那人用彈簧鎖鑰匙開門走了進去，後面跟着一個年輕人。年輕人笨拙地脫下了便帽。他穿一身粗布衣服，帶着海洋的鹹味。來到這寬闊的大汀他顯然感到拘束，連帽子也不知道怎麽處置。正想塞進外衣口袋，那人卻接了過去。接得自然，一聲不響，那笨拙的青年心裏不禁感激，“他明白我，”他心想，“他會幫我到底的。”
　　 他搖晃着肩膀跟在那人身後走着，兩條腿不自覺地叉開，仿佛平坦的地板在隨着波濤左右傾側，上下顛簸，那寬闊的房間似乎裝不下他那晃動的腳步。他心裏還暗自緊張，怕他那巨大的肩膀會撞上門框或是把矮架上的小擺設拂到地上。他在傢具什物之間東躲西閃，原本衹存在他心中的恐懼又成倍地增加了。在屋子正中堆滿書籍的桌子和鋼琴之間分明有可容六個人並行的空間，可他走過時卻仍提心吊膽。他的兩條粗壯的胳膊鬆鬆地挂在身旁，不知道怎麽處置。他正在緊張卻發現一條胳膊幾乎撞到摞在桌面的書上，便如受驚的馬一樣往旁邊一個趔趄，幾乎碰翻了琴凳。他望着前面的人輕鬆自在的步伐，第一次意識到自己走路和別人不同，步履蹣跚，不禁感到難堪，前額上沁出了豆大的汗珠。他停下腳步用手巾擦着曬成青銅色的臉。
　　 “慢着，亞瑟，老兄，”他想說句俏皮話掩飾心中的緊張，“我這次突然來，你傢的人肯定受不了。讓我定定神吧！你知道我並不想來，我琢磨着你傢的人也未必急於見我。”
　　 “別擔心，”亞瑟安慰道，“不要為我傢的人緊張。我們都是不講究的人——嗨，我還有一封信呢！”
　　 他回到桌邊，拆開信，看了起來，給了客人機會鎮定鎮定。那客人心裏有數，也很感激。他天生善於同情人、理解人。目前在他那驚煌的外表下仍然體察着對方。他擦幹前額，擺出平靜的樣子嚮四面看了看。眼裏卻掩飾不住一種野獸害怕陷阱的神氣。他從來沒有見過的事物包圍了他，他害怕發生什麽情況，無法應付。他意識到自己腳步難看、舉止笨拙，害怕自己所有的屬性和能力也出現類似的缺陷。他極為敏感，有着無可奈何的自我意識。那人偏又越過信紙饒有興味地偷偷打量着他，那目光像匕首一樣戳得他生疼。他看得清清楚楚，卻不動聲色，因為他經受過自我約束的訓練。那“匕首”也傷害了他的自尊。他咒駡自己不該來，卻也决心既然來了無論出現什麽情況也要挺住。他臉上的綫條僵住了，眼裏閃出拼搏的光，更加滿不在乎地打量着四周的一切。他目光敏銳，這漂亮廳堂裏的每一個細節都在他腦子裏記錄下來。他大睜着雙眼，目光所及絲毫不漏。目光既痛飲着那內室之美，眼裏拼搏的光便漸漸隱敵，泛出幾分溫暖。他對美敏感，而這裏又多的是讓他敏感的東西。
　　 一幅油畫抓住了他的註意。怒濤澎湃，拍擊着一片橫空斜出的峭壁；孕育着風暴的黑雲低垂，布滿天空；浪濤綫外一艘領港船正乘風前進，船身傾斜，甲板上的一切都清晰可辨。背景是一個風暴將至的薄暮的天空。那畫很美，它無可抗拒地吸引了他。他忘掉了自己難看的步伐，嚮畫幅走去。逼近畫幅時，畫上的美卻消失了。他一臉迷惑，瞠目望着那一片仿佛是鬍塗亂抹的色彩退開了。可面上全部的美又立即閃了回來。“玩噱頭，”他轉身走開，想道，在紛至沓來的衆多印象之中卻也有時間感到一種義憤：為什麽要拿這麽多的美來玩噱頭？他不懂得畫，他平生見過的衹有彩色石印和石版畫，遠看近看總是輪廓分明綫條清晰的。他也見過油畫，不錯，那是在櫥窗裏，可櫥窗玻璃卻不讓他那雙急於看個明白的眼睛靠得太近。
　　 他瞥了一眼在讀信的朋友和桌上的書，眼裏立即閃出一種期待和渴望的光，有如饑餓的人看到了食物。他衝動地邁出一大步，雙肩左右一晃撲到了桌邊，急切地翻起書來。他看書名，看作者名，讀了些片斷，用眼和手愛撫着書捲，衹有一次他認出了一本讀過的書，別的書他卻全都陌生，作者也陌生。他偶然翻起了一本史文朋，開始連續地讀，讀得臉上閃光。忘了自已在什麽地方。他兩歡用食指插着合上書看，作者的名字，史文朋！他要記住這個名字。這傢夥很有眼光，他肯定把捉住了色彩和閃光。可史文朋是誰？跟大部分詩人一樣，已經去世一兩百年了呢，還有活着，還在寫詩？他翻到書名頁……是的，他還寫過別的書。對，明天早上第一件事就是去免費圖書館藉點史文朋的東西讀。他又讀起書來，讀得忘了自己，沒有註意到有個年青女人已經進了屋子。他首先註意到的是亞瑟的聲音在說話：
　　 “露絲，這是伊登先生。”
　　 他又插上食指合上書，還沒轉過身就為第一個嶄新的印象所激動。並非因為那姑娘，而是因為她哥哥的話。在他那肌肉鼓突的身體下面是一堆顫顫巍巍的敏感神經。外部世界對他的意識、思想、感受和情緒的最輕微的刺激也能使它像幽幽的火焰一樣閃動起來。他異常善於接納。反映，他的想像力活躍、總在動作，辨析着事物的同與異。是“伊登先生”這個稱呼激動了他——這一輩子他都被人叫做“伊登”，“馬丁·伊登”或者是“馬丁”。可現在卻成了“先生！”太妙了！他心裏想。他的心靈仿佛立即化作了一具龐大的幻燈機。他在自己意識裏看到了數不清的生活場景：鍋爐房、水手艙、野營和海灘、監獄和酒吧、高燒病房和貧民窟街道，在各種環境中別人跟他的關係都表現在對他那些稱呼上。
　　 於是他轉過身來，看到了那姑娘。一見到她他腦海裏的種種幻影便全沒有了。她是個輕盈蒼白的人，有一對超凡脫俗的藍眼睛，大大的，還有滿頭豐密的金發。他不知道她的穿着如何，衹覺得那衣服跟人一樣美好。他把她比作嫩枝上的一朵淡淡的金花。不，她是一個精靈，一個仙子，一個女神；她那升華過的美不屬於人間。說不定書本是對的，在上流社會真有許多像她這樣的人。史文朋那傢夥大約就善於歌唱她。在桌上那本書裏他描述伊素特姑娘的時候也許心裏就有像她這樣一個人。儘管林林總總的形象、感覺、思想猛然襲來，在現實中他的行動卻並未中斷。他見她嚮他伸出手來，握手時像個男人一樣坦然地望着他的眼睛。他認識的女人卻不這樣握手，實際上她們大多數並不跟誰握手。一陣聯想的浪潮襲來，他跟婦女們認識的各種方式涌入了他的心裏，幾乎要淹沒了它。可他卻擺脫了這些印象，衹顧看着她。他從沒見過這樣的女人。唉！他以前認識的那些女人呀！她們立即在那姑娘兩旁排列開來。在那永恆的剎那他已站在以她為中心的一道肖像畫廊裏。她的周圍出現了許多婦女。以她為標準一衡量，那些婦女的分量和尺寸轉瞬之間便一清二楚。他看見工廠女工們菜色的衰弱的臉，市場南面的婦女們癡笑的喧囂的臉，還有遊牧營他的婦女，老墨西哥抽煙的黧黑的婦女。這些形象又為穿木展、走碎步、像玩偶一樣的日本婦女所代替，為面目姣好卻帶着墮落痕跡的歐亞混血婦女所代替，為戴花環、褐皮膚的南海諸島的婦女形象所代替；而她們又被一群噩夢般的奇形怪狀的婦女所代替，白教堂大路邊慢吞吞臭烘烘的女人，窯子裏酗酒的浮腫的妓女，還有一大群從地獄出來的女鬼，她們滿嘴粗話，一身骯髒，喬裝成婦女模樣，擄掠着水手，搜索着海港的垃圾和貧民窟的殘渣。
　　 “伊登先生，請坐！”那姑娘說話了，“自從亞瑟告訴我們之後我就一直希望見到你。你很勇敢……”
　　 他不以為然地揮揮手，含糊地說那算不了什麽，別人也會那樣做的。她註意到他那揮動的手上有還不曾愈合的新傷，再看那衹鬆垂的手也有傷口未愈。再迅速打量了一眼，又見他面頰上有個傷疤，還有一個傷疤則從額前的發際露出，而第三個疤則穿到漿硬的領子裏去了。她看到他曬成青銅色的脖子被漿硬的領子磨出的紅印時差點笑了出來。他顯然不習慣於硬領。同樣，她那雙女性的眼睛也一眼便看透了他那身衣服，那廉價的缺乏品味的剪裁，外衣肩上的褶皺和袖子上那一連串皺紋，仿佛在為他那鼓突的二頭肌做廣告。
