The first thing Martin did next morning was to go counter both to Brissenden's advice and command. "The Shame of the Sun" he wrapped and mailed to THE ACROPOLIS. He believed he could find magazine publication for it, and he felt that recognition by the magazines would commend him to the book-publishing houses. "Ephemera" he likewise wrapped and mailed to a magazine. Despite Brissenden's prejudice against the magazines, which was a pronounced mania with him, Martin decided that the great poem should see print. He did not intend, however, to publish it without the other's permission. His plan was to get it accepted by one of the high magazines, and, thus armed, again to wrestle with Brissenden for consent.

Martin began, that morning, a story which he had sketched out a number of weeks before and which ever since had been worrying him with its insistent clamor to be created. Apparently it was to be a rattling sea story, a tale of twentieth-century adventure and romance, handling real characters, in a real world, under real conditions. But beneath the swing and go of the story was to be something else - something that the superficial reader would never discern and which, on the other hand, would not diminish in any way the interest and enjoyment for such a reader. It was this, and not the mere story, that impelled Martin to write it. For that matter, it was always the great, universal motif that suggested plots to him. After having found such a motif, he cast about for the particular persons and particular location in time and space wherewith and wherein to utter the universal thing. "Overdue" was the title he had decided for it, and its length he believed would not be more than sixty thousand words - a bagatelle for him with his splendid vigor of production. On this first day he took hold of it with conscious delight in the mastery of his tools. He no longer worried for fear that the sharp, cutting edges should slip and mar his work. The long months of intense application and study had brought their reward. He could now devote himself with sure hand to the larger phases of the thing he shaped; and as he worked, hour after hour, he felt, as never before, the sure and cosmic grasp with which he held life and the affairs of life. "Overdue" would tell a story that would be true of its particular characters and its particular events; but it would tell, too, he was confident, great vital things that would be true of all time, and all sea, and all life - thanks to Herbert Spencer, he thought, leaning back for a moment from the table. Ay, thanks to Herbert Spencer and to the master-key of life, evolution, which Spencer had placed in his hands.

He was conscious that it was great stuff he was writing. "It will go! It will go!" was the refrain that kept, sounding in his ears. Of course it would go. At last he was turning out the thing at which the magazines would jump. The whole story worked out before him in lightning flashes. He broke off from it long enough to write a paragraph in his note-book. This would be the last paragraph in "Overdue"; but so thoroughly was the whole book already composed in his brain that he could write, weeks before he had arrived at the end, the end itself. He compared the tale, as yet unwritten, with the tales of the sea-writers, and he felt it to be immeasurably superior. "There's only one man who could touch it," he murmured aloud, "and that's Conrad. And it ought to make even him sit up and shake hands with me, and say, 'Well done, Martin, my boy.'"

He toiled on all day, recollecting, at the last moment, that he was to have dinner at the Morses'. Thanks to Brissenden, his black suit was out of pawn and he was again eligible for dinner parties. Down town he stopped off long enough to run into the library and search for Saleeby's books. He drew out 'The Cycle of Life," and on the car turned to the essay Norton had mentioned on Spencer. As Martin read, he grew angry. His face flushed, his jaw set, and unconsciously his hand clenched, unclenched, and clenched again as if he were taking fresh grips upon some hateful thing out of which he was squeezing the life. When he left the car, he stride的过去式">strode along the sidewalk as a wrathful man will stride, and he rang the Morse bell with such viciousness that it roused him to consciousness of his condition, so that he entered in good nature, smiling with amusement at himself. No sooner, however, was he inside than a great depression descended upon him. He fell from the height where he had been up-borne all day on the wings of inspiration. "Bourgeois," "trader's den" - Brissenden's epithets repeated themselves in his mind. But what of that? he demanded angrily. He was marrying Ruth, not her family.

