马丁·伊登(MARTIN EDEN)第九章

16次大中小

Back from sea Martin Eden came, homing for California with a lover's desire. His store of money exhausted, he had shipped before the mast on the treasure-hunting schooner; and the Solomon Islands, after eight months of failure to find treasure, had witnessed the breaking up of the expedition. The men had been paid off in Australia, and Martin had immediately shipped on a deep- water vessel for San Francisco. Not alone had those eight months earned him enough money to stay on land for many weeks, but they had enabled him to do a great deal of studying and reading.

His was the student's mind, and behind his ability to learn was the indomitability of his nature and his love for Ruth. The grammar he had taken along he went through again and again until his unjaded brain had mastered it. He noticed the bad grammar used by his shipmates, and made a point of mentally correcting and reconstructing their crudities of speech. To his great joy he discovered that his ear was becoming sensitive and that he was developing grammatical nerves. A double negative jarred him like a discord, and often, from lack of practice, it was from his own lips that the jar came. His tongue refused to learn new tricks in a day.

After he had been through the grammar repeatedly, he took up the dictionary and added twenty words a day to his vocabulary. He found that this was no light task, and at wheel or lookout he steadily went over and over his lengthening list of pronunciations and definitions, while he invariably memorized himself to sleep. "Never did anything," "if I were," and "those things," were phrases, with many variations, that he repeated under his breath in order to accustom his tongue to the language spoken by Ruth. "And" and "ing," with the "d" and "g" pronounced emphatically, he went over thousands of times; and to his surprise he noticed that he was beginning to speak cleaner and more correct English than the officers themselves and the gentleman-adventurers in the cabin who had financed the expedition.

The captain was a fishy-eyed Norwegian who somehow had fallen into possession of a complete Shakespeare, which he never read, and Martin had washed his clothes for him and in return been permitted access to the precious volumes. For a time, so steeped was he in the plays and in the many favorite passages that impressed themselves almost without effort on his brain, that all the world seemed to shape itself into forms of Elizabethan tragedy or comedy and his very thoughts were in blank verse. It trained his ear and gave him a fine appreciation for noble English; withal it introduced into his mind much that was archaic and obsolete.

The eight months had been well spent, and, in addition to what he had learned of right speaking and high thinking, he had learned much of himself. Along with his humbleness because he knew so little, there arose a conviction of power. He felt a sharp gradation between himself and his shipmates, and was wise enough to realize that the difference lay in potentiality rather than achievement. What he could do, - they could do; but within him he felt a confused ferment working that told him there was more in him than he had done. He was tortured by the exquisite beauty of the world, and wished that Ruth were there to share it with him. He decided that he would describe to her many of the bits of South Sea beauty. The creative spirit in him flamed up at the thought and urged that he recreate this beauty for a wider audience than Ruth. And then, in splendor and glory, came the great idea. He would write. He would be one of the eyes through which the world saw, one of the ears through which it heard, one of the hearts through which it felt. He would write - everything - poetry and prose, fiction and description, and plays like Shakespeare. There was career and the way to win to Ruth. The men of literature were the world's giants, and he conceived them to be far finer than the Mr. Butlers who earned thirty thousand a year and could be Supreme Court justices if they wanted to.

Once the idea had germinated, it mastered him, and the return voyage to San Francisco was like a dream. He was drunken with unguessed power and felt that he could do anything. In the midst of the great and lonely sea he gained perspective. Clearly, and for the first lime, he saw Ruth and her world. It was all visualized in his mind as a concrete thing which he could take up in his two hands and turn around and about and examine. There was much that was dim and nebulous in that world, but he saw it as a whole and not in detail, and he saw, also, the way to master it. To write! The thought was fire in him. He would begin as soon as he got back. The first thing he would do would be to describe the voyage of the treasure-hunters. He would sell it to some San Francisco newspaper. He would not tell Ruth anything about it, and she would be surprised and pleased when she saw his name in print. While he wrote, he could go on studying. There were twenty-four hours in each day. He was invincible. He knew how to work, and the citadels would go down before him. He would not have to go to sea again - as a sailor; and for the instant he caught a vision of a steam yacht. There were other writers who possessed steam yachts. Of course, he cautioned himself, it would be slow succeeding at first, and for a time he would be content to earn enough money by his writing to enable him to go on studying. And then, after some time, - a very indeterminate time, - when he had learned and prepared himself, he would write the great things and his name would be on all men's lips. But greater than that, infinitely greater and greatest of all, he would have proved himself worthy of Ruth. Fame was all very well, but it was for Ruth that his splendid dream arose. He was not a fame-monger, but merely one of God's mad lovers.

