Early one evening, struggling with a sonnet that twisted all awry the beauty and thought that trailed in glow and vapor through his brain, Martin was called to the telephone.

"It's a lady's voice, a fine lady's," Mr. Higginbotham, who had called him, jeered.

Martin went to the telephone in the corner of the room, and felt a wave of warmth rush through him as he heard Ruth's voice. In his battle with the sonnet he had forgotten her existence, and at the sound of her voice his love for her smote him like a sudden blow. And such a voice! - delicate and sweet, like a strain of music heard far off and faint, or, better, like a bell of silver, a perfect tone, crystal-pure. No mere woman had a voice like that. There was something celestial about it, and it came from other worlds. He could scarcely hear what it said, so ravished was he, though he controlled his face, for he knew that Mr. Higginbotham's ferret eyes were fixed upon him.

It was not much that Ruth wanted to say - merely that Norman had been going to take her to a lecture that night, but that he had a headache, and she was so disappointed, and she had the tickets, and that if he had no other engagement, would he be good enough to take her?

Would he! He fought to suppress the eagerness in his voice. It was amazing. He had always seen her in her own house. And he had never dared to ask her to go anywhere with him. Quite irrelevantly, still at the telephone and talking with her, he felt an overpowering desire to die for her, and visions of heroic sacrifice shaped and dissolved in his whirling brain. He loved her so much, so terribly, so hopelessly. In that moment of mad happiness that she should go out with him, go to a lecture with him - with him, Martin Eden - she soared so far above him that there seemed nothing else for him to do than die for her. It was the only fit way in which he could express the tremendous and lofty emotion he felt for her. It was the sublime abnegation of true love that comes to all lovers, and it came to him there, at the telephone, in a whirlwind of fire and glory; and to die for her, he felt, was to have lived and loved well. And he was only twenty- one, and he had never been in love before.

His hand trembled as he hung up the receiver, and he was weak from the organ which had stirred him. His eyes were shining like an angel's, and his face was transfigured, purged of all earthly dross, and pure and holy.

"Makin' dates outside, eh?" his brother-in-law sneered. "You know what that means. You'll be in the police court yet."

But Martin could not come down from the height. Not even the bestiality of the allusion could bring him back to earth. Anger and hurt were beneath him. He had seen a great vision and was as a god, and he could feel only profound and awful pity for this maggot of a man. He did not look at him, and though his eyes passed over him, he did not see him; and as in a dream he passed out of the room to dress. It was not until he had reached his own room and was tying his necktie that he became aware of a sound that lingered unpleasantly in his ears. On investigating this sound he identified it as the final snort of Bernard Higginbotham, which somehow had not penetrated to his brain before.

As Ruth's front door closed behind them and he came down the steps with her, he found himself greatly perturbed. It was not unalloyed bliss, taking her to the lecture. He did not know what he ought to do. He had seen, on the streets, with persons of her class, that the women took the men's arms. But then, again, he had seen them when they didn't; and he wondered if it was only in the evening that arms were taken, or only between husbands and wives and relatives.

Just before he reached the sidewalk, he remembered Minnie. Minnie had always been a stickler. She had called him down the second time she walked out with him, because he had gone along on the inside, and she had laid the law down to him that a gentleman always walked on the outside - when he was with a lady. And Minnie had made a practice of kicking his heels, whenever they crossed from one side of the street to the other, to remind him to get over on the outside. He wondered where she had got that item of etiquette, and whether it had filtered down from above and was all right.

It wouldn't do any harm to try it, he decided, by the time they had reached the sidewalk; and he swung behind Ruth and took up his station on the outside. Then the other problem presented itself. Should he offer her his arm? He had never offered anybody his arm in his life. The girls he had known never took the fellows' arms. For the first several times they walked freely, side by side, and after that it was arms around the waists, and heads against the fellows' shoulders where the streets were unlighted. But this was different. She wasn't that kind of a girl. He must do something.

He crooked the arm next to her - crooked it very slightly and with secret tentativeness, not invitingly, but just casually, as though he was accustomed to walk that way. And then the wonderful thing happened. He felt her hand upon his arm. Delicious thrills ran through him at the contact, and for a few sweet moments it seemed that he had left the solid earth and was flying with her through the air. But he was soon back again, perturbed by a new complication. They were crossing the street. This would put him on the inside. He should be on the outside. Should he therefore drop her arm and change over? And if he did so, would he have to repeat the manoeuvre the next time? And the next? There was something wrong about it, and he resolved not to caper about and play the fool. Yet he was not satisfied with his conclusion, and when he found himself on the inside, he talked quickly and earnestly, making a show of being carried away by what he was saying, so that, in case he was wrong in not changing sides, his enthusiasm would seem the cause for his carelessness.

