It was a hard summer for Martin. Manuscript readers and editors were away on vacation, and publications that ordinarily returned a decision in three weeks now retained his manuscript for three months or more. The consolation he drew from it was that a saving in postage was effected by the deadlock. Only the robber-publications seemed to remain actively in business, and to them Martin disposed of all his early efforts, such as “Pearl-diving,”“The Sea as a Career,” “Turtle-catching,” and “The Northeast Trades.” For these manuscripts he never received a penny. It is true, after six months’ correspondence, he effected a compromise, whereby he received a safety razor for“Turtle-catching,”and that The Acropolis,having agreed to give him five dollars cash and five yearly subscriptions: for “The Northeast Trades,”fulfilled the second part of the agreement.
For a sonnet on Stevenson he managed to wring two dollars out of a Boston editor who was running a magazine with a Matthew Arnold taste and a penny-dreadful purse. “The Peri and the Pearl,” a clever skit of a poem of two hundred lines, just finished, white hot from his brain, won the heart of the editor of a San Francisco magazine published in the interest of a great railroad. When the editor wrote, offering him payment in transportation, Martin wrote back to inquire if the transportation was transferable. It was not, and so, being prevented from peddling it, he asked for the return of the poem. Back it came, with the editor’s regrets, and Martin sent it to San Francisco again,this time to The Hornet,a pretentious monthly that had been fanned into a constellation of the first magnitude by the brilliant journalist who founded it.But The Hornet’s light had begun to dim long before Martin was born. The editor promised Martin fifteen dollars for the poem, but, when it was published, seemed to forget about it. Several of his letters being ignored, Martin indicted an angry one which drew a reply. It was written by a new editor, who coolly informed Martin that he declined to be held responsible for the old editor’s mistakes, and that he did not think much of “The Peri and the Pearl” anyway.
But The Globe, a Chicago magazine, gave Martin the most cruel treatment of all. He had refrained from offering his “Sea Lyrics” for publication, until driven to it by starvation. After having been rejected by a dozen magazines,they had come to rest in The Globe office.There were thirty poems in the collection, and he was to receive a dollar apiece for them. The first month four were published, and he promptly received a cheek for four dollars; but when he looked over the magazine, he was appalled at the slaughter. In some cases the titles had been altered: “Finis,” for instance, being changed to “The Finish,” and “The Song of the Outer Reef” to“The Song of the Coral Reef.” In one case, an absolutely different title, a misappropriate title, was substituted. In place of his own, “Medusa Lights,”the editor had printed, “The Backward Track.” But the slaughter in the body of the poems was terrifying. Martin groaned and sweated and thrust his hands through his hair. Phrases, lines, and stanzas were cut out, interchanged, or juggled about in the most incomprehensible manner. Sometimes lines and stanzas not his own were substituted for his. He could not believe that a sane editor could be guilty of such maltreatment, and his favorite hypothesis was that his poems must have been doctored by the office boy or the stenographer. Martin wrote immediately, begging the editor to cease publishing the lyrics and to return them to him.
He wrote again and again, begging, entreating, threatening, but his letters were ignored. Month by month the slaughter went on till the thirty poems were published, and month by month he received a check for those which had appeared in the current number.
Despite these various misadventures,the memory of the White Mouse forty-dollar check sustained him, though he was driven more and more to hack-work. He discovered a bread-and-butter field in the agricultural weeklies and trade journals, though among the religious weeklies he found he could easily starve. At his lowest ebb, when his black suit was in pawn, he made a ten-strike—or so it seemed to him—in a prize contest arranged by the County Committee of the Republican Party. There were three branches of the contest, and he entered them all, laughing at himself bitterly the while in that he was driven to such straits to live. His poem won the first prize of ten dollars, his campaign song the second prize of five dollars, his essay on the principles of the Republican Party the first prize of twenty-five dollars. Which was very gratifying to him until he tried to collect. Something had gone wrong in the County Committee, and, though a rich banker and a state senator were members of it, the money was not forthcoming. While this affair was hanging fire, he proved that he understood the principles of the Democratic Party by winning the first prize for his essay in a similar contest. And, moreover, he received the money, twenty-five dollars. But the forty dollars won in the first contest he never received.
Driven to shifts in order to see Ruth, and deciding that the long walk from north Oakland to her house and back again consumed too much time, he kept his black suit in pawn in place of his bicycle. The latter gave him exercise, saved him hours of time for work, and enabled him to see Ruth just the same. A pair of knee duck trousers and an old sweater made him a presentable wheel costume, so that he could go with Ruth on afternoon rides. Besides, he no longer had opportunity to see much of her in her own home, where Mrs. Morse was thoroughly prosecuting her campaign of entertainment. The exalted beings he met there, and to whom he had looked up but a short time before, now bored him. They were no longer exalted. He was nervous and irritable, what of his hard times, disappointments, and close application to work, and the conversation of such people was maddening. He was not unduly egotistic. He measured the narrowness of their minds by the minds of the thinkers in the books he read. At Ruth’s home he never met a large mind, with the exception of Professor Caldwell, and Caldwell he had met there only once. As for the rest, they were numskulls, ninnies, superficial, dogmatic, and ignorant. It was their ignorance that astounded him. What was the matter with them? What had they done with their educations? They had had access to the same books he had. How did it happen that they had drawn nothing from them?
He knew that the great minds, the deep and rational thinkers, existed. He had his proofs from the books, the books that had educated him beyond the Morse standard. And he knew that higher intellects than those of the Morse circle were to be found in the world. He read English society novels, wherein he caught glimpses of men and women talking politics and philosophy.And he read of salons in great cities, even in the United States, where art and intellect congregated. Foolishly, in the past, he had conceived that all well-groomed persons above the working class were persons with power of intellect and vigor of beauty. Culture and collars had gone together, to him, and he had been deceived into believing that college educations and mastery were the same things.
