Several weeks went by, during which Martin Eden studied his grammar, reviewed the books on etiquette, and read voraciously the books that caught his fancy. Of his own class he saw nothing. The girls of the Lotus Club wondered what had become of him and worried Jim with questions, and some of the fellows who put on the glove at Riley's were glad that Martin came no more. He made another discovery of treasure-trove in the library. As the grammar had shown him the tie-ribs of language, so that book showed him the tie-ribs of poetry, and he began to learn metre and construction and form, beneath the beauty he loved finding the why and wherefore of that beauty. Another modern book he found treated poetry as a representative art, treated it exhaustively, with copious illustrations from the best in literature. Never had he read fiction with so keen zest as he studied these books. And his fresh mind, untaxed for twenty years and impelled by maturity of desire, gripped hold of what he read with a virility unusual to the student mind.

When he looked back now from his vantage-ground, the old world he had known, the world of land and sea and ships, of sailor-men and harpy-women, seemed a very small world; and yet it blended in with this new world and expanded. His mind made for unity, and he was surprised when at first he began to see points of contact between the two worlds. And he was ennobled, as well, by the loftiness of thought and beauty he found in the books. This led him to believe more firmly than ever that up above him, in society like Ruth and her family, all men and women thought these thoughts and lived them. Down below where he lived was the ignoble, and he wanted to purge himself of the ignoble that had soiled all his days, and to rise to that sublimated realm where dwelt the upper classes. All his childhood and youth had been troubled by a vague unrest; he had never known what he wanted, but he had wanted something that he had hunted vainly for until he met Ruth. And now his unrest had become sharp and painful, and he knew at last, clearly and definitely, that it was beauty, and intellect, and love that he must have.

During those several weeks he saw Ruth half a dozen times, and each time was an added inspiration. She helped him with his English, corrected his pronunciation, and started him on arithmetic. But their intercourse was not all devoted to elementary study. He had seen too much of life, and his mind was too matured, to be wholly content with fractions, cube root, parsing, and analysis; and there were times when their conversation turned on other themes - the last poetry he had read, the latest poet she had studied. And when she read aloud to him her favorite passages, he ascended to the topmost heaven of delight. Never, in all the women he had heard speak, had he heard a voice like hers. The least sound of it was a stimulus to his love, and he thrilled and throbbed with every word she uttered. It was the quality of it, the repose, and the musical modulation - the soft, rich, indefinable product of culture and a gentle soul. As he listened to her, there rang in the ears of his memory the harsh cries of barbarian women and of hags, and, in lesser degrees of harshness, the strident voices of working women and of the girls of his own class. Then the chemistry of vision would begin to work, and they would troop in review across his mind, each, by contrast, multiplying Ruth's glories. Then, too, his bliss was heightened by the knowledge that her mind was comprehending what she read and was quivering with appreciation of the beauty of the written thought. She read to him much from "The Princess," and often he saw her eyes swimming with tears, so finely was her aesthetic nature strung. At such moments her own emotions elevated him till he was as a god, and, as he gazed at her and listened, he seemed gazing on the face of life and reading its deepest secrets. And then, becoming aware of the heights of exquisite sensibility he attained, he decided that this was love and that love was the greatest thing in the world. And in review would pass along the corridors of memory all previous thrills and burnings he had known, - the drunkenness of wine, the caresses of women, the rough play and give and take of physical contests, - and they seemed trivial and mean compared with this sublime ardor he now enjoyed.

The situation was obscured to Ruth. She had never had any experiences of the heart. Her only experiences in such matters were of the books, where the facts of ordinary day were translated by fancy into a fairy realm of unreality; and she little knew that this rough sailor was creeping into her heart and storing there pent forces that would some day burst forth and surge through her in waves of fire. She did not know the actual fire of love. Her knowledge of love was purely theoretical, and she conceived of it as lambent flame, gentle as the fall of dew or the ripple of quiet water, and cool as the velvet-dark of summer nights. Her idea of love was more that of placid affection, serving the loved one softly in an atmosphere, flower-scented and dim-lighted, of ethereal calm. She did not dream of the volcanic convulsions of love, its scorching heat and sterile wastes of parched ashes. She knew neither her own potencies, nor the potencies of the world; and the deeps of life were to her seas of illusion. The conjugal affection of her father and mother constituted her ideal of love- affinity, and she looked forward some day to emerging, without shock or friction, into that same quiet sweetness of existence with a loved one.