　　 他一面含混地表示他做的事不值一提，一面也按她的希望打算坐下，也還有時間欣賞她坐下時的優美輕鬆。等到在她對面的椅子上坐了下來，又意識到自己形象的笨拙，感到狼狽。這一切於他都是全新的經驗。他一輩子也沒註意過外表的瀟灑或笨拙；他心裏從沒有過這種自我意識。他在椅子邊上小心翼翼地坐了下來，卻為兩衹手十分擔心，因為它們不論放在什麽地方都仿佛礙事。此時亞瑟又離開了屋子，馬丁·伊登很不情願地望着他走了。讓他一個人在屋子裏跟一個仙女一樣的蒼白女人坐在一起，他感到不知所措。這地方沒有可以吩咐送飲料來的酒吧老闆，沒有可以打發到街角去買啤酒的小孩，無法用社交的飲料喚起愉快的友誼交流。
　　 “你的脖子上有那樣一個疤痕，伊登先生，”姑娘說，“那是怎麽來的？我相信那是一次冒險。”
　　 “是個墨西哥佬用刀子紮的，小姐，”他回答，舔了舔焦渴的嘴唇，清了清嗓子，“打了一架。我把他刀子弄掉後他還想咬掉我的鼻子呢。”
　　 話雖說得不好，他眼前卻浮現出薩萊納剋魯茲那個炎熱的星夜的豐富景象。狹長的海灘的白影，港口運糖船的燈光，遠處喝醉了酒的水手們的哈喝，熙熙攘攘的碼頭苦力，墨西哥人那滿臉的怒氣，他的眼睛在星光下閃出野獸一般的兇光，鋼鐵在自己脖於上的刺痛和熱血的流淌。人群，驚呼，他和墨西哥人軀體扭結，滾來滾去，踢起了沙塵。而在遼遠的某個地點卻有柔美的吉他聲珍珍珠綜傳來。那景象便是如此，至今想起仍令他激動。他不知道畫出墻上那幅領港船的畫傢是否能把那場面畫下來。那白色的沙灘、星星、運糖船的燈火，還有在沙灘上圍觀打鬥的黑越越的人群，若是畫了出來一定棒極了，他想。刀子在畫裏要占個地位，他又决定，要是在星星下帶點閃光準保好看。可這一切他絲毫不曾用言語透露。“他還想咬掉我的鼻子！”他結束了回答。
　　 “啊，”那姑娘說，聲音低而遼遠。他在她敏感的臉上看出了震驚的表情。
　　 他自己也震驚了。他那為太陽曬黑的臉上露出了狼狽不安的淡淡紅暈，其實他已燥熱得仿佛暴露在鍋爐間的烈火面前。在小姐面前談這類打架動刀子的事顯然有失體統。在書本裏，像她那圈子裏的人是絶不會談這類事的——甚至根本就不知道。
　　 雙方努力所引起的話頭告一段落。於是她試探着問起他臉上的傷疤。剛一問起他就明白她是在引導他談他的話題，便决心撇開它，去談她的話題。
　　 “那不過是一次意外，”他說，用手摸摸面頰，“有天晚上沒有一絲風，卻遇上了兇險的海流，主吊杠的吊索斷了，接着復滑車也壞了。吊索是根鋼纜，像蛇一樣抽打着。值班水手都想抓住它，我一撲上去就(炎欠)地挨了一鞭。”
　　 “啊！”她說，這次帶着理解的口氣，雖然心裏覺得他說的簡直像外國話。她不懂得“吊索”是什麽東西，“(炎欠)地”是什麽意思。
　　 “這個史崴朋，”他說，試圖執行自己的計劃，卻把史文朋讀作了史崴朋。
　　 “誰呀？”
　　 “史崴朋，”他重複道，仍然念錯了音，“詩人。”
　　 “史文朋，”她糾正他。
　　 “對，就是那傢夥，”他結結巴巴地說，臉又發熱了，“他死了多久了？”
　　 “怎麽，我沒聽說他死了，”她莫名其妙地望着他，“你在哪兒知道他的、’
　　 “我沒見過他，”他回答，“衹是在你進來之前在桌上的書裏讀到了他的詩。你喜歡他的詩麽？”
　　 於是她便就他提起的話題輕鬆地談了開來。他感到好過了一點，從椅子邊沿往後靠了靠，同時兩手緊抓住扶手，仿佛怕它掙脫，把地摔到地上。他要引導她談她的話題的努力已經成功。她侃侃而談，他盡力跟上。他為她那美麗的腦袋竟裝了那麽多知識感到驚訝，同時也飽餐看她那蒼白的面龐的秀色。他倒是跟上了她的話，雖然從她唇邊漫不經心地滾出的陌生詞彙和評論術語和他從不知道的思路都叫他感到吃力。可這也正好刺激了他的思維，使他興奮。這就叫智力的生活，他想，其中有美，他連做夢也不曾想到過的、溫暖人心的、了不起的美。他聽得忘了情，衹用饑渴的眼睛望着她。這兒有為之而生活、奮鬥、爭取的東西——是的，為之犧牲生命的東西。書本是對的。世界上確有這樣的女人。她衹是其中之一。她給他的想像插上了翅膀，巨大而光輝的畫幅在他眼前展開，畫幅上出現了愛情、浪漫故事和為婦女而創造的英雄業跡的模糊的、巨大的形象——為一個蒼白的婦女，一朵黃金的嬌花。他穿過那搖晃的搏動的幻景有如穿過仙靈的海市蜃樓望着坐在那兒大談其文學藝術的現實中的女人。他聽着，不知不覺已是目不轉睛地采望着她。此時他天性中的陽剛之氣在他的目光中情煙閃耀。她對於男性世界雖然所知極少，但作為女人也敏銳地覺察到了他那燃燒的目光。她從沒見過男人這樣註視自己，不禁感到鞏促，說話給巴了，遲疑了，連思路也中斷了。他叫她害怕，而同時，他這樣的呆望也叫她出奇地愉快。她的教養警告她出現了危險，有了不應有的、微妙的、神秘的。可她的本能卻發出了嘹亮的吶喊，震動了她全身，迫使她超越階級、地位和得失撲嚮這個從另一個世界來的旅人，撲嚮這個手上有傷、喉頭叫不習慣的襯衫磨出了紅印的粗魯的年輕人。非常清楚，這人已受到並不高雅的生活的污染，而她卻是純潔的，她的純潔對他感到抵觸。可她卻是個女人，一個剛開始覺察到女人的矛盾的女人。
　　 “我剛纔說過——我在說什麽？”她突然住了嘴，為自己的狼狽處境快活地笑了。
　　 ‘你在說史文朋之所以沒有成為偉大的詩人是因為——你正說到這兒，小姐，”他提醒她。這時他內心似乎感到一種饑渴。她那笑聲在他脊梁上喚起了上下閃動的陣陣酸麻。多麽清脆，他默默地想道，像一串叮叮當當的銀鈴。轉瞬之間他已到了另一個遼遠的國度，並停留了片刻，他在那兒的櫻花樹下抽着煙，諦聽着有層層飛檐的寶塔上的鈴聲，鈴聲召喚穿着芒(革奚)的善男信女去膜拜神道。
　　 “不錯，謝謝你，”她說，“歸根到底史文朋的失敗是由於他不夠敏感。他有許多詩都不值一讀。真正偉大的詩人的每一行詩都應充滿美麗的真理，嚮人世一切心胸高尚的人發出召喚。偉大詩人的詩一行也不能刪掉，每刪去一行都是對全人類的一份損失。”
　　 “可我讀到的那幾段，”他遲疑地說，“我倒覺得棒極了。可沒想到他是那麽一個——蹩腳貨。我估計那是在他別的書裏。”
　　 “你讀的那本書裏也有許多詩行可以刪去的，”她說，口氣一本正經而且武斷。
　　 “我一定是沒讀到，”他宣佈，“我讀到的可全是好樣的，光輝，閃亮，一直照進我心裏，照透了它，像太陽，像探照燈。我對他的感覺就是這樣。不過我看我對詩知道得不多，小姐。”
　　 他訕訕地住了嘴，但方寸已亂，因為自己笨嘴拙舌很感到難為情。他在他讀到的詩行裏感到了偉大和光輝，卻辭不達意，表達不出自己的感受。他在心裏把自已比作在漆黑的夜裏登上一艘陌生船衹的水手，在不熟悉的運轉着的索具中摸索。好，他作出了判斷：要熟悉這個新環境得靠自己的努力。他還從沒遇見過他想要找到它的竅門而找不到的東西。現在已是他學會談談自己熟悉的東西讓她瞭解的時候了。她在他的地平綫上越來越高大了。
　　 “現在，朗費羅……”她說。
　　 “啊，我讀過，”他衝動地插嘴說，急於表現自己，炫耀自己那一點書本知識，讓她知道他並不完全是個白癡。“《生命禮贊》，《精益求精》，還有……我估計就這些。”
　　 她點頭微笑了，他不知怎麽覺得那微笑透着寬容，一種出於憐憫的寬容。他像那樣假充內行簡直是個傻瓜。朗費羅那傢夥很可能寫了無數本詩集呢。
　　 “請原諒我像那樣插嘴，小姐。我看事實是，我對這類東西知道得不多。我不內行。不過我要努力變成內行。”
　　 這話像是威脅。他的口氣堅定，目光凌厲，面部的綫條僵直。在她眼裏他那下齶已棱角畢露，開合時咄咄逼人。同時一股強烈的生命之力似乎從他身上磅礴噴出，嚮她滾滾撲來。
　　 “我認為你是可以成為——內行的，”她以一笑結束了自己的話，“你很堅強。”
