately picked him for a winner. My God! and I was hungry and in rags, he thought to himself. Why didn't you give me a dinner then? Then was the time. It was work performed. If you are feeding me now for work performed, why did you not feed me then when I needed it? Not one word in "The Ring of Bells," nor in "The Peri and the Pearl" has been changed. No; you're not feeding me now for work performed. You are feeding me because everybody else is feeding me and because it is an honor to feed me. You are feeding me now because you are herd animals; because you are part of the mob; because the one blind, automatic thought in the mob-mind just now is to feed me. And where does Martin Eden and the work Martin Eden performed come in in all this? he asked himself plaintively, then arose to respond cleverly and wittily to a clever and witty toast.
So it went. Wherever he happened to be - at the Press Club, at the Redwood Club, at pink teas and literary gatherings - always were remembered "The Ring of Bells" and "The Peri and the Pearl" when they were first published. And always was Martin's maddening and unuttered demand: Why didn't you feed me then? It was work performed. "The Ring of Bells" and "The Peri and the Pearl" are not changed one iota. They were just as artistic, just as worth while, then as now. But you are not feeding me for their sake, nor for the sake of anything else I have written. You're feeding me because it is the style of feeding just now, because the whole mob is crazy with the idea of feeding Martin Eden.
And often, at such times, he would abruptly see slouch in among the company a young hoodlum in square-cut coat and under a stiff-rim Stetson hat. It happened to him at the Gallina Society in Oakland one afternoon. As he rose from his chair and stepped forward across the platform, he saw stalk through the wide door at the rear of the great room the young hoodlum with the square-cut coat and stiff-rim hat. Five hundred fashionably gowned women turned their heads, so intent and steadfast was Martin's gaze, to see what he was seeing. But they saw only the empty centre aisle. He saw the young tough lurching down that aisle and wondered if he would remove the stiff-rim which never yet had he seen him without. Straight down the aisle he came, and