So it was that she looked upon Martin Eden as a novelty, a strange individual, and she identified with novelty and strangeness the effects he produced upon her. It was only natural. In similar ways she had experienced unusual feelings when she looked at wild animals in the menagerie, or when she witnessed a storm of wind, or shuddered at the bright-ribbed lightning. There was something cosmic in such things, and there was something cosmic in him. He came to her breathing of large airs and great spaces. The blaze of tropic suns was in his face, and in his swelling, resilient muscles was the primordial vigor of life. He was marred and scarred by that mysterious world of rough men and rougher deeds, the outposts of which began beyond her horizon. He was untamed, wild, and in secret ways her vanity was touched by the fact that he came so mildly to her hand. Likewise she was stirred by the common impulse to tame the wild thing. It was an unconscious impulse, and farthest from her thoughts that her desire was to re-thumb the clay of him into a likeness of her father's image, which image she believed to be the finest in the world. Nor was there any way, out of her inexperience, for her to know that the cosmic feel she caught of him was that most cosmic of things, love, which with equal power drew men and women together across the world, compelled stags to kill each other in the rutting season, and drove even the elements irresistibly to unite.

His swift development was a source of surprise and interest. She detected unguessed finenesses in him that seemed to bud, day by day, like flowers in congenial soil. She read Browning aloud to him, and was often puzzled by the strange interpretations he gave to mooted passages. It was beyond her to realize that, out of his experience of men and women and life, his interpretations were far more frequently correct than hers. His conceptions seemed naive to her, though she was often fired by his daring flights of comprehension, whose orbit-path was so wide among the stars that she could not follow and could only sit and thrill to the impact of unguessed power. Then she played to him - no longer at him - and probed him with music that sank to depths beyond her plumb-line. His nature opened to music as a flower to the sun, and the transition was quick from his working-class rag-time and jingles to her classical display pieces that she knew nearly by heart. Yet he betrayed a democratic fondness for Wagner, and the "Tannhauser" overture, when she had given him the clew to it, claimed him as nothing else she played. In an immediate way it personified his life. All his past was the VENUSBURG motif, while her he identified somehow with the PILGRIM'S CHORUS motif; and from the exalted state this elevated him to, he swept onward and upward into that vast shadow-realm of spirit-groping, where good and evil war eternally.

Sometimes he questioned, and induced in her mind temporary doubts as to the correctness of her own definitions and conceptions of music. But her singing he did not question. It was too wholly her, and he sat always amazed at the divine melody of her pure soprano voice. And he could not help but contrast it with the weak pipings and shrill quaverings of factory girls, ill-nourished and untrained, and with the raucous shriekings from gin-cracked throats of the women of the seaport towns. She enjoyed singing and playing to him. In truth, it was the first time she had ever had a human soul to play with, and the plastic clay of him was a delight to mould; for she thought she was moulding it, and her intentions were good. Besides, it was pleasant to be with him. He did not repel her. That first repulsion had been really a fear of her undiscovered self, and the fear had gone to sleep. Though she did not know it, she had a feeling in him of proprietary right. Also, he had a tonic effect upon her. She was studying hard at the university, and it seemed to strengthen her to emerge from the dusty books and have the fresh sea-breeze of his personality blow upon her. Strength! Strength was what she needed, and he gave it to her in generous measure. To come into the same room with him, or to meet him at the door, was to take heart of life. And when he had gone, she would return to her books with a keener zest and fresh store of energy.

She knew her Browning, but it had never sunk into her that it was an awkward thing to play with souls. As her interest in Martin increased, the remodelling of his life became a passion with her.

"There is Mr. Butler," she said one afternoon, when grammar and arithmetic and poetry had been put aside.

"He had comparatively no advantages at first. His father had been a bank cashier, but he lingered for years, dying of consumption in Arizona, so that when he was dead, Mr. Butler, Charles Butler he was called, found himself alone in the world. His father had come from Australia, you know, and so he had no relatives in California. He went to work in a printing-office, - I have heard him tell of it many times, - and he got three dollars a week, at first. His income to-day is at least thirty thousand a year. How did he do it? He was honest, and faithful, and industrious, and economical. He denied himself the enjoyments that most boys indulge in. He made it a point to save so much every week, no matter what he had to do without in order to save it. Of course, he was soon earning more than three dollars a week, and as his wages increased he saved more and more.