It seemed to him that he had never seen Ruth more beautiful, more spiritual and ethereal and at the same time more healthy. There was color in her cheeks, and her eyes drew him again and again - the eyes in which he had first read immortality. He had forgotten immortality of late, and the trend of his scientific reading had been away from it; but here, in Ruth's eyes, he read an argument without words that transcended all worded arguments. He saw that in her eyes before which all discussion fled away, for he saw love there. And in his own eyes was love; and love was unanswerable. Such was his passionate doctrine.

The half hour he had with her, before they went in to dinner, left him supremely happy and supremely satisfied with life. Nevertheless, at table, the inevitable reaction and exhaustionconsequent upon the hard day seized hold of him. He was aware that his eyes were tired and that he was irritable. He remembered it was at this table, at which he now sneered and was so often bored, that he had first eaten with civilized beings in what he had imagined was an atmosphere of high culture and refinement. He caught a glimpse of that pathetic figure of him, so long ago, a self-conscious savage, sprouting sweat at every pore in an agony of apprehension, puzzled by the bewildering minutiae of eating- implements, tortured by the ogre of a servant, striving at a leap to live at such dizzy social altitude, and deciding in the end to be frankly himself, pretending no knowledge and no polish he did not possess.

He glanced at Ruth for reassurance, much in the same manner that a passenger, with sudden panic thought of possible shipwreck, will strive to locate the life preservers. Well, that much had come out of it - love and Ruth. All the rest had failed to stand the test of the books. But Ruth and love had stood the test; for them he found a biologicalsanction. Love was the most exalted expression of life. Nature had been busy designing him, as she had been busy with all normal men, for the purpose of loving. She had spent ten thousand centuries - ay, a hundred thousand and a million centuries - upon the task, and he was the best she could do. She had made love the strongest thing in him, increased its power a myriad per cent with her gift of imagination, and sent him forth into the ephemera to thrill and melt and mate. His hand sought Ruth's hand beside him hidden by the table, and a warm pressure was given and received. She looked at him a swift instant, and her eyes were radiant and melting. So were his in the thrill that pervaded him; nor did he realize how much that was radiant and melting in her eyes had been aroused by what she had seen in his.

Across the table from him, cater-cornered, at Mr. Morse's right, sat Judge Blount, a local superior court judge. Martin had met him a number of times and had failed to like him. He and Ruth's father were discussing labor union politics, the local situation, and socialism, and Mr. Morse was endeavoring to twit Martin on the latter topic. At last Judge Blount looked across the table with benignant and fatherly pity. Martin smiled to himself.

"You'll grow out of it, young man," he said soothingly. "Time is the best cure for such youthful distempers." He turned to Mr. Morse. "I do not believe discussion is good in such cases. It makes the patient obstinate."

"That is true," the other assented gravely. "But it is well to warn the patient occasionally of his condition."

Martin laughed merrily, but it was with an effort. The day had been too long, the day's effort too intense, and he was deep in the throes of the reaction.

"Undoubtedly you are both excellent doctors," he said; "but if you care a whit for the opinion of the patient, let him tell you that you are poor diagnosticians. In fact, you are both suffering from the disease you think you find in me. As for me, I am immune. The socialist philosophy that riots half-baked in your veins has passed me by."

"Clever, clever," murmured the judge. "An excellent ruse in controversy, to reverse positions."

"Out of your mouth." Martin's eyes were sparkling, but he kept control of himself. "You see, Judge, I've heard your campaign speeches. By some henidical process - henidical, by the way is a favorite word of mine which nobody understands - by some henidical process you persuade yourself that you believe in the competitive system and the survival of the strong, and at the same time you indorse with might and main all sorts of measures to shear the strength from the strong."

"My young man - "

"Remember, I've heard your campaign speeches," Martin warned. "It's on record, your position on interstate commerce regulation, on regulation of the railway trust and Standard Oil, on the conservation of the forests, on a thousand and one restrictive measures that are nothing else than socialistic."

"Do you mean to tell me that you do not believe in regulating these various outrageous exercises of power?"