　　 她的目光在那肌肉發達的脖子上停留了片刻，那脖子被太陽曬成了青銅色，筋位突出，洋溢着粗糙的健康與強力，幾乎像公牛。他雖衹紅着臉靦腆地坐在那兒，她卻再一次感到了他的吸引力。一個放肆的念頭在她心裏閃過，叫她吃了一驚。她覺得若是她能用雙手接住他的脖子，那力量便會嚮她流註。這念頭令她大為驚訝，似乎嚮她泄露了她某種連做夢也不曾想到的低劣天性。何況在她心裏育力原是粗魯野蠻的東西，而她理想的男性美一嚮是修長而瀟灑。剛纔那念頭仍然索繞着她。她竟然渴望用雙手去樓那胞成青銅色的脖子，這叫她惶惑。事實是她自己一點也不健壯，她的身體和心靈都需要強力，可她並不知道。她衹知道以前從沒有男人對她産生過像眼前這人一樣的影響，而這人卻多次用他那可怕的語法令她震驚。
　　 “是的，我身子骨不壞，”他說，“日子難過的時候我是連碎鐵也能消化的。不過我剛纔知消化不良，你說的話我大部分沒聽懂。從沒受過那種訓練，你看。我喜歡書，喜歡詩，有功夫就讀，可從沒像你那樣掂量過它們。我像個來到陌生的海上卻沒有海圖或羅盤的海員。現在我想找到自己的方向，也許你能給我校準。你談的這些東西是從哪兒學來的？”
　　 “我看是讀書，學習，”她回答。
　　 “我小時候也上過學的，”他開始反駁。
　　 “是的，可我指的是中學，聽課，還有大學。”
　　 “你上過大學？”他坦然地表示驚訝，問道。他感到她離他更遼遠了，至少有一百萬英裏。
　　 “我也要上學。我要專門學英文。”
　　 他並不知道“英文”是什麽意思，可他心裏記下了自己知識上的缺陷，說了下去。
　　 “我要學多少年才能上大學？”他問。
　　 對他求知的渴望她以微笑表示鼓勵，同時說：“那得看你已經學過了多少。你從沒上過中學吧？當然沒上過。但是你小學畢業沒有？”
　　 “還差兩年畢業就停學了，”他回答，“可我在學校卻總是因為成績優良受到奬勵。”
　　 他馬上為這吹噓生起自己的氣來，死命地攥緊了扶手，攥得指尖生疼。這時他意識到又一個女人走進了屋子。他看見那姑娘離開椅子嚮來人輕盈地跑去，兩人互相親吻，然後彼此摟着腰嚮他走來。那一定是她母親，他想。那是個高個兒的金發婦女，苗條、莊重、美麗。她的長袍是他估計會在這兒見到的那種，綫條優美，他看了感到舒服。她和她的衣着讓他想起舞臺上的女演員。於是他回憶起曾見過類似的仕女名媛穿着類似的衣服進入倫敦的戲院，而他卻站在那兒張望，被推到雨篷以外的蒙蒙細雨中去。他的心隨即又飛到了橫濱的大酒店，在那兒的階沿上他也見過許多闊人傢婦女。於是橫濱市和橫濱港以其千姿百態在他眼前閃過。可他立即國目前的急需驅走了萬花筒一樣的回憶。他知道自己得起立接受介紹，便笨拙地站起身子。此時他的褲子膝部鼓了起來，兩臂也可笑地鬆垂，板起了面孔準備迎接即將到來的考驗。

　　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."
　　 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.
　　 "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."
　　 "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."
　　 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.
　　 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.
　　 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:-
　　 "Ruth, this is Mr. Eden."
　　 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.
　　 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.
　　 "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 - "
　　 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.
　　 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.
　　 "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."
　　 "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."
　　 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.
　　 "Oh," the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed the shock in her sensitive face.
　　 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.
　　 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.
　　 "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."
　　 "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.
　　 "This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan into execution and pronouncing the I long.
　　 "Who?"
　　 "Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The poet."
　　 "Swinburne," she corrected.
　　 "Yes, that's the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long since he died?"
　　 "Why, I haven't heard that he was dead." She looked at him curiously. "Where did you make his acquaintance?"
　　 "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?"
　　 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.
　　 "As I was saying - what was I saying?" She broke off abruptly and laughed merrily at her predicament.
　　 "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.