As they crossed Broadway, he came face to face with a new problem. In the blaze of the electric lights, he saw Lizzie Connolly and her giggly friend. Only for an instant he hesitated, then his hand went up and his hat came off. He could not be disloyal to his kind, and it was to more than Lizzie Connolly that his hat was lifted. She nodded and looked at him boldly, not with soft and gentle eyes like Ruth's, but with eyes that were handsome and hard, and that swept on past him to Ruth and itemized her face and dress and station. And he was aware that Ruth looked, too, with quick eyes that were timid and mild as a dove's, but which saw, in a look that was a flutter on and past, the working-class girl in her cheap finery and under the strange hat that all working-class girls were wearing just then.

"What a pretty girl!" Ruth said a moment later.

Martin could have blessed her, though he said:-

"I don't know. I guess it's all a matter of personal taste, but she doesn't strike me as being particularly pretty."

"Why, there isn't one woman in ten thousand with features as regular as hers. They are splendid. Her face is as clear-cut as a cameo. And her eyes are beautiful."

"Do you think so?" Martin queried absently, for to him there was only one beautiful woman in the world, and she was beside him, her hand upon his arm.

"Do I think so? If that girl had proper opportunity to dress, Mr. Eden, and if she were taught how to carry herself, you would be fairly dazzled by her, and so would all men."

"She would have to be taught how to speak," he commented, "or else most of the men wouldn't understand her. I'm sure you couldn't understand a quarter of what she said if she just spoke naturally."

"Nonsense! You are as bad as Arthur when you try to make your point."

"You forget how I talked when you first met me. I have learned a new language since then. Before that time I talked as that girl talks. Now I can manage to make myself understood sufficiently in your language to explain that you do not know that other girl's language. And do you know why she carries herself the way she does? I think about such things now, though I never used to think about them, and I am beginning to understand - much."

"But why does she?"

"She has worked long hours for years at machines. When one's body is young, it is very pliable, and hard work will mould it like putty according to the nature of the work. I can tell at a glance the trades of many workingmen I meet on the street. Look at me. Why am I rolling all about the shop? Because of the years I put in on the sea. If I'd put in the same years cow-punching, with my body young and pliable, I wouldn't be rolling now, but I'd be bow- legged. And so with that girl. You noticed that her eyes were what I might call hard. She has never been sheltered. She has had to take care of herself, and a young girl can't take care of herself and keep her eyes soft and gentle like - like yours, for example."

"I think you are right," Ruth said in a low voice. "And it is too bad. She is such a pretty girl."

He looked at her and saw her eyes luminous with pity. And then he remembered that he loved her and was lost in amazement at his fortune that permitted him to love her and to take her on his arm to a lecture.

Who are you, Martin Eden? he demanded of himself in the looking- glass, that night when he got back to his room. He gazed at himself long and curiously. Who are you? What are you? Where do you belong? You belong by rights to girls like Lizzie Connolly. You belong with the legions of toil, with all that is low, and vulgar, and unbeautiful. You belong with the oxen and the drudges, in dirty surroundings among smells and stenches. There are the stale vegetables now. Those potatoes are rotting. Smell them, damn you, smell them. And yet you dare to open the books, to listen to beautiful music, to learn to love beautiful paintings, to speak good English, to think thoughts that none of your own kind thinks, to tear yourself away from the oxen and the Lizzie Connollys and to love a pale spirit of a woman who is a million miles beyond you and who lives in the stars! Who are you? and what are you? damn you! And are you going to make good?

He shook his fist at himself in the glass, and sat down on the edge of the bed to dream for a space with wide eyes. Then he got out note-book and algebra and lost himself in quadratic equations, while the hours slipped by, and the stars dimmed, and the gray of dawn flooded against his window.

