Over the coffee, in his little room, Martin read next morning's paper. It was a novel experience to find himself head-lined, on the first page at that; and he was surprised to learn that he was the most notorious leader of the Oakland socialists. He ran over the violent speech the cub reporter had constructed for him, and, though at first he was angered by the fabrication, in the end he tossed the paper aside with a laugh.

"Either the man was drunk or criminally malicious," he said that afternoon, from his perch on the bed, when Brissenden had arrived and dropped limply into the one chair.

"But what do you care?" Brissenden asked. "Surely you don't desire the approval of the bourgeois swine that read the newspapers?"

Martin thought for a while, then said:-

"No, I really don't care for their approval, not a whit. On the other hand, it's very likely to make my relations with Ruth's family a trifle awkward. Her father always contended I was a socialist, and this miserable stuff will clinch his belief. Not that I care for his opinion - but what's the odds? I want to read you what I've been doing to-day. It's 'Overdue,' of course, and I'm just about halfway through."

He was reading aloud when Maria thrust open the door and ushered in a young man in a natty suit who glanced briskly about him, noting the oil-burner and the kitchen in the corner before his gaze wandered on to Martin.

"Sit down," Brissenden said.

Martin made room for the young man on the bed and waited for him to broach his business.

"I heard you speak last night, Mr. Eden, and I've come to interview you," he began.

Brissenden burst out in a hearty laugh.

"A brother socialist?" the reporter asked, with a quick glance at Brissenden that appraised the color-value of that cadaverous and dying man.

"And he wrote that report," Martin said softly. "Why, he is only a boy!"

"Why don't you poke him?" Brissenden asked. "I'd give a thousand dollars to have my lungs back for five minutes."

The cub reporter was a trifle perplexed by this talking over him and around him and at him. But he had been commended for his brilliant description of the socialist meeting and had further been detailed to get a personal interview with Martin Eden, the leader of the organized menace to society.

"You do not object to having your picture taken, Mr. Eden?" he said. "I've a staff photographer outside, you see, and he says it will be better to take you right away before the sun gets lower. Then we can have the interview afterward."

"A photographer," Brissenden said meditatively. "Poke him, Martin! Poke him!"

"I guess I'm getting old," was the answer. "I know I ought, but I really haven't the heart. It doesn't seem to matter."

"For his mother's sake," Brissenden urged.

"It's worth considering," Martin replied; "but it doesn't seem worth while enough to rouse sufficient energy in me. You see, it does take energy to give a fellow a poking. Besides, what does it matter?"

"That's right - that's the way to take it," the cub announced airily, though he had already begun to glance anxiously at the door.

"But it wasn't true, not a word of what he wrote," Martin went on, confining his attention to Brissenden.

"It was just in a general way a description, you understand," the cub ventured, "and besides, it's good advertising. That's what counts. It was a favor to you."

"It's good advertising, Martin, old boy," Brissenden repeated solemnly.

"And it was a favor to me - think of that!" was Martin's contribution.

"Let me see - where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden. "He remembers it all."

"That is sufficient for me." The cub was trying not to look worried. "No decent reporter needs to bother with notes."

"That was sufficient - for last night." But Brissenden was not a disciple of quietism, and he changed his attitude abruptly. "Martin, if you don't poke him, I'll do it myself, if I fall dead on the floor the next moment."

"How will a spanking do?" Martin asked.

Brissenden considered judicially, and nodded his head.

The next instant Martin was seated on the edge of the bed with the cub face downward across his knees.

"Now don't bite," Martin warned, "or else I'll have to punch your face. It would be a pity, for it is such a pretty face."

His uplifted hand descended, and thereafter rose and fell in a swift and steady rhythm. The cub struggled and cursed and squirmed, but did not offer to bite. Brissenden looked on gravely, though once he grew excited and gripped the whiskey bottle, pleading, "Here, just let me swat him once."

"Sorry my hand played out," Martin said, when at last he desisted. "It is quite numb."

He uprighted the cub and perched him on the bed.

"I'll have you arrested for this," he snarled, tears of boyish indignation running down his flushed cheeks. "I'll make you sweat for this. You'll see."

"The pretty thing," Martin remarked. "He doesn't realize that he has entered upon the downward path. It is not honest, it is not square, it is not manly, to tell lies about one's fellow-creatures the way he has done, and he doesn't know it."