　　 "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."
　　 "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."
　　 "There are many lines that could be spared from the book you were reading," she said, her voice primly firm and dogmatic.
　　 "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."
　　 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.
　　 "Now Longfellow - " she was saying.
　　 "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."
　　 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.
　　 "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."
　　 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.
　　 "I think you could make it in - in your class," she finished with a laugh. "You are very strong."
　　 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.
　　 "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'?"
　　 "By going to school, I fancy, and by studying," she answered.
　　 "I went to school when I was a kid," he began to object.
　　 "Yes; but I mean high school, and lectures, and the university."
　　 "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.
　　 "I'm going there now. I'm taking special courses in English."
　　 He did not know what "English" meant, but he made a mental note of that item of ignorance and passed on.
　　 "How long would I have to study before I could go to the university?" he asked.
　　 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?"
　　 "I had two years to run, when I left," he answered. "But I was always honorably promoted at school."
　　 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.

　　進入飯廳對他是一場噩夢。他停頓、碰撞、閃避、退讓，有時幾乎無法前進，最後總算走到了，而且坐在了她的身邊。那刀叉的陣容叫他心驚膽戰。它們帶着未知的危險聳起了鬃毛。他出神地凝視着它們，直望到它們的光芒形成了一個背景，在這背景上出現了一係列前甲板的場景：他和夥伴們用刀子和手指吃着鹹牛肉，拿用癟了的匙子從盤裏舀着濃釅的豌豆湯。他的鼻孔裏冒出了變質牛肉的臭味，耳朵裏聽到了同伴的吧唧吧唧的咀嚼聲，伴以木料的吱嘎和船身的。他望着夥伴們吃着，認為吃得像豬移。那麽，他在這兒可得小心，不能吃出聲來。千萬要時刻註意。
　　 他往桌上瞥了一眼。他對面是亞瑟和他的哥哥諾爾曼。他提醒自己他們都是她的弟兄，於是對他們油然産生了暖意。這傢人彼此是多麽相親相愛呀！露絲的母親的形象閃入了他的心裏：見面時的親吻，兩人手輓手嚮他走來的情景。在他的世界裏父母和子女之間可沒有這樣的感情流露。這表現了她們的社會所達到的高雅程度。那是地在對那個世界短短的一瞥中所見到的最美好的事物。他欣賞，也感動，他的心因那共鳴的柔情而融化了。他終身為愛而饑渴，他天性渴求愛；愛是他生命的有機的要求，可他從不曾獲得過愛，而且逐漸習以為常，僵硬了。他從不知道自己需要愛，至今如此。他衹不過看見愛的行為而深受感動，認為它美好、高雅、光彩奪目而已。
　　 莫爾斯先生不在場，他感到高興。跟那姑娘、她的母親和哥哥諾爾曼結識已經夠他受的了——對亞瑟他倒知道一些。那爸爸準會叫他吃不消的，他肯定。他仿佛覺得一輩子也沒有這樣纍過。跟這一比，最沉重的苦役也好像小孩子的遊戲。突然之間要他做那麽多不習慣的事，使他感到吃力。他額頭上沁出了大顆大顆的汗珠，襯衫也叫汗濕透了。他得用從沒用過的方法進餐，要使用陌生的餐具，要偷偷地左顧右盼，看每件新事怎麽做；要接受潮水般涌來的印象，在心裏品評和分類。對她的渴望在他心裏升起，那感覺以一種隱約而痛苦的不安睏擾着他。他感到欲望催逼他前進，要他躋身於她的生活圈子，逼得他不斷鬍思亂想，不斷朦朧地思考着如何接近她。而巨，在他偷視對面的諾爾曼和其他人，要想知道什麽時候用什麽刀叉時，心中也在研究那人的特點，同時不自覺地衡量着、鑒定着——一切都是因為她。同時他還要談話，聽別人談話，聽別人之間的談話，必要時作回答，而他的舌頭又習慣於信馬由疆，常常需要勒住。還有僕人也來給他添亂。僕人是一種永無休止的威脅，總悄悄出現在他肩頭旁。全是些可怕的獅身人面獸，老提出些難題、啞謎，要他立即作答。在整個用餐期間一個疑問總壓在他心頭：洗指鉢。他毫無來由地、持續不斷地、數十次地想起那東西，猜想着它是什麽樣子、會在什麽時候出現。他聽人說過這類東西，而現在他隨時都可能看見它。也許馬上就能看見。他正跟使用它的高雅人士坐在一起用餐呢——是的，他自己也要用它了。而最重要的是，在他意識的底層，也在他思想的表面存在着一個問題：他在這些人面前應當如何自處，抱什麽態度？他不斷匆忙地思考着這個問題。他有過怯懦的念頭：打算不懂裝懂，逢場作戲。還有更怯懦的念頭在警告他：這事他準失敗，他的天性使他不夠資格，衹會讓自己出洋相。
　　 在晚餐的前半他為確定自己的態度而鬥爭着，一直沉默無語，卻沒想到他的沉默卻讓亞瑟前一天的話落了空。亞瑟前一天曾宣佈他要帶個野蠻人回傢吃飯，叫大傢別大驚小怪，因為他們會發現那是個很有趣的野蠻人。馬丁·伊登此刻不可能知道她的這位弟弟竟會那樣說他的壞話——尤其是他曾幫助他擺脫了那場很不愉快的鬥毆。此刻他就這樣坐在桌邊，一方面為自己的不合時宜而煩惱，一方面又迷戀着周圍進行的一切。他第一次意識到吃飯原來還不僅具有實利的功能。他進着餐，卻不知道吃的是什麽。在這張桌子旁邊進餐是一場審美活動，也是一種智力活動。在這裏他盡情地滿足着對美的愛。他的心靈震動了。他聽見了許多他不懂得的詞語，聽見了許多他衹在書本上見過、而他的熟人誰也沒有水平讀得準的詞。在他聽見這類詞句從露絲那了不起的家庭的成員們嘴邊漫不經心地流出時他禁不住歡喜得渾身顫慄。書本上的浪漫故事、美和高智力變成了現實。他進入了一種罕見的幸福境界。在這裏，美夢從幻想的角落裏堂而皇之地走了出來，變成了現實。
