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breakneck/['breɪknek]/ a. 要使颈骨折断似的, 非常危险的...

马丁·伊登(MARTIN EDEN)第四十章

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"Overdue" still continued to lie forgotten on the table. Every manuscript that he had had out now lay under the table. Only one manuscript he kept going, and that was Brissenden's "Ephemera." His bicycle and black suit were again in pawn, and the type-writer people were once more worrying about the rent. But such things no longer bothered him. He was seeking a new orientation, and until that was found his life must stand still.

After several weeks, what he had been waiting for happened. He met Ruth on the street. It was true, she was accompanied by her brother, Norman, and it was true that they tried to ignore him and that Norman attempted to wave him aside.

"If you interfere with my sister, I'll call an officer," Norman threatened. "She does not wish to speak with you, and your insistence is insult."

"If you persist, you'll have to call that officer, and then you'll get your name in the papers," Martin answered grimly. "And now, get out of my way and get the officer if you want to. I'm going to talk with Ruth."

"I want to have it from your own lips," he said to her.

She was pale and trembling, but she held up and looked inquiringly.

"The question I asked in my letter," he prompted.

Norman made an impatient movement, but Martin checked him with a swift look.

She shook her head.

"Is all this of your own free will?" he demanded.

"It is." She spoke in a low, firm voice and with deliberation. "It is of my own free will. You have disgraced me so that I am ashamed to meet my friends. They are all talking about me, I know. That is all I can tell you. You have made me very unhappy, and I never wish to see you again."

"Friends! Gossip! Newspaper misreports! Surely such things are not stronger than love! I can only believe that you never loved me."

A blush drove the pallor from her face.

"After what has passed?" she said faintly. "Martin, you do not know what you are saying. I am not common."

"You see, she doesn't want to have anything to do with you," Norman blurted out, starting on with her.

Martin stood aside and let them pass, fumbling unconsciously in his coat pocket for the tobacco and brown papers that were not there.

It was a long walk to North Oakland, but it was not until he went up the steps and entered his room that he knew he had walked it. He found himself sitting on the edge of the bed and staring about him like an awakened somnambulist. He noticed "Overdue" lying on the table and drew up his chair and reached for his pen. There was in his nature a logical compulsion toward completeness. Here was something undone. It had been deferred against the completion of something else. Now that something else had been finished, and he would apply himself to this task until it was finished. What he would do next he did not know. All that he did know was that a climacteric in his life had been attained. A period had been reached, and he was rounding it off in workman-like fashion. He was not curious about the future. He would soon enough find out what it held in store for him. Whatever it was, it did not matter. Nothing seemed to matter.

For five days he toiled on at "Overdue," going nowhere, seeing nobody, and eating meagrely. On the morning of the sixth day the postman brought him a thin letter from the editor of THE PARTHENON. A glance told him that "Ephemera" was accepted. "We have submitted the poem to Mr. Cartwright Bruce," the editor went on to say, "and he has reported so favorably upon it that we cannot let it go. As an earnest of our pleasure in publishing the poem, let me tell you that we have set it for the August number, our July number being already made up. Kindly extend our pleasure and our thanks to Mr. Brissenden. Please send by return mail his photograph and biographical data. If our honorarium is unsatisfactory, kindly telegraph us at once and state what you consider a fair price."

Since the honorarium they had offered was three hundred and fifty dollars, Martin thought it not worth while to telegraph. Then, too, there was Brissenden's consent to be gained. Well, he had been right, after all. Here was one magazine editor who knew real poetry when he saw it. And the price was splendid, even though it was for the poem of a century. As for Cartwright Bruce, Martin knew that he was the one critic for whose opinions Brissenden had any respect.

