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雙語(yǔ)《馬丁·伊登》 第三十一章

所屬教程:譯林版·馬丁·伊登

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2022年07月13日

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CHAPTER XXXI

Martin had encountered his sister Gertrude by chance on Broadway—as it proved, a most propitious yet disconcerting chance. Waiting on the corner for a car, she had seen him first, and noted the eager, hungry lines of his face and the desperate, worried look of his eyes. In truth, he was desperate and worried. He had just come from a fruitless interview with the pawnbroker, from whom he had tried to wring an additional loan on his wheel. The muddy fall weather having come on, Martin had pledged his wheel some time since and retained his black suit.

“There’s the black suit,” the pawnbroker, who knew his every asset, had answered. “You needn’t tell me you’ve gone and pledged it with that Jew, Lipka. Because if you have—”

The man had looked the threat, and Martin hastened to cry:—

“No, no; I’ve got it. But I want to wear it on a matter of business.”

“All right,” the mollified usurer had replied. “And I want it on a matter of business before I can let you have any more money. You don’t think I’m in it for my health?”

“But it’s a forty-dollar wheel, in good condition,” Martin had argued.“And you’ve only let me have seven dollars on it. No, not even seven. Six and a quarter; you took the interest in advance.”

“If you want some more, bring the suit,” had been the reply that sent Martin out of the stuffy little den, so desperate at heart as to reflect it in his face and touch his sister to pity.

Scarcely had they met when the Telegraph Avenue car came along and stopped to take on a crowd of afternoon shoppers. Mrs. Higginbotham divined from the grip on her arm as he helped her on, that he was not going to follow her. She turned on the step and looked down upon him. His haggard face smote her to the heart again.

“Ain’t you comin’?” she asked.

The next moment she had descended to his side.

“I’m walking—exercise, you know,” he explained.

“Then I’ll go along for a few blocks,” she announced. “Mebbe it’ll do me good. I ain’t ben feelin’ any too spry these last few days.”

Martin glanced at her and verified her statement in her general slovenly appearance, in the unhealthy fat, in the drooping shoulders, the tired face with the sagging lines, and in the heavy fall of her feet, without elasticity—a very caricature of the walk that belongs to a free and happy body.

“You’d better stop here,” he said, though she had already come to a halt at the first corner, “and take the next car.”

“My goodness!—if I ain’t all tired a’ready!” she panted. “But I’m just as able to walk as you in them soles. They’re that thin they’ll bu’st long before you git out to North Oakland.”

“I’ve a better pair at home,” was the answer.

“Come out to dinner tomorrow,” she invited irrelevantly. “Mr. Higginbotham won’t be there. He’s goin’ to San Leandro on business.”

Martin shook his head, but he had failed to keep back the wolfish, hungry look that leapt into his eyes at the suggestion of dinner.

“You haven’t a penny, Mart, and That’s why you’re walkin’. Exercise!”She tried to sniff contemptuously, but succeeded in producing only a sniffle.“Here, lemme see.”

And, fumbling in her satchel, she pressed a five-dollar piece into his hand. “I guess I forgot your last birthday, Mart,” she mumbled lamely.

Martin’s hand instinctively closed on the piece of gold. In the same instant he knew he ought not to accept, and found himself struggling in the throes of indecision. That bit of gold meant food, life, and light in his body and brain, power to go on writing, and—who was to say?—maybe to write something that would bring in many pieces of gold. Clear on his vision burned the manuscripts of two essays he had just completed. He saw them under the table on top of the heap of returned manuscripts for which he had no stamps, and he saw their titles, just as he had typed them—”The High Priests of Mystery,” and “The Cradle of Beauty.” He had never submitted them anywhere. They were as good as anything he had done in that line. If only he had stamps for them! Then the certitude of his ultimate success rose up in him, an able ally of hunger, and with a quick movement he slipped the coin into his pocket.

“I’ll pay you back, Gertrude, a hundred times over,” he gulped out, his throat painfully contracted and in his eyes a swift hint of moisture.

“Mark my words!” he cried with abrupt positiveness. “Before the year is out I’ll put an even hundred of those little yellow-boys into your hand. I don’t ask you to believe me. All you have to do is wait and see.”

Nor did she believe. Her incredulity made her uncomfortable, and failing of other expedient, she said:—

“I know you’re hungry, Mart. It’s sticking out all over you. Come in to meals any time. I’ll send one of the children to tell you when Mr. Higginbotham ain’t to be there. An’ Mart—”

He waited, though he knew in his secret heart what she was about to say, so visible was her thought process to him.

“Don’t you think it’s about time you got a job?”

“You don’t think I’ll win out?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Nobody has faith in me, Gertrude, except myself.” His voice was passionately rebellious. “I’ve done good work already, plenty of it, and sooner or later it will sell.”

“How do you know it is good?”

“Because—” He faltered as the whole vast field of literature and the history of literature stirred in his brain and pointed the futility of his attempting to convey to her the reasons for his faith. “Well, because it’s better than ninety-nine per cent of what is published in the magazines.”