有一天晚上，时间尚早，马丁正在绞尽脑汁写一首十四行诗。曳着荣光与迷雾的美与情思从他脑里涌现，写下的诗却把它扭曲得不成样子。这时电话来了。

“是位小姐的声音，一位漂亮小姐的声音。”希金波坦先生含讥带讽地叫他。

马丁来到屋角的电话机旁，一听见露丝的声音，一道暖流便流遍了他的全身。在他跟十四行诗奋斗的时候他忘掉了她的存在，可一听见她的声音，他对她的爱便像突然的一击震动了他的全身。多么美妙的声音！——娇嫩、甜蜜，有如遥远处依稀的音乐，或者，更不如说像银铃，绝美的音色，清亮得像水晶。有这样的嗓子的绝不仅是个女人，其中有天国的东西，来自另外的世界。他不禁心荡神驰，几乎听不见对方的话语，尽管他仍控制住自己的面部表现，因为他知道希金波坦先生那双臭即一样的眼睛正盯着他。

露丝要说的话不多，不过是：诺尔曼那天晚上原要陪她去听讲演的，却因头痛去不了，她感到非常失望。她有票，若是他没有事，能否劳驾陪她去一趟？

能否陪她去！他竭力控制了嗓子里的激动。多么惊人的消息！他一向总在她屋里跟她见面，从没敢邀请她一起出过门，这时就在他站在电话机旁跟她说着话时，他便毫无道理地产生了一种强烈的欲望：愿意为她赴汤蹈火。慷慨赴死的种种幻影在他那晕眩迷醉的头脑里一再形成、消失。他那么爱她，爱得那么死去活来，希望又那么渺茫。她要跟他（跟他，马丁·伊登！）一起去听讲演了。在这个快乐得要发疯的时刻她对他是那么高不可攀，他似乎感到除了为她而死再没有别的事可做。死亡似乎成了他对她表白自己那伟大崇高的爱的唯一恰当的方式。那是一切挚爱者都会有的、出于至情的崇高的献身精神。它就在这里，在电话机旁，在他心里产生了，是一股烈焰与强光的旋风。他感到为她而死便是死得其所，爱得尽情。他才二十一岁，以前从来没有恋爱过。

他挂上电话时手在发抖，从那令他激动的电话机旁走开时他快站不住了。他的双目泛出光彩，宛如天使，脸也变了，洗尽了入世的污浊，变得纯净圣洁。

“到外面约会去？”他的姐夫嘲笑道，“你知道那是什么意思。弄不好会上局子的。”

但是马丁此时无法从云霄落下。就连这话中隐含的f流意思也无法让他回到人世。他已超然于愤怒与伤害之外。他看到了一个伟大的幻影，自己已严然成了神灵。对于这个蛆虫样的入他只有深沉与肃穆的怜悯。他没去看他，目光虽从他身b掠过，却视而不见。他像在梦里一样走出屋子去穿衣服。直到他回到自己屋里打着领带时地才意识到有个声音在他耳里不愉快地纠缠。找了找那声音才发现那是伯纳德·希金波坦最后的一声哼哼。不知为什么刚才它就没有钻进他的脑子。

露丝家的门在他们身后关上，他跟她一起走下了台阶，他才发现自己非常慌乱。陪她去听演说并非是不含杂质的纯粹的幸福。他不知道该做些什么。他在街上见过她那个阶级的外出的女人接着男人的胳膊。可也见过并不接胳膊的。他弄不清楚是否是晚上出门才接胳膊，或是只有夫妻或亲属之间才如此。

他刚走到人行道上便想起了米妮。米妮一向是个考究的人，第二次跟他出门就把他狠狠训了一顿，因为他走在了靠里的一面。她告诉他规矩：男的跟女的同路男的要走靠外的一面。以后他们过街的时候米妮便总跟他的脚后跟，提醒地走靠外的一面。他不知道她那条规矩是从哪儿来的，是否是从上面拉来的，是否可靠。

两人来到人行道，他认为试试这条规矩也没什么妨害；便从露丝背后转到靠外一面他的位置上。这时另一个问题出现了。他是否应当向她伸出胳膊？他一辈子也没向谁伸出过胳膊。他认得的姑娘从不搂同伴的胳膊。开头几次两人并排分开走，然后便是互相搂着腰，到黑暗的地方脑袋便靠在伙伴肩头上。可这回却不同。她可不是那种姑娘。他得想出个办法。

他弯起了靠她那一边的胳膊——略微一弯，悄悄地试试，并未做出请她挽着的样子，只是随随便便，仿佛习惯于那样走路。于是奇迹发生了。他感到她的手挽住了他的胳膊。刚一接触，一阵美妙的酥府便传遍了他全身，甜甜蜜蜜地过了好一会儿沈仿佛离开了这坚实的世界带着她在空中飘飞。可是新的复杂局面又叫他回到了地上。他们要过街了。那就会把他转到了靠里的一面，而他是应该在外面的。他是否应当松下她的手转换方向？若是松了手，下回还需要再弯弯胳膊么？再下回怎么办？这里有点不对头的东西。他决心不要再东换西换出洋相了。可他对自己的结论又不放心。于是在他靠里走的时候便滔滔不绝津津有味地谈着话，仿佛谈得出了神，这样，万一做错了也可以用热情和粗心辩护。

