On a beautiful fall day, a day of similar Indian summer to that which had seen their love declared the year before, Martin read his "Love-cycle" to Ruth. It was in the afternoon, and, as before, they had ridden out to their favorite knoll in the hills. Now and again she had interrupted his reading with exclamations of pleasure, and now, as he laid the last sheet of manuscript with its fellows, he waited her judgment.

She delayed to speak, and at last she spoke haltingly, hesitating to frame in words the harshness of her thought.

"I think they are beautiful, very beautiful," she said; "but you can't sell them, can you? You see what I mean," she said, almost pleaded. "This writing of yours is not practical. Something is the matter - maybe it is with the market - that prevents you from earning a living by it. And please, dear, don't misunderstand me. I am flattered, and made proud, and all that - I could not be a true woman were it otherwise - that you should write these poems to me. But they do not make our marriage possible. Don't you see, Martin? Don't think me mercenary. It is love, the thought of our future, with which I am burdened. A whole year has gone by since we learned we loved each other, and our wedding day is no nearer. Don't think me immodest in thus talking about our wedding, for really I have my heart, all that I am, at stake. Why don't you try to get work on a newspaper, if you are so bound up in your writing? Why not become a reporter? - for a while, at least?"

"It would spoil my style," was his answer, in a low, monotonous voice. "You have no idea how I've worked for style."

"But those storiettes," she argued. "You called them hack-work. You wrote many of them. Didn't they spoil your style?"

"No, the cases are different. The storiettes were ground out, jaded, at the end of a long day of application to style. But a reporter's work is all hack from morning till night, is the one paramount thing of life. And it is a whirlwind life, the life of the moment, with neither past nor future, and certainly without thought of any style but reportorial style, and that certainly is not literature. To become a reporter now, just as my style is taking form, crystallizing, would be to commit literary suicide. As it is, every storiette, every word of every storiette, was a violation of myself, of my self-respect, of my respect for beauty. I tell you it was sickening. I was guilty of sin. And I was secretly glad when the markets failed, even if my clothes did go into pawn. But the joy of writing the 'Love-cycle'! The creative joy in its noblest form! That was compensation for everything."

Martin did not know that Ruth was unsympathetic concerning the creative joy. She used the phrase - it was on her lips he had first heard it. She had read about it, studied about it, in the university in the course of earning her Bachelorship of Arts; but she was not original, not creative, and all manifestations of culture on her part were but harpings of the harpings of others.

"May not the editor have been right in his revision of your 'Sea Lyrics'?" she questioned. "Remember, an editor must have proved qualifications or else he would not be an editor."

"That's in line with the persistence of the established," he rejoined, his heat against the editor-folk getting the better of him. "What is, is not only right, but is the best possible. The existence of anything is sufficient vindication of its fitness to exist - to exist, mark you, as the average person unconsciously believes, not merely in present conditions, but in all conditions. It is their ignorance, of course, that makes them believe such rot - their ignorance, which is nothing more nor less than the henidical mental process described by Weininger. They think they think, and such thinkless creatures are the arbiters of the lives of the few who really think."

He paused, overcome by the consciousness that he had been talking over Ruth's head.

"I'm sure I don't know who this Weininger is," she retorted. "And you are so dreadfully general that I fail to follow you. What I was speaking of was the qualification of editors - "

"And I'll tell you," he interrupted. "The chief qualification of ninety-nine per cent of all editors is failure. They have failed as writers. Don't think they prefer the drudgery of the desk and the slavery to their circulation and to the business manager to the joy of writing. They have tried to write, and they have failed. And right there is the cursed paradox of it. Every portal to success in literature is guarded by those watch-dogs, the failures in literature. The editors, sub-editors, associate editors, most of them, and the manuscript-readers for the magazines and book- publishers, most of them, nearly all of them, are men who wanted to write and who have failed. And yet they, of all creatures under the sun the most unfit, are the very creatures who decide what shall and what shall not find its way into print - they, who have proved themselves not original, who have demonstrated that they lack the divine fire, sit in judgment upon originality and genius. And after them come the reviewers, just so many more failures. Don't tell me that they have not dreamed the dream and attempted to write poetry or fiction; for they have, and they have failed. Why, the average review is more nauseating than cod-liver oil. But you know my opinion on the reviewers and the alleged critics. There are great critics, but they are as rare as comets. If I fail as a writer, I shall have proved for the career of editorship. There's bread and butter and jam, at any rate."