"That's not the point. I mean to tell you that you are a poor diagnostician. I mean to tell you that I am not suffering from the microbe of socialism. I mean to tell you that it is you who are suffering from the emasculating ravages of that same microbe. As for me, I am an inveterate opponent of socialism just as I am an inveterate opponent of your own mongrel democracy that is nothing else than pseudo-socialism masquerading under a garb of words that will not stand the test of the dictionary."

"I am a reactionary - so complete a reactionary that my position is incomprehensible to you who live in a veiled lie of social organization and whose sight is not keen enough to pierce the veil. You make believe that you believe in the survival of the strong and the rule of the strong. I believe. That is the difference. When I was a trifle younger, - a few months younger, - I believed the same thing. You see, the ideas of you and yours had impressed me. But merchants and traders are cowardly rulers at best; they grunt and grub all their days in the trough of money-getting, and I have swung back to aristocracy, if you please. I am the only individualist in this room. I look to the state for nothing. I look only to the strong man, the man on horseback, to save the state from its own rotten futility."

"Nietzsche was right. I won't take the time to tell you who Nietzsche was, but he was right. The world belongs to the strong - to the strong who are noble as well and who do not wallow in the swine-trough of trade and exchange. The world belongs to the true nobleman, to the great blond beasts, to the noncompromisers, to the 'yes-sayers.' And they will eat you up, you socialists - who are afraid of socialism and who think yourselves individualists. Your slave-morality of the meek and lowly will never save you. - Oh, it's all Greek, I know, and I won't bother you any more with it. But remember one thing. There aren't half a dozen individualists in Oakland, but Martin Eden is one of them."

He signified that he was done with the discussion, and turned to Ruth.

"I'm wrought up to-day," he said in an undertone. "All I want to do is to love, not talk."

He ignored Mr. Morse, who said:-

"I am unconvinced. All socialists are Jesuits. That is the way to tell them."

"We'll make a good Republican out of you yet," said Judge Blount.

"The man on horseback will arrive before that time," Martin retorted with good humor, and returned to Ruth.

But Mr. Morse was not content. He did not like the laziness and the disinclination for sober, legitimate work of this prospective son-in-law of his, for whose ideas he had no respect and of whose nature he had no understanding. So he turned the conversation to Herbert Spencer. Judge Blount ably seconded him, and Martin, whose ears had pricked at the first mention of the philosopher's name, listened to the judge enunciate a grave and complacent diatribe against Spencer. From time to time Mr. Morse glanced at Martin, as much as to say, "There, my boy, you see."

"Chattering daws," Martin muttered under his breath, and went on talking with Ruth and Arthur.

But the long day and the "real dirt" of the night before were telling upon him; and, besides, still in his burnt mind was what had made him angry when he read it on the car.

"What is the matter?" Ruth asked suddenly alarmed by the effort he was making to contain himself.

"There is no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is its prophet," Judge Blount was saying at that moment.

Martin turned upon him.

"A cheap judgment," he remarked quietly. "I heard it first in the City Hall Park, on the lips of a workingman who ought to have known better. I have heard it often since, and each time the clap-trap of it nauseates me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. To hear that great and noble man's name upon your lips is like finding a dew-drop in a cesspool. You are disgusting."

It was like a thunderbolt. Judge Blount glared at him with apoplectic countenance, and silence reigned. Mr. Morse was secretly pleased. He could see that his daughter was shocked. It was what he wanted to do - to bring out the innate ruffianism of this man he did not like.

Ruth's hand sought Martin's beseechingly under the table, but his blood was up. He was inflamed by the intellectualpretence and fraud of those who sat in the high places. A Superior Court Judge! It was only several years before that he had looked up from the mire at such glorious entities and deemed them gods.

Judge Blount recovered himself and attempted to go on, addressing himself to Martin with an assumption of politeness that the latter understood was for the benefit of the ladies. Even this added to his anger. Was there no honesty in the world?

