The weeks passed. Martin ran out of money, and publishers' checks were far away as ever. All his important manuscripts had come back and been started out again, and his hack-work fared no better. His little kitchen was no longer graced with a variety of foods. Caught in the pinch with a part sack of rice and a few pounds of dried apricots, rice and apricots was his menu three times a day for five days hand-running. Then he startled to realize on his credit. The Portuguese grocer, to whom he had hitherto paid cash, called a halt when Martin's bill reached the magnificent total of three dollars and eighty-five cents.

"For you see," said the grocer, "you no catcha da work, I losa da mon'."

And Martin could reply nothing. There was no way of explaining. It was not true business principle to allow credit to a strong- bodied young fellow of the working-class who was too lazy to work.

"You catcha da job, I let you have mora da grub," the grocerassured Martin. "No job, no grub. Thata da business." And then, to show that it was purely business foresight and not prejudice, "Hava da drink on da house - good friends justa da same."

So Martin drank, in his easy way, to show that he was good friends with the house, and then went supperless to bed.

The fruit store, where Martin had bought his vegetables, was run by an American whose business principles were so weak that he let Martin run a bill of five dollars before stopping his credit. The baker stopped at two dollars, and the butcher at four dollars. Martin added his debts and found that he was possessed of a total credit in all the world of fourteen dollars and eighty-five cents. He was up with his type-writer rent, but he estimated that he could get two months' credit on that, which would be eight dollars. When that occurred, he would have exhausted all possible credit.

The last purchase from the fruit store had been a sack of potatoes, and for a week he had potatoes, and nothing but potatoes, three times a day. An occasional dinner at Ruth's helped to keep strength in his body, though he found it tantalizing enough to refuse further helping when his appetite was raging at sight of so much food spread before it. Now and again, though afflicted with secret shame, he dropped in at his sister's at meal-time and ate as much as he dared - more than he dared at the Morse table.

Day by day he worked on, and day by day the postman delivered to him rejected manuscripts. He had no money for stamps, so the manuscripts accumulated in a heap under the table. Came a day when for forty hours he had not tasted food. He could not hope for a meal at Ruth's, for she was away to San Rafael on a two weeks' visit; and for very shame's sake he could not go to his sister's. To cap misfortune, the postman, in his afternoon round, brought him five returned manuscripts. Then it was that Martin wore his overcoat down into Oakland, and came back without it, but with five dollars tinkling in his pocket. He paid a dollar each on account to the four tradesmen, and in his kitchen fried steak and onions, made coffee, and stewed a large pot of prunes. And having dined, he sat down at his table-desk and completed before midnight an essay which he entitled "The Dignity of Usury." Having typed it out, he flung it under the table, for there had been nothing left from the five dollars with which to buy stamps.

Later on he pawned his watch, and still later his wheel, reducing the amount available for food by putting stamps on all his manuscripts and sending them out. He was disappointed with his hack-work. Nobody cared to buy. He compared it with what he found in the newspapers, weeklies, and cheap magazines, and decided that his was better, far better, than the average; yet it would not sell. Then he discovered that most of the newspapers printed a great deal of what was called "plate" stuff, and he got the address of the association that furnished it. His own work that he sent in was returned, along with a stereotyped slip informing him that the staff supplied all the copy that was needed.

In one of the great juvenile periodicals he noted whole columns of incident and anecdote. Here was a chance. His paragraphs were returned, and though he tried repeatedly he never succeeded in placing one. Later on, when it no longer mattered, he learned that the associate editors and sub-editors augmented their salaries by supplying those paragraphs themselves. The comic weeklies returned his jokes and humorous verse, and the light society verse he wrote for the large magazines found no abiding-place. Then there was the newspaper storiette. He knew that he could write better ones than were published. Managing to obtain the addresses of two newspaper syndicates, he deluged them with storiettes. When he had written twenty and failed to place one of them, he ceased. And yet, from day to day, he read storiettes in the dailies and weeklies, scores and scores of storiettes, not one of which would compare with his. In his despondency, he concluded that he had no judgment whatever, that he was hypnotized by what he wrote, and that he was a self- deluded pretender.