“I wish’t you’d listen to reason,” she answered feebly, but with unwavering belief in the correctness of her diagnosis of what was ailing him. “I wish’t you’d listen to reason,” she repeated, “an’ come to dinner tomorrow.”

After Martin had helped her on the car, he hurried to the post-office and invested three of the five dollars in stamps; and when, later in the day, on the way to the Morse home, he stopped in at the post-office to weigh a large number of long, bulky envelopes, he affixed to them all the stamps save three of the two-cent denomination.

It proved a momentous night for Martin, for after dinner he met Russ Brissenden. How he chanced to come there, whose friend he was or what acquaintance brought him, Martin did not know. Nor had he the curiosity to inquire about him of Ruth. In short, Brissenden struck Martin as anaemic and feather-brained, and was promptly dismissed from his mind. An hour later he decided that Brissenden was a boor as well, what of the way he prowled about from one room to another, staring at the pictures or poking his nose into books and magazines he picked up from the table or drew from the shelves. Though a stranger in the house he finally isolated himself in the midst of the company, huddling into a capacious Morris chair and reading steadily from a thin volume he had drawn from his pocket. As he read, he abstractedly ran his fingers, with a caressing movement, through his hair. Martin noticed him no more that evening, except once when he observed him chaffing with great apparent success with several of the young women.

It chanced that when Martin was leaving, he overtook Brissenden already half down the walk to the street.

“Hello, is that you?” Martin said.

The other replied with an ungracious grunt, but swung alongside. Martin made no further attempt at conversation, and for several blocks unbroken silence lay upon them.

“Pompous old ass!”

The suddenness and the virulence of the exclamation startled Martin. He felt amused, and at the same time was aware of a growing dislike for the other.

“What do you go to such a place for?” was abruptly flung at him after another block of silence.

“Why do you?” Martin countered.

“Bless me, I don’t know,” came back. “At least this is my first indiscretion. There are twenty-four hours in each day, and I must spend them somehow. Come and have a drink.”

“All right,” Martin answered.

The next moment he was nonplussed by the readiness of his acceptance. At home was several hours’ hack-work waiting for him before he went to bed, and after he went to bed there was a volume of Weismann waiting for him, to say nothing of Herbert Spencer’s Autobiography, which was as replete for him with romance as any thrilling novel. Why should he waste any time with this man he did not like? was his thought. And yet, it was not so much the man nor the drink as was it what was associated with the drink—the bright lights, the mirrors and dazzling array of glasses, the warm and glowing faces and the resonant hum of the voices of men. That was it, it was the voices of men, optimistic men, men who breathed success and spent their money for drinks like men. He was lonely, that was what was the matter with him; that was why he had snapped at the invitation as a bonita strikes at a white rag on a hook. Not since with Joe, at Shelly Hot Springs, with the one exception of the wine he took with the Portuguese grocer, had Martin had a drink at a public bar. Mental exhaustion did not produce a craving for liquor such as physical exhaustion did, and he had felt no need for it. But just now he felt desire for the drink, or, rather, for the atmosphere wherein drinks were dispensed and disposed of. Such a place was the Grotto, where Brissenden and he lounged in capacious leather chairs and drank Scotch and soda.

They talked. They talked about many things, and now Brissenden and now Martin took turn in ordering Scotch and soda. Martin, who was extremely strong-headed, marvelled at the other’s capacity for liquor, and ever and anon broke off to marvel at the other’s conversation. He was not long in assuming that Brissenden knew everything, and in deciding that here was the second intellectual man he had met. But he noted that Brissenden had what Professor Caldwell lacked—namely, fire, the flashing insight and perception, the flaming uncontrol of genius. Living language flowed from him. His thin lips, like the dies of a machine, stamped out phrases that cut and stung; or again, pursing caressingly about the inchoate sound they articulated, the thin lips shaped soft and velvety things, mellow phrases of glow and glory, of haunting beauty, reverberant of the mystery and inscrutableness of life; and yet again the thin lips were like a bugle, from which rang the crash and tumult of cosmic strife, phrases that sounded clear as silver, that were luminous as starry spaces, that epitomized the final word of science and yet said something more—the poet’s word, the transcendental truth, elusive and without words which could express, and which none the less found expression in the subtle and all but ungraspable connotations of common words. He, by some wonder of vision, saw beyond the farthest outpost of empiricism, where was no language for narration, and yet, by some golden miracle of speech, investing known words with unknown significances, he conveyed to Martin’s consciousness messages that were incommunicable to ordinary souls.

Martin forgot his first impression of dislike. Here was the best the books had to offer coming true. Here was an intelligence, a living man for him to look up to. “I am down in the dirt at your feet,” Martin repeated to himself again and again.

“You’ve studied biology,” he said aloud, in significant allusion.

To his surprise Brissenden shook his head.

“But you are stating truths that are substantiated only by biology,”Martin insisted, and was rewarded by a blank stare. “Your conclusions are in line with the books which you must have read.”

“I am glad to hear it,” was the answer. “That my smattering of knowledge should enable me to short-cut my way to truth is most reassuring. As for myself, I never bother to find out if I am right or not. It is all valueless anyway. Man can never know the ultimate verities.”