up the platform. Martin could have wept over that youthful shade of himself, when he thought of all that lay before him. Across the platform he swaggered, right up to Martin, and into the foreground of Martin's consciousness disappeared. The five hundred women applauded softly with gloved hands, seeking to encourage the bashful great man who was their guest. And Martin shook the vision from his brain, smiled, and began to speak.
The Superintendent of Schools, good old man, stopped Martin on the street and remembered him, recalling seances in his office when Martin was expelled from school for fighting.
"I read your 'Ring of Bells' in one of the magazines quite a time ago," he said. "It was as good as Poe. Splendid, I said at the time, splendid!"
Yes, and twice in the months that followed you passed me on the street and did not know me, Martin almost said aloud. Each time I was hungry and heading for the pawnbroker. Yet it was work performed. You did not know me then. Why do you know me now?
"I was remarking to my wife only the other day," the other was saying, "wouldn't it be a good idea to have you out to dinner some time? And she quite agreed with me. Yes, she quite agreed with me."
"Dinner?" Martin said so sharply that it was almost a snarl.
"Why, yes, yes, dinner, you know - just pot luck with us, with your old superintendent, you rascal," he uttered nervously, poking Martin in an attempt at jocular fellowship.
Martin went down the street in a daze. He stopped at the corner and looked about him vacantly.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he murmured at last. "The old fellow was afraid of me." 莫尔斯先生在大都会旅馆的办公室遇见了马丁。他究竟是因为别的事偶然在那儿出现，还是因为要请他赴宴而专程去的，马丁很难确定，尽管地倾向于后一假说。总而言之，露丝的爸爸，那个禁止他进门、解除了他俩婚约的人，现在请他去吃饭了。 马丁没有生气，甚至没有拿架子。他容忍了莫尔斯先生，同时一直在猜想着像他那样纡尊降贵是个什么滋味。马丁没有谢绝邀请，却含糊其辞模棱两可他回避了它，只问起了一家人，特别是莫尔斯太太和露丝的情况。他提起露丝的名字时平静自如，并不犹豫，尽管他也暗自感到惊讶，怎么竟没有内心的颤栗，没有往日所熟悉的那种心跳急促热血涌动的情绪。 他收到许多宴会的邀请，也接受了一部分。有的人为了邀请他赴实而求人引荐。他继续为那变大了的小事感到迷惑。等到伯纳德·希金波坦也邀请他去赴宴时，他便更感到迷惑了。他记得自己那些饿得要死的日子，可那时没有人请他吃饭；而那正是他最需要饭吃的时候。因为没有饭吃，他虚弱，发昏，饿瘦了。这倒是个逻辑怪圈：那时他需要饭吃，却没有人请他；现在他可以买上十万顿饭，胃口山倒了，人们却从四面八方硬拉他去赴宴。这是为什么？他这不是无功受禄么？真没有道理。他还是他，他的作品那时早已完成。可那时莫尔斯先生和太太却指责他是懒汉，不负责任，又通过露丝催促他去找坐办公室的工作。他写成的作品他们都是读过的，露丝曾把他一份又一份的手稿给他们看，他们也都看了。而现在使他的名字出现在所有报纸上的却正是那些作品，而使他们请他赴宴的又正是他在报上的名字。 有一件事是肯定的：莫尔斯一家对他发生兴趣并非因为他或他的作品。