Arrived in Oakland, with his snug pay-day in his pocket, he took up his old room at Bernard Higginbotham's and set to work. He did not even let Ruth know he was back. He would go and see her when he finished the article on the treasure-hunters. It was not so difficult to abstain from seeing her, because of the violent heat of creative fever that burned in him. Besides, the very article he was writing would bring her nearer to him. He did not know how long an article he should write, but he counted the words in a double-page article in the Sunday supplement of the SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER, and guided himself by that. Three days, at white heat, completed his narrative; but when he had copied it carefully, in a large scrawl that was easy to read, he learned from a rhetoric he picked up in the library that there were such things as paragraphs and quotation marks. He had never thought of such things before; and he promptly set to work writing the article over, referring continually to the pages of the rhetoric and learning more in a day about composition than the average schoolboy in a year. When he had copied the article a second time and rolled it up carefully, he read in a newspaper an item on hints to beginners, and discovered the iron law that manuscripts should never be rolled and that they should be written on one side of the paper. He had violated the law on both counts. Also, he learned from the item that first- class papers paid a minimum of ten dollars a column. So, while he copied the manuscript a third time, he consoled himself by multiplying ten columns by ten dollars. The product was always the same, one hundred dollars, and he decided that that was better than seafaring. If it hadn't been for his blunders, he would have finished the article in three days. One hundred dollars in three days! It would have taken him three months and longer on the sea to earn a similar amount. A man was a fool to go to sea when he could write, he concluded, though the money in itself meant nothing to him. Its value was in the liberty it would get him, the presentable garments it would buy him, all of which would bring him nearer, swiftly nearer, to the slender, pale girl who had turned his life back upon itself and given him inspiration.

He mailed the manuscript in a flat envelope, and addressed it to the editor of the SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER. He had an idea that anything accepted by a paper was published immediately, and as he had sent the manuscript in on Friday he expected it to come out on the following Sunday. He conceived that it would be fine to let that event apprise Ruth of his return. Then, Sunday afternoon, he would call and see her. In the meantime he was occupied by another idea, which he prided himself upon as being a particularly sane, careful, and modest idea. He would write an adventure story for boys and sell it to THE YOUTH'S COMPANION. He went to the free reading-room and looked through the files of THE YOUTH'S COMPANION. Serial stories, he found, were usually published in that weekly in five instalments of about three thousand words each. He discovered several serials that ran to seven instalments, and decided to write one of that length.

He had been on a whaling voyage in the Arctic, once - a voyage that was to have been for three years and which had terminated in shipwreck at the end of six months. While his imagination was fanciful, even fantastic at times, he had a basic love of reality that compelled him to write about the things he knew. He knew whaling, and out of the real materials of his knowledge he proceeded to manufacture the fictitious adventures of the two boys he intended to use as joint heroes. It was easy work, he decided on Saturday evening. He had completed on that day the first instalment of three thousand words - much to the amusement of Jim, and to the open derision of Mr. Higginbotham, who sneered throughout meal-time at the "litery" person they had discovered in the family.

Martin contented himself by picturing his brother-in-law's surprise on Sunday morning when he opened his EXAMINER and saw the article on the treasure-hunters. Early that morning he was out himself to the front door, nervously racing through the many-sheeted newspaper. He went through it a second time, very carefully, then folded it up and left it where he had found it. He was glad he had not told any one about his article. On second thought he concluded that he had been wrong about the speed with which things found their way into newspaper columns. Besides, there had not been any news value in his article, and most likely the editor would write to him about it first.

After breakfast he went on with his serial. The words flowed from his pen, though he broke off from the writing frequently to look up definitions in the dictionary or to refer to the rhetoric. He often read or re-read a chapter at a time, during such pauses; and he consoled himself that while he was not writing the great things he felt to be in him, he was learning composition, at any rate, and training himself to shape up and express his thoughts. He toiled on till dark, when he went out to the reading-room and explored magazines and weeklies until the place closed at ten o'clock. This was his programme for a week. Each day he did three thousand words, and each evening he puzzled his way through the magazines, taking note of the stories, articles, and poems that editors saw fit to publish. One thing was certain: What these multitudinous writers did he could do, and only give him time and he would do what they could not do. He was cheered to read in BOOK NEWS, in a paragraph on the payment of magazine writers, not that Rudyard Kipling received a dollar per word, but that the minimum rate paid by first-class magazines was two cents a word. THE YOUTH'S COMPANION was certainly first class, and at that rate the three thousand words he had written that day would bring him sixty dollars - two months' wages on the sea!