“You are a disciple of Spencer!” Martin cried triumphantly.

“I haven’t read him since adolescence, and all I read then was his‘Education.’”

“I wish I could gather knowledge as carelessly,” Martin broke out half an hour later. He had been closely analyzing Brissenden’s mental equipment.“You are a sheer dogmatist, and That’s what makes it so marvellous. You state dogmatically the latest facts which science has been able to establish only by a posteriori reasoning. You jump at correct conclusions. You certainly short-cut with a vengeance. You feel your way with the speed of light, by some hyperrational process, to truth.”

“Yes, that was what used to bother Father Joseph, and Brother Dutton,”Brissenden replied. “Oh, no,” he added; “I am not anything. It was a lucky trick of fate that sent me to a Catholic college for my education. Where did you pick up what you know?”

And while Martin told him, he was busy studying Brissenden, ranging from a long, lean, aristocratic face and drooping shoulders to the overcoat on a neighboring chair, its pockets sagged and bulged by the freightage of many books. Brissenden’s face and long, slender hands were browned by the sun—excessively browned, Martin thought. This sunburn bothered Martin. It was patent that Brissenden was no outdoor man. Then how had he been ravaged by the sun? Something morbid and significant attached to that sunburn, was Martin’s thought as he returned to a study of the face, narrow, with high cheek-bones and cavernous hollows, and graced with as delicate and fine an aquiline nose as Martin had ever seen. There was nothing remarkable about the size of the eyes. They were neither large nor small, while their color was a nondescript brown; but in them smouldered a fire, or, rather, lurked an expression dual and strangely contradictory. Defiant, indomitable, even harsh to excess, they at the same time aroused pity. Martin found himself pitying him he knew not why, though he was soon to learn.

“Oh, I’m a lunger,” Brissenden announced, offhand, a little later, having already stated that he came from Arizona. “I’ve been down there a couple of years living on the climate.”

“Aren’t you afraid to venture it up in this climate?”

“Afraid?”

There was no special emphasis of his repetition of Martin’s word. But Martin saw in that ascetic face the advertisement that there was nothing of which it was afraid. The eyes had narrowed till they were eagle-like, and Martin almost caught his breath as he noted the eagle beak with its dilated nostrils, defiant, assertive, aggressive. Magnificent, was what he commented to himself, his blood thrilling at the sight. Aloud, he quoted:—

“‘Under the bludgeoning of Chance

My head is bloody but unbowed.’”

“You like Henley,” Brissenden said, his expression changing swiftly to large graciousness and tenderness. “Of course, I couldn’t have expected anything else of you. Ah, Henley! A brave soul. He stands out among contemporary rhymesters—magazine rhymesters—as a gladiator stands out in the midst of a band of eunuchs.”

“You don’t like the magazines,” Martin softly impeached.

“Do you?” was snarled back at him so savagely as to startle him.

“I—I write, or, rather, try to write, for the magazines,” Martin faltered.“That’s better,” was the mollified rejoinder. “You try to write, but you don’t succeed. I respect and admire your failure. I know what you write. I can see it with half an eye, and there’s one ingredient in it that shuts it out of the magazines. It’s guts, and magazines have no use for that particular commodity. What they want is wish-wash and slush, and God knows they get it, but not from you.”

“I’m not above hack-work,” Martin contended.

“On the contrary—” Brissenden paused and ran an insolent eye over Martin’s objective poverty, passing from the well-worn tie and the saw-edged collar to the shiny sleeves of the coat and on to the slight fray of one cuff, winding up and dwelling upon Martin’s sunken cheeks. “On the contrary, hack-work is above you, so far above you that you can never hope to rise to it. Why, man, I could insult you by asking you to have something to eat.”

Martin felt the heat in his face of the involuntary blood, and Brissenden laughed triumphantly.

“A full man is not insulted by such an invitation,” he concluded.

“You are a devil,” Martin cried irritably.

“Anyway, I didn’t ask you.”

“You didn’t dare.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I invite you now.”

Brissenden half rose from his chair as he spoke, as if with the intention of departing to the restaurant forthwith.

Martin’s fists were tight-clenched, and his blood was drumming in his temples.

“Bosco! He eats ’em alive! Eats ’em alive!” Brissenden exclaimed, imitating the spieler of a locally famous snake-eater.

“I could certainly eat you alive,” Martin said, in turn running insolent eyes over the other’s disease-ravaged frame.

“Only I’m not worthy of it?”

“On the contrary,” Martin considered, “because the incident is not worthy. “ He broke into a laugh, hearty and wholesome. “I confess you made a fool of me, Brissenden. That I am hungry and you are aware of it are only ordinary phenomena, and there’s no disgrace. You see, I laugh at the conventional little moralities of the herd; then you drift by, say a sharp, true word, and immediately I am the slave of the same little moralities.”

“You were insulted,” Brissenden affirmed.

“I certainly was, a moment ago. The prejudice of early youth, you know. I learned such things then, and they cheapen what I have since learned. They are the skeletons in my particular closet.”

“But you’ve got the door shut on them now?”

“I certainly have.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“Then let’s go and get something to eat.”

