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foundling/['faundliŋ]/ n. 弃儿, 拾来的孩儿...

马丁·伊登(MARTIN EDEN)第二十章

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The desire to write was stirring in Martin once more. Stories and poems were springing into spontaneous creation in his brain, and he made notes of them against the future time when he would give them expression. But he did not write. This was his little vacation; he had resolved to devote it to rest and love, and in both matters he prospered. He was soon spilling over with vitality, and each day he saw Ruth, at the moment of meeting, she experienced the old shock of his strength and health.

"Be careful," her mother warned her once again. "I am afraid you are seeing too much of Martin Eden."

But Ruth laughed from security. She was sure of herself, and in a few days he would be off to sea. Then, by the time he returned, she would be away on her visit East. There was a magic, however, in the strength and health of Martin. He, too, had been told of her contemplated Eastern trip, and he felt the need for haste. Yet he did not know how to make love to a girl like Ruth. Then, too, he was handicapped by the possession of a great fund of experience with girls and women who had been absolutely different from her. They had known about love and life and flirtation, while she knew nothing about such things. Her prodigious innocence appalled him, freezing on his lips all ardors of speech, and convincing him, in spite of himself, of his own unworthiness. Also he was handicapped in another way. He had himself never been in love before. He had liked women in that turgid past of his, and been fascinated by some of them, but he had not known what it was to love them. He had whistled in a masterful, careless way, and they had come to him. They had been diversions, incidents, part of the game men play, but a small part at most. And now, and for the first time, he was a suppliant, tender and timid and doubting. He did not know the way of love, nor its speech, while he was frightened at his loved one's clear innocence.

In the course of getting acquainted with a varied world, whirling on through the ever changing phases of it, he had learned a rule of conduct which was to the effect that when one played a strange game, he should let the other fellow play first. This had stood him in good stead a thousand times and trained him as an observer as well. He knew how to watch the thing that was strange, and to wait for a weakness, for a place of entrance, to divulge itself. It was like sparring for an opening in fist-fighting. And when such an opening came, he knew by long experience to play for it and to play hard.

So he waited with Ruth and watched, desiring to speak his love but not daring. He was afraid of shocking her, and he was not sure of himself. Had he but known it, he was following the right course with her. Love came into the world before articulate speech, and in its own early youth it had learned ways and means that it had never forgotten. It was in this old, primitive way that Martin wooed Ruth. He did not know he was doing it at first, though later he divined it. The touch of his hand on hers was vastly more potent than any word he could utter, the impact of his strength on her imagination was more alluring than the printed poems and spoken passions of a thousand generations of lovers. Whatever his tongue could express would have appealed, in part, to her judgment; but the touch of hand, the fleeting contact, made its way directly to her instinct. Her judgment was as young as she, but her instincts were as old as the race and older. They had been young when love was young, and they were wiser than convention and opinion and all the new-born things. So her judgment did not act. There was no call upon it, and she did not realize the strength of the appeal Martin made from moment to moment to her love-nature. That he loved her, on the other hand, was as clear as day, and she consciously delighted in beholding his love-manifestations - the glowing eyes with their tender lights, the trembling hands, and the never failing swarthy flush that flooded darkly under his sunburn. She even went farther, in a timid way inciting him, but doing it so delicately that he never suspected, and doing it half-consciously, so that she scarcely suspected herself. She thrilled with these proofs of her power that proclaimed her a woman, and she took an Eve-like delight in tormenting him and playing upon him.

Tongue-tied by inexperience and by excess of ardor, wooing unwittingly and awkwardly, Martin continued his approach by contact. The touch of his hand was pleasant to her, and something deliciously more than pleasant. Martin did not know it, but he did know that it was not distasteful to her. Not that they touched hands often, save at meeting and parting; but that in handling the bicycles, in strapping on the books of verse they carried into the hills, and in conning the pages of books side by side, there were opportunities for hand to stray against hand. And there were opportunities, too, for her hair to brush his cheek, and for shoulder to touch shoulder, as they leaned together over the beauty of the books. She smiled to herself at vagrant impulses which arose from nowhere and suggested that she rumple his hair; while he desired greatly, when they tired of reading, to rest his head in her lap and dream with closed eyes about the future that was to be theirs. On Sunday picnics at Shellmound Park and Schuetzen Park, in the past, he had rested his head on many laps, and, usually, he had slept soundly and selfishly while the girls shaded his face from the sun and looked down and loved him and wondered at his lordly carelessness of their love. To rest his head in a girl's lap had been the easiest thing in the world until now, and now he found Ruth's lap inaccessible and impossible. Yet it was right here, in his reticence, that the strength of his wooing lay. It was because of this reticence that he never alarmed her. Herself fastidious and timid, she never awakened to the perilous trend of their intercourse. Subtly and unaware she grew toward him and closer to him, while he, sensing the growing closeness, longed to dare but was afraid.