横跨大马路的时候他又迎面碰上了新问题。在白炽的电灯光下他看到了丽齐·康诺利和她那爱格格发笑的朋友。他只犹豫了一下便迎了上去，脱帽招呼。他不能对自己人不忠，他脱帽招呼的可不光是丽齐·康诺利。她点点头，大胆地望着他。她的目光不像露丝那样温和妇雅，而是明亮、犀利地从他瞧到露丝，—一打量了她的面庞、服装和身分。他也意识到露丝也在打量她，那畏怯温驯像鸽子的目光转瞬即逝。就在那转瞬之间露丝已看到了一个工人阶级的姑娘，一身廉价的服饰，戴一顶那时所有的工人阶级的姑娘都戴的帽子。

“多么漂亮的姑娘！”过了一会儿露丝说。

马丁差不多可以向她表示感谢，不过们说：

“我不清楚。大约是各人的口味不同吧，我倒不觉得她特别好看。”

“怎么，那么整齐漂亮的脸儿可是千里也难挑一的呢！她长得精彩极了。那张股轮廓分明，像是玉石上的浮雕。眼睛也挺美的。”

“你这样想么？”马丁心不在焉地问道，因为在他看来世界上只有一个美丽的女人，而那个女人就在他身边挽着他的胳膊。

“我这样想？若是那个姑娘有恰当的机会穿着打扮，伊登先生，若是再学学仪表姿态，是能叫你眼花绦乱，叫所有的男子汉都眼花镜乱的。”

“可她得先学会说话，”他发表意见，“否则大部分男子汉都会听不懂得她的话的。我肯定，若是她信口便说，你会连她四分之一都听不懂的。”

“瞎说！你阐述起自己的观点来也跟亚瑟一样蹩脚。”

“你忘了你第一次遇见我时我是怎么说话的了。从那以后我学了一种新的语言。在那以前我说话也跟那姑娘一样。现在我可以用你们的语言说得让你们完全听得懂了；能向你解释你听不懂的那个姑娘的谈话了。你知道她走路为什么那个姿势么？过去我从来不考虑这类问题，现在考虑了，我开始明白了——许多道理。”

“她为什么那个姿势？”

“她在机器边干了多年的活儿。人年轻的时候身子可塑性强，做苦工能按工作的性质把身子重新塑造，就像捏油灰一样。有许多我在街上遇见的工入我一眼就能看出是干什么活儿的。你看我吧。我在屋甲为什么老晃动身子？因为我在海上过了很多年。若是在那些年平我当了牛仔，我这年轻的可塑性强的身子就不会再晃荡，而是圈着腿了。那姑娘也是这样。你注意到了吧！她的服种我可以叫做：凌厉。她从来没有准保护，只有自己照顾自己。而一个年轻姑娘是不可能既照顾自己，又目光温柔得像——像你一样的，比如。”

“我认为你说得不错，”露丝低声地说，“很遗憾。她是那么漂亮的一个姑娘。”

他看着她，见她的眼里闪出矜传的光。他这才想起自己爱她，于是又因自己的幸运而感到惊讶，忘了一切。幸运意允许他爱她，让她搂着他的胳膊去听演说。

“你是谁呀，马丁·伊登？”那天晚上他回到屋里，对着镜子里的自己问道。他满怀好奇久久地凝视着自己。你是谁呀？你是干什么的？是什么身分？你理所当然是属于丽齐·康诺利这样的姑娘的。你的伙伴是吃苦受累的人，是下贱、粗野、丑陋的人。你跟牛马苦役作伴，只配住在肮脏的臭气熏天的环境里。现在不就有陈腐的蔬菜、腐烂的土豆的怪味么。闻闻看，妈的，闻闻着。可你却胆敢翻汗书本，听美好的音乐，学着爱美丽的绘画，说纯正的英语，产生你的自己人产生不出来的思想，挣扎着要离开牛群和丽齐·康诺利这样的姑娘们，去爱上跟你相距十万八千里、住在星星里的苍白的精灵一样的女人。你是谁？是干什么的？去你的吧，你还要奋斗么？

他对着镜里的自己晃了晃拳头。在床边坐了下来，睁大了眼睛梦想了一会儿。然后他拿出笔记本和代数书，投入了二次方程式见时光悄悄溜走，星星渐渐隐敛。黎明的鱼肚白向他的窗户泻了下来。