"He worked in the daytime, and at night he went to night school. He had his eyes fixed always on the future. Later on he went to night high school. When he was only seventeen, he was earning excellent wages at setting type, but he was ambitious. He wanted a career, not a livelihood, and he was content to make immediate sacrifices for his ultimate again. He decided upon the law, and he entered father's office as an office boy - think of that! - and got only four dollars a week. But he had learned how to be economical, and out of that four dollars he went on saving money."

She paused for breath, and to note how Martin was receiving it. His face was lighted up with interest in the youthful struggles of Mr. Butler; but there was a frown upon his face as well.

"I'd say they was pretty hard lines for a young fellow," he remarked. "Four dollars a week! How could he live on it? You can bet he didn't have any frills. Why, I pay five dollars a week for board now, an' there's nothin' excitin' about it, you can lay to that. He must have lived like a dog. The food he ate - "

"He cooked for himself," she interrupted, "on a little kerosene stove."

"The food he ate must have been worse than what a sailor gets on the worst-feedin' deep-water ships, than which there ain't much that can be possibly worse."

"But think of him now!" she cried enthusiastically. "Think of what his income affords him. His early denials are paid for a thousand- fold."

Martin looked at her sharply.

"There's one thing I'll bet you," he said, "and it is that Mr. Butler is nothin' gay-hearted now in his fat days. He fed himself like that for years an' years, on a boy's stomach, an' I bet his stomach's none too good now for it."

Her eyes dropped before his searching gaze.

"I'll bet he's got dyspepsia right now!" Martin challenged.

"Yes, he has," she confessed; "but - "

"An' I bet," Martin dashed on, "that he's solemn an' serious as an old owl, an' doesn't care a rap for a good time, for all his thirty thousand a year. An' I'll bet he's not particularly joyful at seein' others have a good time. Ain't I right?"

She nodded her head in agreement, and hastened to explain:-

"But he is not that type of man. By nature he is sober and serious. He always was that."

"You can bet he was," Martin proclaimed. "Three dollars a week, an' four dollars a week, an' a young boy cookin' for himself on an oil-burner an' layin' up money, workin' all day an' studyin' all night, just workin' an' never playin', never havin' a good time, an' never learnin' how to have a good time - of course his thirty thousand came along too late."

His sympathetic imagination was flashing upon his inner sight all the thousands of details of the boy's existence and of his narrow spiritual development into a thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year man. With the swiftness and wide-reaching of multitudinous thought Charles Butler's whole life was telescoped upon his vision.

"Do you know," he added, "I feel sorry for Mr. Butler. He was too young to know better, but he robbed himself of life for the sake of thirty thousand a year that's clean wasted upon him. Why, thirty thousand, lump sum, wouldn't buy for him right now what ten cents he was layin' up would have bought him, when he was a kid, in the way of candy an' peanuts or a seat in nigger heaven."

It was just such uniqueness of points of view that startled Ruth. Not only were they new to her, and contrary to her own beliefs, but she always felt in them germs of truth that threatened to unseat or modify her own convictions. Had she been fourteen instead of twenty-four, she might have been changed by them; but she was twenty-four, conservative by nature and upbringing, and already crystallized into the cranny of life where she had been born and formed. It was true, his bizarre judgments troubled her in the moments they were uttered, but she ascribed them to his novelty of type and strangeness of living, and they were soon forgotten. Nevertheless, while she disapproved of them, the strength of their utterance, and the flashing of eyes and earnestness of face that accompanied them, always thrilled her and drew her toward him. She would never have guessed that this man who had come from beyond her horizon, was, in such moments, flashing on beyond her horizon with wider and deeper concepts. Her own limits were the limits of her horizon; but limited minds can recognize limitations only in others. And so she felt that her outlook was very wide indeed, and that where his conflicted with hers marked his limitations; and she dreamed of helping him to see as she saw, of widening his horizon until it was identified with hers.