Well, he would fight his way on and up higher. And he would take Ruth with him. Her he dearly loved, and he was confident that she would shine anywhere. As it was clear to him that he had been handicapped by his early environment, so now he perceived that she was similarly handicapped. She had not had a chance to expand. The books on her father’s shelves, the paintings on the walls, the music on the piano—all was just so much meretricious display. To real literature, real painting, real music, the Morses and their kind, were dead. And bigger than such things was life, of which they were densely, hopelessly ignorant. In spite of their Unitarian proclivities and their masks of conservative broadmindedness, they were two generations behind interpretative science: their mental processes were mediaeval, while their thinking on the ultimate data of existence and of the universe struck him as the same metaphysical method that was as young as the youngest race, as old as the cave-man, and older—the same that moved the first Pleistocene ape-man to fear the dark; that moved the first hasty Hebrew savage to incarnate Eve from Adam’s rib; that moved Descartes to build an idealistic system of the universe out of the projections of his own puny ego; and that moved the famous British ecclesiastic to denounce evolution in satire so scathing as to win immediate applause and leave his name a notorious scrawl on the page of history.
So Martin thought, and he thought further, till it dawned upon him that the difference between these lawyers, officers, business men, and bank cashiers he had met and the members of the working class he had known was on a par with the difference in the food they ate, clothes they wore, neighborhoods in which they lived. Certainly, in all of them was lacking the something more which he found in himself and in the books. The Morses had shown him the best their social position could produce, and he was not impressed by it. A pauper himself, a slave to the money-lender, he knew himself the superior of those he met at the Morses’; and, when his one decent suit of clothes was out of pawn, he moved among them a lord of life, quivering with a sense of outrage akin to what a prince would suffer if condemned to live with goat-herds.
“You hate and fear the socialists,” he remarked to Mr. Morse, one evening at dinner; “but why? You know neither them nor their doctrines.”
The conversation had been swung in that direction by Mrs. Morse, who had been invidiously singing the praises of Mr. Hapgood. The cashier was Martin’s black beast, and his temper was a trifle short where the talker of platitudes was concerned.
“Yes,” he had said, “Charley Hapgood is what they call a rising young man—somebody told me as much. And it is true. He’ll make the Governor’s Chair before he dies, and, who knows? maybe the United States Senate.”
“What makes you think so?” Mrs. Morse had inquired.
“I’ve heard him make a campaign speech. It was so cleverly stupid and unoriginal, and also so convincing, that the leaders cannot help but regard him as safe and sure, while his platitudes are so much like the platitudes of the average voter that—oh, well, you know you flatter any man by dressing up his own thoughts for him and presenting them to him.”
“I actually think you are jealous of Mr. Hapgood,” Ruth had chimed in.
“Heaven forbid!”
The look of horror on Martin’s face stirred Mrs. Morse to belligerence.
“You surely don’t mean to say that Mr. Hapgood is stupid?” she demanded icily.
“No more than the average Republican,” was the retort, “or average Democrat, either. They are all stupid when they are not crafty, and very few of them are crafty. The only wise Republicans are the millionnaires and their conscious henchmen. They know which side their bread is buttered on, and they know why.”
“I am a Republican,” Mr. Morse put in lightly. “Pray, how do you classify me?”
“Oh, you are an unconscious henchman.”
“Henchman?”
“Why, yes. You do corporation work. You have no working-class nor criminal practice. You don’t depend upon wife-beaters and pickpockets for your income. You get your livelihood from the masters of society, and whoever feeds a man is that man’s master. Yes, you are a henchman. You are interested in advancing the interests of the aggregations of capital you serve.”
Mr. Morse’s face was a trifle red.
“I confess, sir,” he said, “that you talk like a scoundrelly socialist.”
Then it was that Martin made his remark:
“You hate and fear the socialists; but why? You know neither them nor their doctrines.”
“Your doctrine certainly sounds like socialism,” Mr. Morse replied, while Ruth gazed anxiously from one to the other, and Mrs. Morse beamed happily at the opportunity afforded of rousing her liege lord’s antagonism.
“Because I say Republicans are stupid, and hold that liberty, equality, and fraternity are exploded bubbles, does not make me a socialist,” Martin said with a smile. “Because I question Jefferson and the unscientific Frenchmen who informed his mind, does not make me a socialist. Believe me, Mr. Morse, you are far nearer socialism than I who am its avowed enemy.”
“Now you please to be facetious,” was all the other could say.
“Not at all. I speak in all seriousness. You still believe in equality, and yet you do the work of the corporations, and the corporations, from day to day, are busily engaged in burying equality. And you call me a socialist because I deny equality, because I affirm just what you live up to. The Republicans are foes to equality, though most of them fight the battle against equality with the very word itself the slogan on their lips. In the name of equality they destroy equality. That was why I called them stupid. As for myself, I am an individualist. I believe the race is to the swift, the battle to the strong. Such is the lesson I have learned from biology, or at least think I have learned. As I said, I am an individualist, and individualism is the hereditary and eternal foe of socialism.”
“But you frequent socialist meetings,” Mr. Morse challenged.
“Certainly, just as spies frequent hostile camps. How else are you to learn about the enemy? Besides, I enjoy myself at their meetings. They are good fighters, and, right or wrong, they have read the books. Any one of them knows far more about sociology and all the other ologies than the average captain of industry. Yes, I have been to half a dozen of their meetings, but that doesn’t make me a socialist any more than hearing Charley Hapgood orate made me a Republican.”
“I can’t help it,” Mr. Morse said feebly, “but I still believe you incline that way.”