On Friday night he finished the serial, twenty-one thousand words long. At two cents a word, he calculated, that would bring him four hundred and twenty dollars. Not a bad week's work. It was more money than he had ever possessed at one time. He did not know how he could spend it all. He had tapped a gold mine. Where this came from he could always get more. He planned to buy some more clothes, to subscribe to many magazines, and to buy dozens of reference books that at present he was compelled to go to the library to consult. And still there was a large portion of the four hundred and twenty dollars unspent. This worried him until the thought came to him of hiring a servant for Gertrude and of buying a bicycle for Marion.

He mailed the bulky manuscript to THE YOUTH'S COMPANION, and on Saturday afternoon, after having planned an article on pearl- diving, he went to see Ruth. He had telephoned, and she went herself to greet him at the door. The old familiar blaze of health rushed out from him and struck her like a blow. It seemed to enter into her body and course through her veins in a liquid glow, and to set her quivering with its imparted strength. He flushed warmly as he took her hand and looked into her blue eyes, but the fresh bronze of eight months of sun hid the flush, though it did not protect the neck from the gnawing chafe of the stiff collar. She noted the red line of it with amusement which quickly vanished as she glanced at his clothes. They really fitted him, - it was his first made-to-order suit, - and he seemed slimmer and better modelled. In addition, his cloth cap had been replaced by a soft hat, which she commanded him to put on and then complimented him on his appearance. She did not remember when she had felt so happy. This change in him was her handiwork, and she was proud of it and fired with ambition further to help him.

But the most radical change of all, and the one that pleased her most, was the change in his speech. Not only did he speak more correctly, but he spoke more easily, and there were many new words in his vocabulary. When he grew excited or enthusiastic, however, he dropped back into the old slurring and the dropping of final consonants. Also, there was an awkward hesitancy, at times, as he essayed the new words he had learned. On the other hand, along with his ease of expression, he displayed a lightness and facetiousness of thought that delighted her. It was his old spirit of humor and badinage that had made him a favorite in his own class, but which he had hitherto been unable to use in her presence through lack of words and training. He was just beginning to orientate himself and to feel that he was not wholly an intruder. But he was very tentative, fastidiously so, letting Ruth set the pace of sprightliness and fancy, keeping up with her but never daring to go beyond her.

He told her of what he had been doing, and of his plan to write for a livelihood and of going on with his studies. But he was disappointed at her lack of approval. She did not think much of his plan.

"You see," she said frankly, "writing must be a trade, like anything else. Not that I know anything about it, of course. I only bring common judgment to bear. You couldn't hope to be a blacksmith without spending three years at learning the trade - or is it five years! Now writers are so much better paid than blacksmiths that there must be ever so many more men who would like to write, who - try to write."

"But then, may not I be peculiarly constituted to write?" he queried, secretly exulting at the language he had used, his swift imagination throwing the whole scene and atmosphere upon a vast screen along with a thousand other scenes from his life - scenes that were rough and raw, gross and bestial.

The whole composite vision was achieved with the speed of light, producing no pause in the conversation, nor interrupting his calm train of thought. On the screen of his imagination he saw himself and this sweet and beautiful girl, facing each other and conversing in good English, in a room of books and paintings and tone and culture, and all illuminated by a bright light of steadfast brilliance; while ranged about and fading away to the remote edges of the screen were antithetical scenes, each scene a picture, and he the onlooker, free to look at will upon what he wished. He saw these other scenes through drifting vapors and swirls of sullen fog dissolving before shafts of red and garish light. He saw cowboys at the bar, drinking fierce whiskey, the air filled with obscenity and ribald language, and he saw himself with them drinking and cursing with the wildest, or sitting at table with them, under smoking kerosene lamps, while the chips clicked and clattered and the cards were dealt around. He saw himself, stripped to the waist, with naked fists, fighting his great fight with Liverpool Red in the forecastle of the Susquehanna; and he saw the bloody deck of the John Rogers, that gray morning of attempted mutiny, the mate kicking in death-throes on the main-hatch, the revolver in the old man's hand spitting fire and smoke, the men with passion- wrenched faces, of brutes screaming vile blasphemies and falling about him - and then he returned to the central scene, calm and clean in the steadfast light, where Ruth sat and talked with him amid books and paintings; and he saw the grand piano upon which she would later play to him; and he heard the echoes of his own selected and correct words, "But then, may I not be peculiarly constituted to write?"