Martin rode down town on an electric car, and as he watched the houses and cross-streets slipping by he was aware of a regret that he was not more elated over his friend's success and over his own signal victory. The one critic in the United States had pronounced favorably on the poem, while his own contention that good stuff could find its way into the magazines had proved correct. But enthusiasm had lost its spring in him, and he found that he was more anxious to see Brissenden than he was to carry the good news. The acceptance of THE PARTHENON had recalled to him that during his five days' devotion to "Overdue" he had not heard from Brissenden nor even thought about him. For the first time Martin realized the daze he had been in, and he felt shame for having forgotten his friend. But even the shame did not burn very sharply. He was numb to emotions of any sort save the artistic ones concerned in the writing of "Overdue." So far as other affairs were concerned, he had been in a trance. For that matter, he was still in a trance. All this life through which the electric car whirred seemed remote and unreal, and he would have experienced little interest and less shook if the great stone steeple of the church he passed had suddenly crumbled to mortar-dust upon his head.

At the hotel he hurried up to Brissenden's room, and hurried down again. The room was empty. All luggage was gone.

"Did Mr. Brissenden leave any address?" he asked the clerk, who looked at him curiously for a moment.

"Haven't you heard?" he asked.

Martin shook his head.

"Why, the papers were full of it. He was found dead in bed. Suicide. Shot himself through the head."

"Is he buried yet?" Martin seemed to hear his voice, like some one else's voice, from a long way off, asking the question.

"No. The body was shipped East after the inquest. Lawyers engaged by his people saw to the arrangements."

"They were quick about it, I must say," Martin commented.

"Oh, I don't know. It happened five days ago."

"Five days ago?"

"Yes, five days ago."

"Oh," Martin said as he turned and went out.

At the corner he stepped into the Western Union and sent a telegram to THE PARTHENON, advising them to proceed with the publication of the poem. He had in his pocket but five cents with which to pay his carfare home, so he sent the message collect.

Once in his room, he resumed his writing. The days and nights came and went, and he sat at his table and wrote on. He went nowhere, save to the pawnbroker, took no exercise, and ate methodically when he was hungry and had something to cook, and just as methodically went without when he had nothing to cook. Composed as the story was, in advance, chapter by chapter, he nevertheless saw and developed an opening that increased the power of it, though it necessitated twenty thousand additional words. It was not that there was any vital need that the thing should be well done, but that his artistic canons compelled him to do it well. He worked on in the daze, strangely detached from the world around him, feeling like a familiar ghost among these literary trappings of his former life. He remembered that some one had said that a ghost was the spirit of a man who was dead and who did not have sense enough to know it; and he paused for the moment to wonder if he were really dead did unaware of it.

Came the day when "Overdue" was finished. The agent of the type- writer firm had come for the machine, and he sat on the bed while Martin, on the one chair, typed the last pages of the final chapter. "Finis," he wrote, in capitals, at the end, and to him it was indeed finis. He watched the type-writer carried out the door with a feeling of relief, then went over and lay down on the bed. He was faint from hunger. Food had not passed his lips in thirty- six hours, but he did not think about it. He lay on his back, with closed eyes, and did not think at all, while the daze or stupor slowly welled up, saturating his consciousness. Half in delirium, he began muttering aloud the lines of an anonymous poem Brissenden had been fond of quoting to him. Maria, listening anxiously outside his door, was perturbed by his monotonous utterance. The words in themselves were not significant to her, but the fact that he was saying them was. "I have done," was the burden of the poem.

"'I have done - Put by the lute. Song and singing soon are over As the airy shades that hover In among the purple clover. I have done - Put by the lute. Once I sang as early thrushes Sing among the dewy bushes; Now I'm mute. I am like a weary linnet, For my throat has no song in it; I have had my singing minute. I have done. Put by the lute.'"

Maria could stand it no longer, and hurried away to the stove, where she filled a quart-bowl with soup, putting into it the lion's share of chopped meat and vegetables which her ladle scraped from the bottom of the pot. Martin roused himself and sat up and began to eat, between spoonfuls reassuring Maria that he had not been talking in his sleep and that he did not have any fever.

After she left him he sat drearily, with drooping shoulders, on the edge of the bed, gazing about him with lack-lustre eyes that saw nothing until the torn wrapper of a magazine, which had come in the morning's mail and which lay unopened, shot a gleam of light into his darkened brain. It is THE PARTHENON, he thought, the August PARTHENON, and it must contain "Ephemera." If only Brissenden were here to see!