Once he dared, one afternoon, when he found her in the darkened living room with a blinding headache.

"Nothing can do it any good," she had answered his inquiries. "And besides, I don't take headache powders. Doctor Hall won't permit me."

"I can cure it, I think, and without drugs," was Martin's answer. "I am not sure, of course, but I'd like to try. It's simply massage. I learned the trick first from the Japanese. They are a race of masseurs, you know. Then I learned it all over again with variations from the Hawaiians. They call it LOMI-LOMI. It can accomplish most of the things drugs accomplish and a few things that drugs can't."

Scarcely had his hands touched her head when she sighed deeply.

"That is so good," she said.

She spoke once again, half an hour later, when she asked, "Aren't you tired?"

The question was perfunctory, and she knew what the answer would be. Then she lost herself in drowsy contemplation of the soothing balm of his strength: Life poured from the ends of his fingers, driving the pain before it, or so it seemed to her, until with the easement of pain, she fell asleep and he stole away.

She called him up by telephone that evening to thank him.

"I slept until dinner," she said. "You cured me completely, Mr. Eden, and I don't know how to thank you."

He was warm, and bungling of speech, and very happy, as he replied to her, and there was dancing in his mind, throughout the telephone conversation, the memory of Browning and of sickly Elizabeth Barrett. What had been done could be done again, and he, Martin Eden, could do it and would do it for Ruth Morse. He went back to his room and to the volume of Spencer's "Sociology" lying open on the bed. But he could not read. Love tormented him and overrode his will, so that, despite all determination, he found himself at the little ink-stained table. The sonnet he composed that night was the first of a love-cycle of fifty sonnets which was completed within two months. He had the "Love-sonnets from the Portuguese" in mind as he wrote, and he wrote under the best conditions for great work, at a climacteric of living, in the throes of his own sweet love-madness.

The many hours he was not with Ruth he devoted to the "Love-cycle," to reading at home, or to the public reading-rooms, where he got more closely in touch with the magazines of the day and the nature of their policy and content. The hours he spent with Ruth were maddening alike in promise and in inconclusiveness. It was a week after he cured her headache that a moonlight sail on Lake Merritt was proposed by Norman and seconded by Arthur and Olney. Martin was the only one capable of handling a boat, and he was pressed into service. Ruth sat near him in the stern, while the three young fellows lounged amidships, deep in a wordy wrangle over "frat" affairs.

The moon had not yet risen, and Ruth, gazing into the starry vault of the sky and exchanging no speech with Martin, experienced a sudden feeling of loneliness. She glanced at him. A puff of wind was heeling the boat over till the deck was awash, and he, one hand on tiller and the other on main-sheet, was luffing slightly, at the same time peering ahead to make out the near-lying north shore. He was unaware of her gaze, and she watched him intently, speculating fancifully about the strange warp of soul that led him, a young man with signal powers, to fritter away his time on the writing of stories and poems foredoomed to mediocrity and failure.

Her eyes wandered along the strong throat, dimly seen in the starlight, and over the firm-poised head, and the old desire to lay her hands upon his neck came back to her. The strength she abhorred attracted her. Her feeling of loneliness became more pronounced, and she felt tired. Her position on the heeling boat irked her, and she remembered the headache he had cured and the soothing rest that resided in him. He was sitting beside her, quite beside her, and the boat seemed to tilt her toward him. Then arose in her the impulse to lean against him, to rest herself against his strength - a vague, half-formed impulse, which, even as she considered it, mastered her and made her lean toward him. Or was it the heeling of the boat? She did not know. She never knew. She knew only that she was leaning against him and that the easement and soothing rest were very good. Perhaps it had been the boat's fault, but she made no effort to retrieve it. She leaned lightly against his shoulder, but she leaned, and she continued to lean when he shifted his position to make it more comfortable for her.

