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马丁·伊登|Martin Eden

第一章|CHAPTER I|Chapter 1

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 杰克-伦敦] 阅读：[1925]
马丁（卢卡·马里内利 Luca Marinelli 饰）出生在贫穷的家庭之中，没有上过几年的学，如今和姐姐过着相依为命的日子，并且成为了一名终日漂泊在茫茫大海之上的水手。一天，马丁邂逅了名为爱莲娜（杰西卡·塞西 Jessica Cressy 饰）的千金大小姐，爱莲娜将法国诗人波德莱尔的诗集借给马丁看。马丁这辈子从来都没有看过这样的文字，一下子便被深深的吸引了，在海上漂泊的漫长时光里，他如饥似渴的吸收着这些知识，并且渐渐开始产生了自己写作的念头。　　马丁失业了，借此机会，他决定正式走上写作的道路。他不断的投稿，又不断的遭遇退稿，唯一没有想过的就是放弃。最终，马丁的小说被出版了，这令他收获了无数的名誉和财富。
字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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那人用钥匙打开门，走了进去，身后跟着一位小伙子。小伙子笨拙地摘下帽子。他穿着粗布衣裳，浑身散发出海洋的腥味，与眼前这宽敞的大厅格格不入。他不知把帽子往哪里放才好，于是便要朝衣袋里塞，可对方却伸手接了过去。那人做得不动声色和从容不迫，真是叫这位尴尬的小伙子欣赏得很。小伙子心想：“他能体谅人，会对我照应到底的。”

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他走在那人的身后，肩膀一摇一摆，深一脚浅一脚的，就好像平坦的地板正随着大海的波动而起伏。他的步态摇摇晃晃，使原本宽敞的厅堂显得异常狭小。他忧心忡忡，生怕宽厚的肩膀会撞上门框，或者把低矮的壁炉架上的古玩给碰下来。在各种各样的陈设之间，他东躲西闪，结果使实际上仅存在于他脑海中的危险感愈加强烈。在一架大钢琴和厅堂中央一张堆着一厚摞书的桌子之间，空着好大的地方，足够六七个人并肩穿行，可他走过时仍是胆战心惊。他粗壮的胳膊松松地垂吊在身体两旁，真不知怎样处置自己的手脚。他忐忑不安，眼看一条胳膊快要碰上桌子上的书本了，便如受惊的马儿一般跳到一旁，结果差点把钢琴前的凳子撞倒。看到前面的那人走路不慌不忙，他平生第一次意识到自己走路的样子与其他人不一样。想想自己野里野气的步态，内心不由顿感羞愧，脑门上沁出了细细的汗珠。他停下来，用手帕擦了擦紫红的脸颊。

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“等一等，阿瑟老兄。”他说道，想用开玩笑的语气掩饰心里的不安，“来得太突然，叫我措手不及。给我一点时间定定神。你清楚，我本来是不愿来的，再说你家里的人也不一定愿见我。”

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“没关系，”对方安慰道，“在我们家你不必感到惊慌。我们可是平平常常的人家——哈，这儿有我一封信。”

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他走到桌子跟前，拆开信看了起来，这就给新来的客人一个稳定情绪的机会。客人心领神会，十分感激。他天生富于同情及理解之心，所以这当儿尽管外表惊慌，仍能体会到别人的好意。他揩干额头上的汗水，控制住脸上的表情打量着四周，不过眼睛里却露出一种惊慌的神情，像是野兽害怕掉进陷阱一样。他置身于一个陌生的环境，唯恐会发生不测，对自己该干些什么心里没底，只知道自己的走路和举止都非常笨拙，生怕自己的一言一行均会同样叫人尴尬。他极端敏感，同时自惭形秽到了无可挽救的地步。所以，对方在看信时偷偷向他投来的好奇的目光，像匕首一样深深扎入他的心坎。他瞧见了那目光，然而却声色不动，因为在他所学到的本领中有一项就是控制自己。那只匕首也刺伤了他的尊严。他怪自己不该到这儿来，不过在同一时间又做出决定：既然来了，不管情况怎样，都应该坚持到最后。他脸上的线条开始绷紧，双目投射出战斗的光芒。于是，他比较轻松地将目光扫向四周，注意观察着，把美丽的大厅内每一个细小的物品都刻入脑海之中。他的两眼间距很宽，任何东西都逃不出他的视野；当这双眼睛欣赏面前的美景时，战斗的光芒逐渐消失，取而代之的是一种温和的亮光。他对美是敏感的，而这里正有能引起他共鸣的东西。

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一幅油画吸引住了他，使他留住了脚步。惊浪拍天，冲上高矗的石岩；低垂的雨云遮盖住苍天；大浪的旁边有一只领航帆船被风儿吹得东倒西歪，甲板上的每一个物件都清晰可见，行驶在落日的余晖下，头顶风雨欲来的天空。画中的美景对他产生了无法抗拒的吸引力。他忘掉了自己走路时的笨拙相，来到油画的跟前，凑得很近很近。可是，画面上的美消失了。他露出困惑的神情，呆视着这幅看起来像是随意涂抹的画作，后来走到了一旁。但所有的美顷刻间又回到了画面上。“这幅画会变戏法。”他暗忖。油画给他留下了杂乱的印象，同时又令他不胜愤慨，因为他觉得不该为了变一个戏法就牺牲这么多的美。他不懂油画，从小看惯的只有五彩石印画和石版画，而这些画无论是近瞧还是远看，总是线条清晰、轮廓分明。以前在商店的橱窗里，他的确看到过油画，但橱窗玻璃挡住了好奇的他，使他不能把眼睛凑到跟前欣赏。