Bless me, Martin thought to himself, he doesn’t know what I was talking about. He hasn’t understood a word of it. What did he do with his education, anyway?
Thus, in his development, Martin found himself face to face with economic morality, or the morality of class; and soon it became to him a grisly monster. Personally, he was an intellectual moralist, and more offending to him than platitudinous pomposity was the morality of those about him, which was a curious hotchpotch of the economic, the metaphysical, the sentimental, and the imitative.
A sample of this curious messy mixture he encountered nearer home. His sister Marian had been keeping company with an industrious young mechanic, of German extraction, who, after thoroughly learning the trade, had set up for himself in a bicycle-repair shop. Also, having got the agency for a low-grade make of wheel, he was prosperous. Marian had called on Martin in his room a short time before to announce her engagement, during which visit she had playfully inspected Martin’s palm and told his fortune. On her next visit she brought Hermann von Schmidt along with her. Martin did the honors and congratulated both of them in language so easy and graceful as to affect disagreeably the peasant-mind of his sister’s lover. This bad impression was further heightened by Martin’s reading aloud the half-dozen stanzas of verse with which he had commemorated Marian’s previous visit. It was a bit of society verse, airy and delicate, which he had named “The Palmist.” He was surprised, when he finished reading it, to note no enjoyment in his sister’s face. Instead, her eyes were fixed anxiously upon her betrothed, and Martin, following her gaze, saw spread on that worthy’s asymmetrical features nothing but black and sullen disapproval. The incident passed over, they made an early departure, and Martin forgot all about it, though for the moment he had been puzzled that any woman, even of the working class, should not have been flattered and delighted by having poetry written about her.
Several evenings later Marian again visited him, this time alone. Nor did she waste time in coming to the point, upbraiding him sorrowfully for what he had done.
“Why, Marian,” he chided, “you talk as though you were ashamed of your relatives, or of your brother at any rate.”
“And I am, too,” she blurted out.
Martin was bewildered by the tears of mortification he saw in her eyes. The mood, whatever it was, was genuine.
“But, Marian, why should your Hermann be jealous of my writing poetry about my own sister?”
“He ain’t jealous,” she sobbed. “He says it was indecent, ob—obscene.”
Martin emitted a long, low whistle of incredulity, then proceeded to resurrect and read a carbon copy of “The Palmist.”
“I can’t see it,” he said finally, proffering the manuscript to her. “Read it yourself and show me whatever strikes you as obscene—that was the word, wasn’t it?”
“He says so, and he ought to know,” was the answer, with a wave aside of the manuscript, accompanied by a look of loathing. “And he says you’ve got to tear it up. He says he won’t have no wife of his with such things written about her which anybody can read. He says it’s a disgrace, an’ he won’t stand for it.”
“Now, look here, Marian, this is nothing but nonsense,” Martin began;then abruptly changed his mind.
He saw before him an unhappy girl, knew the futility of attempting to convince her husband or her, and, though the whole situation was absurd and preposterous, he resolved to surrender.
“All right,” he announced, tearing the manuscript into half a dozen pieces and throwing it into the waste-basket.
He contented himself with the knowledge that even then the original type-written manuscript was reposing in the office of a New York magazine. Marian and her husband would never know, and neither himself nor they nor the world would lose if the pretty, harmless poem ever were published.
Marian, starting to reach into the waste-basket, refrained.
“Can I?” she pleaded.
He nodded his head, regarding her thoughtfully as she gathered the torn pieces of manuscript and tucked them into the pocket of her jacket—ocular evidence of the success of her mission. She reminded him of Lizzie Connolly, though there was less of fire and gorgeous flaunting life in her than in that other girl of the working class whom he had seen twice. But they were on a par, the pair of them, in dress and carriage, and he smiled with inward amusement at the caprice of his fancy which suggested the appearance of either of them in Mrs. Morse’s drawing-room. The amusement faded, and he was aware of a great loneliness. This sister of his and the Morse drawing-room were milestones of the road he had travelled. And he had left them behind. He glanced affectionately about him at his few books. They were all the comrades left to him.
“Hello, what’s that?” he demanded in startled surprise.
Marian repeated her question.
“Why don’t I go to work?” He broke into a laugh that was only half-hearted. “That Hermann of yours has been talking to you.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t lie,” he commanded, and the nod of her head affirmed his charge.
“Well, you tell that Hermann of yours to mind his own business;that when I write poetry about the girl he’s keeping company with it’s his business, but that outside of that he’s got no say so. Understand?
“So you don’t think I’ll succeed as a writer, eh?” he went on. “You think I’m no good?—that I’ve fallen down and am a disgrace to the family?”
“I think it would be much better if you got a job,” she said firmly, and he saw she was sincere. “Hermann says—”
“Damn Hermann!” he broke out good-naturedly. “What I want to know is when you’re going to get married. Also, you find out from your Hermann if he will deign to permit you to accept a wedding present from me.”
He mused over the incident after she had gone, and once or twice broke out into laughter that was bitter as he saw his sister and her betrothed, all the members of his own class and the members of Ruth’s class, directing their narrow little lives by narrow little formulas—herd-creatures, flocking together and patterning their lives by one another’s opinions, failing of being individuals and of really living life because of the childlike formulas by which they were enslaved. He summoned them before him in apparitional procession: Bernard Higginbotham arm in arm with Mr. Butler, Hermann von Schmidt cheek by jowl with Charley Hapgood, and one by one and in pairs he judged them and dismissed them—judged them by the standards of intellect and morality he had learned from the books. Vainly he asked: Where are the great souls, the great men and women? He found them not among the careless, gross, and stupid intelligences that answered the call of vision to his narrow room. He felt a loathing for them such as Circe must have felt for her swine. When he had dismissed the last one and thought himself alone, a late-comer entered, unexpected and unsummoned. Martin watched him and saw the stiff-rim, the square-cut, double-breasted coat and the swaggering shoulders, of the youthful hoodlum who had once been he.