"But no matter how peculiarly constituted a man may be for blacksmithing," she was laughing, "I never heard of one becoming a blacksmith without first serving his apprenticeship."

"What would you advise?" he asked. "And don't forget that I feel in me this capacity to write - I can't explain it; I just know that it is in me."

"You must get a thorough education," was the answer, "whether or not you ultimately become a writer. This education is indispensable for whatever career you select, and it must not be slipshod or sketchy. You should go to high school."

"Yes - " he began; but she interrupted with an afterthought:-

"Of course, you could go on with your writing, too."

"I would have to," he said grimly.

"Why?" She looked at him, prettily puzzled, for she did not quite like the persistence with which he clung to his notion.

"Because, without writing there wouldn't be any high school. I must live and buy books and clothes, you know."

"I'd forgotten that," she laughed. "Why weren't you born with an income?"

"I'd rather have good health and imagination," he answered. "I can make good on the income, but the other things have to be made good for - " He almost said "you," then amended his sentence to, "have to be made good for one."

"Don't say 'make good,'" she cried, sweetly petulant. "It's slang, and it's horrid."

He flushed, and stammered, "That's right, and I only wish you'd correct me every time."

"I - I'd like to," she said haltingly. "You have so much in you that is good that I want to see you perfect."

He was clay in her hands immediately, as passionately desirous of being moulded by her as she was desirous of shaping him into the image of her ideal of man. And when she pointed out the opportuneness of the time, that the entrance examinations to high school began on the following Monday, he promptly volunteered that he would take them.

Then she played and sang to him, while he gazed with hungry yearning at her, drinking in her loveliness and marvelling that there should not be a hundred suitors listening there and longing for her as he listened and longed.

马丁·伊登从海上一回来便怀着情人的相思回到加利福尼亚。当初他花光了自己的积蓄后便上了那艘寻宝船做水手。八个月的寻宝活动失败，探宝队在所罗门群岛解散了。船员们在澳大利亚领了工资散了伙，马丁立即坐上一艘远洋轮回到了旧金山。那八个月不但让他挣到了钱可以在岸上再过几周，而且让他做了许多功课和研究工作。

他具有学者的心灵，在学习能力背后还有他那不屈不挠的天性和他对露丝的爱。他带上了语法书，翻来覆去地读，直读到他那不知疲倦的头脑把它弄了个滚瓜烂熟。他注意到伙伴们蹩脚的语法，便刻意改正他们话语中的粗率不文之处，以求进步。他发现自己的耳朵敏感了，培养出了一条语法神经，不由得满心欢喜。他听见双重否定就刺耳，但是由于缺少实践，那刺耳的东西偏偏又常从自己的嘴里溜出。他的舌头还没能迅速掌握新的技巧。

反复读完了语法他又拿起字典每天为自己增加二十个单词。他发现这任务不轻松。无论在掌舵或是腔望时他都坚持一遍又一遍地复习他越来越多的单词的发音和定义，直记到自己昏昏欲睡。为了让舌头习惯于露丝那种语言，他总低声重复着某些句型及其变化：用never引起的倒装句，用if…were表示的虚拟语态，和those things…之类。读and和-ing要把d和g交代清楚。他练习了无数遍。令他意外的是他说出的英语竟比官员们和出资探宝的冒险家先生们还要纯粹正确了。

船长是个视力昏督的挪威人，不知怎么有一套莎士比亚全集，却从来不读。马丁便帮他洗衣服，好叫他同意借阅那些宝贵的书。有一段时间他读得如醉如痴。好些他喜爱的段落几乎毫不费力便印入了他的脑子。整个世界也似乎纳入了伊丽莎白时代的悲剧和喜剧的模式里。连他思考问题也用起了素体诗。这却训练了他的耳朵，使他读起典雅英语来有精微的欣赏能力，同时也把许多古老和过时的东西引进了他心里O