“I’ll go you,” Martin answered, attempting to pay for the current Scotch and soda with the last change from his two dollars and seeing the waiter bullied by Brissenden into putting that change back on the table.

Martin pocketed it with a grimace, and felt for a moment the kindly weight of Brissenden’s hand upon his shoulder.

第三十一章

在百老匯大街上,馬丁無(wú)意中碰到了他的姐姐葛特露——這原來(lái)是一次非常幸運(yùn)的巧遇,可是卻讓他感到窘迫萬(wàn)分。她在街拐角等電車,先瞧見(jiàn)了他,注意到了他那張餓出了皺紋的臉上急切的表情,以及他眼里絕望和陰郁的神色。他剛?cè)フ疫^(guò)當(dāng)鋪老板,想憑著已當(dāng)出的自行車再弄點(diǎn)錢(qián)來(lái),但結(jié)果一無(wú)所獲。泥濘的秋季,馬丁早就當(dāng)?shù)袅俗孕熊嚕涣粝铝四翘缀谏餮b。

“你還有一套黑衣服嘛,”當(dāng)鋪老板對(duì)他的每筆財(cái)產(chǎn)都了如指掌,便這樣回答他說(shuō),“你可別說(shuō)你把它已當(dāng)給了那個(gè)猶太人李普卡。因?yàn)槟闳绻娴摹?/p>

老板顯出一副威脅的表情,慌得馬丁急忙申明:

“不,不,衣服還在我這兒。不過(guò),我有正經(jīng)事,要留著穿呢?!?/p>

“好吧,”榨人血汗的老板平靜地說(shuō),“我這是做生意,你把衣服拿來(lái),我才能給你錢(qián)。你以為我這一行是干著玩的嗎?”

“可我的車子一點(diǎn)毛病都沒(méi)有,價(jià)值四十塊錢(qián)呀。”馬丁辯駁道,“你只給了我七塊錢(qián)。不,連七塊也不到,而是六塊兩毛五,你把利息預(yù)先扣下了?!?/p>

“再想要錢(qián),就取衣服來(lái)?!睂?duì)方的一句答復(fù)把馬丁打發(fā)出了那間密不透風(fēng)的骯臟小屋。馬丁絕望的心情流露在臉上,引起了姐姐的憐憫。

姐弟倆剛見(jiàn)面,電報(bào)大街的電車便開(kāi)了過(guò)來(lái),停下來(lái)運(yùn)載那些下午出來(lái)購(gòu)物的人。他攙著姐姐的胳膊上車,而希金波森夫人從他的攙扶中覺(jué)察到他不打算跟她一道上車。于是她在踏板上轉(zhuǎn)過(guò)身來(lái),低頭望著他那張憔悴的面孔,心里又感到一陣隱痛。

“你不上來(lái)嗎?”她問(wèn)道。

說(shuō)著話,她就下了車,站到了他身旁。

“我步行——你知道,這是一種鍛煉?!彼忉屨f(shuō)。

“那么我就陪你走幾段街區(qū)吧,”她宣稱道,“也許這對(duì)我有好處。這些日子我老是感到四肢無(wú)力?!?/p>

馬丁打量了她一眼,便知道她說(shuō)的是真話。只見(jiàn)她渾身上下一副邋遢相,肥胖得有些不健康,耷拉著肩膀,疲倦的臉上布滿了松弛的皺紋,沉重的腳步缺乏彈性——看她的步態(tài),像是在模仿一個(gè)無(wú)憂無(wú)慮、心情愉快的人走路,可又模仿得丑態(tài)百出。

“你最好還是在這兒等下一趟車吧?!彼?jiàn)姐姐走到頭一個(gè)街角便停了下來(lái),于是這樣對(duì)她說(shuō)道。

“老天呀!瞧我已經(jīng)累得不行了!”她氣喘吁吁地說(shuō),“不過(guò),你穿著這種鞋,我照樣能陪你走下去。你的鞋底薄得跟紙一樣,走不到北奧克蘭,早早就會(huì)磨穿的?!?/p>

“家里還有雙好的呢。”馬丁答道。

“明天來(lái)吃晚飯吧,”她前后不接茬地邀請(qǐng)道,“希金波森先生不會(huì)在家的。他要到圣萊安德羅辦事去。”