The inhuman editorial machine ran smoothly as ever. He folded the stamps in with his manuscript, dropped it into the letter-box, and from three weeks to a month afterward the postman came up the steps and handed him the manuscript. Surely there were no live, warm editors at the other end. It was all wheels and cogs and oil-cups - a clever mechanism operated by automatons. He reached stages of despair wherein he doubted if editors existed at all. He had never received a sign of the existence of one, and from absence of judgment in rejecting all he wrote it seemed plausible that editors were myths, manufactured and maintained by office boys, typesetters, and pressmen.

The hours he spent with Ruth were the only happy ones he had, and they were not all happy. He was afflicted always with a gnawing restlessness, more tantalizing than in the old days before he possessed her love; for now that he did possess her love, the possession of her was far away as ever. He had asked for two years; time was flying, and he was achieving nothing. Again, he was always conscious of the fact that she did not approve what he was doing. She did not say so directly. Yet indirectly she let him understand it as clearly and definitely as she could have spoken it. It was not resentment with her, but disapproval; though less sweet-natured women might have resented where she was no more than disappointed. Her disappointment lay in that this man she had taken to mould, refused to be moulded. To a certain extent she had found his clay plastic, then it had developed stubbornness, declining to be shaped in the image of her father or of Mr. Butler.

What was great and strong in him, she missed, or, worse yet, misunderstood. This man, whose clay was so plastic that he could live in any number of pigeonholes of human existence, she thought wilful and most obstinate because she could not shape him to live in her pigeonhole, which was the only one she knew. She could not follow the flights of his mind, and when his brain got beyond her, she deemed him erratic. Nobody else's brain ever got beyond her. She could always follow her father and mother, her brothers and Olney; wherefore, when she could not follow Martin, she believed the fault lay with him. It was the old tragedy of insularity trying to serve as mentor to the universal.

"You worship at the shrine of the established," he told her once, in a discussion they had over Praps and Vanderwater. "I grant that as authorities to quote they are most excellent - the two foremost literary critics in the United States. Every school teacher in the land looks up to Vanderwater as the Dean of American criticism. Yet I read his stuff, and it seems to me the perfection of the felicitous expression of the inane. Why, he is no more than a ponderous bromide, thanks to Gelett Burgess. And Praps is no better. His 'Hemlock Mosses,' for instance is beautifully written. Not a comma is out of place; and the tone - ah! - is lofty, so lofty. He is the best-paid critic in the United States. Though, Heaven forbid! he's not a critic at all. They do criticism better in England.

"But the point is, they sound the popular note, and they sound it so beautifully and morally and contentedly. Their reviews remind me of a British Sunday. They are the popular mouthpieces. They back up your professors of English, and your professors of English back them up. And there isn't an original idea in any of their skulls. They know only the established, - in fact, they are the established. They are weak minded, and the established impresses itself upon them as easily as the name of the brewery is impressed on a beer bottle. And their function is to catch all the young fellows attending the university, to drive out of their minds any glimmering originality that may chance to be there, and to put upon them the stamp of the established."

"I think I am nearer the truth," she replied, "when I stand by the established, than you are, raging around like an iconoclastic South Sea Islander."

"It was the missionary who did the image breaking," he laughed. "And unfortunately, all the missionaries are off among the heathen, so there are none left at home to break those old images, Mr. Vanderwater and Mr. Praps."

"And the college professors, as well," she added.

He shook his head emphatically. "No; the science professors should live. They're really great. But it would be a good deed to break the heads of nine-tenths of the English professors - little, microscopic-minded parrots!"

Which was rather severe on the professors, but which to Ruth was blasphemy. She could not help but measure the professors, neat, scholarly, in fitting clothes, speaking in well-modulated voices, breathing of culture and refinement, with this almost indescribable young fellow whom somehow she loved, whose clothes never would fit him, whose heavy muscles told of damning toil, who grew excited when he talked, substituting abuse for calm statement and passionateutterance for cool self-possession. They at least earned good salaries and were - yes, she compelled herself to face it - were gentlemen; while he could not earn a penny, and he was not as they.

She did not weigh Martin's words nor judge his argument by them. Her conclusion that his argument was wrong was reached - unconsciously, it is true - by a comparison of externals. They, the professors, were right in their literary judgments because they were successes. Martin's literary judgments were wrong because he could not sell his wares. To use his own phrase, they made good, and he did not make good. And besides, it did not seem reasonable that he should be right - he who had stood, so short a time before, in that same living room, blushing and awkward, acknowledging his introduction, looking fearfully about him at the bric-a-brac his swinging shoulders threatened to break, asking how long since Swinburne died, and boastfully announcing that he had read "Excelsior" and the "Psalm of Life."