Ruth's mind was quick, and her disapproval of her lover's views was buttressed by the contradiction she found in his contention.

"But, Martin, if that be so, if all the doors are closed as you have shown so conclusively, how is it possible that any of the great writers ever arrived?"

"They arrived by achieving the impossible," he answered. "They did such blazing, glorious work as to burn to ashes those that opposed them. They arrived by course of miracle, by winning a thousand-to- one wager against them. They arrived because they were Carlyle's battle-scarred giants who will not be kept down. And that is what I must do; I must achieve the impossible."

"But if you fail? You must consider me as well, Martin."

"If I fail?" He regarded her for a moment as though the thought she had uttered was unthinkable. Then intelligence illumined his eyes. "If I fail, I shall become an editor, and you will be an editor's wife."

She frowned at his facetiousness - a pretty, adorable frown that made him put his arm around her and kiss it away.

"There, that's enough," she urged, by an effort of will withdrawing herself from the fascination of his strength. "I have talked with father and mother. I never before asserted myself so against them. I demanded to be heard. I was very undutiful. They are against you, you know; but I assured them over and over of my abiding love for you, and at last father agreed that if you wanted to, you could begin right away in his office. And then, of his own accord, he said he would pay you enough at the start so that we could get married and have a little cottage somewhere. Which I think was very fine of him - don't you?"

Martin, with the dull pain of despair at his heart, mechanically reaching for the tobacco and paper (which he no longer carried) to roll a cigarette, muttered something inarticulate, and Ruth went on.

"Frankly, though, and don't let it hurt you - I tell you, to show you precisely how you stand with him - he doesn't like your radical views, and he thinks you are lazy. Of course I know you are not. I know you work hard."

How hard, even she did not know, was the thought in Martin's mind.

"Well, then," he said, "how about my views? Do you think they are so radical?"

He held her eyes and waited the answer.

"I think them, well, very disconcerting," she replied.

The question was answered for him, and so oppressed was he by the grayness of life that he forgot the tentative proposition she had made for him to go to work. And she, having gone as far as she dared, was willing to wait the answer till she should bring the question up again.

She had not long to wait. Martin had a question of his own to propound to her. He wanted to ascertain the measure of her faith in him, and within the week each was answered. Martin precipitated it by reading to her his "The Shame of the Sun."

"Why don't you become a reporter?" she asked when he had finished. "You love writing so, and I am sure you would succeed. You could rise in journalism and make a name for yourself. There are a number of great special correspondents. Their salaries are large, and their field is the world. They are sent everywhere, to the heart of Africa, like Stanley, or to interview the Pope, or to explore unknown Thibet."

"Then you don't like my essay?" he rejoined. "You believe that I have some show in journalism but none in literature?"

"No, no; I do like it. It reads well. But I am afraid it's over the heads of your readers. At least it is over mine. It sounds beautiful, but I don't understand it. Your scientific slang is beyond me. You are an extremist, you know, dear, and what may be intelligible to you may not be intelligible to the rest of us."

"I imagine it's the philosophic slang that bothers you," was all he could say.

He was flaming from the fresh reading of the ripest thought he had expressed, and her verdict stunned him.

"No matter how poorly it is done," he persisted, "don't you see anything in it? - in the thought of it, I mean?"

She shook her head.

"No, it is so different from anything I have read. I read Maeterlinck and understand him - "

"His mysticism, you understand that?" Martin flashed out.

"Yes, but this of yours, which is supposed to be an attack upon him, I don't understand. Of course, if originality counts - "

He stopped her with an impatient gesture that was not followed by speech. He became suddenly aware that she was speaking and that she had been speaking for some time.

"After all, your writing has been a toy to you," she was saying. "Surely you have played with it long enough. It is time to take up life seriously - OUR life, Martin. Hitherto you have lived solely your own."

"You want me to go to work?" he asked.

"Yes. Father has offered - "

"I understand all that," he broke in; "but what I want to know is whether or not you have lost faith in me?"