由此看来，他们现在也不会因为他或他的作品而需要他，他们感兴趣的是他的名气，因为他现在已经出人头地，有了大约十万块钱。为什么不呢？资产阶级社会就是这样衡量人的。他算老几？他还能希望有什么别的情况？但他仍然自尊，他厌恶这种衡量标准。他希望人们按他的价值，或是他的作品给他评价。作品才是他自己的表现。丽齐就是这样评价他的。他的作品在她的眼里简直不算一回事。她是拿他自己评价他的。水电工吉米和他那批老哥儿们也是这样评价他的。这一点在他当年跟他们交往时已有足够的证明；贝陵公园的那个星期天表现得尤其清楚。他的作品可以忽略不计。他们喜欢的、愿意为他打架的是他们的同伙马丁·伊登，一个好哥儿们。 还有露丝。她爱的是他自己，这无可怀疑。但是，她虽然爱他，却更爱资产阶级的价值标准。她曾反对过他写作，他似乎觉得那主要是因为写作赚不了钱。她对他的《爱情组诗》就是那样评价的。她也劝过他去找份工作，不错，她把“工作”叫做“职位”，那其实是一回事，原来那说法总横亘在他心里。他曾把自己的全部作品读给她听，诗歌、小说、散文——《威几威几》、《太阳的耻辱》，所有的一切，而她却总不厌其烦地坚持要他去找工作，去干活——天呀！好像为了配得上她他并没有刻苦工作，剥夺睡眠，榨干了生活似的。 这样，那小事就变得更大了。他健康、正常、按时吃饭、睡眠充分，可那越长越大的小事却缠住了他。那时作品早完成了。这话者在他脑子里出现。在希金波坦现金商店楼上的一顿丰盛的晚宴上，他坐在伯纳德·希金波坦的对面，好不容易才算控制了自己，没有叫出声来：—— “那时作品早完成了！你到现在才来请我吃饭。那时你让我饿肚子，不让我进你家的门，因为我不去找工作而咒骂我。而那时我的作品早完成了，全完成了。现在我一说话，你就乖乖听着，无论我说什么你都乖乖听着，心里有话到了嘴边也压住不说。我告诉你你们那帮人都是混蛋，许多人都是剥削者，你也不生气，只一个劲哼哼哈哈，承认我的话里有许多道理。这是为什么？因为我有了名气，因为我有很多钱。并不是因为我是马丁·伊登，一个还算不错、也不太傻的人。说不定我告诉你月亮是生奶酪做的，你也会赞成，至少不会反对，因为我有钱，钱堆成了山。可我的作品很久以前就完成了。我告诉你，那些作品老早就完成了，可那时你却把我看作是你脚下的泥土，吐我唾沫。” 马丁·伊登并没有叫出声来。那思想咬啮着他的脑子，永不休止地折磨着他，他却微笑着，而且成功地表现了宽容。他讲完话，伯纳德·希金波坦便接过话茬，打开了话匣子。他自己就是一个成功的人，而且为此而骄傲。他是白手起家的，没有靠谁帮助，不欠任何人的情。他完成了一个公民的义务，拉扯大了一大家人，这才有了希金波坦现金商店，那是他的才能和勤劳的丰碑。他爱他的希金波坦现金商店有如某些人爱他们的妻子。他对马丁敞开了心扉，大讲他是如何聪明机敏，如何劳心焦思才建立起了商店的。而且他还有计划，雄心勃勃的计划：这附近正在迅速发展，这个商店委实太小。如果他有更多的空间，他可以作出一二十条省工省钱的改进。他现在还想干。他正在竭尽全力准备有一天能把店旁的土地弄到手，再修一套一楼一底的房屋。他可以把楼上租出去，把两套楼房的楼下用作希金波坦现金商店。他说到那块横跨两套楼房的新招牌时眼里放出了光芒。 马丁忘了听话。那人的唧唧呱呱已被他脑子里的叠句“那时作品早已完成”淹没了。那叠句叫他发疯，他想摆脱它。 “你刚才说那得花多少钱？”他突然问道。 他姐夫正大谈着附近地区的商业发展机会，立即住了口。刚才他并不曾提起那得花多少钱，不过他是知道的，他已经计算过一二十次了。 “按现在的木料价看，”他说，“四千元就够了。” “包括招牌？” “招牌没有算。房子修起来，招牌总得挂的。” “地皮呢？” “还得三千。” 他身子前倾，手指头神经质地捏拢只撒开，望着马丁开支票。支票递到他的面前，他瞟了一眼数目——七千。 “可我最多能出六厘利，”他沙哑了嗓子，说。 马丁几乎笑出声来，却问道： “那得是多少钱？” “我算算看，六厘利，六七——四百二十块。” “那就是每月三十五块，是吧？” 希金波坦点了点头。 “好，如果你不反对的话，我们就这样安排，”马丁瞥了一眼格特露。“如果你把这每月三十五元用来雇人做饭、洗衣服、做清洁，本钱就归你。只要你保证格特露不再做苦工，这七千元就是你的了。这笔交易怎么样？” 希金波坦先生接受得好不费力。不让他的妻子做家务活，那简直是对他那节俭的灵魂的冒犯。那豪华的礼物成了药丸的糖衣，很苦的药丸。不让他的妻子干活！他碍难吞下。 “行，”马丁说，“这每月三十五块我来付，那么——” 马丁把手伸过桌子，要取回支票。可支票已经叫伯纳德·希金波坦的手抓住，希金波坦叫道：—— “我接受！我接受！” 马丁登上电车时感到异常难受而且厌倦。他抬头看看那神气十足的招牌。 “猪猡，”他嗷叫道，“猪猡，猪猡！” 《麦金托什杂志》以显著地位刊登了《手相家》，还由伯蒂埃配了装饰画，文思配了两幅插图，赫尔曼·冯·史密特已经忘记了他曾说这诗下流，反倒宣布：是他的妻子给了这诗以灵感，又有意让这消息传到了记者耳朵里，然后接受了一个报社作家的采访。那作家带来了一个报社摄影师和一个美工师。结果是在星期日增刊上占了一大版，满是照片和茉莉安理想化的画像。还加上许多马丁·伊登和他的家庭的亲切的琐事。《手相家》正文经过《麦金托什杂志》特许，以大号字体全文刊载。这在邻近地区引起了很大的轰动。正经人家的主妇们都以结识伟大作家的妹妹为荣，不认识她的人也急忙没法建立友谊。赫尔曼·冯·史密特在他的小修理店里得意地笑了，他决定再订购一套新车床。