Unwittingly, Ruth herself proved his point that she worshipped the established. Martin followed the processes of her thoughts, but forbore to go farther. He did not love her for what she thought of Praps and Vanderwater and English professors, and he was coming to realize, with increasing conviction, that he possessed brain-areas and stretches of knowledge which she could never comprehend nor know existed.

In music she thought him unreasonable, and in the matter of opera not only unreasonable but wilfully perverse.

"How did you like it?" she asked him one night, on the way home from the opera.

It was a night when he had taken her at the expense of a month's rigid economizing on food. After vainly waiting for him to speak about it, herself still tremulous and stirred by what she had just seen and heard, she had asked the question.

"I liked the overture," was his answer. "It was splendid."

"Yes, but the opera itself?"

"That was splendid too; that is, the orchestra was, though I'd have enjoyed it more if those jumping-jacks had kept quiet or gone off the stage."

Ruth was aghast.

"You don't mean Tetralani or Barillo?" she queried.

"All of them - the whole kit and crew."

"But they are great artists," she protested.

"They spoiled the music just the same, with their antics and unrealities."

"But don't you like Barillo's voice?" Ruth asked. "He is next to Caruso, they say."

"Of course I liked him, and I liked Tetralani even better. Her voice is exquisite - or at least I think so."

"But, but - " Ruth stammered. "I don't know what you mean, then. You admire their voices, yet say they spoiled the music."

"Precisely that. I'd give anything to hear them in concert, and I'd give even a bit more not to hear them when the orchestra is playing. I'm afraid I am a hopelessrealist. Great singers are not great actors. To hear Barillo sing a love passage with the voice of an angel, and to hear Tetralani reply like another angel, and to hear it all accompanied by a perfect orgy of glowing and colorful music - is ravishing, most ravishing. I do not admit it. I assert it. But the whole effect is spoiled when I look at them - at Tetralani, five feet ten in her stocking feet and weighing a hundred and ninety pounds, and at Barillo, a scant five feet four, greasy-featured, with the chest of a squat, undersized blacksmith, and at the pair of them, attitudinizing, clasping their breasts, flinging their arms in the air like demented creatures in an asylum; and when I am expected to accept all this as the faithful illusion of a love-scene between a slender and beautiful princess and a handsome, romantic, young prince - why, I can't accept it, that's all. It's rot; it's absurd; it's unreal. That's what's the matter with it. It's not real. Don't tell me that anybody in this world ever made love that way. Why, if I'd made love to you in such fashion, you'd have boxed my ears."

"But you misunderstand," Ruth protested. "Every form of art has its limitations." (She was busy recalling a lecture she had heard at the university on the conventions of the arts.) "In painting there are only two dimensions to the canvas, yet you accept the illusion of three dimensions which the art of a painter enables him to throw into the canvas. In writing, again, the author must be omnipotent. You accept as perfectlylegitimate the author's account of the secret thoughts of the heroine, and yet all the time you know that the heroine was alone when thinking these thoughts, and that neither the author nor any one else was capable of hearing them. And so with the stage, with sculpture, with opera, with every art form. Certain irreconcilable things must be accepted."

"Yes, I understood that," Martin answered. "All the arts have their conventions." (Ruth was surprised at his use of the word. It was as if he had studied at the university himself, instead of being ill-equipped from browsing at haphazard through the books in the library.) "But even the conventions must be real. Trees, painted on flat cardboard and stuck up on each side of the stage, we accept as a forest. It is a real enough convention. But, on the other hand, we would not accept a sea scene as a forest. We can't do it. It violates our senses. Nor would you, or, rather, should you, accept the ravings and writhings and agonized contortions of those two lunatics to-night as a convincing portrayal of love."

"But you don't hold yourself superior to all the judges of music?" she protested.

"No, no, not for a moment. I merely maintain my right as an individual. I have just been telling you what I think, in order to explain why the elephantine gambols of Madame Tetralani spoil the orchestra for me. The world's judges of music may all be right. But I am I, and I won't subordinate my taste to the unanimous judgment of mankind. If I don't like a thing, I don't like it, that's all; and there is no reason under the sun why I should ape a liking for it just because the majority of my fellow-creatures like it, or make believe they like it. I can't follow the fashions in the things I like or dislike."

"But music, you know, is a matter of training," Ruth argued; "and opera is even more a matter of training. May it not be - "

"That I am not trained in opera?" he dashed in.