She pressed his hand mutely, her eyes dim.

"In your writing, dear," she admitted in a half-whisper.

"You've read lots of my stuff," he went on brutally. "What do you think of it? Is it utterly hopeless? How does it compare with other men's work?"

"But they sell theirs, and you - don't."

"That doesn't answer my question. Do you think that literature is not at all my vocation?"

"Then I will answer." She steeled herself to do it. "I don't think you were made to write. Forgive me, dear. You compel me to say it; and you know I know more about literature than you do."

"Yes, you are a Bachelor of Arts," he said meditatively; "and you ought to know."

"But there is more to be said," he continued, after a pause painful to both. "I know what I have in me. No one knows that so well as I. I know I shall succeed. I will not be kept down. I am afire with what I have to say in verse, and fiction, and essay. I do not ask you to have faith in that, though. I do not ask you to have faith in me, nor in my writing. What I do ask of you is to love me and have faith in love."

"A year ago I believed for two years. One of those years is yet to run. And I do believe, upon my honor and my soul, that before that year is run I shall have succeeded. You remember what you told me long ago, that I must serve my apprenticeship to writing. Well, I have served it. I have crammed it and telescoped it. With you at the end awaiting me, I have never shirked. Do you know, I have forgotten what it is to fall peacefully asleep. A few million years ago I knew what it was to sleep my fill and to awake naturally from very glut of sleep. I am awakened always now by an alarm clock. If I fall asleep early or late, I set the alarm accordingly; and this, and the putting out of the lamp, are my last conscious actions."

"When I begin to feel drowsy, I change the heavy book I am reading for a lighter one. And when I doze over that, I beat my head with my knuckles in order to drive sleep away. Somewhere I read of a man who was afraid to sleep. Kipling wrote the story. This man arranged a spur so that when unconsciousness came, his naked body pressed against the iron teeth. Well, I've done the same. I look at the time, and I resolve that not until midnight, or not until one o'clock, or two o'clock, or three o'clock, shall the spur be removed. And so it rowels me awake until the appointed time. That spur has been my bed-mate for months. I have grown so desperate that five and a half hours of sleep is an extravagance. I sleep four hours now. I am starved for sleep. There are times when I am light-headed from want of sleep, times when death, with its rest and sleep, is a positive lure to me, times when I am haunted by Longfellow's lines:

"'The sea is still and deep; All things within its bosom sleep; A single step and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.'

"Of course, this is sheer nonsense. It comes from nervousness, from an overwrought mind. But the point is: Why have I done this? For you. To shorten my apprenticeship. To compel Success to hasten. And my apprenticeship is now served. I know my equipment. I swear that I learn more each month than the average college man learns in a year. I know it, I tell you. But were my need for you to understand not so desperate I should not tell you. It is not boasting. I measure the results by the books. Your brothers, to- day, are ignorant barbarians compared with me and the knowledge I have wrung from the books in the hours they were sleeping. Long ago I wanted to be famous. I care very little for fame now. What I want is you; I am more hungry for you than for food, or clothing, or recognition. I have a dream of laying my head on your breast and sleeping an aeon or so, and the dream will come true ere another year is gone."

His power beat against her, wave upon wave; and in the moment his will opposed hers most she felt herself most strongly drawn toward him. The strength that had always poured out from him to her was now flowering in his impassioned voice, his flashing eyes, and the vigor of life and intellect surging in him. And in that moment, and for the moment, she was aware of a rift that showed in her certitude - a rift through which she caught sight of the real Martin Eden, splendid and invincible; and as animal-trainers have their moments of doubt, so she, for the instant, seemed to doubt her power to tame this wild spirit of a man.

"And another thing," he swept on. "You love me. But why do you love me? The thing in me that compels me to write is the very thing that draws your love. You love me because I am somehow different from the men you have known and might have loved. I was not made for the desk and counting-house, for petty business squabbling, and legal jangling. Make me do such things, make me like those other men, doing the work they do, breathing the air they breathe, developing the point of view they have developed, and you have destroyed the difference, destroyed me, destroyed the thing you love. My desire to write is the most vital thing in me. Had I been a mere clod, neither would I have desired to write, nor would you have desired me for a husband."