"You can't discuss Spencer with me," he cried. "You do not know any more about Spencer than do his own countrymen. But it is no fault of yours, I grant. It is just a phase of the contemptible ignorance of the times. I ran across a sample of it on my way here this evening. I was reading an essay by Saleeby on Spencer. You should read it. It is accessible to all men. You can buy it in any book-store or draw it from the public library. You would feel ashamed of your paucity of abuse and ignorance of that noble man compared with what Saleeby has collected on the subject. It is a record of shame that would shame your shame."

"'The philosopher of the half-educated,' he was called by an academic Philosopher who was not worthy to pollute the atmosphere he breathed. I don't think you have read ten pages of Spencer, but there have been critics, assumably more intelligent than you, who have read no more than you of Spencer, who publicly challenged his followers to adduce one single idea from all his writings - from Herbert Spencer's writings, the man who has impressed the stamp of his genius over the whole field of scientific research and modern thought; the father of psychology; the man who revolutionized pedagogy, so that to-day the child of the French peasant is taught the three R's according to principles laid down by him. And the little gnats of men sting his memory when they get their very bread and butter from the technical application of his ideas. What little of worth resides in their brains is largely due to him. It is certain that had he never lived, most of what is correct in their parrot-learned knowledge would be absent."

"And yet a man like Principal Fairbanks of Oxford - a man who sits in an even higher place than you, Judge Blount - has said that Spencer will be dismissed by posterity as a poet and dreamer rather than a thinker. Yappers and blatherskites, the whole brood of them! '"First Principles" is not wholly destitute of a certain literary power,' said one of them. And others of them have said that he was an industrious plodder rather than an original thinker. Yappers and blatherskites! Yappers and blatherskites!"

Martin ceased abruptly, in a dead silence. Everybody in Ruth's family looked up to Judge Blount as a man of power and achievement, and they were horrified at Martin's outbreak. The remainder of the dinner passed like a funeral, the judge and Mr. Morse confining their talk to each other, and the rest of the conversation being extremely desultory. Then afterward, when Ruth and Martin were alone, there was a scene.

"You are unbearable," she wept.

But his anger still smouldered, and he kept muttering, "The beasts! The beasts!"

When she averred he had insulted the judge, he retorted:-

"By telling the truth about him?"

"I don't care whether it was true or not," she insisted. "There are certain bounds of decency, and you had no license to insult anybody."

"Then where did Judge Blount get the license to assault truth?" Martin demanded. "Surely to assault truth is a more serious misdemeanor than to insult a pygmy personality such as the judge's. He did worse than that. He blackened the name of a great, noble man who is dead. Oh, the beasts! The beasts!"

His complex anger flamed afresh, and Ruth was in terror of him. Never had she seen him so angry, and it was all mystified and unreasonable to her comprehension. And yet, through her very terror ran the fibres of fascination that had drawn and that still drew her to him - that had compelled her to lean towards him, and, in that mad, culminating moment, lay her hands upon his neck. She was hurt and outraged by what had taken place, and yet she lay in his arms and quivered while he went on muttering, "The beasts! The beasts!" And she still lay there when he said: "I'll not bother your table again, dear. They do not like me, and it is wrong of me to thrust my objectionable presence upon them. Besides, they are just as objectionable to me. Faugh! They are sickening. And to think of it, I dreamed in my innocence that the persons who sat in the high places, who lived in fine houses and had educations and bank accounts, were worth while!