She nodded.

"The very thing," he agreed. "And I consider I am fortunate in not having been caught when I was young. If I had, I could have wept sentimental tears to-night, and the clownish antics of that precious pair would have but enhanced the beauty of their voices and the beauty of the accompanying orchestra. You are right. It's mostly a matter of training. And I am too old, now. I must have the real or nothing. An illusion that won't convince is a palpable lie, and that's what grand opera is to me when little Barillo throws a fit, clutches mighty Tetralani in his arms (also in a fit), and tells her how passionately he adores her."

Again Ruth measured his thoughts by comparison of externals and in accordance with her belief in the established. Who was he that he should be right and all the cultured world wrong? His words and thoughts made no impression upon her. She was too firmly intrenched in the established to have any sympathy with revolutionary ideas. She had always been used to music, and she had enjoyed opera ever since she was a child, and all her world had enjoyed it, too. Then by what right did Martin Eden emerge, as he had so recently emerged, from his rag-time and working-class songs, and pass judgment on the world's music? She was vexed with him, and as she walked beside him she had a vague feeling of outrage. At the best, in her most charitable frame of mind, she considered the statement of his views to be a caprice, an erratic and uncalled-for prank. But when he took her in his arms at the door and kissed her good night in tender lover-fashion, she forgot everything in the outrush of her own love to him. And later, on a sleepless pillow, she puzzled, as she had often puzzled of late, as to how it was that she loved so strange a man, and loved him despite the disapproval of her people.

And next day Martin Eden cast hack-work aside, and at white heat hammered out an essay to which he gave the title, "The Philosophy of Illusion." A stamp started it on its travels, but it was destined to receive many stamps and to be started on many travels in the months that followed.

几个礼拜过去，马丁的钱用完了。出版社的支票服以前一样杏无音信。他的重要作品全都退回来又送走了。他的"下锅之作"遭遇也并不更妙。小厨房里再也没有种类繁多的食品，他已经山穷水尽，只剩下半袋米和几磅杏子干了。他的菜谱一连五天都是三餐大米加杏子干。然后他开始了赊账。他一向付现金的葡萄牙杂货店老板在他积欠达到三块八毛五的巨额之后就拒绝赊欠了。

"因为，你看，"杂货店老板说，"你找不到工作，这钱就得我亏。"

马丁无话可说。他没法解释。把东西赊给一个身强力壮却懒得上班的工人阶级小伙子不符合正常的生意原则。

"你找到工作我就给你吃的，"杂货店老板问他保证，"没有工作没有吃的，这是生意经。"接着，为了表现此举全是生意上的远见，而非偏见，他说："我请你喝一杯吧--咱俩还是朋友。"

马丁轻轻松松喝了酒，表示跟老板还是朋友；然后便上了床，没吃晚饭。

马丁买菜的水果铺是个美国人开的。那人做生意原则性较差，直到马丁的积欠达到五块才停止了赊欠。面包店老板到两块便不赊了，屠户是四块时拒赊的。马丁把大债加起来，发现他在这世界上总共欠了十四元八毛五分。他的打字机租期也满了，但他估计能欠上两个月债。那又是八元。到时候他怕就会弄得赊欠无门了。

从水果店买到的最后的东西是一袋上豆。他就整个礼拜每日三餐净吃土豆--只有土豆，再也没有别的。偶然在露丝家吃顿饭能帮助他保持体力。虽然他见了满桌子的食物便饥肠辘辘，很难控制住自己不再吃下去。他也多次趁吃饭时到姐姐家去，在那儿放开胆子大吃一顿--比在莫尔斯家胆大多了，虽然心里暗自惭愧。

他一天天工作着，邮递员一天天给他送来退稿。他没有钱买邮票了，稿子只好在桌了堆积成了一大堆。有一天地已经是四十个小时没吃东西了。到露丝家去吃已没有希望，因为露丝已到圣拉非尔做客去了。要去两个礼拜。他也不能到姐姐家去，因为太不好意思。最倒霉的是，邮递员下午又给他送回了五份退稿。结果马丁穿了外套去了奥克兰，回来时外套没有了，口袋里叮叮当当多了五块钱。他给每位老板还了一块钱债，又在厨房里煎起了洋葱牛排，煮起了咖啡，还熬了一大罐梅子干。吃完饭他又在他那饭桌兼书桌旁坐了下来，午夜前写完了一篇散文，叫做《高利贷的尊严》，文章用打字机打完之后只好扔到桌下，因为五块钱已经花光，没钱买邮票了。