It was a madness, but she refused to consider the madness. She was no longer herself but a woman, with a woman's clinging need; and though she leaned ever so lightly, the need seemed satisfied. She was no longer tired. Martin did not speak. Had he, the spell would have been broken. But his reticence of love prolonged it. He was dazed and dizzy. He could not understand what was happening. It was too wonderful to be anything but a delirium. He conquered a mad desire to let go sheet and tiller and to clasp her in his arms. His intuition told him it was the wrong thing to do, and he was glad that sheet and tiller kept his hands occupied and fended off temptation. But he luffed the boat less delicately, spilling the wind shamelessly from the sail so as to prolong the tack to the north shore. The shore would compel him to go about, and the contact would be broken. He sailed with skill, stopping way on the boat without exciting the notice of the wranglers, and mentally forgiving his hardest voyages in that they had made this marvellous night possible, giving him mastery over sea and boat and wind so that he could sail with her beside him, her dear weight against him on his shoulder.

When the first light of the rising moon touched the sail, illuminating the boat with pearly radiance, Ruth moved away from him. And, even as she moved, she felt him move away. The impulse to avoid detection was mutual. The episode was tacitly and secretly intimate. She sat apart from him with burning cheeks, while the full force of it came home to her. She had been guilty of something she would not have her brothers see, nor Olney see. Why had she done it? She had never done anything like it in her life, and yet she had been moonlight-sailing with young men before. She had never desired to do anything like it. She was overcome with shame and with the mystery of her own burgeoning womanhood. She stole a glance at Martin, who was busy putting the boat about on the other tack, and she could have hated him for having made her do an immodest and shameful thing. And he, of all men! Perhaps her mother was right, and she was seeing too much of him. It would never happen again, she resolved, and she would see less of him in the future. She entertained a wild idea of explaining to him the first time they were alone together, of lying to him, of mentioning casually the attack of faintness that had overpowered her just before the moon came up. Then she remembered how they had drawn mutually away before the revealing moon, and she knew he would know it for a lie.

In the days that swiftly followed she was no longer herself but a strange, puzzling creature, wilful over judgment and scornful of self-analysis, refusing to peer into the future or to think about herself and whither she was drifting. She was in a fever of tingling mystery, alternately frightened and charmed, and in constant bewilderment. She had one idea firmly fixed, however, which insured her security. She would not let Martin speak his love. As long as she did this, all would be well. In a few days he would be off to sea. And even if he did speak, all would be well. It could not be otherwise, for she did not love him. Of course, it would be a painful half hour for him, and an embarrassing half hour for her, because it would be her first proposal. She thrilled deliciously at the thought. She was really a woman, with a man ripe to ask for her in marriage. It was a lure to all that was fundamental in her sex. The fabric of her life, of all that constituted her, quivered and grew tremulous. The thought fluttered in her mind like a flame-attracted moth. She went so far as to imagine Martin proposing, herself putting the words into his mouth; and she rehearsed her refusal, tempering it with kindness and exhorting him to true and noble manhood. And especially he must stop smoking cigarettes. She would make a point of that. But no, she must not let him speak at all. She could stop him, and she had told her mother that she would. All flushed and burning, she regretfully dismissed the conjured situation. Her first proposal would have to be deferred to a more propitious time and a more eligible suitor.

创作的欲望又在马丁心里萌动。小说和诗歌从他脑子里蹦出,并自然形成。他把它们草草记下,准备以后写成作品。不过此时他没有写,因为他在度一个短假。他决心把它用于休息和爱情。他两方面都大有进展。他很快又精神焕发,活力洋溢了,而且每天跟露丝见面,每次见面都让露丝感到了他那旺盛精力的冲击。

“你得小心,”母亲再次警告露丝,“你跟马丁·伊登见面太多,我为你担心呢。”