“You were like all the rest, young fellow,” Martin sneered. “Your morality and your knowledge were just the same as theirs. You did not think and act for yourself. Your opinions, like your clothes, were ready made; your acts were shaped by popular approval. You were cock of your gang because others acclaimed you the real thing. You fought and ruled the gang, not because you liked to,—you know you really despised it,—but because the other fellows patted you on the shoulder. You licked Cheese-Face because you wouldn’t give in, and you wouldn’t give in partly because you were an abysmal brute and for the rest because you believed what every one about you believed, that the measure of manhood was the carnivorous ferocity displayed in injuring and marring fellow-creatures’ anatomies. Why, you whelp, you even won other fellows’ girls away from them, not because you wanted the girls, but because in the marrow of those about you, those who set your moral pace, was the instinct of the wild stallion and the bull-seal. Well, the years have passed, and what do you think about it now?”
As if in reply, the vision underwent a swift metamorphosis. The stiff-rim and the square-cut vanished, being replaced by milder garments; the toughness went out of the face, the hardness out of the eyes; and, the face, chastened and refined, was irradiated from an inner life of communion with beauty and knowledge. The apparition was very like his present self, and, as he regarded it, he noted the student-lamp by which it was illuminated, and the book over which it pored. He glanced at the title and read, “The Science of AEsthetics.” Next, he entered into the apparition, trimmed the student-lamp, and himself went on reading “The Science of AEsthetics.”
對馬丁來說,這是一個艱難的夏季。審稿人和編輯們紛紛出外度假,所以平時不出三個星期便可見回音的刊物,現(xiàn)在把他的稿子一壓就是三個月,或更長時間。唯一能使他聊以自慰的是,遇到這種局面倒省了他的郵票錢。只有強(qiáng)盜式的刊物似乎依然十分活躍。馬丁把自己早期的作品,如《潛水采珠記》、《水手生涯》、《捉海龜記》以及《東北貿(mào)易風(fēng)》,全都寄給了它們。這些稿件送出去,他沒得到一分錢的稿酬。實際情況是這樣:經(jīng)過六個月的通信聯(lián)絡(luò),他和對方找出了個折中的辦法,用《捉海龜記》換了把安全性剃刀;《衛(wèi)城》雜志采用了《東北貿(mào)易風(fēng)》,答應(yīng)給他五塊錢的現(xiàn)金和為期五年的贈書,結(jié)果只履行了協(xié)議的第二部分。
用一首史蒂文森[1]風(fēng)格的十四行詩,他總算從波士頓的一位編輯的手中爭取到了兩塊錢,那人以馬修·阿諾德[2]的觀點經(jīng)營著一家雜志,平時愛錢如命?!断膳c珍珠》是一首兩百行的絕妙諷刺詩,剛從他的大腦中移上紙頁,贏得了為一家鐵路大公司刊行的舊金山雜志編輯的青睞。那位編輯寫信提出想以免費車票充為稿酬,馬丁回信問車票是否可以轉(zhuǎn)讓。結(jié)果,車票是不能夠轉(zhuǎn)賣他人的,于是,馬丁要求對方退還詩稿。退稿中附著那位編輯表示遺憾的一封信,馬丁把稿子拿到手,又寄到了舊金山去,這次寄給了《大黃蜂》——一家自命不凡的月刊雜志,創(chuàng)辦人是位杰出的報界人士,曾把它捧上了第一流的高度,但早在馬丁出生之前,《大黃蜂》的光輝就開始趨于黯淡了。編輯答應(yīng)付給馬丁十五塊錢的稿費,但待到詩稿一登出來,他似乎把自己的許諾給忘了。馬丁去了幾封信都不予理睬,最后寫了一封怒氣沖沖的信,才算有了回音?;匦攀且粋€新來的編輯寫的,他冷冰冰地向馬丁宣稱他對前任編輯的錯誤概不負(fù)責(zé),還說《仙女與珍珠》在他看來沒有多大價值。