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他回头去望正在读信的朋友，却瞥见了桌子上的那些书。他的眼睛里闪出期望和向往的神情，像是一个饿着肚子的人看到了食物一般。于是，他不由自主地一个箭步，膀子左右摇晃了一下，来到桌子前，开始爱不释手地翻阅那些书。他浏览书名和作者的姓名，读上几段文字，手和眼都忙个不停，而且发现了一本他以前看过的书。至于其他的书和作者，对他来说都是陌生的。他偶然翻到斯温伯恩[1]的一部诗集，便一直看了下去，忘记了自己身在何处，脸上散发出红光。他两次用食指按在看到的地方，把书合上去看作者的名字。斯温伯恩！他要记住这个名字。这家伙有眼光，一定体验过五彩缤纷的生活。可斯温伯恩是谁呢？是不是和大多数诗人一样，死了已有百年之久了呢？或者现在还活着，仍在写作？他翻到了书名页……不错，这人还写过别的书；就这样，明天早晨第一件事就是到公共图书馆找几本斯温伯恩的书看。接着，他又翻回到原来的地方，出神地读了起来。他没留意一位年轻女子走了进来。直到听见阿瑟的声音，他才转过神来。阿瑟介绍说：

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“露丝，这位是伊登先生。”

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伊登按住书页，将书合起。还未扭过身来，他便被一种全新的感觉弄得心潮激荡，这种感觉不是由那女子引起，而是由她弟弟的言辞所导发。在他那肌肉发达的外壳里，裹着一团跳动着的敏感神经。外界对他的心灵哪怕是稍加触动，他的思想、情绪和感情都会活跃起来，如火焰般燃烧。他异常聪颖和出奇地敏感，丰富的想象力每时每刻都在区分相同之处以及不同的地方。令他激动不已的是“伊登先生”这个称呼——在他的一生中，人们一直称他“伊登”，“马丁·伊登”，或者仅仅把他叫作“马丁”。而这一次竟有人称他为“先生”！他从内心觉得这是了不起的称呼。他的大脑好像一下子变成了一个巨大的照相机暗盒，他看到在自己的意识周围排列着无数生活中的情景——锅炉房、船甲板、营地、沙滩、监狱、酒馆、传染病院和贫民窟的街道。在各种场合中，人们对他的称呼犹如一根线，把这些情景串联在一起。

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接着，他转过身，看到了那女子。一见她，他脑海中的幻象便一齐消失了。她面孔白皙、身段轻盈，有一双灵秀的蓝色大眼睛和一头浓密的金发。他说不出她的穿戴究竟怎样，只知道她的服饰和她本人一样美。在他的眼里，她宛若一朵结在细嫩枝条上的苍白色金花。不，她是一个精灵，一个天仙，一个女神，因为这样圣洁的美在人世间是找不到的。要不，书本上的话也许是对的，在上流社会她这样的人儿比比皆是。她应该得到那位诗人斯温伯恩的歌颂。诗人在刻画桌子上那本书中的姑娘伊索尔特时，脑子里或许想的正是她这样的人。刹那间，他眼花缭乱、感情复杂、思绪万千，周围的现实一刻不停地变换着。他看到她向他伸出手来，一边直视着他的眼睛，一边大大方方地像男士一样同他握手。他所认识的女人可不这样握手，其实，她们大多就不跟人握手。种种联想，以及种种他和女人结识的情景一齐涌入了他的脑海，大有淹没一切的可能。但他把所有的念头都抛至一旁，把眼光投向她。这样的女人从未见过。他以前的女相识不能与之相提并论！立刻，那些女相识在她的两旁排列成行。在这永恒的一瞬间，他仿佛置身于一个画像陈列馆里，许多女人的画像如众星捧月般将她围在中间，等待他用巡视的目光去测量和估价，而她就是测量和估价的标准。他看到了脸色憔悴、病容满面的工厂女工，看到了市场街南端的那些叽叽嘎嘎地又笑又闹的姑娘，看到了牧区的姑娘们，还看到了皮肤黝黑、抽着烟卷的墨西哥女郎。随后，这些女人的形象消失了，取而代之的是穿着木屐、走路扭捏作态、长得似洋娃娃一般的日本女人；眉清目秀，但打着堕落烙印的欧亚混血儿；身材丰满、头戴花冠、棕褐色皮肤的南部海岛国女郎。这些幻影渐渐变得模糊了，而接着出现的是一类奇形怪状、噩梦一般的女人——其中有在白色教堂区的街道上徜徉的邋遢婆娘，有喝得醉醺醺的卖春妇，也有满口脏话、横行霸道、令人作呕的母夜叉，她们都具有女人的躯壳，可怕地猎取着水手、港口的下等人以及人类社会的渣滓。

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“你请坐，伊登先生，”姑娘说道，“阿瑟把你的事告诉给我们后，我一直盼着能见到你呢。你可真勇敢——”

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他不以为然地摆了摆手，喃喃不清地说他所做的事根本算不上什么，碰上任何人都会那样干的。她发现他的那只摆动的手上有几处新划破的尚未愈合的伤口，再瞧瞧另一只垂吊在一旁的手，也是一副同样的情形。她飞眼又仔细打量了一下，看到他的腮帮子上留着一道伤疤，还有一条疤遮在前额的头发下，而第三道伤疤顺颈而下，消失在了硬领里。一看到他紫铜色的脖子上那条被硬领磨出的红痕，她就忍不住想笑。显而易见，他不习惯穿硬领衣服。而且，她还用女人的眼光审视了一遍他的穿着，发现他的衣服缺乏美观，属于廉价品，隆起的二头肌把肩部顶出一道横向皱褶，而袖子也因此显得皱皱巴巴。