馬丁搖了搖頭,可是一聽(tīng)到邀請(qǐng)他吃飯,他的眼睛里便無(wú)法遏制地閃現(xiàn)出一副餓狼似的神色。

“你身無(wú)分文,馬特,所以才步行鍛煉吧!”她原打算輕蔑地哼一聲鼻子,可末了僅僅抽噎了一下,“等等,讓我找找看?!?/p>

她在手提包里摸索了一陣,把一枚五塊錢(qián)的金幣塞進(jìn)了他手中?!扒莆遥涯闵洗蔚纳战o忘了,馬特?!彼Z(yǔ)無(wú)倫次地喃喃著。

馬丁的手本能地握住了那枚金幣,但與此同時(shí),他覺(jué)得自己不該收下金幣,于是猶豫不決,被弄得痛苦萬(wàn)分。這枚金幣意味著食物、生命、體力和腦力,還有——誰(shuí)說(shuō)得準(zhǔn)呢?——也許他真能寫(xiě)出一篇佳作,掙來(lái)許多枚金幣哩。在他的幻覺(jué)中,清清楚楚地閃現(xiàn)出他剛剛寫(xiě)完的兩篇論文的手稿。他看到它們被扔到了桌下,擱在那堆給人家退了回來(lái)但他無(wú)錢(qián)買郵票寄出的稿件上。他看到了它們的題目——那是他用打字機(jī)打出來(lái)的:《神秘的祭司長(zhǎng)》和《美之發(fā)祥地》。這兩篇文章還從未投出去過(guò)呢。它們與他在這方面所寫(xiě)的其他文章相比毫不遜色。要是有郵票就好啦!他心中涌起最后必勝的信念,而這種信念與饑餓感結(jié)成有力的聯(lián)盟,督促他飛快地將金幣裝進(jìn)了自己的口袋。

“我會(huì)還你的,葛特露,還你一百倍的錢(qián)?!彼煅柿艘幌抡f(shuō),喉頭發(fā)痛發(fā)緊,眼睛一下子有些濕潤(rùn)。

“請(qǐng)記住我的話!”他不連貫地以一種自信的口吻叫嚷道,“不出一年的時(shí)間,我就會(huì)把整整一百枚黃燦燦的金幣放到你的手上。我并不要求你相信我。你就等著瞧吧?!?/p>

說(shuō)實(shí)在的,她的確不相信他的話。她心中的疑慮攪得她很是不安,可又拿不出辦法來(lái),于是這樣說(shuō)道:

“我知道你在挨餓,馬特。你渾身上下都露出一種餓相。你隨時(shí)可以來(lái)家里吃飯。希金波森先生一出門(mén),我就打發(fā)孩子去叫你。另外,馬特——”

他等著她朝下說(shuō),不過(guò),他心里明白她要端出什么話來(lái),因?yàn)樗麑?duì)她的思維方式了解得一清二楚。

“你不覺(jué)得現(xiàn)在該找個(gè)工作干干嗎?”

“你認(rèn)為我這樣做無(wú)出頭之日嗎?”

她搖了搖頭。

“除了我自己,沒(méi)有人對(duì)我抱有信心,葛特露。”他帶著激烈的反抗情緒說(shuō),“我寫(xiě)出了許多優(yōu)秀作品,早晚有一天會(huì)賣出去的。”

“你怎么知道是優(yōu)秀作品呢?”

“因?yàn)椤彼哪X海里翻騰著壯闊的文學(xué)及文學(xué)史的畫(huà)面,使他覺(jué)得無(wú)法向她解釋清他為什么有自信心,于是便遲疑了一下,“因?yàn)殡s志上刊出的文章,百分之九十九都不如我寫(xiě)的好?!?/p>

“真希望你能聽(tīng)聽(tīng)別人的勸告,”她說(shuō)話的語(yǔ)氣軟,但看法不可動(dòng)搖,堅(jiān)信自己正確地診斷出了他的痼疾,“真希望你能聽(tīng)聽(tīng)別人的勸告?!彼种貜?fù)了一遍說(shuō),“明天來(lái)家里吃晚飯吧。”

馬丁把她抉上電車后,便匆匆趕到郵局買郵票,五塊錢(qián)花掉了三塊。就在當(dāng)天去摩斯家的路上,他又折進(jìn)郵局,把好多又長(zhǎng)又厚的信封放在秤上稱了稱,將郵票全都貼了上去,只剩下了三張兩分的。

后來(lái)才發(fā)現(xiàn),這個(gè)晚上對(duì)馬丁來(lái)說(shuō)十分重要,因?yàn)橛眠^(guò)餐后,他結(jié)識(shí)了勒斯·勃力森登。馬丁不知道這個(gè)人是怎么鉆進(jìn)摩府來(lái)的,也不知他是誰(shuí)的朋友,或者哪位熟人把他帶來(lái)的。他也無(wú)心去向露絲打聽(tīng)此人的情況。簡(jiǎn)而言之,馬丁一開(kāi)始只覺(jué)得勃力森登萎靡不振、蠢頭蠢腦,所以根本沒(méi)把他往心上放。過(guò)了有一小時(shí),他發(fā)現(xiàn)勃力森登還是個(gè)缺乏禮貌的人,只見(jiàn)他從一個(gè)房間轉(zhuǎn)到另一個(gè)房間,癡呆呆地望著那些畫(huà),要不就從桌子上或書(shū)架上取書(shū)及雜志看。勃力森登是頭一次來(lái)摩斯家,可是他不與其他人接觸,自己坐在一張寬敞的莫里斯安樂(lè)椅上,蜷起身子,從口袋里掏出一本薄薄的書(shū),泰然自若地看了起來(lái)。他一邊出神地看書(shū),一邊用手指輕柔地梳理著頭發(fā)。這天晚上,馬丁再?zèng)]有去注意他,除了一次,他看到勃力森登在和幾位年輕姑娘打情罵俏時(shí)倒顯出一副志得意滿的樣子。

說(shuō)來(lái)也巧,馬丁離開(kāi)時(shí),在小道上攆上了勃力森登,此刻勃力森登已經(jīng)快走到了街上。

“喂,你好??!”馬丁說(shuō)。

對(duì)方僅僅沒(méi)禮貌地哼了一聲,算是作為回答,不過(guò)卻調(diào)過(guò)身來(lái)同他走到了一起。馬丁沒(méi)再主動(dòng)地找話說(shuō),于是兩人默默無(wú)語(yǔ)地朝前走了幾段路。

“真是個(gè)高傲的老混蛋!”