He was turning the pages of the magazine, when suddenly he stopped. "Ephemera" had been featured, with gorgeous head-piece and Beardsley-like margin decorations. On one side of the head-piece was Brissenden's photograph, on the other side was the photograph of Sir John Value, the British Ambassador. A preliminary editorial note quoted Sir John Value as saying that there were no poets in America, and the publication of "Ephemera" was THE PARTHENON'S. "There, take that, Sir John Value!" Cartwright Bruce was described as the greatest critic in America, and he was quoted as saying that "Ephemera" was the greatest poem ever written in America. And finally, the editor's foreword ended with: "We have not yet made up our minds entirely as to the merits of "Ephemera"; perhaps we shall never be able to do so. But we have read it often, wondering at the words and their arrangement, wondering where Mr. Brissenden got them, and how he could fasten them together." Then followed the poem.

"Pretty good thing you died, Briss, old man," Martin murmured, letting the magazine slip between his knees to the floor.

The cheapness and vulgarity of it was nauseating, and Martin noted apathetically that he was not nauseated very much. He wished he could get angry, but did not have energy enough to try. He was too numb. His blood was too congealed to accelerate to the swift tidal flow of indignation. After all, what did it matter? It was on a par with all the rest that Brissenden had condemned in bourgeois society.

"Poor Briss," Martin communed; "he would never have forgiven me."

Rousing himself with an effort, he possessed himself of a box which had once contained type-writer paper. Going through its contents, he drew forth eleven poems which his friend had written. These he tore lengthwise and crosswise and dropped into the waste basket. He did it languidly, and, when he had finished, sat on the edge of the bed staring blankly before him.

How long he sat there he did not know, until, suddenly, across his sightless vision he saw form a long horizontal line of white. It was curious. But as he watched it grow in definiteness he saw that it was a coral reef smoking in the white Pacific surges. Next, in the line of breakers he made out a small canoe, an outrigger canoe. In the stern he saw a young bronzed god in scarlet hip-cloth dipping a flashing paddle. He recognized him. He was Moti, the youngest son of Tati, the chief, and this was Tahiti, and beyond that smoking reef lay the sweet land of Papara and the chief's grass house by the river's mouth. It was the end of the day, and Moti was coming home from the fishing. He was waiting for the rush of a big breaker whereon to jump the reef. Then he saw himself, sitting forward in the canoe as he had often sat in the past, dipping a paddle that waited Moti's word to dig in like mad when the turquoise wall of the great breaker rose behind them. Next, he was no longer an onlooker but was himself in the canoe, Moti was crying out, they were both thrusting hard with their paddles, racing on the steep face of the flying turquoise. Under the bow the water was hissing as from a steam jet, the air was filled with driven spray, there was a rush and rumble and long-echoing roar, and the canoe floated on the placid water of the lagoon. Moti laughed and shook the salt water from his eyes, and together they paddled in to the pounded-coral beach where Tati's grass walls through the cocoanut-palms showed golden in the setting sun.

The picture faded, and before his eyes stretched the disorder of his squalid room. He strove in vain to see Tahiti again. He knew there was singing among the trees and that the maidens were dancing in the moonlight, but he could not see them. He could see only the littered writing-table, the empty space where the type-writer had stood, and the unwashed window-pane. He closed his eyes with a groan, and slept.