　　 他從不曾過過這樣高雅的生活。他在角落裏默默地聽着，觀察着，快活着，衹用簡短的話回答她，“是，小姐”，“不，小姐”；回答她母親，“是，夫人”，“不，夫人”；對她的兩個哥哥則抑製了海上訓練出來的衝動，沒有回答“是，長官”，“不，長官”。他覺得那樣回答不妥，承認了自己低人一等——他既然要接近露絲，就决不能那樣說。他的尊嚴也這樣要求。“天吶！”有一回他對自己說，“我並不比他們差，他們知道講多我所不知道的東西，可我照樣可以學會！”然後，在她或是她母親稱呼他“伊登先生”的時候，他便忘掉了自己傲慢的自尊，高興得臉上放光，心裏發熱。他現在是個文明人了，一點不錯，跟他在書本上讀到的人並肩坐在一起用餐，自己也成了書本上的人，在一捲捲的精裝本裏過關斬將。
　　 但是，在他使亞瑟的話落空，以溫馴的羔羊而不是野蠻人的形象出現時，他卻在絞盡腦汁思考着行動的辦法。他並非溫馴的羔羊，第二提琴手的地位跟他那力求出人頭他的天性格格不久。他衹在非說話不可時說話，說起話來又像他到餐桌來時那樣磕磕絆絆，猶豫停頓。他在他那多國混合詞彙中斟酌選擇，有的詞他知道合運卻怕發錯了音；有的詞又怕別人聽不懂，或是太粗野刺耳，衹好放棄。他一直感到壓力。他明白這樣地字斟句酌是在讓自己出洋相，難以暢所欲言。何況他那愛自由的天性也受不了這種壓抑，跟他那脖子受不了漿硬了的枷鎖十分相像。何況他也相信他不能老這樣下去。他天生思維犀利，感覺敏銳，創作感強烈得難以駕馭。一種想法或感受從胸中涌出控製了他，經歷着産前的陣痛，要找到表現和形式。接着他便忘記了自己，忘記了環境，他的老一套詞語——他所熟悉的言語工具——不知不覺地溜了出來。
　　 有一次，他拒絶了一個僕人給他的東西，可那人仍在打岔，糾纏，他便簡短地強調說：“爬啊！”
　　 桌邊的人立即來了勁，等着聽下文，那僕人也得意揚揚，而他卻悔恨得無以復加。不過他立即鎮定了下來。
　　 “‘爬啊’是夏威夷的卡那加話，是‘行了’的意思，”他解釋道，“剛纔我是說漏了嘴。這詞拼寫作p-a－u。”
　　 他看見她盯住他的手，露出好奇與猜測的目光，很願意作解釋，便說——
　　 “我剛從一艘太平洋郵輪來到海灣，那船已經誤了期，因此在穿過布格特灣時，我們都像黑鬼一樣幹着活，堆放着貨載——你大約知道，那是混合運載。我手上的皮就是那時颳掉的。”
　　 “啊，我不是那個意思，”這回輪到她忙不迭地作解釋了，“你的手跟身子比起來似乎太小。”
　　 他的臉發起燒來，覺得又叫人揭出了一個短處。
　　 “不錯，”他不高興地說，“我的手不夠大，受不起折磨。我的胳臂和肩頭卻又力氣太大，打起人來像騾子踢一樣。可我揍破別人的下巴骨時，自己的手也被碰破。”
　　 他不滿自己說出的話，很厭棄自己。他又沒管住自己的舌頭，提起了不高雅的話題。
　　 “你那天那樣幫助亞瑟真是見義勇為——你跟他並不認識呀，”她策略地說，意識到了他的不滿，卻不明白原因何在。
　　 他反倒明白了她的意圖，不禁心潮乍涌，感激莫名，又管不住他那信口開河的舌頭了。
　　 “那算不了什麽，”他說，“誰也會打抱不平的。那幫無賴是在找碴兒，亞瑟可沒有惹他們。他們找上他，我就找上他們，掄了幾拳頭。那幫傢夥掉了幾顆牙，我手上也破了一層皮。我並不在乎，我見到——”
　　 他張着嘴，打住了，在快要落入墮落的深淵時打住了。他完全不配跟她呼吸同一種空氣！這時亞瑟第二十次談起了他在渡船上跟那幫醉醺醺的流氓之間的糾紛；他談到馬丁·伊登如何衝入重圍解救了他。這時馬丁·伊登卻皺緊了眉頭在想着自己那副傻相，更堅决地思考着該對他們采取什麽態度。到目前為止他肯定並沒有成功。他的感覺是：他畢竟是局外人，不會說圈內話，不能冒充圈內人。若是跳假面舞準得露餡。何況跳假面舞也跟他的天性不合，他心裏容不下裝腔作勢。他無論如何也得老實。他目前雖不會說他們那種話，以後還是可以會的。對此他已下了决心。可現在他還得說話，說自己的話。當然，調子要降低，讓他們聽得懂，也不能叫他們太震驚。還有，對於不熟悉的東西不能假裝熟悉，別人誤以為他熟悉，也不能默認。為了實行這個决定，在兩位弟兄談起大學行話，幾次提到“三角”時，馬丁·伊登便問：
　　 “‘三角’是啥？”
　　 “三角課”諾爾曼說，“一種高級數學。”
　　 “什麽是‘數學’？”他又提出一個問題。諾爾曼不禁笑了。
　　 “數學，算術，”他回答。
　　 馬丁·伊登點了點頭。那仿佛無窮無盡的知識遠景在他眼前閃現了一下。他見到的東西具體化了——他那異於常人的想像力能使抽象變得具體。這傢人所象徵的三角、數學和整個知識領域經過他頭腦的煉金術一冶煉便變成了美妙的景物。他眼中的遠景是緑色的葉叢和林中的空地，或是閃着柔和的光，或為閃亮的光穿透。遠處的細節則為一片紅通通的霧寓所籠罩，模糊不清。他知道在那紅霧的背後是未知事物的魅力和浪漫故事的。對他，那頗像是美酒。這裏有險可探，要用腦子，要用手，這是一個等着被徵服的世界——一個念頭立即從他的意識背後閃出：徵服，博得她的歡心，博得他身邊這個百合花一樣蒼白的仙靈的歡心。
　　 他心中這熠熠閃耀的幻影卻被亞瑟撕破了，驅散了。亞瑟整個晚上都在誘導這個野蠻人露出本相。馬丁·伊登想起了自己的决定，第一次還原到了自我。起初是自覺的、故意的，但立即沉浸於創造的歡樂之中。他把他所知道的生活呈現到了聽衆的眼前。走私船翠鳥號被緝私船查獲時他是船上的水手。那過程他親眼目睹，大有可講的。他把洶涌的大海和海上的船與人呈現到了聽衆面前。他把他的印象傳達給了他們，讓他們看到了他所看到的一切。他以藝術傢的才能從無數的細節中進行選擇，描繪出了五光十色閃亮燃燒的生活場景，並賦予了官行動。他以粗護的雄辯、激清和強力的浪濤席捲了聽衆，讓他們隨着他前進。他常以敘述的生動和用詞的潑辣使他們震驚。但他在暴力之後總緊跟上一段優美的敘述，在悲劇之後又常用幽默去緩解，用對水手內心的乖戾和怪僻的詮釋去緩解。
　　 他講述時那姑娘望着他，眼裏閃爍着驚訝的光。他的火焰溫暖着她，使她懷疑自己這一輩子都似乎太冷，因而想嚮這個熊熊燃燒的人靠近，嚮這座噴發着精力、雄渾和剛強的火山靠近。她感到必須嚮他靠近，卻也遭到抵抗，有一種反衝動逼使她退縮開去。那雙傷破的手今她反感，它們叫勞動弄得很髒，肌理裏已嵌滿了生活的污穢。他那脖子上的紅印和鼓突的肌肉叫她反感。他的粗魯也叫她害怕；他的每一句粗話都是對她耳朵的侮辱；他生活中的每個粗野的側面都是對她靈魂的褻讀。可他仍不斷地吸引着她。她認為他之所以能對她在這種力量是因為他的。她心中最牢固樹立的一切都動搖了。他的傳奇和冒險故事粉碎着傳統。生命在他那些唾手而得的勝利和隨時爆發的哈哈大笑面前再也不是嚴肅的進取和剋製，而成了供他隨意擺弄顛倒的玩具，任隨他滿不在乎地度過、嬉戲，滿不在乎地拋棄。‘那就玩下去吧！”這話響徹了她的心裏，“既然你想，就偎過去，用雙手按住他的脖子吧！”這種想法之魯莽放肆嚇得她幾乎叫出聲來。她估計着自己的純潔和教養，用自己所有的一切跟他所缺少的一切作對比，卻都沒有用。她望望周圍，別的人都聽得津津有味；若不是見她的母親眼裏有駭異的表情，她幾乎要絶望了。不錯，母親的駭異是如醉如癡的駭異，但畢竟是駭異。這個從外界的黑暗中來的人是的，她母親看出來了，而母親是對的。她在一切問題上都相信她母親，這次也一樣。他的火焰再也不溫暖了，對他的畏懼再也不痛苦了。
　　 後來她為他彈鋼琴，聲勢煊赫地嚮他隱約地強調出兩人之間那不可逾越的鴻溝。她的音樂是條大棒，狠狠地擊在他的頭頂，打暈了他，了他，卻也激勵了他。他肅然竦然地望着她。鴻溝在他心裏加寬了，跟在她心裏一樣。可是他跨越鴻溝的雄心卻比鴻溝的加定增長得更快。他這推敏感的神經叢太復雜，不可能整個晚上默視着一條鴻溝無所作為，特別是在聽着音樂的時候，他對音樂敏感得出奇。音樂像烈酒一樣燃起他大膽的。音樂是麻醉劑，抓住他的想像力，把他送到了九霄雲外。音樂驅散了骯髒的現實，以美感滿溢了他的心靈，解放了他的浪漫精神，給它的腳跟裝上了翅膀。他並不懂她彈的是什麽。那音樂跟他所聽過的砰砰敲打的舞廳鋼琴麯和吵鬧喧囂的銅管樂是兩回事，可是他從書本上讀到過對這類音樂的提示。他主要依靠信心去欣賞她的音樂。起初他耐心地等待着節奏分明的輕快旋律出現，卻又因它不久便消失而迷惘。他剛抓住節奏，配合好想像，打算隨它翺翔，那輕快的節奏卻在一片對他毫無意義的混亂的喧囂中消失了。於是他的想像便化作惰性物體，摔到了地上。