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他一边摆着手，喃喃地说自己什么也没干，一边则听从她的吩咐，想坐到椅子上去。他羡慕地望着她从容落座，然后跌跌绊绊地向她对面的座位走去，心里为自己的笨拙相感到无地自容。这对他是一种新的体验。以前，他从不知道自己的举止是优雅还是笨拙，因为他从未思考过这类事情。他谨小慎微地在椅子边坐下，被自己的双手搅得心烦意乱。不管把手放在哪里，都觉得碍事。此时，阿瑟走了出去，而马丁·伊登只好用遗憾的目光送他离开。和这位白皙的仙女单独待在房间里，他感到手足无措。这儿没有侍者端酒，也没有小厮到街角为他买酒，所以不能靠这种社交场上的饮料交流友谊。

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“你脖子上的伤疤真怕人，伊登先生，”姑娘说道，“是怎么落下的？我想其中必有一段惊险的经历。”

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“让一个墨西哥人扎了一刀。”他抿了抿干枯的嘴唇，清清嗓子说，“我们不过是打了一架。我夺过了他的刀，而他恨不得一口咬下我的鼻子。”

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他虽然说得轻描淡写，但眼前却闪现出一幕热闹的场景——那是萨利那·克鲁兹[2]的一个布满星光的闷热的夜晚，在白色的海滩上，停泊在港湾里的蔗糖运载船上闪出点点灯火，远处传来酩酊大醉的水手喧闹的声音，周围的码头工人挤作一团，那位墨西哥人的脸上怒火燃烧，用钢刀扎入他的脖子，顿时血如泉涌，人群里爆发出呐喊声，墨西哥人的躯体与他的紧紧扭在一起，滚来滚去，扬起一阵白沙，而远处的某个地方却传来令人陶醉的吉他弹奏声。当时就是这样一种情景，至今回想起来他还觉得激动不已，心想如果那个把领港船绘制在墙上的画家能把这样的场景表现出来就好了。他以为，那白色的海滩、闪烁的星光、蔗糖船上的灯火，以及在沙滩中央把两位打架的人团团围住的黑压压的人群，可以构成一幅壮丽的画面。他觉得，将那把刀展现在画面上，在星光下刀光闪闪，看起来一定精彩。不过，这样的想法一丝一毫都没有掺入他的言谈之中。“他还想一口把我的鼻子咬掉呢。”他最后说道。

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“啊！”姑娘失声叫道，声音既微弱又遥远。他注意到她那表情丰富的脸上露出一丝吃惊的神色。

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他自己也感到有些吃惊，被太阳晒黑的脸颊上微微泛出困窘的红晕，腮帮子火辣辣地发烫，就好像在锅炉房里面对着敞开的炉门似的。像持刀斗殴这一类乌七八糟的事，显然不适于作跟小姐交谈的话题。书中的人物，以及她生活圈子里的人是不谈这种事的——这种事也许他们闻所未闻。

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在他们刚刚开始的谈话中出现了短暂的停顿。随即，她以试探性的口吻问起了他腮帮子上那道疤的来由。一听她的问话，他就明白她在竭力谈他所熟悉的事情，于是便决定把话题引开，转向她的领域。

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“那是在一次事故中落下的。”他用手摸着腮帮子说，“一天夜间，虽然没起风，但海浪汹涌，把主帆桅吊索打断了，紧跟着索具也掉了下来。吊索是用钢丝拧成的，呼呼地飞舞，像条蛇一样。值班的人都想抓住它，我也冲上前去，结果给拍了一下。”

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“噢。”她这次说话时用的是一种会意的语气，可实际上她对他的解释有许多地方都听不懂，弄不清什么是“吊索”，也不知道“拍一下”意味着什么。

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“斯万伯恩这个人……”他开始实施自己的决定，然而却把“温”拖得过长，发成了“万”字。

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“谁呀？”

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“斯万伯恩，”他又重复了一遍，但还是没有把音发对，“就是那位诗人。”

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“他叫斯温伯恩。”她纠正说。

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“不错，正是那伙计。”他期期艾艾地说，同时脸上又发起烧来，“他去世有多长时间啦？”

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“哦，我没听人说起过他已不在人世了。”她以惊奇的目光望着他，“你是在哪儿和他认识的？”