"But I have not finished my story," she said. "He worked, so father says, as no other office boy he ever had. Mr. Butler was always eager to work. He never was late, and he was usually at the office a few minutes before his regular time. And yet he saved his time. Every spare moment was devoted to study. He studied book- keeping and type-writing, and he paid for lessons in shorthand by dictating at night to a court reporter who needed practice. He quickly became a clerk, and he made himself invaluable. Father appreciated him and saw that he was bound to rise. It was on father's suggestion that he went to law college. He became a lawyer, and hardly was he back in the office when father took him in as junior partner. He is a great man. He refused the United States Senate several times, and father says he could become a justice of the Supreme Court any time a vacancy occurs, if he wants to. Such a life is an inspiration to all of us. It shows us that a man with will may rise superior to his environment."

"He is a great man," Martin said sincerely.

But it seemed to him there was something in the recital that jarred upon his sense of beauty and life. He could not find an adequate motive in Mr. Butler's life of pinching and privation. Had he done it for love of a woman, or for attainment of beauty, Martin would have understood. God's own mad lover should do anything for the kiss, but not for thirty thousand dollars a year. He was dissatisfied with Mr. Butler's career. There was something paltry about it, after all. Thirty thousand a year was all right, but dyspepsia and inability to be humanly happy robbed such princely income of all its value.

Much of this he strove to express to Ruth, and shocked her and made it clear that more remodelling was necessary. Hers was that common insularity of mind that makes human creatures believe that their color, creed, and politics are best and right and that other human creatures scattered over the world are less fortunately placed than they. It was the same insularity of mind that made the ancient Jew thank God he was not born a woman, and sent the modern missionary god-substituting to the ends of the earth; and it made Ruth desire to shape this man from other crannies of life into the likeness of the men who lived in her particular cranny of life.

几周过去，马丁·伊登在这几周里学了语法，复习了社交礼仪，苦读了感兴趣的书，由于他不跟本阶级的人来往，荷花俱乐部的姑娘们不知道他出了什么事，老向吉姆打听。在莱利家仓库搞拳击的人则因他的缺席而高兴。他在图书馆又挖出了一桩宝藏：语法书告诉他语言的龙骨结构，那本书却告诉他诗歌的龙骨结构。他开始学习诗歌的韵律、结构和形式，在他所爱的美之下探索着美的底蕴。他又发现了一本新潮的书，把诗歌当作一种表现艺术，从最优秀的文学作品中列举了丰富的例证，作了详尽的分析。过去他读小说从不曾像现在读这类书这么兴致勃勃，津津有味。他那二十年没曾动过的脑筋受到成熟的欲望的驱使，更对书本紧抓不放，孜孜吃吃，就初学者而言其啃劲之猛十分罕见。

站在此时的高度回顾他所熟知的往日世界；那陆地摘洋。船只、水手、母夜叉似的女人都似乎渺小了起来；但也跟眼前的新天地交汁渗透。他的心一向追求统一。刚开始看到两个世界的交汇时他感到惊讶。他在书中发现的美与崇高的思想使他心胸高洁，更加坚信在社会上层，即在露丝和她一家所处的社会堂，所有的人，无论男女，思想和生活都纯净无瑕。而在下面，在他自己的生活圈子里，人们却卑贱秽污。他要洗净那污染了他一辈子的秽物，跻身于上层阶级所生活的高贵世界里。他的整个青少年时期都为一种朦胧的不安所困扰，不知道自己需要什么，老在追求着某种追求不到的东西，直到现在他遇见了露丝，他心中的不安更加强烈了，化作了痛苦。他终于清楚明确地知道了：他所追求的是美、智慧和爱情。