"He has to come to us to be told," Brissenden filled in a pause.

"Yes, to me whom he has maligned and injured. My grocery will undoubtedly refuse me credit now. The worst of it is that the poor boy will keep on this way until he deteriorates into a first-class newspaper man and also a first-class scoundrel."

"But there is yet time," quoth Brissenden. "Who knows but what you may prove the humble instrument to save him. Why didn't you let me swat him just once? I'd like to have had a hand in it."

"I'll have you arrested, the pair of you, you b-b-big brutes," sobbed the erring soul.

"No, his mouth is too pretty and too weak." Martin shook his head lugubriously. "I'm afraid I've numbed my hand in vain. The young man cannot reform. He will become eventually a very great and successful newspaper man. He has no conscience. That alone will make him great."

With that the cub passed out the door in trepidation to the last for fear that Brissenden would hit him in the back with the bottle he still clutched.

In the next morning's paper Martin learned a great deal more about himself that was new to him. "We are the sworn enemies of society," he found himself quoted as saying in a column interview. "No, we are not anarchists but socialists." When the reporter pointed out to him that there seemed little difference between the two schools, Martin had shrugged his shoulders in silent affirmation. His face was described as bilaterally asymmetrical, and various other signs of degeneration were described. Especially notable were his thuglike hands and the fiery gleams in his blood- shot eyes.

He learned, also, that he spoke nightly to the workmen in the City Hall Park, and that among the anarchists and agitators that there inflamed the minds of the people he drew the largest audiences and made the most revolutionary speeches. The cub painted a high-light picture of his poor little room, its oil-stove and the one chair, and of the death's-head tramp who kept him company and who looked as if he had just emerged from twenty years of solitary confinement in some fortress dungeon.

The cub had been industrious. He had scurried around and nosed out Martin's family history, and procured a photograph of Higginbotham's Cash Store with Bernard Higginbotham himself standing out in front. That gentleman was depicted as an intelligent, dignified businessman who had no patience with his brother-in-law's socialistic views, and no patience with the brother-in-law, either, whom he was quoted as characterizing as a lazy good-for-nothing who wouldn't take a job when it was offered to him and who would go to jail yet. Hermann Yon Schmidt, Marian's husband, had likewise been interviewed. He had called Martin the black sheep of the family and repudiated him. "He tried to sponge off of me, but I put a stop to that good and quick," Von Schmidt had said to the reporter. "He knows better than to come bumming around here. A man who won't work is no good, take that from me."

This time Martin was genuinely angry. Brissenden looked upon the affair as a good joke, but he could not console Martin, who knew that it would be no easy task to explain to Ruth. As for her father, he knew that he must be overjoyed with what had happened and that he would make the most of it to break off the engagement. How much he would make of it he was soon to realize. The afternoon mail brought a letter from Ruth. Martin opened it with a premonition of disaster, and read it standing at the open door when he had received it from the postman. As he read, mechanically his hand sought his pocket for the tobacco and brown paper of his old cigarette days. He was not aware that the pocket was empty or that he had even reached for the materials with which to roll a cigarette.

It was not a passionate letter. There were no touches of anger in it. But all the way through, from the first sentence to the last, was sounded the note of hurt and disappointment. She had expected better of him. She had thought he had got over his youthful wildness, that her love for him had been sufficiently worth while to enable him to live seriously and decently. And now her father and mother had taken a firm stand and commanded that the engagement be broken. That they were justified in this she could not but admit. Their relation could never be a happy one. It had been unfortunate from the first. But one regret she voiced in the whole letter, and it was a bitter one to Martin. "If only you had settled down to some position and attempted to make something of yourself," she wrote. "But it was not to be. Your past life had been too wild and irregular. I can understand that you are not to be blamed. You could act only according to your nature and your early training. So I do not blame you, Martin. Please remember that. It was simply a mistake. As father and mother have contended, we were not made for each other, and we should both be happy because it was discovered not too late." . . "There is no use trying to see me," she said toward the last. "It would be an unhappy meeting for both of us, as well as for my mother. I feel, as it is, that I have caused her great pain and worry. I shall have to do much living to atone for it."

He read it through to the end, carefully, a second time, then sat down and replied. He outlined the remarks he had uttered at the socialist meeting, pointing out that they were in all ways the converse of what the newspaper had put in his mouth. Toward the end of the letter he was God's own lover pleading passionately for love. "Please answer," he said, "and in your answer you have to tell me but one thing. Do you love me? That is all - the answer to that one question."