马丁次日早上所干的第一件事和布里森登的劝告和命令恰好相反。他把《太阳的耻辱》装进信封，寄给了《卫城》杂志。他相信他能找到杂志发表。他觉得作品一经杂志赏识，就会给书籍出版社以良好的印象。他也把《蜉蝣》封好寄给了一家杂志。他不顾市里森登对杂志的成见（他认为那显然是一种偏执），认为那首伟大的诗歌是能够在杂志上发表的。他并不打算在没有得到对方同意的时候就发表，他的计划是先让一家高级杂志接受，然后以此和布里森登讨价还价，取得他的同意。

那天早上马丁开始了另一篇小说，那小说他几个礼拜以前就已有了轮廓，一直在他心里骚动，令他不安，要求他完成。显然它肯定会是一篇响当当的航海小说，一个二十世纪的浪漫的冒险故事，描写着真实世界卫真实条件下的真实人物。但是在故事的跌宕起伏之；司还有着另外的东西，那东西肤浅的读者虽然觉察不到，却也不会因任何形式而减少了兴趣和喜爱。迫使马丁写作的正是那东西，而不是故事本身。就这个意义而言，给他提供情节的一向是那伟大的普遍的主题。在他发现了这样的主题之后他便冥思苦想，寻求那独恃的人物和独特的环境，用以表达那具有普遍意义的东西的时间和地点。他决心把小说命名为《过期》，他相信它会在六万字以上--这在他那旺盛的创作精力面前简直是举手之劳。在这第一天里他为自己写作得得心应手感到高兴。他不必再担心他的锋芒与棱角会冒出来破坏了作品。漫长的几个月的紧张的实践和研究已经取得了回报。他现在可以满有把握地从大处着眼安排自己的主要精力了。他一小时一小时地写下去，对生命和生命中的事物感到了一种前所未有的规律性和确切性。《过期》所描写的故事对于它特有的角色和事件而言将会真实可信，但他也有信心它能描述出对于一切时代、一切海洋和一切生活都真实的、举足轻重的伟大的东西--这得感谢赫伯特·斯宾塞，他想，身子往后靠了一靠。是的，应该感谢赫伯特·斯宾塞，是他把进化论这把万能钥匙放到了他手里的。

他意识到他在写着伟大的作品。"准会成功！准会成功！"是反复震响在他头脑里的调子。当然会成功的。他终于要写出各家杂志争着想要的作品了。那故事在他面前像闪电一样完完整整地显露了出来。他暂时把它放下，在他的笔记本里写下了一段。那一段是《过期》的收尾。那整个的作品的构思在他脑子里已经非常完整，他可以在写到结尾之前几个星期就写下它的结尾。他把这还没有写出的故事跟别的海洋作家的故事一比较，便觉得它比它们不知道要高明多少倍。"只有一个人能赶得上，"他喃喃地说，"那就是康拉德。我这部作品甚至能叫康拉德吃一惊，来和我握手，说：'写得好，马丁，我的孩子。'"

他苦苦地写了一天，写到最后忽然想起还要去莫尔斯家参加晚宴。谢谢布里森登，他的黑礼服已经从当铺赎了出来，他又有资格参加晚会了。进城后他花了一点时间到图书馆找撒里比的书。他找出了《生命周期》，在车上读起了诺尔屯提到的那篇批评斯宾塞的文章。读时不禁生起气来。他的脸红了，牙关咬紧了，拳头不知不觉攥了起来，放开，又攥了起来，仿佛在攥着什么可恶的东西，想把它捏死。他下了车便像个暴怒的人一样在路边大踏步走着，直到狠狠按响了莫尔斯家的门铃，才猛醒过来，意识到自己的心惰，觉得好笑，然后才心平气和地进了门。但是他一进门，一种严重的阴暗情绪却突然笼罩了他，那天他整天都乘着灵感的翅膀在九天上翱翔，现在却又落到了尘世。"布尔乔亚"，"市侩窝子"--布里森登的用语在他心里一再出现。但那又怎么样？他愤怒地问，他要娶的是露丝，不是她家里的人。

他仿佛觉得露丝是从来没有过地美丽、超脱、空灵，却又健康，面颊嫣红。那双眼睛一再地引得他注视--而让他第一次读到了永恒的正是那双眼睛。最近他已忘掉了永恒，他读的科学著作使他离开了永恒。但是在这儿，在露丝的眼睛里，他又读到了一种凌驾于一切言语论证之上的无言的理论。他看见一切的辩论都在她那双眼睛面前落荒而逃，因为在那儿他看见了爱情。他自己眼里也满溢着爱情，而爱情是不容反驳的，那是他激情的信念。