這一聲嚷嚷又突兀又惡毒,嚇了馬丁一跳。他感到莫名其妙,同時(shí)愈加討厭對(duì)方了。

“你跑到這種地方來(lái)干什么呢?”兩人默默地又走了一段路之后,對(duì)方突然發(fā)問(wèn)道。

“那你呢?”馬丁反問(wèn)道。

“不知道,我一點(diǎn)也不明白。”對(duì)方回答,“不過(guò),我這樣輕率可是頭一次。一天有二十四個(gè)小時(shí),好歹總得打發(fā)掉啊。走,跟我喝一杯去?!?/p>

“好吧?!瘪R丁答道。

他欣然答應(yīng)了對(duì)方,可緊接著就感到為難起來(lái)?;氐郊?,他上床之前得寫(xiě)幾個(gè)小時(shí)賣錢(qián)的作品,而上床后還有一部魏斯曼的作品在等著他,就更別提和激動(dòng)人心的小說(shuō)一樣充滿了離奇曲折情節(jié)的赫伯特·斯賓塞的《自傳》了。他心想,何必要把時(shí)間浪費(fèi)在一個(gè)他不喜歡的人身上呢?可是,真正叫他感興趣的不是身旁的這個(gè)人,也不是喝酒呀,而是喝酒時(shí)的氣氛——雪亮的燈光、鏡子,以及一排排耀眼的酒杯、熱情洋溢和容光煥發(fā)的面孔、人們大聲的喧鬧。對(duì),正是這樣,他感興趣的是鼎沸的人聲——那些人是樂(lè)天派,散發(fā)出成功的氣息,花錢(qián)買酒氣度不凡。他孤苦寂寞,這就是問(wèn)題的所在。所以,一旦有人邀請(qǐng),他就會(huì)一口答應(yīng)下來(lái),活似一條鰹魚(yú),緊緊咬住鉤上的誘餌不放。他和喬在雪萊溫泉旅館喝過(guò)酒,后來(lái)又跟那位葡萄牙食品商喝過(guò)一回,但自那以后他再?zèng)]下過(guò)酒吧飲酒。腦力上的勞累與體力上的勞累不一樣,不會(huì)激起飲酒的欲望,因此他沒(méi)感到過(guò)有喝酒的必要。但這會(huì)兒,他心里卻升騰起了喝酒的欲望,或者不如說(shuō),他渴望在賣酒和飲酒的氣氛中陶醉一番。而“洞穴”酒吧正是這樣一種地方——他和勃力森登坐在酒吧里的大皮椅子上,呷著威士忌和蘇打水。

他們交談著,談話的內(nèi)容涉及面很廣。兩人輪流做東,依次叫酒。馬丁酒量驚人,瞧見(jiàn)對(duì)方也是海量,不由感到詫異,他還常常放下酒杯,不無(wú)意外地傾聽(tīng)對(duì)方的高談闊論。不大一會(huì)兒,他就發(fā)現(xiàn)勃力森登無(wú)所不曉,覺(jué)得他是自己遇到的第二個(gè)智力超群的人。而且,他還發(fā)現(xiàn)勃力森登具有一些考德威爾教授所缺乏的東西——即熾熱的感情、敏銳的眼光和洞察力,以及燦爛奔放的天賦。生動(dòng)的語(yǔ)言潺潺流淌出勃力森登的口中。他的兩片薄嘴唇恰似機(jī)器的沖模,沖出的詞語(yǔ)又尖銳又刻薄;有時(shí),這兩片薄嘴唇微微噘起,發(fā)出委婉動(dòng)聽(tīng)的聲音,講出溫柔悅耳的話語(yǔ),以及閃閃發(fā)光的優(yōu)美詞句,美得令人難以忘懷,還吐露出深不可測(cè)的生活之謎;有時(shí),這兩片薄嘴唇就像號(hào)角一樣,吹出宇宙間的沖撞和混戰(zhàn)聲,那些詞句如銀鈴樣清越、似星空般皎潔,不僅概括了科學(xué)的結(jié)論,還講述了更多的道理——那是詩(shī)人的精神、超自然的真理,如此撲朔迷離,無(wú)法用語(yǔ)言表達(dá),只能靠微妙而不可捕捉的深?yuàn)W詞句來(lái)傳意。他具有神奇的眼力,可以根據(jù)經(jīng)驗(yàn)看到最遙遠(yuǎn)的地方,看到語(yǔ)言所不能夠描述的地方,可是他卻創(chuàng)造了奇跡,用黃金語(yǔ)言,把未知的意義賦予已知的詞匯,將一般人所無(wú)法接受的信息輸送給馬丁的大腦。