按說,對馬丁最為殘酷的要算芝加哥的《環(huán)球》雜志。原先,他并不想公開自己的《海洋抒情詩》,后來為饑餓所迫才拿出來發(fā)表。詩稿遭到了十幾家雜志社的退稿,最終在《環(huán)球》編輯部找到了歸宿。這組詩共有三十首小詩,每首將付給他一塊錢的稿酬。頭一個月共刊登了四首,他收到了四塊錢面額的支票。但當(dāng)他欣賞雜志時,一幅“大屠殺”的場面使他感到觸目驚心。有幾首詩的題目被改頭換面,如:《終》被改成了《結(jié)束》,而《外礁之歌》則改成了《珊瑚礁之歌》。一首詩的題目做了徹底更改,換成了一個不恰當(dāng)?shù)念}目。他原來的《美杜莎的眼睛[3]》,被編輯印成了《倒退的道路》。但詩稿內(nèi)容的“屠殺”,更叫人毛骨悚然。馬丁唉聲嘆氣,冷汗直冒,拿手用力搔著頭皮。一個個短語和整行、整段的詩句被刪掉、調(diào)換或竄改,不知搞的是什么名堂。有些詩行和詩段被偷梁換柱,代以他人之筆。馬丁不相信一個心智健全的編輯會行此暴虐之事,于是便推測一定是編輯部的勤雜工或速記員對他的詩稿做了手術(shù)。他立即寫信要求編輯停止發(fā)表他的抒情詩,把詩稿退還給他。他的信寫了一封又一封,又是央求又是威脅,但對方理也不理?!按笸罋ⅰ币辉略碌爻掷m(xù)著,直至三十首詩全部載完;而每當(dāng)他的詩出現(xiàn)在雜志上,他就可以收到支票,月月如此。
盡管發(fā)生了種種不幸,他對《白鼠》的那張四十塊錢的支票仍記憶猶新,于是繼續(xù)耕耘,不過由于生活所迫,只好把愈來愈多的精力投放到撰寫賣錢的文章上。他發(fā)現(xiàn)為農(nóng)業(yè)周刊及行業(yè)雜志撰稿可以維持生計,但與宗教周刊打交道則只有餓肚子的份兒。他處境極為悲慘,把黑色西裝又送進(jìn)了當(dāng)鋪,可就在這時,他在共和黨縣委會舉辦的一次有獎競賽中大獲全勝——或者在他看來是這樣的。競賽共分三個項目,他全都參加了,同時心里卻在苦澀地嘲笑自己為生活所迫竟淪落到了這步田地。他的詩贏得了一等獎十塊錢,競選歌贏得了二等獎五塊錢,而關(guān)于共和黨黨綱的論文贏得了一等獎二十五塊錢。他對此感到非常高興,這種心情一直持續(xù)到該領(lǐng)獎金的時候。雖然縣委委員里有一位腰纏萬貫的銀行家和一位州議員,但那里卻出了問題,遲遲不見把獎金寄來。正當(dāng)這件事懸而未決的時候,馬丁又參加了民主黨舉辦的一次類似的競賽,他的論文獲得了一等獎,這證明他對民主黨的黨綱也了如指掌。這次的二十五塊錢獎金他拿到了手,可上次的四十塊錢獎金卻始終沒有著落。
他絞盡腦汁地想見到露絲,可又覺得從北奧克蘭到她家路程太遠(yuǎn),走路太費時間,于是便把一套黑西裝送入當(dāng)鋪,換回了自行車。有了自行車,既可以鍛煉身體,又可以省下時間寫作,同時還不誤去看望露絲。一條齊膝蓋的粗布短褲和一件舊運動衫,騎自行車穿滿像樣,有了這身打扮他就可以和露絲一道在下午出外兜風(fēng)了。再說,他不能再頻頻到她家跟她見面了,因為摩斯夫人正在全力推行自己的計劃,招待四方來客。他在那兒遇到的高貴人物,不久前還為他所敬仰,而今卻使他厭惡。在他眼里,他們不再高貴了。一聽到這些人的談話,他就惱火和生氣,這全是因為他生活艱難、情緒低落和工作緊張所導(dǎo)致的。他的這種自以為是并不是沒有理由的。他曾拿書中看到的思想深邃的人跟這些心胸狹窄的人做過比較。在露絲家,除了考德威爾教授以外,他從未遇到過一個思想博大精深的人,只可惜他僅和考德威爾見過一面。至于其余的那些人,全是些膚淺、頑固、無知的笨蛋和愚材。他們的無知使他感到震驚。他們到底出了什么事?學(xué)的東西丟到哪里去了呢?他們和他讀的是相同的書,可他們怎么會一無所獲呢?他知道,胸懷坦蕩、明智達(dá)觀的偉大思想家確有其人。從書本中便可以得到證實,因為正是靠著那些書的啟迪,他才超越了摩斯之流。他還知道,比摩斯家圈子里的那些人高雅的人士天下有的是。在描寫英國上流社會的小說中,他讀到過男男女女在一起談?wù)撜魏驼軐W(xué)的片段。他在書中還讀到了有關(guān)大城市沙龍的情況,這種沙龍甚至在美國也有,是藝術(shù)和知識交匯的地方。過去他真蠢,竟然以為凡是高居工人階級之上的那些衣冠楚楚的人全都聰明過人,全都懂得美。他把文化與社會地位混為一談,幼稚地認(rèn)為只要受過高等教育就等于掌握了知識。
他要繼續(xù)奮斗,一步一步朝高處攀登。他要帶著露絲一道前進(jìn)。他深深地愛著她,堅信她不管到哪里都會發(fā)出奪目的光彩。他清楚,早年的生活環(huán)境羈絆了他的手腳,而現(xiàn)在他觀察到她也遇到了類似的障礙。她一直都沒有發(fā)展的機(jī)會。她父親書架上的書、墻上的油畫,以及鋼琴上的樂譜,只不過都是些虛華的擺設(shè)。對于真正的文學(xué)、真正的繪畫和真正的音樂,摩斯一家以及他們的同類簡直一竅不通。而對于比這些東西更為偉大的生活,他們無知到了不可救藥的地步。他們雖然贊成唯一神教,戴著沉穩(wěn)和思想開明的假面具,但實際上已落后于解釋萬物的科學(xué)有兩個時代。他們的思維是中世紀(jì)式的,他覺得他們看待生活的基本事實以及整個宇宙,用的是形而上學(xué)的觀點。這種觀點形成的歷史,近可以追溯到最年輕一個種族的誕生,遠(yuǎn)可以追溯到洞穴人時代。它使更新世的第一個猿人害怕黑暗,使希伯來的第一個野人迫不及待地用亞當(dāng)?shù)睦吖撬茉炝讼耐?,使笛卡兒[4]從渺小的自我出發(fā),設(shè)想出唯心論的宇宙體系,使那位著名的教士[5]用諷刺的言論攻擊進(jìn)化論,雖一時贏得了喝彩,但在歷史上卻留下了萬古罵名。