这八个月过得很有意义。他除了学会了纯正的语言和高雅的思想，对自己他也懂了许多。他一方面因为缺少学问而自卑，另一方面也相信起自己的力量来。他感到自己和伙伴们之间有了明显的级别差异。他有自知之明，知道那差异在潜在能力而不在实际之中。他所能做的，别人也都能做；但他内心感到了一种混乱的发酵过程。那告诉他他具有的条件要高于他已有的成绩。海上那绚丽多姿的景色使他难受，他恨不得露丝在场跟他共同欣赏。他决心向她描述南太平洋的种种美景。这想法点燃了他胸中的创作精神，要求他为更多的人重新创造出那美。于是那伟大的思想灿烂地出现了。他要写作。他要成为世人的眼睛，让他们看到；成为世人的耳朵，让他们听到；成为世人的。卜灵，让他们感觉到。他要写——什么都写——写诗。写散文。写小说，要描述；要写戏，写像莎士比亚一样的戏。这便是事业，是通向露丝的路。文学家是世界的巨人，他认为他们比每年能赚三万元若是愿意便可以当最高法院法官的巴特勒先生之流要优秀得多。

这个念头一萌芽，便主宰了他，回旧金山的路已恍如梦寐。他为自己从没想到过的能力所陶醉了，他感到自己什么事都能行。他在法期的寂寞的大海里看到了远景。他第一次清楚地看到了露丝和她的世界。他在心里把它描绘了出来，是个具体的东西，司以双手捧起来翻来覆去地研究把玩的东西，那个世界有些部分还暧昧不明，但他看到的是全局而不是细部，而且看到了主宰那个世界的道路。写作！这念头在他心里成了一把火。他一回去就要开干。第一件事就是描写这次探宝人的海上航行。他要卖给旧金山某家报纸。充不告诉露丝，等他的名字印出来她就会大吃一惊，而且高兴的。他可以一边写一边继续研究G他每天有二十四小时。他不可战胜，他知道怎样工作，堡垒会被他征服。那他就不用再出海了——不用当水手出海了。顷刻间他已看到一艘快艇的幻影。其他的作家也有快艇呢I当然，他警告自己，开始时成功会来得很慢。在一段时间之内他只能以挣到的钱能维持学习为满足。然后，过了一段时间——准确估计好的一段时间——等地学习好了，作好了准备，他就能写出伟大的作品来。那时他的名字就会挂在众人的嘴上。而比出名还要了不起，不知道了不起多少倍，最了不起的事是：他就能证明自己配得上露丝了。出名是好事，但他那光辉的梦却是为了露丝。他不是追名逐利之徒，只不过是上帝的痴迷的情人而已。

兜里装了一笔可观的工资他来到奥克兰，在伯纳德·希金波坦商店那间老房间住了下来，开始了工作。他甚至没告诉露丝他回来了。他打算在写完探宝人的故事之后再去看她。他心里的创作之火燃烧正旺，管住自己不去看她并不困难。何况他要写的那篇东西还能让她更靠近自己呢！他不知道一篇文章应当写多长，但他数了数《旧金山检验者》星期日增刊的一篇占了两版的文章，以它的数字作参照。他狂热地写了三天，完成了他的故事。但是在他用容易辨认的大草体工工整整抄好之后，却从他在图书馆借来的一本修辞学书上知道还有分段和引号之类他以前根本没想到过的东西。他只好马上重新抄一遍，同时不断参考修辞学书籍，在一天之内学到的写作知识比普通学童一年学到的还要多。等地第二次抄完文章卷起之后，他又在一张报纸上读到一篇对初学作者的提示。其中有一条铁的规律：手稿不能卷，稿笺不能两面写，而这两条他都犯了。他又从那篇东西知道，第一流的文稿每栏至少可以得到十元稿费。因此，在他第三次抄写手稿时他又以十元乘十栏来安慰自己。乘积总是一样：一百元。于是他肯定那要比出海强多了。若是没有触犯那些重要规定，这篇文章地三天就写完了。三天一百元，而同样的数目在海上得挣三个多月。他的结论是：能写作的人还去出海简直就是傻瓜，虽然他并不把钱放在眼里。钱的价值只在于能给他自由，给他像样的见客服装，让他尽快靠近那个苗条苍白的、给了他灵感的姑娘——她已把他完全翻了个个儿。