露丝笑了,她相信自己没有危险。何况再过几天他就要出海去,等他回来她已经到东部做客去了。但马丁旺盛的精力仍然有它的魅力,而他也听说了她准备到东部去探亲的事,感到需要加快进行。他不知道怎样跟露丝这样的女人恋爱。跟与她绝对不同的女人恋爱他有丰富的经验,但那对他却很不利。那些女人知道爱情和生活,也会调情,但露丝却没有经验。她那惊人的天真无邪令他惶恐,把他热情的话语都冻结在嘴唇上,使他不能不相信自己配不上她。还有一点也对他不利。他以前从没有堕入过情网。在他那些趾高气扬的日子里,他喜欢过女人,也曾迷恋过几个,但并不知道怎样跟她们恋爱。那时他只需神气活现满不在乎地吹吹口哨她们就来了。她们只不过是一种消遣,一段插曲,是男子汉把戏的一部分——最多也只是一小部分。可现在他第一次变成了个温柔、羞怯、忐忑不安的追求者。他所爱的人儿是那样天真纯洁,一尘不染。他不知道怎样去爱她,也不知道怎样对她诉说爱情。

他认识多姿多彩的世界,曾在它于变万化的局面里旋风般前进。在那过程中他学会了一种行为准则,大体是:凡是新花样都让别人先动手。这个办法以前曾使他一千次立于不败之地,也培养了他的观察能力。他懂得怎样观察新东西,等待弱点暴露,再抓住突破口冲进去。那跟打架时伺机进攻是一样的。凭他长期的经验,他只要找到了破绽就能抓住不放,穷追猛打。

他也这样观察着等待着露丝,想向她表白却又不敢。他生怕吓坏了她,对自己也不放心。其实若是他知道的话,他的这条路倒是恰如其分。爱情是在它明确表达之前就已来到这世界上的,在它的蓓蕾期就摸索出了种种窍门和办法,从此永远不忘。马丁就是以这种古老的原始的方式向露丝求爱的。起初他并不知道,虽然后来明白过来了。他俩之间手的碰触要比他嘴里的任何话语都有力。他旺盛的精力对她想像力的冲击具有着比典籍上的诗歌和千年万代的情侣们的情话更大的诱惑。他能用舌头表达的东西虽能部分地打动她的判断力;他们手与手的短暂接触却能直接打动她的本能。她的判断力跟她一样年轻,而本能却跟她的种族同样古老,甚至更古老。在爱惜年轻时本能也年轻,可它却比传统舆论和一切新生的东西更聪明。因此露丝便没有运用过她的判断力,因为没有必要。对马丁向她的恋爱本能所发起的进攻她并没有意识到它的威力。而另一方面,马丁对她的爱恋已经像天日一样明白。她看到了他的爱情表现,也意识到自己的欢乐:那燃烧在他眼里的温柔的光,那颤栗的双手,那太阳晒黑的皮肤下到时准会隐隐泛起的红潮。她甚至进一步怯生生地挑引过他,但是依稀隐约,不但没有引起他的怀疑,甚至连她自己也没有意识到。她对自己也几乎不曾怀疑过。她的威力的这种种表现宣布了她已是个女人,这使她激动欢喜。她也把抗磨和玩弄他当作快乐,像夏娃一样。

由于缺乏经验,也由于过分热情,马丁说不出后来。他只能用碰触的方式下意识地笨拙地接近地。他那手的碰触令她感到愉快,甚至美妙。对此马丁并不知道,他只知道她并无反感。并不是说他俩的手除了见面和道别之外也常接触,而是说在摆弄自行车时,在往车上捆扎带上山去的诗集时,在肩并肩玩味着书中的情趣时,他俩的手都有偶然碰到的机会。何况他俩俯身在书页上沉醉于它的美时,她的头发有时也会拂着他的面颊,肩头有时也会碰着他的肩头。有时一种无赖的冲动无端袭来,她还会想去揉乱他的鬈发。这时她便暗自笑了。而他呢,两人读书倦了,也渴望把头放在她的膝头上,闭了眼睛冥想他俩未来的日子。过去他在贝陵公园和帅岑公园野餐也曾多次把头枕在女人膝上,而且总是睡得很香。而那些女人则给他遮太阳,低头看着他,爱他,不明白他为什么那么大架子,对她们的爱情总不在乎。过去把头枕在姑娘膝头上原是最容易不过的事,可现在他却发现露丝的膝头是无法接近的,难以达到的。其实他的追求之所以有力正在他的沉默。因为沉默她便不致受到惊吓。尽管她天性挑剔,胆怯,却不曾意识到两人的交往会有什么危险.于是便微妙地不自觉地向他靠拢,越靠越近。对这种逐渐的亲近他是感觉到的,很想鼓起勇气,却又畏怯。