馬丁思來想去,最后終于如醍醐灌頂,明白了過來。他認(rèn)識到,他見到的這些律師、軍官、商人以及銀行高級職員,跟他所熟知的工人階級成員之間的差別在于,他們吃的食物、穿的衣服和生活的環(huán)境是不同的。當(dāng)然,除此之外,這些人還缺乏一種東西,一種在他身上以及書本中可以找得到的東西。摩斯之流已經(jīng)充分地向他顯示了自己的社會地位,但他并沒有為之傾倒。他是個窮光蛋,是受債主驅(qū)使的奴隸,可他自認(rèn)為比摩斯家里碰到的那些人強(qiáng);等到把那套唯一僅有的像樣的西裝用錢贖回來,他在那些人中間就成了生活的主宰,到時候他會產(chǎn)生一股無名之火,氣得渾身發(fā)抖,那感覺就好像一名王子被迫與牧羊人同居一處一樣。
“你痛恨和害怕社會主義者,”一天傍晚吃飯時,他對摩斯先生說,“可這是為什么呢?你可是既不熟悉他們又不了解他們的信條呀。”
談話是摩斯夫人轉(zhuǎn)過來的,她一個勁地夸贊哈普哥德先生,讓人聽了心煩。那位滿口陳詞濫調(diào)的銀行高級職員被馬丁視為眼中釘肉中刺,一提到他馬丁就有點生氣。
“是啊,”他說道,“查利·哈普哥德正是一個他們所說的步步高升的年輕人——有個人就是這么對我講的。這也都是實情。死前他鬧不定還能當(dāng)州長呢,這誰說得準(zhǔn)?也許,他還能進(jìn)合眾國參議院哩?!?/p>
“你這么看待他是出于什么理由呢?”摩斯夫人問道。
“我聽過他的一次競選演講。他的措辭巧妙,但內(nèi)容乏味無聊,缺乏真知灼見,不過卻又令人信服,難怪上司覺得他沉穩(wěn)、值得信賴。他說的那套陳腐的話與普通選民的觀念相差無幾——這樣來形容吧:如果你為某人整理好他的思想,再呈獻(xiàn)給他,肯定會贏得他的歡心。”“我倒覺得你是在妒忌哈普哥德先生。”露絲插話說。
“沒有的事!”
馬丁臉上憎惡的表情一下子惹火了摩斯夫人。
“你的意思是不是想說哈普哥德先生是個愚材?”她冷冰冰地責(zé)問道。
“和普通的共和黨人差不多,”馬丁針鋒相對地說,“也和普通的民主黨人八九不離十。他們都是些沒有心計的笨蛋,而有心計的只是鳳毛麟角。明智的共和黨人僅僅是那些百萬富翁及其頭腦清晰的跟隨者。他們知道哪些事對自己有利,并了解其中的奧秘?!?/p>
“我是個共和黨人?!蹦λ瓜壬卣f道,“請問,把我歸于哪一類呢?”
“哦,你是一個不知不覺服從于他人的隨從。”
“隨從?”
“是呀。你沒有工人階級的主顧,也不接手刑事訴訟,而專為大公司打官司。你不是靠受理毆打妻子的糾紛和盜竊案子維生,而是從那些社會主子手中領(lǐng)取報酬。誰提供錢,誰就是主人,所以說,你是一位隨從。你的宗旨是服務(wù)于財團(tuán),增進(jìn)財團(tuán)的利益?!?/p>
摩斯先生臉色有些漲紅。
“老實講,先生,”他說道,“你的言談活像一個流氓社會主義者?!?/p>
就在這時,馬丁說出了上面提到過的那段話:
“你痛恨和害怕社會主義者,可這是為什么呢?你可是既不熟悉他們又不了解他們的信條呀?!?/p>
“你的言論讓人聽起來的確像是社會主義?!蹦λ瓜壬卮鹫f。露絲擔(dān)心地望望這個,又憂慮地瞧瞧那個,而摩斯夫人卻高興得滿臉放光,因為這下總算激起了她丈夫的對抗之心。
“我說共和黨人是蠢材,認(rèn)為自由、平等和博愛已化為泡影,但這并不等于我就是社會主義者。”馬丁笑了笑說,“我對杰斐遜以及那些影響了他的思想的不講科學(xué)的法國人[6]提出疑問,也不能說明我是社會主義者。請相信我的話,摩斯先生,你比我離社會主義要近得多呢,因為我是社會主義的死敵?!?/p>
“你可真愛開玩笑?!蹦λ瓜壬鸁o以對答,只有這樣說道。
“一點也不是玩笑,我說的全是心里話。你一方面相信平等,一方面又為大公司效勞,豈不知那些大公司一天天、一點點地在埋葬平等。你稱我為社會主義者,就因為我不承認(rèn)平等,因為我點明了你們實際所奉行的原則。共和黨是反對平等的,盡管他們高喊平等的口號,卻干著與平等背道而馳的事情。他們打著平等的旗號,卻在消滅平等。所以,我把他們稱作蠢材。至于我本人,我可是個個人主義者。我相信的是‘勝者王侯敗者寇’。這條道理是我從生物學(xué)當(dāng)中學(xué)來的,起碼我是這么認(rèn)為的。正如我所說的那樣,我是個人主義者,而個人主義世世代代以至永遠(yuǎn),都是社會主義的敵人。”
“可你常去參加社會主義者的集會。”摩斯先生挑戰(zhàn)似的說。
“的確如此,但那和探子深入敵營是一個道理。不然,怎么能夠了解敵情呢?話又說回來,我倒是很喜歡參加他們的集會哩。他們個個是出色的戰(zhàn)士,不管對還是錯,全都飽讀書卷。對于社會學(xué)以及所有其他的學(xué)科,他們當(dāng)中任何一個人的知識都比普通的工業(yè)巨頭淵博得多。不錯,我參加過六七次他們的集會,但這并不能使我成為社會主義者,就像聽聽查利·哈普哥德的演講不能使我成為共和黨人一樣?!薄霸掚m這么講,”摩斯先生有氣無力地說,“可我仍認(rèn)為你有社會主義的傾向?!?/p>
馬丁心里想道,天啊,他不知道我在說什么,恐怕連一個字也沒聽懂。他把自己學(xué)的東西都丟到哪里去啦?