然后他当掉了手表，接着是自行车，给所有的稿子都贴上邮票，寄了出去，这又减少了所能到手的伙食费。他对写下锅之作感到失望，没有人愿买。他把它踉在报纸、周刊、廉价杂志上找到的东西比较，认为他的作品要比其中中等的作品好，好得多，可就是卖不掉。然后地发现许多报纸都大量出一种叫做"流行版"的东西。他弄到了提供这种稿子的协会的地址，可他送去的东西仍然被退了回来。退稿附有一张印好的条子，说他们全部所需稿件都由自己提供。他在一家大型少年期刊上发现了一整栏一整栏的奇闻轶事，认为是个机会。可他的短文仍然被退了回来。虽然他一再努力往外寄，总是没有用。后来到了他已经不在乎的时候，他才明白，那些副编辑和助理编辑为了增加收入自己就提供那种稿子。滑稽周刊也寄回了他的笑话和俏皮诗。他为大杂志写的轻松社交诗也没有找到出路。然后是报纸上的小小说。他知道自己能写出的小小说要比已经发表的好得多。他设法找到了两家报纸的供稿社地址，送去了一。连串小小说。一共二十篇，却一篇也没有卖掉。他这才不再写了。然而，他仍然每天看见小小说在日报和周刊上发表，成批成批的，没有一篇比得上他。他在绝望之余得到结论，他完全缺乏判断力，只是叫自己的作品催眠了。他看来是个自我陶醉的自封的作家。

没点火气的编辑机器照常油滑运转。他把回程邮票限稿件一起装好送进邮筒，三周到一个月之后邮递员便踏上台阶，把稿件送还给他。看来那一头肯定只有齿轮、螺丝钉和注油杯--一部由机器人操纵的聪明的机器，不存在有热度的活人。他非常失望，曾多次怀疑是否有编辑存在。他从来没有见到过一点点说明编辑存在的迹象。由于他的作品全都没提意见就被退了回来，若说编辑不过是由办公室的听差、排字工和印刷工所捏造出来并加以渲染的神话，也未尝没有道理。

跟露丝一起时是他仅有的欢乐时刻，而在那时双方又未必都快活。他永远感到痛苦：一种不安咬啮着他，比没有获得她的爱情时还要叫他不放心。因为他现在虽然获得了她的爱情，却跟仔何时候一样距离获得她还很远。他曾提出过以两年为期；可时光飞逝着，他却一事无成。何况他还一直意识到她不赞成他的做法--她虽然没有直接提出，却已分敲侧击让他明白了，跟直截了当告诉了他并无两样。她虽然没有怨言，却也没有赞成。性格不那么温和的女人也许会抱怨，她却只是失望，她失望了，她自告奋勇要想改造的这个人现在不接受改造了。她在一定程度上发现他这块泥土具有弹性，而且越变越顽强，拒绝按照她爸爸或是巴特勒先生的形象受到塑造。

她看不见他的伟大和坚强，更糟糕的是，误解了他。其实造成这个人的原料弹性是很大的，凡是人类能生存的鸽子笼里他都能生存，可她却认为他顽固，因为她无法把他塑造得能在她的那个鸽子笼果生存，而那是她所知道的唯一鸽子笼。她无法随着他的思想飞翔。他的思想一超出她的范围，她就断定地反常--从来没有人的思想超出过她的范围。她一向能跟上她爸爸、妈妈、弟弟和奥尔尼的思想。因此只要她跟不上马丁，便相信问题出在马丁身上。这是一个古老的悲剧：目光短浅者偏要充当胸襟辽阔者的导师。

"你是拜倒在现存秩序的神坛下了。"有一次两人讨论普拉卜斯和万德瓦特时，他告诉她，"我承认他们是出人头他的权威，他们的话受到引用--是美国两个最前列的文学批评家。美国的每一个教师都仰望万德瓦特，把他看做批评界的领袖。可是我读了他的东西，却认为那似乎是心灵空虚者的淋漓尽致的。准确不过的自白。你看，在台勒特·贝格斯的笔下，万德瓦特就不过是个傻乎乎的老冬烘。普拉卜斯也不比他高明。比如他的《铁杉苔》就写得很美，一个逗号都没用错，调子也很崇高，啊，崇高之至。他是美国收入最高的评论家。不过，非常遗憾！他根本不是批评家。英国的批评就要好得多。