那段时间他曾好几次跟露丝见面，每次见面对他都是一次鼓舞。她帮助他学英语，纠正他的发音，给他上数学启蒙课。但他俩纳交往并不仅限于上课。他见过太多的生活，心灵太成熟，无法满足于分数、立方根、语句分析和解释，有时便转向了别的话题--他最近读过的诗，她最近研究着的诗人。她向他朗读她所喜爱的诗章时他便化游于欢乐的九天之上。他听过许多妇女说话，却从没听见过像她那么美妙的声音。她最轻微的声音都使他爱恋。他为她说出的每一个字感到欢乐和悸动。他爱恋她声音的悦耳、平和与它那动人的起伏--那是文化教养与高雅的灵魂的流露，柔和丰富得难以描述。听她说话时，他记忆的耳朵里也响起了凶悍的妇女刺耳的眼噪和劳动妇女和他本阶级的姑娘们虽不刺耳却也不中听的声音。这时幻觉开始施展了它的化合力，那些女人一个个在他心里复现，跟露丝形成对照，更增加了露丝的光彩。当他发现露丝的心为理解着她所朗诵的诗篇、体验着它的情思而战栗时自己不禁心花怒放。露丝为他朗诵了《公主》中不少段落。他见她眼里常噙着泪珠，便懂得了那诗篇是如何美妙地拨动了她天性中的审美琴弦。在这样的时刻她的脉脉情怀总使他胸襟高贵，化作了神明。在他凝望着她的面庞细听着她朗诵时，便仿佛在凝望着生命的面庞，体味着生命最深沉的奥秘。这时他意识到了自己精微的感受力所到达的高度，便认定这就是爱情，而爱情是世间最美妙的东西。于是他往日经历过的欢乐和狂热便在回忆的长廊里-一走过--酒后的昏沉、女人的爱抚、粗野的竞技比赛的胜负，--这一切跟他此刻的崇高的激情一比都显得微不足道，卑下无聊了。

这情况露丝无法觉察。她从没有过心灵方面的体验。在这类问题上她仅有的体验都来自书本，而在书本形，日常琐事一经过幻想加工都能成为若真若幻的神仙境界。她并不知道这个大老粗水手正在往她心里钻，并在那儿积蓄着力量，某一天将爆发为熊熊的烈焰，燃遍她的全身。她并不懂得真正的爱情之火。她对爱情的知识纯粹是理论性的。只把它想像作幽微的火苗，轻柔如露珠坠落、涟消乍起，清凉如天鹅绒般幽暗的夏夜。她对爱情的想法更像是一种心平气和的柔情，在花香氯氟半明半暗的轻松气氛卫为心爱的人做这做那。她从未梦想过火山爆发大地抽搐式的爱情，从未想到过它的熊熊烈焰，它的破坏作用，它能烧成一片片焦土。她不知道自己的力量，也不知道世界的力量；生命的深处于她不过是幻想的海洋。她父母的婚姻之爱是她理想的爱情境界。她希望有一天会跟一个如意郎君过同样甜蜜的日子，用不着经历震荡或磨擦。

因此她把马丁·伊登看作一个罕见的人，奇怪的人；只把这样的人对她所产生的影响当作奇人异事。这也很自然。她在动物园看见野兽时，她因狂风呼啸或是电闪雷鸣而恐惧时所体验到的感情也都不同寻常。这些东西具有某种浩瀚辽阔的性质，马丁也具有某些浩瀚辽阔的气质。他带着漠漠的天穹和广阔的空间的气息来到了她身边：他脸上有赤道的炎炎烈日，他柔韧暴突的肌肉中有原始的生命力。他受过一个神秘世界的粗暴的人与更粗暴的行为的伤害，留下了满身伤痕，而那个神秘的世界远远超出了她的世界之外。这个满身野气未经驯化的人能这么温驯地偎依在她手下，这使她暗自得意。人所共有的驯服凶猛动物的冲动怂恿着她--一种下意识的冲动。她从没想到要按她父亲的形象重新塑造他，尽管她认为那是世界上最美好的形象。由于没有经验，她无法知道她对他的浩瀚辽阔的印象其实是那最辽阔浩瀚的东西：爱情。爱情以同等的强力使男性与女性跨过于山万水互相吸引，促使雄鹿在交配季节互相残杀，甚至驱策着自然元素以无法抗拒的力量结合到一起。