馬丁忘掉了起初對(duì)他的厭惡感。此刻,書(shū)本所能夠提供的最優(yōu)秀的東西變成了現(xiàn)實(shí)。眼前就是一個(gè)智囊,一個(gè)活生生的他所敬仰的對(duì)象。“真讓人佩服得五體投地??!”他在心里一遍遍念叨著。

“看來(lái)你是研究生物學(xué)的?!彼馕渡铋L(zhǎng)地說(shuō)出了聲。

令他感到意外的是,勃力森登竟搖了搖頭。

“可是你所闡明的真理只有生物學(xué)才能夠論證呀,”馬丁堅(jiān)持著說(shuō),而對(duì)方漠漠地瞪著他瞧,“你的結(jié)論一定與你看的書(shū)是一致的?!?/p>

“聽(tīng)到這話真讓人高興。”勃力森登說(shuō),“我仗著一星半點(diǎn)的知識(shí)走捷徑找到了真理,想起來(lái)就使我感到寬慰。就我本人而言,我從不關(guān)心自己正確與否,因?yàn)槟鞘呛翢o(wú)價(jià)值的。人類永遠(yuǎn)都不可能徹底地了解真理?!?/p>

“原來(lái)你是斯賓塞的信徒!”馬丁歡喜地叫嚷道。

“我只是在青少年時(shí)期看過(guò)他的書(shū),而且僅僅看了一本《教育學(xué)》?!薄暗肝乙材芟衲阋粯虞p松隨便地積累知識(shí)?!卑胄r(shí)之后馬丁這樣說(shuō)道。他剛才一直在仔細(xì)分析勃力森登的智力?!澳阏媸且粋€(gè)武斷的人,而這正是你的絕妙之處。你以武斷的觀點(diǎn),說(shuō)出了科學(xué)家們靠著歸納和推理才論證出的最新事實(shí)。你一下就得出了正確的結(jié)論。你完全抄的是一條近路啊。你以光的速度,憑著某種超理性的方法找到了真理。”

“是啊,這一點(diǎn)過(guò)去曾讓約瑟夫神甫以及德登修士感到頭痛?!辈ι谴鸬溃班?,不,”他接著又說(shuō)道,“我算不上什么。我只是憑著幸運(yùn),才進(jìn)了天主教大學(xué)接受教育。你的知識(shí)是從哪里學(xué)來(lái)的?”馬丁回答的時(shí)候,不住眼地打量著勃力森登,從他那又瘦又長(zhǎng)貴族式的面龐、耷拉的肩頭,一直打量到他那放在旁邊椅子上的大衣以及被許多書(shū)塞得鼓鼓囊囊的衣袋。勃力森登的臉以及纖細(xì)的長(zhǎng)手都被太陽(yáng)曬得發(fā)黑——馬丁覺(jué)得未免太黑了。這種曬出的黑膚色叫馬丁感到擔(dān)心。很顯然,勃力森登不屬于戶外活動(dòng)的人,那他怎么會(huì)受到陽(yáng)光的蹂躪呢?馬丁心想,這種黑膚色有點(diǎn)病態(tài),其中必有緣故,同時(shí)他又開(kāi)始端詳那副面孔——那張臉顴骨高聳、兩頰深陷,長(zhǎng)著一個(gè)馬丁前所未見(jiàn)的典雅端莊的鷹鉤鼻。那雙眼睛倒沒(méi)有什么特別的,大小適中,呈現(xiàn)出一種難以形容的棕色;不過(guò),眼睛里燃燒著一團(tuán)烈火,或者更確切些說(shuō),隱藏著一種既奇特又矛盾、雙重意義的表情。那雙眼睛閃射出堅(jiān)強(qiáng)不屈的挑戰(zhàn)光芒,甚至顯得嚴(yán)厲過(guò)度,但同時(shí)又惹人憐憫。馬丁對(duì)他頓生憐憫之心,雖然當(dāng)時(shí)并不知為什么,可馬上便了解了其中的原因。

“噢,我染上了肺結(jié)核病,”過(guò)了一會(huì)兒,勃力森登先說(shuō)自己來(lái)自亞利桑那州,繼而隨口這樣宣稱道,“那兒氣候不錯(cuò),我到那兒待過(guò)兩三年?!?/p>

“這里的氣候不怎么樣,難道你就不怕發(fā)病嗎?”