“比做广告还强呢，”他告诉茉莉安，“一个钱也没有花。” “我们最好请他来吃晚饭，”她建议。 马丁来吃晚饭了。他让自己和那个搞肉类批发的胖子和他更胖的老婆融洽相处。那是邻近地区的重要人物，对像赫尔曼·冯·史密特这样正在上升的年轻人可能大有用处。不过，没有他妻舅这样的大人物做诱饵，那样的人是请不进门的。吞了同一颗约于来赴宴的还有阿撒自行车公司太平洋沿岸各代销店的总监。冯·史密特要想讨好他，拉拢他，因为从他可以得到在奥克兰的自行车代销权。因此赫尔曼·冯·史密特发现马丁·伊登这样一个妻舅对他竟成了一笔可观的财产。可是在心的深处他却怎么也想不通。等到夜深人静，他老婆已经入睡之后，他便把马丁的书和诗翻了个遍，结论是全世界都是傻瓜，这种东西也买。 马丁身子往后靠着，得意地望着冯·史密特的脑袋，他在心的深处对这局面洞若观火。他在幻想中揍着那脑袋，一拳又一拳地揍个正着，差不多要把它揍得掉下来——那傻里呱叽的荷兰佬！可那家伙却有一点叫他喜欢。他尽管穷，尽管下了决心往上爬，却雇了一个人把茉莉安的家务活儿接了过去。马丁跟阿撒公司的地区代理商总监谈完话，便趁晚饭后把他跟赫尔曼一起拉到了一边去。他给了赫尔曼经济上的支持，让他在奥克兰开个设备齐全的最好的自行车店。他还进一步跟赫尔曼私下谈话，要他留心物色一下，准备经营一家带车库的汽车代销店。因为没有理由说他就无法把两个铺子都经营得很成功。 分手时茉莉安用双臂搂住了他的脖子，泪流满面地告诉他她非常爱他，而且一向爱他。他确实感到她说那话时有点吞吞吐吐，可她流了更多的泪，亲了他更多次，又唧唧咕咕说了些不连贯的话，把那期期艾艾掩饰了过去。马丁把这理解为请求原谅，因为她当初曾经对他缺乏信心，要求他去找工作。 “他的钱是绝对管不住的，肯定，”赫尔曼·冯·史密特对老婆说知心话。“我一提起利息他就生气，他说连本钱也滚蛋吧，我若是再对他谈利息，他就要把我这荷兰脑袋敲掉。他就是那么说的——我这荷兰脑袋。不过，他虽然做生意不行，人倒是蛮好的。他给了我机会，是个好人。” 马丁的宴会邀请滚滚而来，来得越多他越觉得糊涂。在亚腾俱乐部的宴会上他占了贵宾席，跟他在一起的都是他平生所读到过或听见过的知名人士。他们告诉他他们在《跨越大陆》上读到他的《钟声激越》、在《大黄蜂》上读到他的《仙女与珍珠》时，早就认定了他会成功。天呀！他暗自想道：可我那时却是衣不蔽体食不果腹，那时你们怎么不来请我吃饭呢？那才是时候，那时我那些作品已经完成了。如果你们现在是因为我已经写成的作品而宴请我，那你们为什么不在我最需要的时候来宴请我呢？《钟声激越》和《仙女与珍珠》的字一个也不曾修改。不，你们不是因为我已经完成的作品而宴请我，而是因为别人都在宴请我而宴请我，因为宴请我很光彩。你们现在宴请我因为你们都是群居动物；因为你们是群氓的一部分；因为此时此刻群氓心态的一个盲目的冲动就是宴请我。在这一切之中马丁·伊登和马丁·伊登完成的作品究竟有什么作用呢？他痛苦地问自己。然后他站起身来对于一个聪明风趣的祝酒辞作出了聪明风趣的回答。 日子就这样过了下去。无论他在什么地方——在出版俱乐部，在红木俱乐部，在绯色茶会和文学集会上；总有人会提起《钟声激越》和《仙女与珍珠》刚出版的时候。那叫他发疯的他不曾提出的问题总要在他心里出现：那时候你们为什么不给我饭吃？作品那时已经完成了呀！《钟声激越》和《仙女与珍珠》现在一个字也没有修改呀！那时它们跟现在一样精彩，一样有价值呀。你们并不是因为它们才请我吃饭的，也不是因为我其他的作品。你们请我是因为请我吃饭目前很时髦，因为整个群氓集体正在为请马丁吃饭而发狂。＿ 在这样的时刻他便常常突然看见一个身穿方襟短外衣、头戴斯泰森硬檐阔边帽的年轻流氓从人群中摇摇摆摆地走了出来。有天下午他在奥克兰的哥林纳社就见到他。那时他刚离开座位穿过讲台走向前去。他看见那年轻的流氓从巨大的厅堂后面的大门口神气十足地走了进来，身穿方襟短外衣，头戴硬檐阔边帽。马丁看得如此认真专注，五百个衣着时髦的仕女名媛也都转过头去看他在看什么。可她们只看见了座位正中空空的走道。马丁看见那年轻的粗汉沿着走道过来了，猜想着他是否会脱掉他从没见他脱下过的硬檐帽。那人沿着吊道笔直地走来了，走上了讲台。马丁想起他面前的路，差不多为自己那年轻的幻影哭了出来。那人摇摇摆摆穿过讲台，直往马丁走来，然后在马丁的意识前沿消失了。五百个仕女名媛用戴了手套的手轻轻地鼓起掌来，要想鼓励她们的客人，那羞涩的伟人。马丁把那幻影从他的头脑里摇掉了，笑了笑，开始了讲演。 学校视导员，一个好老头，在路边叫住了马丁。他想起了他，回忆了在他办公室里跟他的几次会见，那时马丁因为打架被学校开除了。 “很久以前我在一份杂志上读到了你的《钟声激越》，”他说，“好得就像爱伦·坡的作品。精彩，我那时就说，精彩！” 是的，以后几个月里，你两次从我身边走过，都没有认出我来——马丁几乎这样叫出声来。那两次我都在挨饿，在上当铺。可那时我的作品已经完成了。你现在为什么又来认我呢？ “那天我还在对我的老伴说，”对方还在讲，“请你出来吃顿饭会不会是个好主意呢？她非常赞成。是的，她非常赞成我的意思。” “吃饭？”马丁声音很凶，几乎像咆哮。 “什么？啊，是的是的，吃饭，你知道——跟我们吃一顿便饭，跟你的老学监，你这个小鬼，”他有点紧张地说。装作开玩笑、挺友好的样子。 马丁感到莫名其妙，沿着大街走着。他在街角站住了，向四面茫然地望了望。 “哼，真有意思！”他终于喃喃地说道，“那老家伙在害怕我呢。” |