他用一个扁扁的信封装了手稿，寄给了《旧金山检验者》的编辑。他以为报纸接受了的东西立刻就会发表。手稿既是星期五寄出的，星期一就该见报。他设想最好以文章见报的方式告诉露丝他已回来了。那么星期天下午他就可以去看她了。他还有另一个想法。他为那想法的清醒、审慎、谦逊而得意。他要为男孩子们写一个冒险故事，卖给《青年伙伴入他到免费阅览室在资料中查了《青年伙伴》，发现连载故事在那个周报上总是分五期登完，每期约三千字。却也发现有登了七期的，于是决定写一篇连载七期的。

他曾在北极作过捕鲸航行。原打算去三年的，因为出了海难事故三个月就结束了。尽管他富于幻想，甚至有时想入非非，可基本上他是喜欢实际的，这就要求他写自己熟悉的东西。他熟悉捕鲸，他利用自己熟悉的材料设计了两个男孩作主角，从而计展他设想的冒险活动。这工作很容易，他星期六晚上作出决定，当天就完成了第一期的三千字——吉姆觉得挺好玩．希金波坦先生却公开嗤之以具，整个进餐时间都在嘲笑家里新发现的“文豪”。

马丁只想像着星期天早上他的姐夫打开《检验者》读到探宝故事时那副吃惊的样子，并以此为满足。星期天他一大早就到了大门口，紧张地翻了一遍版数很多的报纸，又再仔细地翻了一遍，然后抗好放回原处。他很庆幸没有把写这篇文章的事告诉任何人。后来他想了想，得出结论，报纸发表文章的速度不是他所想像的那么快。何况他那文章并无新闻价值，编者很有可能先要跟他联系之后再发稿。

早饭之后他继续写他的连载故事。他的文思滔滔不绝，尽管常常停下笔来查词典。查修辞学。在查阅时又往往一章一章地读下去，反复地读。他安慰自己说这虽还不是在写作自己心目中的伟大作品，却是在练习写作，培养构思和表达的能力。他卖劲地写，写到黄昏时分再出门到阅览室去翻杂志和周刊，直到阅览室十点钟关门。他整周的日程都是如此。每天三千字，晚上翻杂志，调查编辑喜欢发去哪类故事。文章和诗歌。有一点是肯定的：既然有那么多作家能写，他就能写。只要能给他时间，他还能写出他们写不出来的东西。他在《书籍新闻》上读到一段有关杂志撰稿人收入的文章很受到鼓舞。倒不是吉卜林的稿费每字一元，而是第一流杂志的最低稿费是每字两分。《青年伙伴》肯定是第一流杂志，按那标准计算他那天写的三千字就可以给他赚来六十元——那可是出海两个月的工资！

星期五晚上他写完了连载故事，二万一千字。他算了算，每个字两分，四百二十元。这一周的活干得可不赖，他一次用收入从没有这么高的。真不知道怎么花呢！他挖到金矿了。这矿还能持续不断地开下去呢！他计划再买几套衣服，订很多杂志，买上几十本参考书，那就用不看到图书馆查书了。那四百二十元还剩下很多，这叫他伤了好一会儿脑筋。最后才想起可以给格特露请个佣人，给茉莉安买辆自行车。

他把那厚厚的手稿寄给了精年伙伴》，又计划好写一篇潜水来珠的故事，然后才在星期六下午去看露丝。他事先打过电话，露丝亲自到门口迎接了他，他那一身熟悉的旺盛精力喷薄而出二仿佛劈面给了她一个冲击，仿佛一道奔泻的光芒射进了她的身子，流遍了她的血管。给了她力量，使她震颤。他握住她的手望着她那蓝色的眼睛时禁不住脸红了。可那八个月的太阳晒成的青铜色把那红晕遮住了，尽管它遮不住脖子不让它受硬领的折磨。她注意到那一道红印觉得好笑，但转眼看到那身衣服她的笑意便消失了。那衣服确实报称身——那是他第一套雷体定做的服装——他看去似乎更颀长了些，挺拔了些。他那布便帽也换成了软礼帽。她要求他戴上看看，然后便称赞他漂亮。她想不起什么时候曾经这样快活过〔他的变化乃是她的成绩，她以此自豪，更急于进一步帮助他。