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“我从来就没见过他，”他答道，“不过，就在你进来之前，我在桌子上的那本书里看到了他的几首诗。你觉得他的诗写得怎么样？”这个话题一经提出，她便口若悬河地讲了起来，他感觉好了些，把身子从椅子边朝后稍微挪了一下，但两手却紧紧抓住椅子扶手，仿佛椅子会从他的屁股下溜掉，将他摔到地板上似的。总算使她扯上了自己熟悉的话题。当她滔滔不绝往下讲时，他竭尽全力地侧耳倾听，陶醉地望着她那张如花似玉的白皙面孔，不知她那颗漂亮的脑袋里怎么装着这许多学问。她虽然流利地说出一些陌生的字眼，使用一些他不知道的绝词佳句和思维方式，使他感到困惑，但他仍然能听懂她的意思，觉得那些词句和思想刺激着他的大脑，令他兴奋不已。他暗忖，这就是美，热烈而奇妙，是他以前做梦都想象不到的。他忘掉了自我，以饥渴的目光呆视着她。他要为了她而生活和奋争，努力赢得她的青睐。书本上说得对，世界上果真有这样的女性，而她就是其中的一个。她给他的想象插上了翅膀，于是一幅幅场面恢宏、绚丽多彩的画卷展现在他眼前，上面描绘的是一些朦朦胧胧、充满爱情和浪漫色彩的巨人，他们为了一个女性——一个白皙的女人或金色的花朵创造着英雄业绩。透过这种摇晃和颤抖的幻象，犹如透过神奇的仙境一般，他呆呆地望着这位坐在他跟前高谈阔论文学艺术的有血有肉的女人。他也在倾听，但他紧紧盯着对方，全然不知自己目光逼人，不知自己本质里的男性全都聚在眼睛里闪闪发光。她对男人的世界知之甚微，但作为女人，她却强烈地感觉到了他火辣辣的目光。从没有男人这般凝视过她，这令她发窘，使她说话结巴，思维失去了连贯性。她害怕那目光，但同时又莫名其妙地喜欢这样被人盯着瞧。她的教养在向她发出警告：有危险，要出错，但那是一种微妙、神秘和诱人的错误。她的本能却吹响了传遍她全身的号角，怂恿她越过等级、身份和利益去接近这个来自于另一世界的旅人；接近这个手上带着伤、脖子上因不习惯穿硬领衣服而被磨出一道红痕的粗鲁小伙子；接近这个显而易见在粗俗的生活中沾染了满身污点的年轻人。她喜欢洁净，这种天性使她萌生了厌恶感；可她是女人，而且刚刚开始懂得女性的矛盾心理。

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“正如我所说——我刚才说什么来着？”她突然收住话头，想到了自己如此困窘，不由得大笑起来。

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“你刚才说，斯温伯恩不能成为伟大的诗人，因为——哦，你刚才就说到这里，小姐。”他提醒道。与此同时，他似乎突然产生了一种渴望，随着她的笑声，一股股微微的电流在他的脊梁骨爬上爬下，给他以甜美的感觉。他心想，那笑声宛若叮当的银铃声，顿时把他带到了一个遥远的地方；他坐在那儿的粉红色樱花下，吸着烟卷倾听尖顶塔上传来的钟声，那钟声召唤着足蹬草鞋的信徒们去做礼拜。

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“不错，谢谢你，”她说，“斯温伯恩之所以不能成为伟大的诗人，是因为他有些粗俗，他的许多诗作根本就不值得一读。真正伟大的诗人所写的每一行诗都包含着美好的真理，能唤起人性中一切崇高和圣洁的品质。伟大的诗作，每删掉一行，世界就蒙受一份损失。”

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“我只看了几句，还以为他了不起呢，”他迟疑地说，“没想到他竟然是一个——一个卑鄙的人。我猜想，他在别的诗作中就原形毕露了。”

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“你刚才看过的那本书中就有不少诗句可以删掉。”她说，语气郑重、坚决和武断。

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“我八成是把那些诗句漏掉了。”他声称，“我所读到的都是真正的地道诗，都是闪闪发光的诗句，犹如太阳或探照灯，把我的心里照得亮堂堂。我的感受就是如此，不过，我想我对诗歌是缺乏鉴赏力的，小姐。”

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他有气无力地住了口。他被弄糊涂了，痛苦地感觉到自己说话有些语无伦次。他觉得自己刚才读过的作品蕴含着伟大和辉煌的生命力，然而他的话却说得很不恰当。他无法表达内心的感受。他暗自把自己比作一个水手，在一条陌生的船上，于茫茫的黑夜里，在不熟悉的活动桅杆间摸索。他心想，现在完全得靠自己了解这个新的世界。以前，他无论想掌握任何事情，都一定能称心如意。而现在，他必须设法学会表达心里的思想，让她能够听得懂。她在他心目中所占的位置愈来愈大。

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“再谈谈朗费罗[3]吧——”她说道。

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“嗨，我读过他的作品，”他冲动地插话说，急于展示和卖弄他那一星半点的书本知识，想让她知道他不完全是一个草包，“如《赞美生活》、《精益求精》，还有……哦，我想就是这些。”

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她嫣然一笑，点了点头。不知怎么，他觉得她的笑隐含着宽容，而且是怜悯性的宽容，他真是太愚蠢了。不该不懂装懂。朗费罗那伙计撰写的诗集恐怕多得数不胜数。

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“请原谅我这么打岔，小姐。其实，我对这类事情了解不多。这不是我的专长，不过我一定会把它变为我的专长。”

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他的话让人听起来像是恫吓。他声音果断，两只眼睛里燃烧着火焰，脸上的线条绷得紧紧的。她觉得他的下巴都扭得变了形，给人以好斗和咄咄逼人的印象。他的体内迸发出强烈的男子气质，如海浪般冲击着她。

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“我认为你能够做得到——把它变为你的专长，”她笑了笑说，“因为你非常强壮。”