"问题在于，他们唱的是大众的调子，而且唱得那么美，那么道貌岸然，那么心安理得。他们的观点令我想起英国人过的星期天。他们说的是大家说的话。他们是你们的英语教授的后台，你们的英语教授也是他们的后台。他们脑袋里就没有丝毫的独特见解。他们只知道现存秩序--实际上他们就是现存秩序。他们心灵孱弱，现存秩序在他们身上打上烙印就像啤酒厂在啤酒瓶上贴上标签一样容易。而他们的作用就是抓住上大学的青年，把一切偶然出现的闪光的独创意识从他们脑子里赶出去，给他们贴上现存秩序的标签。"

"我认为，"她回答，"在我站在现存秩序一边时，我比你更接近真理，你真像个南太平洋海岛上大发雷霆的偶像破坏者呢。"

"破坏偶像的是教会，"他大笑，"遗憾的是，所有的教会人员都跑到异教徒那儿去了，家里反而没有人来破坏万德瓦特先生和普拉卜斯先生这两尊古老的偶像。"

"还有大学教授的偶像，"她给他加上。

他使劲摇头："不，教理科的教授还得要。他们是真正的伟大。但是英语教授的脑袋十分之九都该破一破--是些心眼小得要用显微镜才看得见的小鹦鹉。"

这话对教授们确实刻薄，在露丝看来更是亵读。她忍不住要用那些教授来衡量马丁。教授们一个个文质彬彬，语调控馆，衣着整洁称身，谈吐文明风雅。而马丁呢，是个几乎难以描述的年轻人，而她却不知怎么爱上了他。他的衣着从来就不称身，一身暴突的肌肉说明做过沉重的苦役。一说话就冲动，不是平静地叙述而是咒骂，不是冷静地自律而是激动地放言高论。教授们至少薪水丰厚，是君子--是的，她得强迫自己面对这一事实；而他却一文钱也赚不到，跟他们没法比。

她并不就马丁的话语和论点本身进行衡量，她是从外表的比较断定他的意见不对的--不错，那是无意识的。教授们对文学的判断对，因为他们是成功的人；而马丁对文学的判断不对，因为他的作品没人要。用他自己的话说，他的作品都"像模像样"，而他自己却不像个模样。而且，要说他对也讲不过去--不久以前，就在这起坐间里，他在被人介绍时还脸红，还尴尬，还害怕地望看那些小摆设，生怕他那晃动的肩头会把它们碰下来；还在问史文朋已经死了多久；还在夸耀地宣称他读过《精益求精》和《生命礼赞》。

露丝不知不觉地证明了马丁的论点：她对现存秩序顶礼膜拜。马丁能跟随她的思路，但是不肯再往前走。他不是因为她对普拉卜斯先生、万德瓦特先生和英语教授们的观点而爱她的。他还逐渐意识到，而且越来越坚信，他自己具有的思维空间和知识面是她所无法理解，甚至还不知道的。

她觉得他对音乐的看法没有道理，而对歌剧他就不仅是没有道理，而且是故作奇谈怪论了。

"你觉得怎么样？"有天晚上看完歌剧回来，她问他。

那天夜里地是勒紧了一个月裤带才带她去的。她还在颤抖，还在为刚看见和听见的东西激动。她等着他发表意见，却无反应，这才问了他这个问题。

"我喜欢它的序曲，"他回答，"很精彩。"

"对，可歌剧本身呢？"

"也精彩；我是说，乐队精彩，不过，若是那些蹦蹦跳跳的人索性闭上嘴或是离开舞台我倒会更喜欢的。"

露丝目瞪口呆。

"你不是要特绰兰尼或是巴瑞罗离开舞台吧？"她追问。

"全离开，一股脑儿全下。"

"可他们是伟大的艺术家呀。"她驳斥道。

"他们那些不真实的滑稽表演也一样破坏了音乐。"

"可是你难道不喜欢巴瑞罗的嗓子？"露丝问，"人家说他仅次于卡路索呢。"

"当然喜欢，而且更喜欢特绰兰尼，她的嗓子非常美妙--至少我是这么感觉的。"

"可是，可是--"露丝结巴了，"我不明白你的意思。你既然欣赏他们的嗓子，为什么又说他们破坏了音乐呢？"