　　 有一回他忽然感到這一切都含有蓄意拒絶的意思，他把捉住了她的對抗情緒，力圖弄明白她擊打着琴鍵所傳達給他的信息，卻又否定了這種想法，認為她用不着，也不可能那麽做，便又更加自由地沉浸於旋律之中。原有的歡樂情緒也隨之誘發。他的腳再也不是泥腳，他的肉體變得輕靈飄逸；眼前和內心出現了一片燦爛的光明。隨即，他眼前的景象消失了，他自己也悄然遠行，到世界各地浪遊擊了。那世界對他非常可愛。已知的和未知的一切融會為一個輝煌的夢，擠滿了他的幻想。他進入了一個陽光普照的國度的陌生的海港，在從沒人見過的野蠻民族的市場上漫步。他曾在海上溫暖得透不過氣來的夜裏聞到過的香料島上的馨香又進入了他的鼻孔。在迎着西南貿易風行駛在赤道上的漫長的日子裏，他望着棕相搖曳的珊瑚島逐漸在身後的碧海裏沉沒，再望着棕相搖曳的珊瑚島逐漸從前面的碧海裏升起。場景如思想一樣倏忽來去。他一時騎着野牛在色彩絢麗、宛如仙境的彩繪沙漠上飛馳；一時又穿過閃着微光的熱氣俯瞰着死亡𠔌的曬白了的墓窟。他在快要凍結的海洋上劃着槳，海面上巍然高聳的龐大冰山熠耀在陽光裏。他躺在珊瑚礁的海灘上，那兒的椰樹低垂到濤聲輕柔的海面，一艘古船的殘骸燃燒着，閃出藍色的火苗。火光裏人們跳着呼啦舞。為他們奏樂的歌手們彈奏着叮叮當當的尤剋裏裏琴，擂着轟隆作響的大鼓，高唱着野蠻的愛情歌麯。那是縱情於聲色之樂的赤道之夜。背景是襯着一天星星的火山口輪廓，頭頂是一彎蒼白的漂浮的月牙兒。天穹的低處燃燒着南十字座的四顆星星。
　　 他是一架竪琴，一生的經歷和意識是他的琴弦，音樂之潮是吹拂琴弦使之帶着回憶和夢想顫抖的風。他不光是感受。他的感知以形象、顔色和光彩的形式積聚，並以某種升華的神奇的方式實現他大膽的想像。過去。現在和將來交匯融合。他在遼闊而溫暖的世界上踟躕，並通過高尚的冒險和高貴的業績嚮她奔去，他要跟她在一起，贏得她、摟着她、帶着她飛翔，穿過他心靈的王國。
　　 這一切的跡象她在轉過頭去時都在他臉上看到了。那是一張起了變化的面孔。他用閃亮的大眼睛穿透了音樂的帷幕看到了生命的跳躍、律動，和精神的巨大幻影。她吃了一驚。那結結巴巴的粗魯漢子不見了，儘管那不稱身的衣服、傷痕纍纍的手和曬黑了的面孔依然如故。但這衹不過宛如監牢的柵門，她通過柵門看到的是一個懷着希望的偉大靈魂。衹因他那在弱的嘴唇不善表達，他衹能詞不達意地說話，或是啞口無言。這一點她衹在瞬間看到，轉瞬間那粗魯漢子又回來了。她因自己離奇的幻覺感到好笑。可那瞬息的印象卻縈繞在她心裏不去。夜深了，他結結巴巴地告了別，打算離開。她把那捲史文朋和一本勃朗於藉給了他——她在英文課裏就修勃朗寧。他漲紅了臉結結巴巴地表示感謝時很像個孩子。一陣母性的憐愛之情從她心裏油然涌起。她忘記了那莽漢、那被囚禁的靈魂；忘記了那帶着滿身陽剛之氣盯着她、看得她快樂也害怕的人。她在自己面前衹看見一個大孩子在跟自己握手，那手滿是老繭，像把豆蔻挫子，挫得她的皮膚生疼。這時那大孩子正在結巴地說：
　　 “這是找平生最美好的一夜。你看，這裏的東西我不習慣……”他無可奈何地望望四周，“這樣的人，這樣的房子，我全都覺得陌生，可我都喜歡。”
　　 “希望你再來看我們，”她趁他跟她的哥哥告別時說。
　　 他拉緊帽子，突然一歪身子死命地跑出門去，不見了。
　　 “喂，你們覺得他怎麽樣？”亞瑟問。
　　 “非常有趣，是一陣清新的臭氧，”她回答，“他有多大？”
　　 “二十歲——差點二十一。我今天下午問過地。沒想到他會那麽年青。”
　　 我比他還大三歲呢，她和哥哥們吻別時心還想。

　　The process of getting into the dining room was a nightmare to him. Between halts and stumbles, jerks and lurches, locomotion had at times seemed impossible. But at last he had made it, and was seated alongside of Her. The array of knives and forks frightened him. They bristled with unknown perils, and he gazed at them, fascinated, till their dazzle became a background across which moved a succession of forecastle pictures, wherein he and his mates sat eating salt beef with sheath-knives and fingers, or scooping thick pea-soup out of pannikins by means of battered iron spoons. The stench of bad beef was in his nostrils, while in his ears, to the accompaniment of creaking timbers and groaning bulkheads, echoed the loud mouth-noises of the eaters. He watched them eating, and decided that they ate like pigs. Well, he would be careful here. He would make no noise. He would keep his mind upon it all the time.
　　 He glanced around the table. Opposite him was Arthur, and Arthur's brother, Norman. They were her brothers, he reminded himself, and his heart warmed toward them. How they loved each other, the members of this family! There flashed into his mind the picture of her mother, of the kiss of greeting, and of the pair of them walking toward him with arms entwined. Not in his world were such displays of affection between parents and children made. It was a revelation of the heights of existence that were attained in the world above. It was the finest thing yet that he had seen in this small glimpse of that world. He was moved deeply by appreciation of it, and his heart was melting with sympathetic tenderness. He had starved for love all his life. His nature craved love. It was an organic demand of his being. Yet he had gone without, and hardened himself in the process. He had not known that he needed love. Nor did he know it now. He merely saw it in operation, and thrilled to it, and thought it fine, and high, and splendid.