就這樣,馬丁在自己的思想發(fā)展過程當(dāng)中,迎面遇到了由經(jīng)濟(jì)基礎(chǔ)所決定的倫理觀,或者說由階級地位所決定的倫理觀。這種倫理不久就變成了猙獰可怕的怪物出現(xiàn)在他面前。就他個人而言,他是一個明智的倫理學(xué)者,討厭夸夸其談和陳詞濫調(diào),但更討厭周圍那些人的倫理觀點,因為他們的倫理觀是一個千奇百怪的大雜燴,里面有經(jīng)濟(jì)的成分和形而上學(xué)的見解,也包含有多愁善感及機(jī)械的模仿。
有一次,他嘗了一口這種奇特的大雜燴,受到了很大的刺激。他的妹妹瑪麗安結(jié)交了一位勤奮的年輕技工,那人屬于德國血統(tǒng),在精通了修自行車的技術(shù)之后,自己開了一家修理鋪。同時,他還取得了低檔自行車的經(jīng)銷權(quán),生意十分興隆。不久前,瑪麗安登門來看望馬丁,說她已經(jīng)訂了婚。她還頑皮地為馬丁看手相,替他算命。第二次,她把赫爾曼·馮·施米特也帶了來。馬丁熱情地接待他們,對他們表示祝賀,說話隨隨便便且精于辭令,先使妹妹的那位滿腦子農(nóng)民意識的戀人有幾分不快。接著,馬丁把自己為紀(jì)念瑪麗安上次來訪所寫的六七段詩歌朗誦了一遍,這就使對方的印象愈加糟糕。這是一首社交詩,筆調(diào)活潑、神妙,他為之取名為《手相專家》。朗誦完之后,他發(fā)現(xiàn)妹妹的臉上沒有絲毫喜悅的表情,不由感到意外。只見瑪麗安以不安的目光緊盯著自己的未婚夫。馬丁順著她的目光望去,看到那位了不起人物的不對稱的面部陰云籠罩,一副不贊成的神色。這件事發(fā)生之后,兩位客人早早地便告辭了。馬丁一時想不通,世上竟然有個女人,甚至還是工人階層的女子,聽到別人為她寫的詩,非但不感到受寵若驚,還感到不高興,但他事后又把所發(fā)生的一切忘了個干凈。
幾天后的一個晚上,瑪麗安又來看望他,這次是獨身一人。她二話沒說,直截了當(dāng)?shù)刎?zé)怪他不該那樣做,語調(diào)很是傷心。
“得了吧,瑪麗安?!彼麘嵟睾浅獾?,“聽你的口氣,你好像為有我們這樣的親人感到丟人,或者為有我這樣的哥哥覺得羞恥?!?/p>
“我是覺得難為情?!彼摽谡f道。
馬丁見她眼里飽含著委屈的眼淚,一下子為難起來,不管怎樣,她的心里可是認(rèn)真的呀。
“瑪麗安,我為我自己的親妹妹寫首詩,你的那位赫爾曼有什么可吃醋的呢?”
“他不是吃醋?!彼槠f,“他說你的詩寫得粗俗和下流?!?/p>
馬丁難以相信地吹了一聲又長又低的口哨,隨后定下神來,把抄寫的一份《手相專家》又看了一遍。
“我找不出來?!彼詈筮@樣說道,把稿子遞給了她,“你自己看吧,把你認(rèn)為下流的地方指給我看。他用的是‘下流’這個詞,我沒搞錯吧?”
“他是這樣說的,而且他知道是怎么回事。”她說著,一把將稿子推開,滿臉厭惡的表情,“他說你必須把手稿撕掉,還說他絕不允許這樣寫自己的妻子,供世人恥笑。他說這樣做丟人透頂,使他無法容忍?!?/p>
“你聽我說,瑪麗安,他簡直是在無理取鬧。”馬丁話剛出口,卻突然改變了主意。
他看到眼前的這位姑娘非常傷心,知道要想說服她或她的丈夫,都是枉費心機(jī)。盡管這一切都顯得荒唐可笑,但他還是決定屈服于對方。
“好吧,就依你?!彼f著,把手稿撕成六七片,扔進(jìn)了廢紙簍里。
但他心中卻在得意地想著,他的那份用打字機(jī)打出的原稿此時正放在紐約一家雜志社的編輯部里呢,這是瑪麗安和她的丈夫永遠(yuǎn)都不會知道的。那些無害于人的美麗詩句有朝一日刊載出來,他自己、瑪麗安夫婦乃至整個世界,都不會因此蒙受什么損失。
瑪麗安伸手正欲取廢紙簍里的稿子,但半路卻停了下來。
“可以嗎?”她以央求的口氣問。
他點點頭,若有所思地打量著她,看著她把撕碎的稿子斂到一起,放入衣袋里——顯然是想拿回去證明她勝利地完成了自己的任務(wù)。他從她聯(lián)想到了麗茜·康諾萊,另一位工人階層的女子。她雖然不像他見過兩次的那位姑娘具有熾熱的激情和絢麗多彩的生命力,但她們倆的衣著和舉止卻如出一轍。他突發(fā)異想,幻想著她們倆當(dāng)中的一個出現(xiàn)在摩斯夫人的客廳里的滑稽景象,不由笑了。但隨著笑意的消失,他產(chǎn)生了一股強(qiáng)烈的孤獨感。他的這個妹妹以及摩斯家的客廳,是他人生旅途當(dāng)中的兩塊里程碑。如今,他把這兩塊里程碑全都拋到了身后。他親切地望了望旁邊的幾本書,現(xiàn)在,他只剩下這幾位伙伴了。
“哦,你說什么?”他醒過神來,驚異地問道。
瑪麗安把自己的提問又重復(fù)了一遍。
“我為什么不去工作?”他哈哈大笑了起來,但笑得有些勉強(qiáng),“這是你的那位赫爾曼講的話吧?”