"But you forget," she interrupted, the quick surface of her mind glimpsing a parallel. "There have been eccentric inventors, starving their families while they sought such chimeras as perpetual motion. Doubtless their wives loved them, and suffered with them and for them, not because of but in spite of their infatuation for perpetual motion."

"True," was the reply. "But there have been inventors who were not eccentric and who starved while they sought to invent practical things; and sometimes, it is recorded, they succeeded. Certainly I do not seek any impossibilities - "

"You have called it 'achieving the impossible,'" she interpolated.

"I spoke figuratively. I seek to do what men have done before me - to write and to live by my writing."

Her silence spurred him on.

"To you, then, my goal is as much a chimera as perpetual motion?" he demanded.

He read her answer in the pressure of her hand on his - the pitying mother-hand for the hurt child. And to her, just then, he was the hurt child, the infatuated man striving to achieve the impossible.

Toward the close of their talk she warned him again of the antagonism of her father and mother.

"But you love me?" he asked.

"I do! I do!" she cried.

"And I love you, not them, and nothing they do can hurt me." Triumph sounded in his voice. "For I have faith in your love, not fear of their enmity. All things may go astray in this world, but not love. Love cannot go wrong unless it be a weakling that faints and stumbles by the way."

那是个美丽的秋日，小阳春天气又来了。去年此时他俩表白了彼此的爱情，马丁向露丝朗诵了他的媛清组诗人这一天午后，两人又像以前那样骑车来到了他们喜爱的群山中的丘陵。她不时地以欢快的惊呼打断了他的朗诵。现在他把最后一负手稿和别的手稿也到了一起，等待着听她的意见。

她迟迟没有说话。然后便吞吞吐吐地汗始了，犹豫着，想用恰当的语言表达难堪的意思。

“我觉得这些诗都很美，美极了，”她说，“但是你卖不掉，是不是？你懂得我的意思的。”她说，几乎是在请求。“你的写作并不现实，是有什么地方出了问题——也许是市场吧——使你无法靠写作过日子。我求你，亲爱的，你为我写了这些诗，我感到得意，也感到骄傲和如此等等。要不然我就不是真正的女人了。可是诗歌并不能让我们结婚。你明白么，马丁？不要以为我贪财。我打心里感到沉重，我是为了爱情和我俩的未来。我们知道彼此相爱已经一年了，可我们结婚的日子依旧遥远。我像这样谈着结婚，不要以为我不顾廉耻，因为实际上我是拿我的心和我的一切在下赌注。你既然那么醉心于写作，为什么不到一家报纸去工作呢？为什么不去当个记者？——做一段时间至少是可以的吧？”

“那会破坏了我的风格的，”他闷闷不乐地低声回答，“你不知道我为风格下了多少功夫。”

“可那些小故事，”她辩解说，“你吧它们称作下锅之作的，你倒写了不少。它们又是否破坏了你的风格呢？”

“不，情况不同。小故事是在一天漫长的考究风格的工作完毕，我已经筋疲力尽时才去琢磨写出的。而记者工作却要从早到晚卖文为生，写稿成了生活里唯一的也是至高无上的工作。而且生活像旋风一样，只有那一刻，没有过去，也没有将来。肯定不会考虑风格，有的只是记者风格，而记者风格绝对不是文学。我正处在风格逐渐结晶形成的时期，却去做记者，简直是文学上的自杀。现在的情况是，每一个小故事，小故事里的每一个词语都伤害着我，伤害着我的自尊和我对美的尊重。告诉你，写小故事叫我恶心，我在犯罪。小故事没了市场，我内心深处反倒高兴，尽管我的礼服又进了当铺。可是我在写《爱情组诗》的时候是多么美妙快活呀！那是最高贵的创造的欢乐！是对一切一切的报偿。”

马丁不知道，其实露丝对他的“创造的欢乐”并无体会。这个词她用过——他就是从她的嘴唇上第一次听见的。露丝在大学攻读学士学位时读到过，也研究过，可是她并无创造性，不会创作，她一身的文化气息不过是从人云亦云中得来的。

“编辑修改你的《海上抒情诗》难道也错了？”她问，“请记住，没有审查合格证明，编辑是不能上岗的。”