有一天下午他终于鼓起了勇气。他发现她在昏暗的起坐间里头痛得眼睛发花。

“什么药都不起作用,”她回答他的问题时说,“而且我不能吃头痛粉,霍尔医生不允许。”

“我认为我能治好你的头痛,不用吃药,”马丁回答,“当然,我没有把握,不过我想试一试。很简单,用按摩。我最初是从日本人那儿学的。你知道他们是个按摩师的民族。然后我又从夏威夷人那儿重新学了一遍,有些变化。他们叫它‘罗米罗米’。凡是药物能治的病它都能治;药物不能治的病有些它也能治。”

他的手刚碰到她的头她便深深地叹了一口气。

“舒服极了,”她说。

半小时之后她说话了,问道:“你累不累?”

这问题只是个形式,答案她分明知道。然后她便一边朦胧思考着他的力量所产生的镇痛作用一边开始昏昏欲睡。生命从他的指尖流出,驱赶着(或者说她似乎觉得驱赶着)疼痛,直到它完全消失。她睡着了,他也悄悄走掉了。

那天晚上她给他打电话,表示感谢。

“我一直睡到晚饭才醒,”她说,“你完全治好了我的病,伊登先生,我真不知道该怎么感谢你呢。”

他回答时口头虽结巴,心里却暖和,非常高兴。在整个通话时间里他心里涌动着关于勃朗宁和多病的伊丽莎白·巴瑞特的回忆。做过的事还可以再做;为了露丝·莫尔斯地马丁·伊登能够做而且愿意做。他回到屋里那卷斯宾塞的《社会学》去。那书翻开放在床上,但他没读进去。爱情折磨着他,蹂躏着他的意志。他发现自己违背了自己的决定,坐到了那张有墨水印迹的小桌旁。那天晚上地所写的十四行诗是他此后两个月内写成的五十首爱情组诗的第一百。他写时心里想着《葡萄牙人的爱情十四行诗》。他的诗是在产生伟大作品的最佳条件下写成的:在生活的紧要关头,在他因甜蜜的疯魔而痛苦之际。

没跟露丝见面时他便写《爱情组诗》,在家读书,或是到公共阅览室去。在那儿跟流行杂志保持更密切的接触,明白它们的政策和内容的性质。他跟露丝一起度过的时光给了他希望,却并无结果。两者都急得他发疯。他治好她的病后的一个星期,诺尔曼建议到梅丽特湖上去用对泛舟。这建议得到亚瑟和奥尔尼的赞同。只有马丁会驾船,他被说服接受了任务。露丝坐在船尾跟他一起。三个小伙子在中舱闲聊,为兄弟会的事大发议论,争吵得不可开交。

月亮尚未升起。露丝没有踉马丁说话,只凝视着繁星点点的天空,突然感到孤独。她瞥了他一眼。一阵风吹来,船体倾斜了,水花溅上了甲板。马丁一手掌舵一手操纵主帆,让船轻轻地贴风行驶,同时眺望着前方,要找出不远处的北岸,没有意识到露丝在看他。露丝专注地望着他,驰骋着想像,猜测着是什么力量扭曲了他的灵魂,使得像他那样一个精力过人的青年把时间浪费在写小说和写诗上面,而那是注定了只能平庸或失败的。

她的眼睛沿着他那在星光下依稀可见的结实的喉头往挺立的头部望去。往日的欲望又回来了:她想用双手搂住他的脖子。她所厌恶的旺盛的精力吸引了她。她益发感到了孤独。她疲倦了。船身一倾侧,她那样坐着便感到吃力。她想起了他为她治好的头痛,想起了他所能给她的舒服的休息。而他就坐在自己身边,离得很近。那船也似乎要让她向他歪过身子,她有了一种向他偎依过去的冲动,想靠在他那健壮的身子上。那冲动朦胧依稀,似有若无,没等她想清楚已经支配了她,使她向他偎依了过去。是船体在倾倒么?她不知道,一点也不知道。她只知道自己偎依到了他的身上,获得了舒服轻松的休息,十分美好。也许该怪船吧?可她没打算纠正,只一味轻轻靠在他肩上。他挪了挪身子,让她靠得更舒服一点。她便靠着,继续靠着。