但是他最大的也最叫她高兴的变化却是他的谈吐。不但纯正多了，而且轻松多了。他使用了许多新词语。只是一激动或兴奋他那含糊不清的老毛病又会发作，字尾的辅音也会吞掉。而在他试用刚学会的新同语时还会出现尴尬的犹豫。还有，他说话不但流畅了，而且带了几分俏皮诙谐，这么叫她高兴。他一向幽默风趣，善于开玩笑，很受伙伴们欢迎，但是由于词语不丰、训练不足，他在她面前却无从施展。现在他已摸到了方向，觉得自己不再是局外人。但是他却很小心，甚至过分小心，只紧跟露丝定下的快活和幻想的尺度，不敢轻易越雷池一步。

他告诉她他近来做了些什么，又说他打算靠写作为生，并巨继续做研究工作。但是他失望了。她并没有表示赞同，对他的计划评价不高。

“你看，”她担率地说，“写作跟别的工作一样必须是个职业。当然，我对写作并不了解，只是凭常识判断。要当铁匠不先做三年学徒是不行的——也许是五年吧！作家比铁匠的收入高多了，想当作家的人自然会多得多，想写作的人多着呢。”

‘可我是不是得天独厚，最宜于写作呢？”他问道，心中暗暗为话中使用的习语得意。他敏锐的想像力把现在这场面、气氛跟他生活中无数粗鲁放肆鄙陋野蛮的场面投射到了同一个巨大的幕布——这复杂的幻影整个以光速形成，没有使谈话停顿，也没有影响他平静的思路。在他那想像的银幕上他看到自己跟这个美丽可爱的姑娘面对面坐在一间充满书籍。绘画。情趣与文化的屋子里，用纯正的英语交谈着，一道明亮耀眼的光稳定地笼罩住他俩。而与此对照的种种场面则罗列在他们四周，逐渐往银幕的边沿淡去。每一个场面是一幅图画，而他是看客，可以随意观看自己喜欢的画面。他穿过流荡的烟云和旋卷的雾震观看着这些画面。烟云雾震在耀眼的红光前散开，他看见了酒吧前的牛仔喝着烈性的威一L忌，空气中弥漫着很亵粗鲁的话语，他看见自己跟他们在一起，跟最粗野的人在一起喝酒咒骂，或是跟他们玩着扑克，赌场的筹码在冒黑烟的煤油灯下发着脆响。他看见自己打着赤膊投戴手套服“利物浦红火”在萨斯克汉纳号的前舱进行着那场了不起的拳击赛。他看见约翰·罗杰斯号血淋淋的甲板。是那个准备哗变的灰色清晨，大副在主舱D因死前的痛苦踢着腿；可那老头儿手上的连发枪还冒着烟。水手们扭曲着激动的面孔，发出尖利狠毒的咒骂，一个个粗鲁的汉子在他身边倒下。他又回想到正中的场面，光照稳定。平静、纯洁。露丝跟他对坐闲谈，周围全是书籍和绘画。他也看到了钢琴。于是露丝为他弹奏。他听见了自己选用的正确词语在震响。“那么，我难道不是得天独厚最宜于写作的人么？”

“但是一个人无论怎样得天独厚最直于当铁匠，”露丝笑了，“我却从来没听说有人不光当学徒就能行的。”

“那你看我该怎么办？”他问，“别忘了，我觉得我有这种写作能力——我解释不清楚，我只知道我内心有这件条件。”

‘你必须受到完整的教育，”她回答，“无论你最终是否当作家，无论你选定什么职业，这种教育是必不可少的，而且不能马虎粗糙。你应当上中学。”

“是的——”他正要说，她补充了一句，打断了他的话。

“当然，你也可以继续写作。”

“我是非写作不可的，”他狠狠地说。

“怎么？”她茫然地、甜甜地望着他。不太喜欢他那种执拗劲。

“因为我不写作就上不了中学。你知道我很吃晚得买书，买衣服。”

“这我倒忘了，”她笑了起来，“你怎么会生下来没有遗产呢？”

“我倒更乐意生下来就身体结实，想像力丰富。”他回答，“钱不钱可以将就，有些东西——”他几乎用了个“你”，却删去了——“叮将就不了。”

“你说‘将就’，”她生气地叫道，口气却甜蜜，“那话太俗，太难听了。”

他脸红了，给巴地说：“好的，我只希望你一发现我有错就纠正。”