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她的目光在他肌肉发达的脖子上逗留了一会儿。他的脖子肉筋隆起，粗得和公牛脖子一样，被太阳晒成了紫铜色，溢涌出旺盛的精力和强健的力量。尽管他红着脸傻坐在那儿，一副没出息的样子，但她又一次感到自己被吸引了过去。此时，她产生了一个荒唐的念头，这使她大为吃惊。在她看来，如果她把两手放在这脖子上，脖子里蕴含的力量和精力便会一股脑儿流入她的体内。她被这个念头吓坏了。这念头似乎揭示出：她的本性里有一种意想不到的堕落品质。再说，力量对她意味着粗俗和野蛮。她理想中的男性美历来都是纤弱和文雅的美。可是，这个念头怎么也摆脱不掉。她感到困惑不解的是，自己竟然渴望把手放在那太阳晒黑的脖子上。其实，她根本算不上健壮，她的肉体和精神需要的就是力量，可她当时不明白这一点。她只知道，从来没有一个男人像这个人一样对她产生这么大的作用，他的言谈不合文法，时时叫她吃惊。

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“我并非一个弱不禁风的病人，”他说，“遇到难解的问题，就是生铜烂铁我也消化得了。可这次我却患了消化不良症，你说的话我大半都消化不了。你知道，我从未受过这方面的训练。我喜欢看书和读诗，一有空就阅读，但从来没有像你那样思考过问题。因此，我讲不出个所以然来。我就像一个航海者漂流在陌生的海域，既无航海图也无罗盘。我想弄清自己的方位，也许你可以为我指点迷津。你所谈到的这些，都是从哪儿学来的？”

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“我想是从学校以及通过自修学来的。”她回答道。

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“我小时候也上过学呀。”他反驳说。

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“不错，可我指的是中学、讲座和大学。”

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“你上过大学？”他问道，丝毫不掩饰自己诧异的心情。他觉得他们之间的距离更加遥远，起码又远了一百万英里。

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“我现在正念大学，修的是专科英语。”

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他不知道什么叫“专科英语”，但在心里记下了这一点空白，随后又继续进行谈话。

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“得念多长时间的书，我才能够上大学？”他问道。

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看到他有这样的求知欲，她笑了笑以示鼓励，然后说道：“这要取决于你已经念了多长时间的书。你上过中学吗？不用说，你没上过。那么，你小学毕业了吗？”

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“我离开校门的时候，还差两年毕业，”他回答道，“但我上学的时候，学习成绩一直都是优秀。”

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一转眼，他就生起自己的气来，怪自己不该自我吹嘘，于是便狂烈地牢牢抓住椅子扶手，把每个指尖都弄得发痛。此刻，他发现一位妇女走进房间来。只见姑娘离开座椅，脚步轻盈地迎了上去。两人相互吻了一下，接着便用胳膊勾着对方的腰，朝他走过来。他心想，来人一定是姑娘的母亲，她身材细长，一头金发，显得端庄美丽。她的服饰在他看来十分适合于这样的人家，优美的线条令他觉得赏心悦目。她以及她的装束，使他想起戏台上的女人。随后，他回忆起往事来——他见过这等高贵的女士穿着这等华美的服装步入伦敦剧院看戏，而站在一旁观看的他却被警察推入遮篷外的雨幕之中。接着，他的思绪又飞向了横滨的大饭店，他站在人行道上，曾看到过华贵的夫人小姐出入于饭店。随即，横滨市区和港口化为一千幅画面，一幕幕开始从他的眼前闪过。但由于当下有紧急事情要办，他就不得不把记忆中千变万化的情景迅速推至一旁。他知道自己必须站起来等待人介绍，于是便艰难地挣扎起身来。他伫立在那儿，裤子的膝盖处鼓起两个大包，可笑地垂着两条臂膀，绷紧面孔准备迎接即将来到的考验。

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The one opened the door with a latch-key and went in, followed by a young fellow who awkwardly removed his cap. He wore rough clothes that smacked of the sea, and he was manifestly out of place in the spacious hall in which he found himself. He did not know what to do with his cap, and was stuffing it into his coat pocket when the other took it from him. The act was done quietly and naturally, and the awkward young fellow appreciated it. "He understands," was his thought. "He’ll see me through all right."

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He walked at the other’s heels with a swing to his shoulders, and his legs spread unwittingly, as if the level floors were tilting up and sinking down to the heave and lunge of the sea. The wide rooms seemed too narrow for his rolling gait, and to himself he was in terror lest his broad shoulders should collide with the doorways or sweep the bric-a-brac from the low mantel. He recoiled from side to side between the various objects and multiplied the hazards that in reality lodged only in his mind. Between a grand piano and a centre-table piled high with books was space for a half a dozen to walk abreast, yet he essayed it with trepidation. His heavy arms hung loosely at his sides. He did not know what to do with those arms and hands, and when, to his excited vision, one arm seemed liable to brush against the books on the table, he lurched away like a frightened horse, barely missing the piano stool. He watched the easy walk of the other in front of him, and for the first time realized that his walk was different from that of other men. He experienced a momentary pang of shame that he should walk so uncouthly. The sweat burst through the skin of his forehead in tiny beads, and he paused and mopped his bronzed face with his handkerchief.

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"Hold on, Arthur, my boy," he said, attempting to mask his anxiety with facetious utterance. "This is too much all at once for yours truly. Give me a chance to get my nerve. You know I didn’t want to come, an’ I guess your fam’ly ain’t hankerin’ to see me neither."

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"That’s all right," was the reassuring answer. "You mustn’t be frightened at us. We’re just homely people - Hello, there’s a letter for me."