这是疯狂,可她不愿去想。她再也不是她自己,而是个女人,像女人一样需要偎靠。虽然偎靠得很轻很轻,她的需要却似乎得到了满足。她再由不疲倦了。马丁没说话,怕一说话那魔法就会消逝。他在爱情上的沉默延长了魔法。他快乐得昏昏沉沉,晕晕忽忽,不明白发生了什么事。这感觉太美妙,只能是高烧时的幻觉。他压制了丢下船舵和风帆去拥抱她的疯狂冲动。直觉告诉他不能那样做。他高兴风帆和船舵占住了他的手,挡住了这个诱惑。但他驾着船贴风行驶的手却懈怠了,不顾脸面地让风从帆边漏了出去,推迟了到达北岸的时间,因为一到了北岸就得回头,两人就得分开。他巧妙地驶着船,老远便放慢了速度,没有引起几位还在争论不休的人的注意。他在心里原谅了过去的最艰苦的航行,因为它给他带来了这奇妙的夜晚,给了他操纵海浪。船只和风的能力,让她在驾船时坐到了他身边,让她那可爱的身子靠到了他肩上。

初升的月儿的第一缕光线落到了帆上,用它珍珠般的柔辉照亮了小船。露丝从马丁挪开了身子,同时也注意到他也在挪开。原来怕人注意的感觉是共通的。这段插曲默默无言,却秘密而亲切。她挪开了身子,脸烧得通红,但那偎依的作用却震撼了她。她犯了错误,不愿让两个弟弟看见,也不愿让奥尔尼看见。她为什么要这么做?她可是一辈子也不曾做过这样的事。以前她也跟年轻小伙子一起在月下泛过舟,却从没想过这么做。她羞愧得无地自容,为她萌动中的女性要求感到难堪。她偷偷地看了马丁一眼。马丁正忙着改变航向。她是可能怀恨他的,因为他竟使她做出了这样放荡可耻的事。怎么偏偏是他!她母亲也许是对的。他跟她见面太多了。她下定决心不让这样的事再发生,以后要跟他少见面。她还异想天开打算在两人单独会面的时候给他作解释,装作无意的样子撒个谎,说是月亮快出来时她突然感到晕眩,没坐稳身子。可她又回忆起月光快要透出时他们俩互相挪开的事,便明白他会听出那是谎话。

在随后的匆匆逝去的日子里她已经不再是自己,而成了一个满肚子狐疑的陌生人。看问题执拗,瞧不起自我分析,不肯看向未来,不肯考虑自己,也不管自己在往哪儿漂流。一个令人激动的奇迹使她狂热。她时而害怕,时而沉醉,总是迷惆困惑。但是有一点她却坚信不疑,认为她的安全可以保证,只要不让马丁表白爱情。只要能做到这一点她就可以万事大吉。过几天他就出海了。不过就算他表白了也没有问题。不可能有别的,因为她并不爱他。当然,半小时内他会很痛苦,她也会很尴尬,因为那会是她第一次有人求爱。一想到这一点她竟又甜蜜地欢喜起来。她真地成了个女人了,有了男人爱她,向她求婚了。那是对女人的一切天性的诱惑。她生命的机制、她整个的结构都不禁震动、战栗起来。这想法有如被火光吸引的飞蛾在她心里扑腾着。她甚至还设想起马丁求爱的样子,连他要说的话都为他设计好了。她还排练了自己的拒绝。她要用好意把它冲淡,鼓励他做个有志气的男子汉,尤其要戒掉烟——这一点要加以强调。可是不行,决不能让他说出口来,那是她对妈妈的诺言。她满面通红,全身发热,遗憾地驱走了她所设想的场景。她的第一次求婚应当推迟到一个更为吉利的时辰,求婚人也必须更为可取。
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