在进去用餐前和露丝一起度过的半小时使他感到了极端的幸福，对生活的极端满足。但是一上桌子，一天的辛苦所造成的无可奈何的反应和疲劳却抓住了他。他意识到自己目光倦怠，心惰烦躁。他回忆起自己当初就是在这张桌子旁第一次跟高雅人一起用餐的。那时地以为那就是高雅的文明气氛，可现在他却对它嗤之以鼻，只觉得厌恶了，他又瞥见了自己当时那可怜的形象：一个意识到自己钓的粗野的粗汉，怀着痛苦的恐惧，浑身毛孔都冒着汗。那已是很久以前的事：他曾叫餐具的繁文褥节弄得不知所措，受着个妖魔一样的传者的折磨，竭尽全力想攀上这叫人头晕的社会高层，到最后却决定坦然地表现自己，决不不懂装懂，决不冒充风雅。

他瞥了一眼露丝，想求得镇静，像个突然害怕船只沉没而心慌意乱急于找救生衣的乘客。行了，他已经大有收获了--他得到了爱情和露丝。别的一切都没有经受住书本的考验，但露丝和爱情却经受住了。对两者他还找到了生物学上的认可。爱情是生命的最崇高的表现；为了爱情的目的，大自然一直在忙着设计他，也忙着设计一切正常的人。为了这项工程大自然已经花去了一百个世纪--是的，花去了十万个世纪一百万个世纪，而他则是大自然的最佳杰作。大自然已把爱情创造成了他生命中最强大的东西，给了他想像力，让爱情的力量十倍地增加；给了他短暂的生命以狂欢、销魂，让他求偶。他的手在桌子下面寻求着身边的露丝的手。一种温暖的压力彼此交流，她匆匆瞥了他一眼，眼神里露出了光彩和陶醉。他也一样，一阵欢乐透过全身，露出同样的神情。他还不知道露丝的陶醉里有多少正是来自他那陶醉的眼神。

他的桌于斜对面坐着当地高级法院的法官布朗特。马j和他见过几次面，却不喜欢他。布朗特法官正在跟露丝的父亲议论工会政治、当地形势和社会主义。莫尔斯先生正想就社会主义的问题嘲弄马丁一番。布朗特法官终于带着父亲式的慈爱怜悯地望着桌子对面的马丁。马丁心中暗暗好笑。

"随着年龄的增长你会抛弃它的，年轻人，"他安慰地说，"对于这一类幼稚的毛病，时间是最好的药物，"他掉头对莫尔斯先生说，"我相信对这类问题讨论是没有用处的。那只叫病人更加坚持。"

"不错，"对方郑重地表示同意，"不过随时提醒一下病人他的病情也是好的。"

马丁高兴地笑了，但有些勉强。那天日子太长，他感到太累，他的反应很痛苦。

"毫无疑问你们都是杰出的医生，"他说，"但是你们如果愿意听听病人的意见，那就让他来告诉你们吧，你们的处方可是并不高明。事实上两位正害着你们自以为在我身上看见的病。至于我么，我倒是免疫的。你们俩血管里骚动着的半吊子社会主义哲学对我倒是毫无作用。"

"妙语，妙语，"法官喃喃地说，"绝妙的辩论手法，这叫反客为主。"

"我可是从你的说法来的，"马丁眼里冒着火，却按捺住自己，"你看，法官，我听过你的竞选演说。你以某种'憨匿'过程--附带说一句，'憨匿'是我喜欢用的一种说法，别人是不大懂的--你以某种憨匿的过程让自己相信你是赞成竞争制度，强者生存的。而同时你却竭尽全力批准各种剥夺强者力量的措施。"