But no answer came the next day, nor the next. "Overdue" lay untouched upon the table, and each day the heap of returned manuscripts under the table grew larger. For the first time Martin's glorious sleep was interrupted by insomnia, and he tossed through long, restless nights. Three times he called at the Morse home, but was turned away by the servant who answered the bell. Brissenden lay sick in his hotel, too feeble to stir out, and, though Martin was with him often, he did not worry him with his troubles.

For Martin's troubles were many. The aftermath of the cub reporter's deed was even wider than Martin had anticipated. The Portuguese grocer refused him further credit, while the greengrocer, who was an American and proud of it, had called him a traitor to his country and refused further dealings with him - carrying his patriotism to such a degree that he cancelled Martin's account and forbade him ever to attempt to pay it. The talk in the neighborhood reflected the same feeling, and indignation against Martin ran high. No one would have anything to do with a socialist traitor. Poor Maria was dubious and frightened, but she remained loyal. The children of the neighborhood recovered from the awe of the grand carriage which once had visited Martin, and from safe distances they called him "hobo" and "bum." The Silva tribe, however, stanchly defended him, fighting more than one pitched battle for his honor, and black eyes and bloody noses became quite the order of the day and added to Maria's perplexities and troubles.

Once, Martin met Gertrude on the street, down in Oakland, and learned what he knew could not be otherwise - that Bernard Higginbotham was furious with him for having dragged the family into public disgrace, and that he had forbidden him the house.

"Why don't you go away, Martin?" Gertrude had begged. "Go away and get a job somewhere and steady down. Afterwards, when this all blows over, you can come back."

Martin shook his head, but gave no explanations. How could he explain? He was appalled at the awful intellectual chasm that yawned between him and his people. He could never cross it and explain to them his position, - the Nietzschean position, in regard to socialism. There were not words enough in the English language, nor in any language, to make his attitude and conduct intelligible to them. Their highest concept of right conduct, in his case, was to get a job. That was their first word and their last. It constituted their whole lexicon of ideas. Get a job! Go to work! Poor, stupid slaves, he thought, while his sister talked. Small wonder the world belonged to the strong. The slaves were obsessed by their own slavery. A job was to them a golden fetich before which they fell down and worshipped.

He shook his head again, when Gertrude offered him money, though he knew that within the day he would have to make a trip to the pawnbroker.

"Don't come near Bernard now," she admonished him. "After a few months, when he is cooled down, if you want to, you can get the job of drivin' delivery-wagon for him. Any time you want me, just send for me an' I'll come. Don't forget."

She went away weeping audibly, and he felt a pang of sorrow shoot through him at sight of her heavy body and uncouth gait. As he watched her go, the Nietzschean edifice seemed to shake and totter. The slave-class in the abstract was all very well, but it was not wholly satisfactory when it was brought home to his own family. And yet, if there was ever a slave trampled by the strong, that slave was his sister Gertrude. He grinned savagely at the paradox. A fine Nietzsche-man he was, to allow his intellectual concepts to be shaken by the first sentiment or emotion that strayed along - ay, to be shaken by the slave-morality itself, for that was what his pity for his sister really was. The true noble men were above pity and compassion. Pity and compassion had been generated in the subterranean barracoons of the slaves and were no more than the agony and sweat of the crowded miserables and weaklings.

马丁是在小屋里喝着咖啡时读到第二天早上的报纸的。他得到了一个惊人的经验：发现自己以头版头条的位置登到了报上，而且成了奥克兰的社会党人臭名昭著的头子。他匆匆读完了那半瓶醋记者为他编造的激烈言论，虽然开始时很为那胡编乱造生气，后来却只笑了一笑便把那报纸扔到了一边。

“那家伙要不是喝醉了酒就是恶意诽谤。”那天下午他坐在床上说，那时布里森登来了，歪歪倒倒坐进了那唯一的椅子。

“那你管他干什么，”布里森登问他，“你肯定不会认为在报上读到这消息的资产阶级猪猡们会赞成你的话吧？”