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He stepped back to the table, tore open the envelope, and began to read, giving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. And the stranger understood and appreciated. His was the gift of sympathy, understanding; and beneath his alarmed exterior that sympathetic process went on. He mopped his forehead dry and glanced about him with a controlled face, though in the eyes there was an expression such as wild animals betray when they fear the trap. He was surrounded by the unknown, apprehensive of what might happen, ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked and bore himself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power of him was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelessly self-conscious, and the amused glance that the other stole privily at him over the top of the letter burned into him like a dagger- thrust. He saw the glance, but he gave no sign, for among the things he had learned was discipline. Also, that dagger-thrust went to his pride. He cursed himself for having come, and at the same time resolved that, happen what would, having come, he would carry it through. The lines of his face hardened, and into his eyes came a fighting light. He looked about more unconcernedly, sharply observant, every detail of the pretty interior registering itself on his brain. His eyes were wide apart; nothing in their field of vision escaped; and as they drank in the beauty before them the fighting light died out and a warm glow took its place. He was responsive to beauty, and here was cause to respond.

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An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy surf thundered and burst over an outjutting rock; lowering storm-clouds covered the sky; and, outside the line of surf, a pilot-schooner, close-hauled, heeled over till every detail of her deck was visible, was surging along against a stormy sunset sky. There was beauty, and it drew him irresistibly. He forgot his awkward walk and came closer to the painting, very close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. His face expressed his bepuzzlement. He stared at what seemed a careless daub of paint, then stepped away. Immediately all the beauty flashed back into the canvas. "A trick picture," was his thought, as he dismissed it, though in the midst of the multitudinous impressions he was receiving he found time to feel a prod of indignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed to make a trick. He did not know painting. He had been brought up on chromos and lithographs that were always definite and sharp, near or far. He had seen oil paintings, it was true, in the show windows of shops, but the glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyes from approaching too near.

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He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and saw the books on the table. Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into the eyes of a starving man at sight of food. An impulsive stride, with one lurch to right and left of the shoulders, brought him to the table, where he began affectionately handling the books. He glanced at the titles and the authors’ names, read fragments of text, caressing the volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once, recognized a book he had read. For the rest, they were strange books and strange authors. He chanced upon a volume of Swinburne and began reading steadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing. Twice he closed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of the author. Swinburne! he would remember that name. That fellow had eyes, and he had certainly seen color and flashing light. But who was Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of the poets? Or was he alive still, and writing? He turned to the title-page . . . yes, he had written other books; well, he would go to the free library the first thing in the morning and try to get hold of some of Swinburne’s stuff. He went back to the text and lost himself. He did not notice that a young woman had entered the room. The first he knew was when he heard Arthur’s voice saying:-

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"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden."

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The book was closed on his forefinger, and before he turned he was thrilling to the first new impression, which was not of the girl, but of her brother’s words. Under that muscled body of his he was a mass of quivering sensibilities. At the slightest impact of the outside world upon his consciousness, his thoughts, sympathies, and emotions leapt and played like lambent flame. He was extraordinarily receptive and responsive, while his imagination, pitched high, was ever at work establishing relations of likeness and difference. "Mr. Eden," was what he had thrilled to - he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or just "Martin," all his life. And "MISTER!" It was certainly going some, was his internal comment. His mind seemed to turn, on the instant, into a vast camera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his consciousness endless pictures from his life, of stoke-holes and forecastles, camps and beaches, jails and boozing-kens, fever-hospitals and slum streets, wherein the thread of association was the fashion in which he had been addressed in those various situations.

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And then he turned and saw the girl. The phantasmagoria of his brain vanished at sight of her. She was a pale, ethereal creature, with wide, spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He did not know how she was dressed, except that the dress was as wonderful as she. He likened her to a pale gold flower upon a slender stem. No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess; such sublimated beauty was not of the earth. Or perhaps the books were right, and there were many such as she in the upper walks of life. She might well be sung by that chap, Swinburne. Perhaps he had had somebody like her in mind when he painted that girl, Iseult, in the book there on the table. All this plethora of sight, and feeling, and thought occurred on the instant. There was no pause of the realities wherein he moved. He saw her hand coming out to his, and she looked him straight in the eyes as she shook hands, frankly, like a man. The women he had known did not shake hands that way. For that matter, most of them did not shake hands at all. A flood of associations, visions of various ways he had made the acquaintance of women, rushed into his mind and threatened to swamp it. But he shook them aside and looked at her. Never had he seen such a woman. The women he had known! Immediately, beside her, on either hand, ranged the women he had known. For an eternal second he stood in the midst of a portrait gallery, wherein she occupied the central place, while about her were limned many women, all to be weighed and measured by a fleeting glance, herself the unit of weight and measure. He saw the weak and sickly faces of the girls of the factories, and the simpering, boisterous girls from the south of Market. There were women of the cattle camps, and swarthy cigarette-smoking women of Old Mexico. These, in turn, were crowded out by Japanese women, doll-like, stepping mincingly on wooden clogs; by Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped with degeneracy; by full-bodied South-Sea-Island women, flower-crowned and brown-skinned. All these were blotted out by a grotesque and terrible nightmare brood - frowsy, shuffling creatures from the pavements of Whitechapel, gin-bloated hags of the stews, and all the vast hell’s following of harpies, vile-mouthed and filthy, that under the guise of monstrous female form prey upon sailors, the scrapings of the ports, the scum and slime of the human pit.

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"Won’t you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying. "I have been looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us. It was brave of you - "

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He waved his hand deprecatingly and muttered that it was nothing at all, what he had done, and that any fellow would have done it. She noticed that the hand he waved was covered with fresh abrasions, in the process of healing, and a glance at the other loose-hanging hand showed it to be in the same condition. Also, with quick, critical eye, she noted a scar on his cheek, another that peeped out from under the hair of the forehead, and a third that ran down and disappeared under the starched collar. She repressed a smile at sight of the red line that marked the chafe of the collar against the bronzed neck. He was evidently unused to stiff collars. Likewise her feminine eye took in the clothes he wore, the cheap and unaesthetic cut, the wrinkling of the coat across the shoulders, and the series of wrinkles in the sleeves that advertised bulging biceps muscles.