　　 He was glad that Mr. Morse was not there. It was difficult enough getting acquainted with her, and her mother, and her brother, Norman. Arthur he already knew somewhat. The father would have been too much for him, he felt sure. It seemed to him that he had never worked so hard in his life. The severest toil was child's play compared with this. Tiny nodules of moisture stood out on his forehead, and his shirt was wet with sweat from the exertion of doing so many unaccustomed things at once. He had to eat as he had never eaten before, to handle strange tools, to glance surreptitiously about and learn how to accomplish each new thing, to receive the flood of impressions that was pouring in upon him and being mentally annotated and classified; to be conscious of a yearning for her that perturbed him in the form of a dull, aching restlessness; to feel the prod of desire to win to the walk in life whereon she trod, and to have his mind ever and again straying off in speculation and vague plans of how to reach to her. Also, when his secret glance went across to Norman opposite him, or to any one else, to ascertain just what knife or fork was to be used in any particular occasion, that person's features were seized upon by his mind, which automatically strove to appraise them and to divine what they were - all in relation to her. Then he had to talk, to hear what was said to him and what was said back and forth, and to answer, when it was necessary, with a tongue prone to looseness of speech that required a constant curb. And to add confusion to confusion, there was the servant, an unceasing menace, that appeared noiselessly at his shoulder, a dire Sphinx that propounded puzzles and conundrums demanding instantaneous solution. He was oppressed throughout the meal by the thought of finger-bowls. Irrelevantly, insistently, scores of times, he wondered when they would come on and what they looked like. He had heard of such things, and now, sooner or later, somewhere in the next few minutes, he would see them, sit at table with exalted beings who used them - ay, and he would use them himself. And most important of all, far down and yet always at the surface of his thought, was the problem of how he should comport himself toward these persons. What should his attitude be? He wrestled continually and anxiously with the problem. There were cowardly suggestions that he should make believe, assume a part; and there were still more cowardly suggestions that warned him he would fail in such course, that his nature was not fitted to live up to it, and that he would make a fool of himself.
　　 It was during the first part of the dinner, struggling to decide upon his attitude, that he was very quiet. He did not know that his quietness was giving the lie to Arthur's words of the day before, when that brother of hers had announced that he was going to bring a wild man home to dinner and for them not to be alarmed, because they would find him an interesting wild man. Martin Eden could not have found it in him, just then, to believe that her brother could be guilty of such treachery - especially when he had been the means of getting this particular brother out of an unpleasant row. So he sat at table, perturbed by his own unfitness and at the same time charmed by all that went on about him. For the first time he realized that eating was something more than a utilitarian function. He was unaware of what he ate. It was merely food. He was feasting his love of beauty at this table where eating was an aesthetic function. It was an intellectual function, too. His mind was stirred. He heard words spoken that were meaningless to him, and other words that he had seen only in books and that no man or woman he had known was of large enough mental caliber to pronounce. When he heard such words dropping carelessly from the lips of the members of this marvellous family, her family, he thrilled with delight. The romance, and beauty, and high vigor of the books were coming true. He was in that rare and blissful state wherein a man sees his dreams stalk out from the crannies of fantasy and become fact.
　　 Never had he been at such an altitude of living, and he kept himself in the background, listening, observing, and pleasuring, replying in reticent monosyllables, saying, "Yes, miss," and "No, miss," to her, and "Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," to her mother. He curbed the impulse, arising out of his sea-training, to say "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," to her brothers. He felt that it would be inappropriate and a confession of inferiority on his part - which would never do if he was to win to her. Also, it was a dictate of his pride. "By God!" he cried to himself, once; "I'm just as good as them, and if they do know lots that I don't, I could learn 'm a few myself, all the same!" And the next moment, when she or her mother addressed him as "Mr. Eden," his aggressive pride was forgotten, and he was glowing and warm with delight. He was a civilized man, that was what he was, shoulder to shoulder, at dinner, with people he had read about in books. He was in the books himself, adventuring through the printed pages of bound volumes.
　　 But while he belied Arthur's description, and appeared a gentle lamb rather than a wild man, he was racking his brains for a course of action. He was no gentle lamb, and the part of second fiddle would never do for the high-pitched dominance of his nature. He talked only when he had to, and then his speech was like his walk to the table, filled with jerks and halts as he groped in his polyglot vocabulary for words, debating over words he knew were fit but which he feared he could not pronounce, rejecting other words he knew would not be understood or would be raw and harsh. But all the time he was oppressed by the consciousness that this carefulness of diction was making a booby of him, preventing him from expressing what he had in him. Also, his love of freedom chafed against the restriction in much the same way his neck chafed against the starched fetter of a collar. Besides, he was confident that he could not keep it up. He was by nature powerful of thought and sensibility, and the creative spirit was restive and urgent. He was swiftly mastered by the concept or sensation in him that struggled in birth-throes to receive expression and form, and then he forgot himself and where he was, and the old words - the tools of speech he knew - slipped out.
　　 Once, he declined something from the servant who interrupted and pestered at his shoulder, and he said, shortly and emphatically, "Pew!"
　　 On the instant those at the table were keyed up and expectant, the servant was smugly pleased, and he was wallowing in mortification. But he recovered himself quickly.
　　 "It's the Kanaka for 'finish,'" he explained, "and it just come out naturally. It's spelt p-a-u."
　　 He caught her curious and speculative eyes fixed on his hands, and, being in explanatory mood, he said:-
　　 "I just come down the Coast on one of the Pacific mail steamers. She was behind time, an' around the Puget Sound ports we worked like niggers, storing cargo-mixed freight, if you know what that means. That's how the skin got knocked off."
　　 "Oh, it wasn't that," she hastened to explain, in turn. "Your hands seemed too small for your body."
　　 His cheeks were hot. He took it as an exposure of another of his deficiencies.
　　 "Yes," he said depreciatingly. "They ain't big enough to stand the strain. I can hit like a mule with my arms and shoulders. They are too strong, an' when I smash a man on the jaw the hands get smashed, too."
　　 He was not happy at what he had said. He was filled with disgust at himself. He had loosed the guard upon his tongue and talked about things that were not nice.
　　 "It was brave of you to help Arthur the way you did - and you a stranger," she said tactfully, aware of his discomfiture though not of the reason for it.
　　 He, in turn, realized what she had done, and in the consequent warm surge of gratefulness that overwhelmed him forgot his loose-worded tongue.
　　 "It wasn't nothin' at all," he said. "Any guy 'ud do it for another. That bunch of hoodlums was lookin' for trouble, an' Arthur wasn't botherin' 'em none. They butted in on 'm, an' then I butted in on them an' poked a few. That's where some of the skin off my hands went, along with some of the teeth of the gang. I wouldn't 'a' missed it for anything. When I seen - "
　　 He paused, open-mouthed, on the verge of the pit of his own depravity and utter worthlessness to breathe the same air she did. And while Arthur took up the tale, for the twentieth time, of his adventure with the drunken hoodlums on the ferry-boat and of how Martin Eden had rushed in and rescued him, that individual, with frowning brows, meditated upon the fool he had made of himself, and wrestled more determinedly with the problem of how he should conduct himself toward these people. He certainly had not succeeded so far. He wasn't of their tribe, and he couldn't talk their lingo, was the way he put it to himself. He couldn't fake being their kind. The masquerade would fail, and besides, masquerade was foreign to his nature. There was no room in him for sham or artifice. Whatever happened, he must be real. He couldn't talk their talk just yet, though in time he would. Upon that he was resolved. But in the meantime, talk he must, and it must be his own talk, toned down, of course, so as to be comprehensible to them and so as not to shook them too much. And furthermore, he wouldn't claim, not even by tacit acceptance, to be familiar with anything that was unfamiliar. In pursuance of this decision, when the two brothers, talking university shop, had used "trig" several times, Martin Eden demanded:-
　　 "What is TRIG?"
　　 "Trignometry," Norman said; "a higher form of math."
　　 "And what is math?" was the next question, which, somehow, brought the laugh on Norman.
　　 "Mathematics, arithmetic," was the answer.