《过期》仍然躺在桌上,被忘掉了。他寄出去的手稿现在都躺在桌子底下。只有一份稿子他还在往外寄,那就是布里森登的《蜉蝣》。他的自行车和黑色外衣又进了当铺。打字机行的人又在担心租金了。但是马丁再也不会为这类事情烦恼了。他在寻找新的方向,在找到以前,他的生活只好暂停。

几个礼拜以后他等待的东西出现了。他在街上遇见了露丝。她确实由她的弟弟诺尔曼陪着,两人确实都想不理他,而诺尔曼也挥手打算赶他走。

“你要是骚扰我姐姐,我就叫警察,”诺尔曼威胁说,“她不愿意和你说话而你硬要跟她说话就是侮辱她。”

“如果你坚持你的做法,就去叫警察好了,那你的名字就会上报,”马丁冷冷地回答,“现在你离开这儿,去叫警察吧,我要跟露丝谈一谈。”

“我要听你自己说说,”马丁对露丝说。

她颤抖着,脸色苍白,可是停了步,带着疑问的神色望着他。

“我要听你回答我在信里提出的问题,”他提醒她。

诺尔曼做了个不耐烦的动作,但是马丁立即盯了他一眼,制止了他。

她摇摇头。

“全是出于你自己的自由意志么?”他问。

“是的,”她声音很低,但坚决,沉静,“是我自己的自由意志。你叫我受到了侮辱,叫我羞于见到朋友。她们都在说我闲话,我知道。这就是我能告诉你的话。你使我很不幸,我再也不想见到你了。”

“朋友!闲话!报纸上的错误报道!这些东西总不会比爱情更强有力吧!我只能相信你从来就没有爱过我。”

一阵红晕赶走了她脸上的苍白。

“我们有过那么多的过从你还这么讲么?”她有气无力地说,“马丁,你不知道你说的是什么。我可不是一般的人。”

“听见了吧?她不愿意再跟你来往了!”诺尔曼叫了起来,打算带了她离开。

马丁站到一边,让他们走掉了,一面在口袋里摸索着烟叶和褐色的纸,却没有。

到北奥克兰的路还很远,但是他是直到上了台阶进了屋子才发觉自己是步行回来的。他发现自己坐在床边上,向四面张望着,像个刚醒来的梦游病患者。他注意到《过期》还躺在桌子上,便拉拢了椅子伸手去取笔。他有一种带逻辑强迫力的有始有终的天性。有件事因为别的事耽搁而没有做完,现在别的事已经做完,他就该来完成这件事了。往后再要干什么,他不知道。他只知道自己面;临着平生的转折关头。一个阶段已经结束,他郑重其事地做着收尾工作。他对于未来并不好奇,等着他的是什么东西他不久就会知道的。不管是什么,都没有关系。一切一切都似乎无所谓了。

一连五天他苦苦地写着《过期》,没有出门,没有见人,东西也吃得很少。第六天早上邮递员给他送来了《帕提农》的编辑给他的一封信。他一眼就看出《蜉蝣》已经被采用。“本刊已将此诗送卡特莱特·布鲁斯先生审阅,”编辑说,“布鲁斯先生极为推崇,本刊亦爱不释手。本刊七月号稿件业已排定,为说明出版此稿之忱,谨此奉告:该稿已定于八月号刊登——请向布里森登先生转致本刊荣幸之感,并致谢意。请于赐复时附寄布里森登先生照片及小传。本刊薄酬若不当意,请即电告,并提出先生以为恰当之数。”

他们提出的稿酬是三百五十元,马丁觉得已经不必再电告了。不过这事得要取得布里森登同意。看来他毕竟没有错:这里就有了一个有眼光的杂志编辑。即使这首诗可称世纪之作,稿费也还是很高的。至于卡特莱特·布鲁斯,马丁知道他在布里森登眼中是其意见多少还值得尊重的唯一评论家。

马丁乘电车进了城,在凝望车外闪现的房屋和横街时他意识到了一种遗憾:他并没有为他的朋友的成功和自己的显著胜利太感到得意。美国唯一的评论家对这首诗表示了赞赏;那么自己的看法:好作品也能得到杂志的首肯也证明没有错。但是他心里的热情已经没有了源泉。他发现自己更喜欢的倒是见到布里森登,而不是告诉他好消息。《帕提农》接受稿件的事提醒了他,在他忙着写《过期》的五天里还没有得到过布里森登的消息,甚至连想也没有想起过他。这才第一次意识到自己忙昏了头,于是为忘掉朋友而惭愧起来。但,就是那惭愧之感也并不强烈。他已经麻木,除了写作《过期》所需要的艺术激情之外他已经不再有激情可言。在别的事情上他处于失神状态,到目前还是一片空白。电车呜呜驶过的这一切生活都似乎辽远缥缈。即使他刚才经过的教堂那巍峨的石头尖塔此刻突然砸到他头上,碎成了片片,他也不会注意,更不要说惊讶了。