马丁想了一会儿，说：——

“不，他们是否赞成我倒真不在乎，毫不在乎。可另一方面，这却能害得我跟露丝一家的关系更别扭。她爸爸总一D咬定说我是个社会主义者，现在这讨厌的玩意会叫他更加深信不疑的。我对他的意见倒不在乎——不过，那又算得什么？我想让你听听我今天才写的东西。当然，就是叫《过期》的那篇，写了才差不多一半。”

他正在朗读，玛利亚推开门，引进了一个年轻人。那人服装整齐，一进门先匆匆打量了布里森登一眼，注意到了煤油炉子和厨房，目光又回到马丁身上。

“坐，”布里森登说。

马丁在床上给年轻人让了个座位，等着他说明来意。

“我昨天晚上听了你的发言，伊登先生，现在是来采访你。”他开始了。

布里森登不禁哈哈大笑。

“他是你社会党的弟兄么？”记者急忙瞥了布里森登一眼，估计了一下那形容柏槁的快要死去的入的赤化程度，问道。

“那篇报道难道就是他写的么，”马丁低声说，“嗨，还是个娃娃呢！”

“你怎么不接他一顿？”布里森登问道，“要是能让我的肺恢复五分钟健康，我愿意出一千块钱。”

两人这样当着他的面不客气地议论他，使那半瓶醋记者有几分狼狈。但是他因为那篇对社会党集会的精彩报道曾受到表扬，并且得到指示要进一步采访马丁·伊甸本人——那个威胁着社会的组织的头目。

“你不会反对给你拍一张照片吧，伊登先生？”他说，“我们报社有个摄影师就在外面，你看，他说最好趁阳光还没有再往下斜时就拍，拍完我们再谈。”

“摄影师？”布里森登思量着，说，“揍他，马丁。揍他！”

“看来我年纪已经太大，”是马丁的回答，“我知道该揍他，可还真没有那心情。大概不会有什么关系吧。”

“替他妈妈教训他一顿，”布里森登催促他。

“那就值得考虑了，”马丁回答，“不过我似乎还鼓不起劲来。你看，揍人是要花力气的。而且，那又有什么关系？”

“不错，这才是处理问题的办法，”半瓶醋记者吊儿郎当地宣布，虽然他已开始不放心地打量着房门。

“不过他那全胡说。他发表的东西没有一句真话。”马丁的眼睛只看布里森登。

“那只不过是一般性的描写，你明白的，”那半瓶醋记者大着胆地回答，“何况，那也是很好的宣传。对你可是一种优惠，很合算的。”

“那可是很好的宣传呀，马丁老弟。”布里森登然有介事地重复记者的话。

“那还是给我的优惠呢——你看！”马丁附和。

“我看看——你生在什么地方，伊登先生？”半瓶醋记者问，摆出仔细听的样子。

“你看，他连笔记也不做，”布里森登说，“全靠脑子记。”

“我只用脑子记就行了，”那半瓶醋记者装出并不担心的样子。

“他昨天晚上也全是靠脑子记的，”布里森登可不是沉默主义的信徒。他突然改变了态度。“马丁，你要是不揍他，我就自己动手了，哪怕会叫我马上摔死在地上。”

“打他一顿屁股怎么样？”马丁问。

布里森登冷静地考虑了一会儿，点了点头。

转瞬之间马丁已坐到了床边，那半瓶醋记者已经趴在了他的膝盖上。

“现在你可别咬，”马丁警告他，“否则我就揍你的脸。你那张脸挺漂亮的，捧破了就太遗憾了。”

他挥起的手落了下来，接着就迅速地、有节奏地揍了起来。那半瓶醋记者挣扎着、咒骂着、扭动着，的确没有动口咬。布里森登一本正经地望着，尽管他有一回激动了起来，抓起了威士忌酒瓶，请求道：“来，让我也砸他一家伙。”

“抱歉，我的手没有劲了，”马丁终于停住，说，“打麻木了。”

他放掉了记者，让他坐在床上。

“我会叫人把你们抓起来的，”那人龇牙咧嘴地说，通红的面颊上眼泪婆娑，像满肚子委屈的孩子。“我会叫你们够受的。你们走着瞧。”

“小白脸，”马丁评论道，“他还不知道自己已经走上堕落的路了呢。像他那样拿他自己的同胞撒谎是不诚实的、不公正的，也不像个男子汉，而他竟然不觉得。”