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While he waved his hand and muttered that he had done nothing at all, he was obeying her behest by trying to get into a chair. He found time to admire the ease with which she sat down, then lurched toward a chair facing her, overwhelmed with consciousness of the awkward figure he was cutting. This was a new experience for him. All his life, up to then, he had been unaware of being either graceful or awkward. Such thoughts of self had never entered his mind. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, greatly worried by his hands. They were in the way wherever he put them. Arthur was leaving the room, and Martin Eden followed his exit with longing eyes. He felt lost, alone there in the room with that pale spirit of a woman. There was no bar-keeper upon whom to call for drinks, no small boy to send around the corner for a can of beer and by means of that social fluid start the amenities of friendship flowing.

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"You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden," the girl was saying. "How did it happen? I am sure it must have been some adventure."

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"A Mexican with a knife, miss," he answered, moistening his parched lips and clearing hip throat. "It was just a fight. After I got the knife away, he tried to bite off my nose."

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Baldly as he had stated it, in his eyes was a rich vision of that hot, starry night at Salina Cruz, the white strip of beach, the lights of the sugar steamers in the harbor, the voices of the drunken sailors in the distance, the jostling stevedores, the flaming passion in the Mexican’s face, the glint of the beast-eyes in the starlight, the sting of the steel in his neck, and the rush of blood, the crowd and the cries, the two bodies, his and the Mexican’s, locked together, rolling over and over and tearing up the sand, and from away off somewhere the mellow tinkling of a guitar. Such was the picture, and he thrilled to the memory of it, wondering if the man could paint it who had painted the pilot- schooner on the wall. The white beach, the stars, and the lights of the sugar steamers would look great, he thought, and midway on the sand the dark group of figures that surrounded the fighters. The knife occupied a place in the picture, he decided, and would show well, with a sort of gleam, in the light of the stars. But of all this no hint had crept into his speech. "He tried to bite off my nose," he concluded.

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"Oh," the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed the shock in her sensitive face.

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He felt a shock himself, and a blush of embarrassment shone faintly on his sunburned cheeks, though to him it burned as hotly as when his cheeks had been exposed to the open furnace-door in the fire- room. Such sordid things as stabbing affrays were evidently not fit subjects for conversation with a lady. People in the books, in her walk of life, did not talk about such things - perhaps they did not know about them, either.

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There was a brief pause in the conversation they were trying to get started. Then she asked tentatively about the scar on his cheek. Even as she asked, he realized that she was making an effort to talk his talk, and he resolved to get away from it and talk hers.

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"It was just an accident," he said, putting his hand to his cheek. "One night, in a calm, with a heavy sea running, the main-boom-lift carried away, an’ next the tackle. The lift was wire, an’ it was threshin’ around like a snake. The whole watch was tryin’ to grab it, an’ I rushed in an’ got swatted."

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"Oh," she said, this time with an accent of comprehension, though secretly his speech had been so much Greek to her and she was wondering what a LIFT was and what SWATTED meant.

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"This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan into execution and pronouncing the I long.

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"Who?"

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"Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The poet."

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"Swinburne," she corrected.

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"Yes, that’s the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long since he died?"

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"Why, I haven’t heard that he was dead." She looked at him curiously. "Where did you make his acquaintance?"

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"I never clapped eyes on him," was the reply. "But I read some of his poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How do you like his poetry?"

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And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject he had suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly from the edge of the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands, as if it might get away from him and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in making her talk her talk, and while she rattled on, he strove to follow her, marvelling at all the knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty head of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of her face. Follow her he did, though bothered by unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips and by critical phrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his mind, but that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here was intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and stared at her with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win to, to fight for - ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such women in the world. She was one of them. She lent wings to his imagination, and great, luminous canvases spread themselves before him whereon loomed vague, gigantic figures of love and romance, and of heroic deeds for woman’s sake - for a pale woman, a flower of gold. And through the swaying, palpitant vision, as through a fairy mirage, he stared at the real woman, sitting there and talking of literature and art. He listened as well, but he stared, unconscious of the fixity of his gaze or of the fact that all that was essentially masculine in his nature was shining in his eyes. But she, who knew little of the world of men, being a woman, was keenly aware of his burning eyes. She had never had men look at her in such fashion, and it embarrassed her. She stumbled and halted in her utterance. The thread of argument slipped from her. He frightened her, and at the same time it was strangely pleasant to be so looked upon. Her training warned her of peril and of wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while her instincts rang clarion-voiced through her being, impelling her to hurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from another world, to this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a line of raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throat, who, all too evidently, was soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. She was clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she was woman, and she was just beginning to learn the paradox of woman.

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"As I was saying - what was I saying?" She broke off abruptly and laughed merrily at her predicament.

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"You was saying that this man Swinburne failed bein’ a great poet because - an’ that was as far as you got, miss," he prompted, while to himself he seemed suddenly hungry, and delicious little thrills crawled up and down his spine at the sound of her laughter. Like silver, he thought to himself, like tinkling silver bells; and on the instant, and for an instant, he was transported to a far land, where under pink cherry blossoms, he smoked a cigarette and listened to the bells of the peaked pagoda calling straw-sandalled devotees to worship.