“那正跟现存秩序所坚持的说法合拍，”他回答，自己对编辑之流的怒火左右了他。“现存的不但是正确的，而且是最好的。任何事物的存在本身都足以证明它适于存在——请注意，一般人往往下意识地认为，它不但适于在现有条件下存在，也适于在一切条件下存在。当然，他们之所以相信这种废话是因为愚昧，这种想法大体跟魏宁格所描写的模糊心灵活动不相上下。这些人自以为有思想。而对少数真正进行思考的人下着判断的偏偏就是这类没有思想的家伙。”

他住了口，意识到自己的话已在露丝的理解力之外。

“我相信我不知道这位魏宁格是什么人，”她反驳说，“而你讲起话来又概括得可怕，叫我跟不上。我谈的是编辑资格的问题——”

“我要告诉你，”他插嘴说，“编辑们有百分之九十九主要条件都不合格。他们作为作家都是失败的。不要以为他们愿意放弃写作的欢乐去干那些沉重的伏案工作，或者去做发行或者业务经理的奴隶。他们写作过，但是失败了，于是出现了该死的怪圈：文学的失意者成了看门狗，把守着每一道通向文学成就的大门。编辑、副编辑、编辑助理，为杂志和出版家审查稿件的大部分或几乎全部的人都是想写作而又失败了的人。而决定作品应当或不应当出版的偏偏是他们，偏偏是这些阳光之下芙美众生里最不合格的人——坐在那儿评判着独创性和天才的是他们，是这些已经证明缺少创造性和圣火的人。然后还有评论家，也都是些失败者。别以为他们没有做过梦，没有打算写诗或小说。他们做过的，但是失败了。嗨，平庸的批评比鱼肝油还恶心。不过我对书评家和所谓的评论家的意见是知道的。伟大的评论家是有的，但是像彗星一样稀罕。我若是写作失败了，我可以证明自己从事编辑事业的能力。那里毕竟还有奶油面包，还有果酱。”

露丝机灵，听出了他话里的矛盾，反对起来就更振振有辞了。

“可是马丁，既然那样，既然所有的门都像你所下的结论那样关闭了，伟大的作家又是怎么取得成功的呢？”

“他们做到了别人做不到的事，”他回答，“他们的作品太灿烂，太炽烈，反对的人都叫它们烧成了灰烬。他们是通过奇迹的路成功的，是以一比一手的赌注赌赢了的。他们成功是因为他们是卡莱尔笔下那种遍体鳞伤却不肯低头的巨人。那就是我要做的事。我要做出别人做不到的事。”

“可你要是失败了呢？你还得想到我呀，马丁。”

“我要是失败了？”他盯着她望了一会儿，仿佛她那想法不可思议。然后眼里闪出了聪明的光。“我要是失败，我就去做编辑，让你做编辑的老婆。”

她见他在调皮，眉头便皱了起来——那样子又美丽又可爱，他不禁楼过她就亲吻，吻得她不再皱眉头。

“好了，够了，”她求他，他的阳刚之气迷醉了她，她靠了意志力才挣扎了出来。“我已经跟爸爸妈妈说了。我以前从没坚持自己的意见巨对过他们，这次我可要求他们接受我的意见，我很不孝顺。你知道他们不同意你，但是我一再向他们保证说我永远爱你，爸爸终于同意了。只要你愿意你可以从他的事务所开始。他还主动提出，你一上班他就给你足够的薪水，让我们俩不仅能够结婚，而且能在什么地方有一套住房。我觉得他够体贴的了——你觉得呢？”

马丁心里一阵钝痛，感到失望。他机械地伸出手去，想取烟草和纸——可他再也不带那东西了。他只含糊地回答了一句，露丝说了下去：——

“不过，坦率地说，我不愿意伤害你——我告诉你这话，是想让你知道爸爸对你的印象——他不喜欢你过激的观点，而且认为你懒。当然，我知道你不懒，相反倒是很刻苦。”

马丁心里却明白，自己有多么刻苦就连她也不知道。

“好了，那么，”他说，“对于我的观点呢？你以为我过激，是么？”