“他得到我们这儿来听我们告诉他，”一阵沉默之后，布里森登说了下去。

“是的，对于受到他的诬蔑诽谤的我，那就意味着杂货店老板再也不会赊帐给我了。而最糟糕的是这可怜的娃娃就会这么继续胡闹下去，直到堕落成为一个头等的新闻记者兼头等流氓。”

“不过也许还来得及，”布里森登说，“你这个不算高明的手段说不定还能救他。你为什么不让我也敲他一家伙？我也想拉他一把呢。”

“我要把你们俩都抓起来，你们俩，大——大——大坏蛋，”那误入歧途的灵魂抽抽搭搭地说。

“不，他那嘴太好看，也太差劲，”马丁板着脸摇摇头说，“我担心是白白地打麻了我的手。这小伙子怕是改不了了，他最终会变成一个成功的大记者的。他没有良心，就凭这一条他就能飞黄腾达。”

那半瓶醋记者就这样走出了门。他心惊胆战，生怕布里森登会拿他还攥在手里的酒瓶从背后敲他一家伙。

马丁从第二天的报纸上读到了许多关于他自己的东西，那些东西他自己也觉得新鲜。“我们是社会的不共戴夫之敌，”他发现自己在一个专栏采访里说，“不，我们不是无政府主义者，而是社会主义者。”而在记者向他指出这两个派别似乎没有差异的时候，马丁便耸了耸肩，默认了。他的脸被描写成两面不对称，还涂上了些别的堕落迹象。特别引人注目的还有他那一双打手般的手，和充血的双眼里露出的凶光。

他还读到他每天晚上都要在市政厅公园向工人们演说，在那些蛊惑群众的无政府主义者和煽动家之中是听众最多、发言最激烈的一个。那半瓶醋记者对他那贫穷的小屋、煤油炉子、唯一的椅子，和跟他做伴的骷髅一样的流浪汉做了特写。说那人就像刚在什么要塞的地牢里单独囚禁了二十年之后才放出来的。

那半瓶醋记者很花了一点功夫。他四面打听，嗅出了一些马丁的家庭历史，弄到了一张希金波坦现金商店的照片，照片上伯纳德·希金波坦站在门口。那位先生被描写成了一个聪明庄重的商人，对于他的小舅子的社会主义观点和那位小舅子本人都受不了。据他说马丁的特点就是无所事事，游手好闲，给他工作也不做，早晚是会去蹲班房的。他也采访到了茉莉安的丈夫冯·史密特。史密特把马丁称作他们家族的害群之马，表示和他绝了交。“他想揩我的油，可我立即让他完全断了那念头，”冯·史密特告诉记者，“他知道从我这地捞不到什么，就不来鬼混了。不干活的人是不会干好事的，相信我。”

这一回马丁真生气了。布里森登把这事看作一个大玩笑，却无法安慰马丁。马丁知道很难向露丝解释清楚。至于她的父亲，他知道他会因为这事喜出望外，一定会尽量利用它解除他们俩的婚约。

他马上就明白了那老人利用此事到了什么程度。午后的一班邮件带来了一封露丝的信。马丁预感到会有灾难，从邮递员手上接过信，拆开，就站在门口看了起来。读信时机械地摸着日袋，想跟以往抽烟时一样掏出烟叶和棕色纸，他没有意识到口袋里早已空空如也，也没有意识到伸手掏过卷烟材料，想卷烟抽。

那信没有热情，也没有愤怒的迹象。但是从第一句到最后一句全是受到伤害和失望的调子。她曾期望他比现在更好，曾以为他青年时期的胡闹已经过去，曾以为她对他的爱情已足够促使他过起严肃正派的生活。而现在她的父亲和母亲已经采取了坚决的立场，命令她解除婚约，而她却只好承认他们是有道理的。他们俩的这种关系决不会幸福，从开头就没有幸福过。在整封信里她只表示了一点遗憾：对马丁的严重遗憾。“如果你一开头就找个职位安下心来做出点成绩，那就好了，”她写道，“可是你不肯，你过去的生活太胡闹，太放纵。那不能怪你，这我可以理解。你只能按照你的天性和早期受到的培养行动。因此我并不责备你，马丁。请记住这一点。那只是一个错误。正如爸爸妈妈所坚持的，我们注定了不是一对，因此我们俩都应当高兴，高兴发现得还不算太晚。”……“别想来看我了，那没有用，”结尾时她写道，“见面对我们俩和我的母亲都是不会愉快的。就像现在这样，我已经觉得给了她极大的痛苦和烦恼了。我得过好多日子才能弥补起来。”