他来到旅馆,匆匆上了楼,走到布里森登的房间,又匆匆地赶了下来。房间是空的。行李全没有了。“布里森登先生留下地址没有?”他问办事员,那人很纳罕,打量了他一会儿。

“你没有听说么?”他问。

马丁摇摇头。

“怎么,报纸上满是他的事呢。他被发现死在了床上,自杀了。子弹射穿了脑袋。”

“埋了没有?”马丁听见自己的声音像是别人的,在从辽远处提出问题。

“没有,尸体检查之后就运到东部去了。一切都是由他家里人委托的律师处理的。”

“办理得倒真快,我得说,”马丁发表意见。

“那我就不知道了。那是五天以前的事。”

‘三天以前?”

“是的,五天以前。”

“噢,”马丁说着转身走了出去。

来到街角他走进了西部联合电信局,给《帕提农》发了一个电报,要求他们发表那首诗。他口袋里只剩下五分钱坐车回家了,因此发出的电报由收报人付费。

一回到家他又开始了写作。白天黑夜来来去去,他总坐在桌边写着。除了上当铺他哪儿也没有去过。他从不运动,饿了,有东西可煮就煮一点,照章办事地吃下去;没有东西可煮就不煮,照章办事地饿肚子。他那故事早已一章章安排好,他却又考虑而且发展出了一个盯以增加气魄的开头,尽管那又不能不增加了两万来字。那小说并没有什么严重的必要非写好不可,逼着他精益求精的是他的艺术信条。他就像那样失魂落魄地写着,跟周围的世界离奇地脱了节。他感到自己好像是一个回到了前生所熟悉的写作条件里的幽灵。他想起有人说过幽灵是已经死去却还没有意识到死亡的人的精神;于是停下笔考虑,他是否已经死去而还没有意识到死亡。

《过期》写完的日子终于到来,打字机行的代理人已经来取机器,马丁坐在唯一的椅子上写最后一章的几页,那人就坐在床上等着。“完,”到末了他用大写字母打出。对他说来的确是一切都结束了。他怀着一种如释重负的心情看着打字机被带出了门,然后来到床边躺了下来。他的嘴唇已经三十六小时没有碰过食物,但他想也没有想。闭着眼躺在床上,一无所思。昏沉,或是麻木,涌了上来,淹没了他的知觉。他半是吃语地大声背诵起布里森登喜欢为他朗诵的一个无名诗人的诗句。玛利亚在他门外担心地听着,为他那单调的声音提心吊胆。那些话对她倒没有什么意义,她担心的是他在那么喃喃地叨念。那诗的叠句是,“我的歌已经唱完”:“‘我的歌已经唱完,我已把诗琴收起。歌声与歌唱转瞬即逝,如笼在紫苜蓿上的轻灵而缥缈的影子。我的歌已经唱完,我已把诗琴收起。我曾歌唱如早起的画眉,鸣啭在露湿的灌木丛里。可此刻我已经喑哑无语,如一只唱厌倦了的红雀,因为我喉里再没有歌曲,我已度尽我歌唱的日子。我的歌已经唱完,我已把诗琴收起。’”

玛利亚再也受不了了,急忙到炉边盛满了一大钵汤,把用勺子从锅底滤出的她家大部分的肉末和蔬菜放了进去。马丁鼓起劲坐起身子吃了起来。一面舀着一面叫玛利亚放心,他决没有梦呓,也没有发烧。

玛利亚离开之后他仍耷拉了两肩阴郁地坐在床边,眼睛失神地望着,对一切都视而不见,直到一本杂志撕破的封面把一道光芒射进了他漆黑的脑子里。那份杂志是早上送到的,还没有拆开。他以为是《帕提农》,八月号的《帕提农》,上面一定有《蜉蝣》,要是布里森登能看见就好了!