他的迅速发展使她惊讶，也感到有趣。她发现他身上出现了意想不到的优点，像花朵在适宜的土壤里一天天成熟绽放。她向他朗诵勃朗宁的诗，却常因他对他们探讨的段落作出的新奇解释而感到困惑。她不可能意识到他的解释往往比她正确，因为他更熟悉人和人生。在她眼里他的看法似乎太天真，尽管自己也常因他一套套大胆的理解而激动。他的运行轨道远在星河之间，是她无法跟随的。她只能为他那出人意外的冲撞所震撼。然后她便为他弹奏钢琴。她不再向他发出警告，却用音乐探测他，因为音乐能深入到她的探测线所到达不了的地方。他的天性对音乐开放，有如花朵对太阳开放。他的爱好很快便从工人阶级喜爱的爵士乐和银明音乐发展到了她几乎能背诵的古典音乐代表作。只是他对瓦格纳流露出一种平民化的兴趣。他经她一点拨便发表意见说《坦豪瑟》序曲跟她弹奏的其他作品大不相同。这曲子间接地体现了他的生活。他的全部过去的主题正是维纳斯堡，他不知怎么还把露丝定为《香客合唱》的主题；他又从自已达到的高度继续不断向上奋进，穿入精神探索的寥廓晦涩的天地，在那里善与恶永远在战斗。

他有时提出的问题使她对自己为音乐所下的定义和某些概念产生过怀疑。但他对她的歌唱却从朱怀疑过。她的歌唱太像她自己了。他总是坐在那儿为她那清纯的女高音的神圣旋律感到惊讶。他不能不把它跟工厂女工们尖利颤抖而疲软的声音相比较--她们营养不良又没受过训练。他也把它和海港城市的妇女们刺耳的噪音相比较--她们喝杜松于酒喝哑了嗓子。她喜欢为他弹琴唱歌。事实上她是第一次跟一个人的灵魂做游戏，而塑造他那可塑性很强的性格也是令人高兴的事，因为她觉得自己是怀着一番好意塑造着他。何况，跟他在一起也令她陶醉，她对他不再反感了。第一次的反感事实上是对她尚未觉察的自我的一种畏惧，而现在那种畏惧已经休眠。虽然尚未意识到，但她对地已产生了一种独占情绪。他也是她的一种兴奋剂。她在大学读书报用功，让她暂别尘封的书堆，享受一番他那性格的海风的清新吹拂，能使她精力充沛。精力2她所需要的正是精力，他慷慨地给予了她充沛的精力。跟他一起进屋，或是在门口迎接他，都使她振奋。他离开之后她再回到书本，钻研起来便更加精力旺盛、朝气蓬勃。

她懂得勃朗于，可从没真正懂得跟灵魂游戏能使人尴尬。随着她对马丁兴趣的增长，重新塑造他的生命便成了她的一种激情。

"有一位巴特勒先生，"一天下午她说，那时他们已把语法、数学和诗歌放到了一边G"开始时他的条件并不好。他父亲原是个出纳，但病榻缠绵了好几年，终于因肺榜死于亚利桑纳州。他逝世之后巴特勒先生（他叫查尔斯·巴特勒先生）发现自己孤苦伶l地活在世上。他父亲是从澳大利亚来的，你要知道，因此他在加利福尼亚州一个亲人也没有。他到一个印刷办公室工作--我听他说过好儿回--从周薪三元开始。而他今天的收入每年至少是三万。他是怎么富起来的呢？靠的是诚实、自信。刻苦和节俭。他不让自己享受大多数男孩子都热中的东西。他规定好每周要存多少钱，便可以为此牺牲一切。当然，不久以后他的薪水便不止三元了。但工资加了，他的储蓄额也随之增加了。

"他白天上班，晚上上夜校。总把眼睛盯紧了未来。后来他又上了夜校中学班，才十七岁他做排字工的收入已经很高。他很有抱负。他要的不是生活而是事业。为了最终的利益他心甘情愿地作出了牺牲。他决定学法律，进了我爸爸的公司作跑街--想想看！每周只得四块钱。但是他已学会了节俭，四块钱他也照样储蓄。"

她停了停，歇口气，看看马丁的反应。马丁的脸上因年青的巴特勒先生的奋斗闪出了兴趣的光芒，同时也皱起了同头。

"我看这条路对一个青年来说是太苦了，"他发表意见，"每周四块钱！他怎么活得下去？你可以打赌他是任何享受都没有的。我现在吃饭住房也得每周五块钱呢，而且条件很蹩脚，他肯定活得像条狗，你可以打赌。吃的东西--"

"他自己做饭，"她插嘴道，"用个小煤油炉。"

"他吃的东西肯定比最糟糕的远洋轮上的水手还精，精到不能再增了。"