他又把信从头到尾仔仔细细读了一遍，然后坐下来写回信。他概括地介绍了一下他在社会党会上的发言，指出他说的话跟报上讲的他的发言恰好相反。在信末他又成了上帝的情人，热情洋溢地表白了爱情。“请回信，”他说，“回信时只需回答我一个问题：你是否爱我？就这一个问题。”

可是第二天却没有回信，第三天也没有。《过期》躺在桌上，他也没有去碰。桌下的退稿一天天增加。马丁的睡眠一向极酣畅，现在却第一次遭到了失眠的干扰。漫长的夜里他辗转反侧，通宵不寐。他到莫尔斯家去拜访了三次，三次都叫应门的仆人挡了驾。布里森登病了，躺在旅馆里，身体虚弱，不能行动。马丁虽然常和他在一起，却没有拿自己的烦恼去麻烦他。

马丁的麻烦很多，那半瓶醋记者的行为带来的后果比马丁预计的大了许多。葡萄牙杂货商拒绝赊给他东西了。蔬菜商是个美国人，并以此而自豪。他把他叫做卖国贼，拒绝跟他再有往来。他的爱国情绪竟高涨到划掉马丁的欠帐不准他还的程度。左邻右舍的谈话也反映了这种情绪，对马丁的义愤越来越严重。没有人愿意跟一个相信社会主义的卖国贼有来往。可怜的玛利亚也糊涂了，害怕了。可她对他还忠实。附近的孩子们摆脱了从拜访马丁的大马车所引起的敬畏之情，躲在安全的距离以外叫他“二流子”、“瘪三”。可是西尔伐家的孩子们仍然忠心耿耿地保卫着他，为了他的荣誉不止一次安营扎寨大打出手。眼睛打乌鼻子出血在那段时间成了家常便饭，那叫玛利亚更加惶惑、更加烦恼了。

有一回马丁在奥克兰街上遇见了格特露，听她说了些他知道必然会发生的事——伯纳德·希金波坦因为他在公众面前丢了全家人的脸对他大为光火，不许他再进他的屋。

“你怎么不离开这儿，马丁？”格特露求他，“到别的什么地方去找个工作，安定下来吧。等这阵风刮过了再回来。”

马丁摇摇头，却没有解释。他能怎么解释？他和他的家人之间大张着一个可怕的智力鸿沟，他为那鸿沟感到恐怖。他无法跨越那鸿沟向他们解释自己的立场——他对社会主义的尼采式的立场。在英语里，在一切语言里，都找不到足够的词汇去向他们解释清楚他的态度和行为。在他们心目中他的良好行为的最高观念就是找个工作。那就是他们的第一个也是最后一个意见，也就是他们思想的全部词汇。找一份工作！干活儿去！可怜的、愚昧的奴隶们，他想道。他姐姐还在说话。难怪世界属于强者。奴隶们都为自己能做奴隶感到陶醉呢。一份工作便是他们崇拜的黄金偶像，他们在工作面前五体投地，顶礼膜拜。

格特震要给他钱，他又摇了摇头，虽然他明白那天他就非得去上当铺不可。

“现在可别到伯纳德身边去，”她急忙劝告他，“你若是愿意，等他几个月以后冷静下来，可以让他把开送货车的工作给你。需要我的时候就通知我，我会立即来的，别忘了。”

她走掉了，他能听见她的哭声。望着她那沉重的身影和蹒跚的脚步，一阵凄凉的辛酸不禁穿过他。心里。他望着她走掉时，他那尼采式的华厦似乎动摇了，垮塌了。抽象的奴隶阶级倒没有什么，但是奴隶阶级到了自己家里就不那么圆满了。而且，若是真有什么奴隶在受到强者蹂躏的话，那就是他的姐姐格特露。面临着这个矛盾怪圈他放肆地笑了。好个尼采的信徒！他那理性的思想竟会团第一次的情绪波动而动摇——是的，因奴隶道德而动摇，因为他对他的姐姐的怜悯事实上便是奴隶道德。真正高贵的人是超越怜悯和同情的。怜悯和同情产生于关押和贩卖奴隶的地窖里，不过是挤成一团的受苦者和软弱者的痛苦和汗水而已。