他翻阅着杂志,突然住了手。《蜉蝣》是以特稿形式刊登的,有豪华的题花和比亚兹荣风格的边框装饰。题花一侧是布里森登的照片,另一侧是英国大使约翰·伐琉爵士的照片。一篇编辑部的介绍短文引用伐琉大使的话说:美国没有诗人。《蜉蝣》的出版等于是《帕提农》一声断喝:“看看这,约翰·伐琉爵士!”杂志把卡特莱特描写为美国最伟大的评论家,并引用他的话说《蜉蝣》是美国有史以来最伟大的诗篇。最后编辑的前言以下面的话结束:“我们对于《蜉蝣》的杰出之处还没有完全认识;也许永远也无法认识。但是我们再三拜读此诗,对其词语及结构总是惊讶莫名,我们惊讶布里森登先生的词语从何而来,又如何联属成了此文。”接下来就是那首诗。

“你死了倒好,布里老兄,”马丁喃喃地说,让那杂志从膝盖之间滑落到地上。

那廉价、那庸俗真叫人要呕吐,可马丁却又冷冰冰地觉得并不太想呕吐。他倒希望自己能生气,但他已没有了生气的力气。他太麻木,血液太粘稠,流速达不到发脾气所需要的理想的激动程度。可归根到底,那又有什么关系?这种现象和布里森登所藐视的资产阶级社会的一切岂不正好合拍么?

“可怜的布里,”马丁内省道,“他是永远也不会原谅我了。”

他打叠起精神,捧起了一个箱子,原来是用来装打字纸的。他浏览了一下目录,从里面抽出了十一首他那朋友的诗,把它们横着撕破又竖着撕破,扔进了字纸篓里。他懒洋洋地做着,做完又坐在床边茫然地望着前面。

他不知道自己坐了多久,最后在他那一无所见的视觉里出现了一道白色的光,长长的,平躺的,很怪。他再看,那水平的光越来越清楚了,他看见了,原来是在太平洋白色的波涛之间的一道雾蒙蒙的珊瑚礁。然后他就在重重的浪花里看见了一只独木船——带平衡翼的独木船。他在船尾看见一个挂着朱红腰布的青铜色的年轻神灵,挥动着闪亮的桨片。他认出来了,那是莫提,塔提前长最小的儿子。地点是塔希提岛。那雾蒙蒙的珊瑚礁以外就是帕帕拉的美妙的土地,酋长的草屋就坐落在河口。那时已是黄昏,莫提打完鱼要回家,正等着大浪来送他飞越珊瑚礁。这时马万也看见了自己,正按以前的习惯坐在独木船前面,桨放在水里,等候着莫提的命令,准备在那大潮的碧玉般的高墙从身后打来时不要命地划过去。然后,马丁已不再是看客,而成了划着独木船的自己。莫提大喊大叫,两人在笔陡飞旋的碧玉高墙上拼命地划着桨。船船下海浪嘶嘶地怒吼着;有如喷着水气的喷头,空气里弥漫着飞溅的浪花,冲击奔腾的喧哗声此起彼伏,然后,独木船便已漂浮在礁湖里平静的水面上。莫提哈哈大笑,眨巴着溅过眼里的海水,然后两人便划进了用碎珊瑚铺成的海滩旁。那儿,在夕阳里,椰子树的绿叶之间露出了一片金黄,那就是塔提的草屋子单打成的墙面。

那画面谈去了。他眼前出现了自己肮脏凌乱的房间。他努力想再看到塔希提,却失败了。他知道那里有些树丛里有歌声,月光下还有姑娘们在舞蹈,但是他已看不见了。他看得见的只有那凌乱的书桌,打字机留下的空白,还有不曾擦洗过的窗玻璃。他呻吟了一声,睡去了。
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