“怕發(fā)?。俊?/p>

他在重復(fù)馬丁所用的詞語(yǔ)時(shí)雖沒(méi)著意強(qiáng)調(diào),但馬丁從他那張苦行者的臉上看得分明,他是無(wú)所畏懼的。勃力森登的眼睛瞇起來(lái),活像雄鷹的眼睛,馬丁留意到他的鷹鉤鼻和脹大的鼻孔是那樣富于好斗性,那樣咄咄逼人和肆無(wú)忌憚,差點(diǎn)都喘不過(guò)氣來(lái)了。他暗暗叫好,同時(shí)熱血沸騰,不由出口朗誦道:

命運(yùn)給了我當(dāng)頭一棒,

打得我頭破血流,

但我的腦袋依然高揚(yáng)。

“你喜歡亨利的詩(shī),”勃力森登說(shuō),表情迅速變得和藹溫柔起來(lái),“當(dāng)然,這也是意料之中的事,啊,亨利,一個(gè)勇敢的戰(zhàn)士!他在當(dāng)代詩(shī)人中——在那些雜志詩(shī)人中,可謂鶴立雞群,活似太監(jiān)群里站立著的一個(gè)角斗士?!?/p>

“你不喜歡雜志嗎?”馬丁低聲責(zé)問(wèn)道。

“你喜歡嗎?”對(duì)方?jīng)_著他咆哮道,口氣粗野得嚇了他一跳。

“我嘛——我為雜志撰稿,或者只是想為雜志撰稿罷了。”馬丁支支吾吾地說(shuō)。

“這就好?!睂?duì)方的口氣軟了下來(lái),“你想為它們撰稿,可是沒(méi)有得志。正因?yàn)槟阋粩⊥康兀也抛鹁茨愫蜌J佩你。我知道你寫(xiě)的是什么樣的文章。我閉著眼都看得出,你的文章當(dāng)中有一樣?xùn)|西使你處處吃閉門(mén)羹。那就是有膽有識(shí)的觀點(diǎn),雜志社是不需要這類貨色的,它們所需要的是空洞無(wú)聊的垃圾。上帝很清楚,它們登的就是這種文章,所以才沒(méi)有你的立足之地?!?/p>

“我并非不肩寫(xiě)平庸的文章。”馬丁反駁道。

“恰恰相反——”勃力森登打住話頭,傲慢地望了望馬丁的窮酸相,從他那破舊的領(lǐng)帶、毛了邊的衣領(lǐng)和油光發(fā)亮的上衣袖子一直望到略微有些磨損的袖口,接著把眼光上移,最后落到了他那深陷的臉頰上,“恰恰相反,平庸之作你還高攀不上呢。你差著十萬(wàn)八千里,永遠(yuǎn)也別指望能寫(xiě)好。聽(tīng)著,伙計(jì),我只消請(qǐng)你去吃飯,就可以激怒你?!?/p>

馬丁覺(jué)得臉上的血一個(gè)勁朝上涌,火辣辣的。勃力森登得意地哈哈大笑起來(lái)。

“吃飽了肚子的人接到這樣的邀請(qǐng),就不會(huì)惱火。”他斷言道。

“你是個(gè)魔鬼?!瘪R丁怒氣沖沖地叫嚷道。

“瞧你,我又沒(méi)邀請(qǐng)你?!?/p>

“你沒(méi)那個(gè)膽量?!?/p>

“嗬,這倒說(shuō)不定。我現(xiàn)在向你發(fā)出邀請(qǐng)?!?/p>

勃力森登說(shuō)著從椅子上半欠起身來(lái),好像準(zhǔn)備立刻上飯館吃飯去似的。

馬丁攥緊拳頭,太陽(yáng)穴里的血管嗵嗵地跳著。

“波斯科!他可以把活蛇一口吞下!把活蛇一口吞下!”勃力森登模仿著當(dāng)?shù)匾晃恢躺呷苏袕粕獾那徽{(diào)喊叫了起來(lái)。

“我也可以將你生吃活剝?!瘪R丁說(shuō),一邊用無(wú)情的目光掃視著對(duì)方那遭到疾病摧殘的身軀。

“可惜我不值得讓你吃?!?/p>

“其實(shí),”馬丁思考著說(shuō),“你不值得小題大做?!彼蝗婚_(kāi)懷大笑了起來(lái),笑得又舒暢又痛快,“老實(shí)講,你在出我的洋相,勃力森登。你知道我在挨餓,可這沒(méi)什么大驚小怪的,也沒(méi)什么丟人的。按說(shuō),我瞧不起的就是人們那褊狹的世俗觀念;你隨口說(shuō)了一句尖銳的話,一句大實(shí)話,我立刻就被褊狹的觀念所左右了?!?/p>

“你惱火了?!辈ι且豢谝Фㄕf(shuō)。

“我剛才的確是惱了,這是出于小時(shí)候養(yǎng)成的偏見(jiàn)。我接受了那些陳舊觀念,我后來(lái)學(xué)的東西都被它們庸俗化了。它們是我心里見(jiàn)不得人的東西。”

“現(xiàn)在你把它們視如敝屣啦?”

“當(dāng)然嘍?!?/p>

“真的嗎?”

“真的?!?/p>

“那好,咱們吃點(diǎn)東西去。”

“讓我清賬吧?!瘪R丁這樣說(shuō)道。他想用那兩塊錢(qián)中花剩下的一點(diǎn)零錢(qián)付剛才喝的威士忌和蘇打水,可勃力森登硬是逼著侍者把零錢(qián)放回到了桌子上。

馬丁扮了個(gè)鬼臉,將錢(qián)塞進(jìn)了口袋,接著感到勃力森登把一只手親切地搭在了他的肩上。

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