他盯着她的眼睛，等着回答。

“我认为你的观点叫人不安，”她回答。

问题已经得到了回答。灰色的生活阻挡了他，使他忘却了她在试图要求他去工作，而她呢，既已说明了想法，冒了险，也愿意等下一次再要求回答。

她不用等多久。马丁自己也向她提出了问题，想衡量一下她对他的信心。还没满一周双方都得到了回答。马丁向她朗诵了他的《太阳的耻辱》，于是形势急转直下。

“你为什么不肯去做记者？”听完朗诵，她问道，“你这么喜欢写作，我相信你会成功的。你可以在新闻事业上出人头地，享有盛名的。有许多了不起的特约通讯员，薪水很高，全世界就是他们的天地。他们被派到世界各地去，比如斯坦利，他就被派到非洲的腹地，派去采访教皇，派到无人知道的西藏。”

“那么你是不喜欢我的论文么？”他问，“你相信我写新闻还可以，搞文学却不行么？”

“不，不，我喜欢你的文学作品，读起来很有意思。但是我担心有的读者跟不上。至少我跟不上。听起来挺美，可是我不懂得。你的科学词汇我弄不清楚。你是个极端分子，你知道，亲爱的。你明白的东西我们别的人可不明白。”

“我估计叫你不明白的是那些哲学术语，”他能说的就是这句话。

他刚朗读了他所写成的最成熟的思想，情绪火热，听了她的断语不禁目瞪口呆。

“不管写得多么糟糕，”他坚持，“你从中看到了什么东西么？——我指的是思想？”

她摇摇头。

“没有，它和我读过的东西都非常不同。我读过梅特林克，懂得他——”

“他的神秘主义，你懂得？”马丁爆发了出来。

“懂，但是你的话我不懂，看来你是攻击他的。当然，要是强调独创性的话——”

他做了个不耐烦的手势，打断了她的话，自己却没有说什么。他突然意识到她正在说话，已经说了一会儿。

“说到底你是在玩写作，”她在说，“你确实玩得太久了。已经到了严肃地面对生活——面对我们的生活的时候了，马丁。到目前为止，你只是一个人在生活。”

“你是要想我去工作么？”他问。

“是的，爸爸已经提出——”

“那些我都明白，”他叫了起来，“可我想知道的是你对我是否失去了信心？”

她默默地捏住他的手，眼神迷茫。

“失去了对你写作的信心，亲爱的。”她低声说。

“你读过我许多东西，”他粗野地说下去，“你有什么看法？完全没有希望么？和别人的东西比怎么样？”

“可是别人的作品卖掉了，你的——没有。”

“那并没有回答我的问题。你认为我不能从事文学么？”

‘那我就回答你吧。”她鼓起了勇气回答；“我认为你不是搞写作的料。请原谅我，亲爱的。是你逼我说的；而你知道我比你更懂得文学。”

“是的，你是个文学学土，”他沉吟着说，“你应该懂得。”

“但是我还有别的话要说，”两人痛苦地沉默了一会儿，他说了下去，“我知道我心里有些什么，没有别人比我更了解。我知道我会成功的。我不愿意受到压抑。我想要用诗歌、小说。散文的形式表现的东西燃烧着我。不过我不要求你对它有信心。我并不要求你对我有信心，对我的写作有信心。我要求你的只是爱我，对于爱情有信心。

“一年以前我要求了两年，还有一年没有到期。而我以我的荣誉和灵魂发誓，相信这一年没有过完我就会成功的。你记得很久以前告诉过我的话，我学写作还有个学徒阶段。是的，我的学徒阶段已经过去。我已经把它塞满了，压缩了。你在前面等着我，我从来没有偷过懒。你知道么，我已经忘记平平静静地入睡是怎么回事了。睡得心满意足，然后高高兴兴地自然醒来对我已是几百万年以前的事了。我现在总是叫闹钟闹醒，早睡也好，晚睡也好，闹钟总上好的。这个动作，关灯，是我的最后的有意识的动作。