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"Yes, thank you," she said. "Swinburne fails, when all is said, because he is, well, indelicate. There are many of his poems that should never be read. Every line of the really great poets is filled with beautiful truth, and calls to all that is high and noble in the human. Not a line of the great poets can be spared without impoverishing the world by that much."

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"I thought it was great," he said hesitatingly, "the little I read. I had no idea he was such a - a scoundrel. I guess that crops out in his other books."

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"There are many lines that could be spared from the book you were reading," she said, her voice primly firm and dogmatic.

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"I must ’a’ missed ’em," he announced. "What I read was the real goods. It was all lighted up an’ shining, an’ it shun right into me an’ lighted me up inside, like the sun or a searchlight. That’s the way it landed on me, but I guess I ain’t up much on poetry, miss."

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He broke off lamely. He was confused, painfully conscious of his inarticulateness. He had felt the bigness and glow of life in what he had read, but his speech was inadequate. He could not express what he felt, and to himself he likened himself to a sailor, in a strange ship, on a dark night, groping about in the unfamiliar running rigging. Well, he decided, it was up to him to get acquainted in this new world. He had never seen anything that he couldn’t get the hang of when he wanted to and it was about time for him to want to learn to talk the things that were inside of him so that she could understand. SHE was bulking large on his horizon.

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"Now Longfellow - " she was saying.

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"Yes, I’ve read ’m," he broke in impulsively, spurred on to exhibit and make the most of his little store of book knowledge, desirous of showing her that he was not wholly a stupid clod. "’The Psalm of Life,’ ’Excelsior,’ an’ . . . I guess that’s all."

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She nodded her head and smiled, and he felt, somehow, that her smile was tolerant, pitifully tolerant. He was a fool to attempt to make a pretence that way. That Longfellow chap most likely had written countless books of poetry.

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"Excuse me, miss, for buttin’ in that way. I guess the real facts is that I don’t know nothin’ much about such things. It ain’t in my class. But I’m goin’ to make it in my class."

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It sounded like a threat. His voice was determined, his eyes were flashing, the lines of his face had grown harsh. And to her it seemed that the angle of his jaw had changed; its pitch had become unpleasantly aggressive. At the same time a wave of intense virility seemed to surge out from him and impinge upon her.

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"I think you could make it in - in your class," she finished with a laugh. "You are very strong."

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Her gaze rested for a moment on the muscular neck, heavy corded, almost bull-like, bronzed by the sun, spilling over with rugged health and strength. And though he sat there, blushing and humble, again she felt drawn to him. She was surprised by a wanton thought that rushed into her mind. It seemed to her that if she could lay her two hands upon that neck that all its strength and vigor would flow out to her. She was shocked by this thought. It seemed to reveal to her an undreamed depravity in her nature. Besides, strength to her was a gross and brutish thing. Her ideal of masculine beauty had always been slender gracefulness. Yet the thought still persisted. It bewildered her that she should desire to place her hands on that sunburned neck. In truth, she was far from robust, and the need of her body and mind was for strength. But she did not know it. She knew only that no man had ever affected her before as this one had, who shocked her from moment to moment with his awful grammar.

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"Yes, I ain’t no invalid," he said. "When it comes down to hard- pan, I can digest scrap-iron. But just now I’ve got dyspepsia. Most of what you was sayin’ I can’t digest. Never trained that way, you see. I like books and poetry, and what time I’ve had I’ve read ’em, but I’ve never thought about ’em the way you have. That’s why I can’t talk about ’em. I’m like a navigator adrift on a strange sea without chart or compass. Now I want to get my bearin’s. Mebbe you can put me right. How did you learn all this you’ve ben talkin’?"

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"By going to school, I fancy, and by studying," she answered.

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"I went to school when I was a kid," he began to object.

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"Yes; but I mean high school, and lectures, and the university."

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"You’ve gone to the university?" he demanded in frank amazement. He felt that she had become remoter from him by at least a million miles.

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"I’m going there now. I’m taking special courses in English."

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He did not know what "English" meant, but he made a mental note of that item of ignorance and passed on.

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"How long would I have to study before I could go to the university?" he asked.

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She beamed encouragement upon his desire for knowledge, and said: "That depends upon how much studying you have already done. You have never attended high school? Of course not. But did you finish grammar school?"

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"I had two years to run, when I left," he answered. "But I was always honorably promoted at school."

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The next moment, angry with himself for the boast, he had gripped the arms of the chair so savagely that every finger-end was stinging. At the same moment he became aware that a woman was entering the room. He saw the girl leave her chair and trip swiftly across the floor to the newcomer. They kissed each other, and, with arms around each other’s waists, they advanced toward him. That must be her mother, he thought. She was a tall, blond woman, slender, and stately, and beautiful. Her gown was what he might expect in such a house. His eyes delighted in the graceful lines of it. She and her dress together reminded him of women on the stage. Then he remembered seeing similar grand ladies and gowns entering the London theatres while he stood and watched and the policemen shoved him back into the drizzle beyond the awning. Next his mind leaped to the Grand Hotel at Yokohama, where, too, from the sidewalk, he had seen grand ladies. Then the city and the harbor of Yokohama, in a thousand pictures, began flashing before his eyes. But he swiftly dismissed the kaleidoscope of memory, oppressed by the urgent need of the present. He knew that he must stand up to be introduced, and he struggled painfully to his feet, where he stood with trousers bagging at the knees, his arms loose- hanging and ludicrous, his face set hard for the impending ordeal.

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