　　 Martin Eden nodded. He had caught a glimpse of the apparently illimitable vistas of knowledge. What he saw took on tangibility. His abnormal power of vision made abstractions take on concrete form. In the alchemy of his brain, trigonometry and mathematics and the whole field of knowledge which they betokened were transmuted into so much landscape. The vistas he saw were vistas of green foliage and forest glades, all softly luminous or shot through with flashing lights. In the distance, detail was veiled and blurred by a purple haze, but behind this purple haze, he knew, was the glamour of the unknown, the lure of romance. It was like wine to him. Here was adventure, something to do with head and hand, a world to conquer - and straightway from the back of his consciousness rushed the thought, CONQUERING, TO WIN TO HER, THAT LILY-PALE SPIRIT SITTING BESIDE HIM.
　　 The glimmering vision was rent asunder and dissipated by Arthur, who, all evening, had been trying to draw his wild man out. Martin Eden remembered his decision. For the first time he became himself, consciously and deliberately at first, but soon lost in the joy of creating in making life as he knew it appear before his listeners' eyes. He had been a member of the crew of the smuggling schooner Halcyon when she was captured by a revenue cutter. He saw with wide eyes, and he could tell what he saw. He brought the pulsing sea before them, and the men and the ships upon the sea. He communicated his power of vision, till they saw with his eyes what he had seen. He selected from the vast mass of detail with an artist's touch, drawing pictures of life that glowed and burned with light and color, injecting movement so that his listeners surged along with him on the flood of rough eloquence, enthusiasm, and power. At times he shocked them with the vividness of the narrative and his terms of speech, but beauty always followed fast upon the heels of violence, and tragedy was relieved by humor, by interpretations of the strange twists and quirks of sailors' minds.
　　 And while he talked, the girl looked at him with startled eyes. His fire warmed her. She wondered if she had been cold all her days. She wanted to lean toward this burning, blazing man that was like a volcano spouting forth strength, robustness, and health. She felt that she must lean toward him, and resisted by an effort. Then, too, there was the counter impulse to shrink away from him. She was repelled by those lacerated hands, grimed by toil so that the very dirt of life was ingrained in the flesh itself, by that red chafe of the collar and those bulging muscles. His roughness frightened her; each roughness of speech was an insult to her ear, each rough phase of his life an insult to her soul. And ever and again would come the draw of him, till she thought he must be evil to have such power over her. All that was most firmly established in her mind was rocking. His romance and adventure were battering at the conventions. Before his facile perils and ready laugh, life was no longer an affair of serious effort and restraint, but a toy, to be played with and turned topsy-turvy, carelessly to be lived and pleasured in, and carelessly to be flung aside. "Therefore, play!" was the cry that rang through her. "Lean toward him, if so you will, and place your two hands upon his neck!" She wanted to cry out at the recklessness of the thought, and in vain she appraised her own cleanness and culture and balanced all that she was against what he was not. She glanced about her and saw the others gazing at him with rapt attention; and she would have despaired had not she seen horror in her mother's eyes - fascinated horror, it was true, but none the less horror. This man from outer darkness was evil. Her mother saw it, and her mother was right. She would trust her mother's judgment in this as she had always trusted it in all things. The fire of him was no longer warm, and the fear of him was no longer poignant.
　　 Later, at the piano, she played for him, and at him, aggressively, with the vague intent of emphasizing the impassableness of the gulf that separated them. Her music was a club that she swung brutally upon his head; and though it stunned him and crushed him down, it incited him. He gazed upon her in awe. In his mind, as in her own, the gulf widened; but faster than it widened, towered his ambition to win across it. But he was too complicated a plexus of sensibilities to sit staring at a gulf a whole evening, especially when there was music. He was remarkably susceptible to music. It was like strong drink, firing him to audacities of feeling, - a drug that laid hold of his imagination and went cloud-soaring through the sky. It banished sordid fact, flooded his mind with beauty, loosed romance and to its heels added wings. He did not understand the music she played. It was different from the dance- hall piano-banging and blatant brass bands he had heard. But he had caught hints of such music from the books, and he accepted her playing largely on faith, patiently waiting, at first, for the lifting measures of pronounced and simple rhythm, puzzled because those measures were not long continued. Just as he caught the swing of them and started, his imagination attuned in flight, always they vanished away in a chaotic scramble of sounds that was meaningless to him, and that dropped his imagination, an inert weight, back to earth.
　　 Once, it entered his mind that there was a deliberate rebuff in all this. He caught her spirit of antagonism and strove to divine the message that her hands pronounced upon the keys. Then he dismissed the thought as unworthy and impossible, and yielded himself more freely to the music. The old delightful condition began to be induced. His feet were no longer clay, and his flesh became spirit; before his eyes and behind his eyes shone a great glory; and then the scene before him vanished and he was away, rocking over the world that was to him a very dear world. The known and the unknown were commingled in the dream-pageant that thronged his vision. He entered strange ports of sun-washed lands, and trod market-places among barbaric peoples that no man had ever seen. The scent of the spice islands was in his nostrils as he had known it on warm, breathless nights at sea, or he beat up against the southeast trades through long tropic days, sinking palm-tufted coral islets in the turquoise sea behind and lifting palm-tufted coral islets in the turquoise sea ahead. Swift as thought the pictures came and went. One instant he was astride a broncho and flying through the fairy-colored Painted Desert country; the next instant he was gazing down through shimmering heat into the whited sepulchre of Death Valley, or pulling an oar on a freezing ocean where great ice islands towered and glistened in the sun. He lay on a coral beach where the cocoanuts grew down to the mellow- sounding surf. The hulk of an ancient wreck burned with blue fires, in the light of which danced the HULA dancers to the barbaric love-calls of the singers, who chanted to tinkling UKULELES and rumbling tom-toms. It was a sensuous, tropic night. In the background a volcano crater was silhouetted against the stars. Overhead drifted a pale crescent moon, and the Southern Cross burned low in the sky.
　　 He was a harp; all life that he had known and that was his consciousness was the strings; and the flood of music was a wind that poured against those strings and set them vibrating with memories and dreams. He did not merely feel. Sensation invested itself in form and color and radiance, and what his imagination dared, it objectified in some sublimated and magic way. Past, present, and future mingled; and he went on oscillating across the broad, warm world, through high adventure and noble deeds to Her - ay, and with her, winning her, his arm about her, and carrying her on in flight through the empery of his mind.
　　 And she, glancing at him across her shoulder, saw something of all this in his face. It was a transfigured face, with great shining eyes that gazed beyond the veil of sound and saw behind it the leap and pulse of life and the gigantic phantoms of the spirit. She was startled. The raw, stumbling lout was gone. The ill-fitting clothes, battered hands, and sunburned face remained; but these seemed the prison-bars through which she saw a great soul looking forth, inarticulate and dumb because of those feeble lips that would not give it speech. Only for a flashing moment did she see this, then she saw the lout returned, and she laughed at the whim of her fancy. But the impression of that fleeting glimpse lingered, and when the time came for him to beat a stumbling retreat and go, she lent him the volume of Swinburne, and another of Browning - she was studying Browning in one of her English courses. He seemed such a boy, as he stood blushing and stammering his thanks, that a wave of pity, maternal in its prompting, welled up in her. She did not remember the lout, nor the imprisoned soul, nor the man who had stared at her in all masculineness and delighted and frightened her. She saw before her only a boy, who was shaking her hand with a hand so calloused that it felt like a nutmeg-grater and rasped her skin, and who was saying jerkily:-
　　 "The greatest time of my life. You see, I ain't used to things. . . " He looked about him helplessly. "To people and houses like this. It's all new to me, and I like it."
　　 "I hope you'll call again," she said, as he was saying good night to her brothers.
　　 He pulled on his cap, lurched desperately through the doorway, and was gone.
　　 "Well, what do you think of him?" Arthur demanded.
　　 "He is most interesting, a whiff of ozone," she answered. "How old is he?"
　　 "Twenty - almost twenty-one. I asked him this afternoon. I didn't think he was that young."
　　 And I am three years older, was the thought in her mind as she kissed her brothers goodnight.