她搖了搖頭。
“不許騙我?!彼麉柭曊f道,而對方只好點頭承認(rèn)他的猜測是對的。
“那好,請轉(zhuǎn)告你的那個赫爾曼,叫他少管閑事;我把他的姑娘寫進(jìn)詩里,他干涉干涉是可以的,但除此之外,就叫他少放些屁。明白嗎?”
“如此看來,你認(rèn)為我當(dāng)不成作家,對吧?”他繼續(xù)說道,“你覺得我一無所長,自甘墮落,給家里人帶來了恥辱,是嗎?”
“我認(rèn)為你如果找個工作,情況會好得多?!彼Z氣堅定地說,讓他看得出她講的都是真心話,“赫爾曼說——”
“叫赫爾曼見鬼去吧!”他按捺住胸中的怒火嚷嚷道,“我想知道的是你們什么時候結(jié)婚。還有,你問問你的赫爾曼,看他愿不愿意屈尊俯就,允許你接受我的結(jié)婚禮物?!?/p>
待她走后,他把這件事又前后思量了一番,有一兩次還發(fā)出了苦笑聲。他看到自己的妹妹及其未婚夫,看到他那個階層以及露絲那個階層的全體成員都按照褊狹的模式過著狹隘的生活——他們是些合群的動物,聚居在一起,依照彼此的看法規(guī)范著自己的生活,缺乏個性以及真正的生命力,因為那些幼稚的模式在束縛著他們的一言一行。那些人像幽靈一樣排著隊在他的眼前閃動:伯納德·希金波森和勃特勒先生胳膊挽著胳膊,赫爾曼·馮·施米特跟查利·哈普哥德肩并著肩;他對他們一個個鑒定,一對對評判,然后把他們打發(fā)走——鑒定時依據(jù)的是他從書中學(xué)到的智能及倫理標(biāo)準(zhǔn)。他茫然地問自己,那些偉大的靈魂、偉大的須眉丈夫和巾幗英雄今在何處?出現(xiàn)在他的幻覺里,出現(xiàn)在這間斗室里的那些無憂無慮、庸俗愚蠢的人當(dāng)中,找不到偉人的身影。他厭惡他們,也許就像瑟茜[7]厭惡那些豬一樣。等到把幻覺中的最后一位人物打發(fā)掉,他滿以為只剩下自己一個時,卻有一位不速之客出其不意地闖了進(jìn)來。馬丁打量著他,看到眼里的是硬邊帽、剪裁得規(guī)規(guī)整整的雙排扣上衣和一雙搖搖晃晃的肩膀——這是他過去的模樣,一個十足的小流氓。
“你和別人沒什么兩樣,小伙子?!瘪R丁嘲諷自己,“你的倫理觀以及知識并不比他們高明。你并不是獨立地思考問題,獨立地行動。你的觀點與你身上的衣服一樣,都是別人為你準(zhǔn)備好的;你的行動受到大眾的意見制約。你是流氓團(tuán)伙的頭目,因為其他人擁戴你,認(rèn)為你是塊好料。你跟別人打架,統(tǒng)治著那個團(tuán)伙,這倒不是因為你喜歡那樣做——你明知自己打心底里厭惡——而是因為其他的流氓慫恿你那樣做。你打敗了干酪臉,是因為你不肯認(rèn)輸,而不肯認(rèn)輸?shù)脑虿糠质怯捎谀闶浅翜S的野獸,另外一部分是由于你和周圍的每一個人一樣,堅信衡量男性強(qiáng)弱的標(biāo)準(zhǔn)是傷害及摧殘他人肉體時所顯示出的嗜血性和兇狠性。唉,你真卑鄙,甚至還搶別人的女朋友,倒不是因為你喜歡她們,而是因為你周圍的狐群狗黨操縱著你的倫理觀,他們的骨髓里都蘊(yùn)藏著野雄馬及公海豹的本能。嘖,一閃過去了許多年頭,現(xiàn)在你是怎么看待這些問題呢?”
就像是回答這種提問似的,他的幻覺驀地發(fā)生了劇變。硬邊帽和那件剪裁得四四方方的上衣不見了,取而代之的是比較順眼的服飾;那張面孔上的兇狠表情不見了,眼里冷酷的神色也消失了;由于受到美和知識的熏陶,他現(xiàn)在的面孔變得溫文爾雅、神采奕奕。這幅幻象與現(xiàn)實中的他十分相似。他凝神觀察著,看到寫字臺的燈光把那道幻影照得通亮,而那道幻影卻在讀書。他瞧了瞧書名,原來是《美學(xué)》。接著,他一頭鉆入幻象之中,調(diào)了調(diào)燈光,把《美學(xué)》繼續(xù)閱讀了下去。
* * *
[1] 19世紀(jì)英國新浪漫主義流派作家,《金銀島》的作者。
[2] 19世紀(jì)英國詩人兼批評家。
[3] 美杜莎是希臘神話中的女蛇怪,目光所及之處全化為石頭。
[4] 17世紀(jì)法國唯心主義哲學(xué)家。
[5] 此處指牛津主教威爾勃福斯。
[6] 杰斐遜是美國第三任總統(tǒng),曾受過法國啟蒙主義思想的影響。
[7] 希臘神話中的女巫,經(jīng)常把路人變成豬。
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