“我感到疲倦了便把费力的书换成轻松点的。我打瞌睡，便用指关节敲我的脑袋，把睡意赶走。我曾读到一个害怕睡觉的人。故事是吉卜林写的。那人为防止打瞌睡，弄了一根铁刺，人一迷糊他的光身子就扎到铁刺上。我就弄了这么个东西。我看准了时间，决定不到一点、两点、三点那刺决不撤掉。它就像这样在预定时间以前总扎醒我。好多个月以来那铁刺都是陪着我睡觉的。我不要命了，五小时半的睡眠已是奢侈品。我现在只睡四小时。我渴望睡眠。有时候我因为缺少睡眠把头脑弄得很清醒，有时能带来休息和睡眠的死亡对我成了严重的诱惑，那时朗赛罗的诗总京回在我的脑际：——“‘大海是那样平静幽邃，怀里的一切都沉沉安睡；向前一步便一了百了，一跳，一串泡，万事全消。’

“当然，这是瞎说，是因为太紧张，精神负担过重才这样说的。问题还在：我为什么要这样做？那是为了你，为了缩短学徒期，强迫成功早日来到。现在我的学徒期已经满了，我知道我的学识，我发誓我一个月之内学到的东西要比普通的大学生一年还多。这我明白，我告诉你。但是如果不是迫切地需要你的理解，我是不会说的。这不是夸耀。我用书本来检验成绩。今天你的几个弟兄跟我和我在他们睡大觉时在书本中所取得的知识一比，简直就是无知的野蛮人。很久以前我想成名，可现在已没有那意思了。我想要的只有你。我渴望你，比吃饭穿衣和受到承认更渴望。我做梦也想把我的头枕在你的胸口睡一辈子。而这个梦再过一年左右就可以实现了。”

他的强力一浪又一浪地冲击着她。在他的意志和她的意志碰撞最严重的时候，也正是她最强烈地感到他的吸引力的时候。他那一向向她流泻的力量在他那激动的声音和炯炯的目光里开出了花朵，在澎湃于他体内的生命和智慧的活力里开出了花朵。在那时，也只在那时，她意识到了她的信心出现了一道裂缝——通过那裂缝她瞥见了那真正的马丁·伊登，灿烂的，不可战胜的马丁·伊登。有如驯兽师有时也会犹豫一样，她一时也怀疑自己是否有力量驯服这个精灵般的野蛮人。

“还有一件事，”他滔滔不绝地说下去，“你爱我，可你为什么爱我？吸引你的爱情的正是在我心里强迫我写作的东西。你爱我，正因为我跟你所认识的人，可能爱的人，有所不同。我不是坐办公桌和会计室的料，不是凭嘴劲谈生意，上法庭玩条文的料。叫我于这种事，把我变成别的人，做他们的工作，呼吸他们的空气，发挥他们的论点，你就毁灭了我和他们的差异，也毁灭了我，毁灭了你所爱的东西。我对写作的渴望对我是最举足轻重的东西。我如果是块顽石，我就不会想写作，你也就不会要我做丈夫了。”

“但是你忘了，”她插嘴道，她心灵的敏捷的外层瞥见了一个类似的东西。“过去有过古怪的发明家，为了追求永动机这种奇特玩意让全家人忍饥挨饿。他们的妻子们无疑是爱他们的，为了他们和他们一起受苦，可并不是因为对永动机的迷醉而是不计较他们那迷醉。”

“说得对，”回答是，“可是也有并不奇特的发明家，他们在追求现实的发明时也挨饿。而有时他们却成功了，这是有记录的，我并没有想入非非——”

“可你说过，‘要做做不到的事’。”她打断了他的话。

“我那是打比喻。我追求的是前人成功了的事——写作，靠写作为生。”

她保持沉默，这又逼得他说了下去。

“那么，你认为我的目标是跟永动机一样的怪物么？”他问。

她捏了捏他的手，他明白了她的意思——那是怜爱的母亲在捏受伤的孩子的手。那时他对她不过是个受伤的孩子。是一个着了迷的人，在追求着不可能的东西。

两人谈话快结束时她再次提醒他她父母的反对。

“可是你爱我么？”

“我爱你！爱你！”她叫了起来。

“我爱的是你，不是他们，他们无论做什么都伤害不了我。”他的声音里震响着胜利。“因为我对你的爱有信心，也不怕他们的反对。在这个世界上，一切都可能迷路，爱情是决不会迷路的。只要爱情不是个弱者，一路畏畏缩缩，磕磕绊绊，就不会走错。”