Came a beautiful fall day, warm and languid, palpitant with the hush of the changing season, a California Indian summer day, with hazy sun and wandering wisps of breeze that did not stir the slumber of the air. Filmy purple mists, that were not vapors but fabrics woven of color, hid in the recesses of the hills. San Francisco lay like a blur of smoke upon her heights. The intervening bay was a dull sheen of molten metal, whereon sailing craft lay motionless or drifted with the lazy tide. Far Tamalpais, barely seen in the silver haze, bulked hugely by the Golden Gate, the latter a pale gold pathway under the westering sun. Beyond, the Pacific, dim and vast, was raising on its sky-line tumbled cloud-masses that swept landward, giving warning of the first blustering breath of winter.

The erasure of summer was at hand. Yet summer lingered, fading and fainting among her hills, deepening the purple of her valleys, spinning a shroud of haze from waning powers and sated raptures, dying with the calm content of having lived and lived well. And among the hills, on their favorite knoll, Martin and Ruth sat side by side, their heads bent over the same pages, he reading aloud from the love-sonnets of the woman who had loved Browning as it is given to few men to be loved.

But the reading languished. The spell of passing beauty all about them was too strong. The golden year was dying as it had lived, a beautiful and unrepentant voluptuary, and reminiscent rapture and content freighted heavily the air. It entered into them, dreamy and languorous, weakening the fibres of resolution, suffusing the face of morality, or of judgment, with haze and purple mist. Martin felt tender and melting, and from time to time warm glows passed over him. His head was very near to hers, and when wandering phantoms of breeze stirred her hair so that it touched his face, the printed pages swam before his eyes.

"I don't believe you know a word of what you are reading," she said once when he had lost his place.

He looked at her with burning eyes, and was on the verge of becoming awkward, when a retort came to his lips.

"I don't believe you know either. What was the last sonnet about?"

"I don't know," she laughed frankly. "I've already forgotten. Don't let us read any more. The day is too beautiful."

"It will be our last in the hills for some time," he announced gravely. "There's a storm gathering out there on the sea-rim."

The book slipped from his hands to the ground, and they sat idly and silently, gazing out over the dreamy bay with eyes that dreamed and did not see. Ruth glanced sidewise at his neck. She did not lean toward him. She was drawn by some force outside of herself and stronger than gravitation, strong as destiny. It was only an inch to lean, and it was accomplished without volition on her part. Her shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly touches a flower, and just as lightly was the counter-pressure. She felt his shoulder press hers, and a tremor run through him. Then was the time for her to draw back. But she had become an automaton. Her actions had passed beyond the control of her will - she never thought of control or will in the delicious madness that was upon her. His arm began to steal behind her and around her. She waited its slow progress in a torment of delight. She waited, she knew not for what, panting, with dry, burning lips, a leaping pulse, and a fever of expectancy in all her blood. The girdling arm lifted higher and drew her toward him, drew her slowly and caressingly. She could wait no longer. With a tired sigh, and with an impulsive movement all her own, unpremeditated, spasmodic, she rested her head upon his breast. His head bent over swiftly, and, as his lips approached, hers flew to meet them.

This must be love, she thought, in the one rational moment that was vouchsafed her. If it was not love, it was too shameful. It could be nothing else than love. She loved the man whose arms were around her and whose lips were pressed to hers. She pressed more, tightly to him, with a snuggling movement of her body. And a moment later, tearing herself half out of his embrace, suddenly and exultantly she reached up and placed both hands upon Martin Eden's sunburnt neck. So exquisite was the pang of love and desire fulfilled that she uttered a low moan, relaxed her hands, and lay half-swooning in his arms.

Not a word had been spoken, and not a word was spoken for a long time. Twice he bent and kissed her, and each time her lips met his shyly and her body made its happy, nestling movement. She clung to him, unable to release herself, and he sat, half supporting her in his arms, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the blur of the great city across the bay. For once there were no visions in his brain. Only colors and lights and glows pulsed there, warm as the day and warm as his love. He bent over her. She was speaking.

"When did you love me?" she whispered.

"From the first, the very first, the first moment I laid eye on you. I was mad for love of you then, and in all the time that has passed since then I have only grown the madder. I am maddest, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic, my head is so turned with joy."

"I am glad I am a woman, Martin - dear," she said, after a long sigh.

He crushed her in his arms again and again, and then asked:-

"And you? When did you first know?"

"Oh, I knew it all the time, almost, from the first."

"And I have been as blind as a bat!" he cried, a ring of vexation in his voice. "I never dreamed it until just how, when I - when I kissed you."

"I didn't mean that." She drew herself partly away and looked at him. "I meant I knew you loved almost from the first."

"And you?" he demanded.

"It came to me suddenly." She was speaking very slowly, her eyes warm and fluttery and melting, a soft flush on her cheeks that did not go away. "I never knew until just now when - you put your arms around me. And I never expected to marry you, Martin, not until just now. How did you make me love you?"

"I don't know," he laughed, "unless just by loving you, for I loved you hard enough to melt the heart of a stone, much less the heart of the living, breathing woman you are."

"This is so different from what I thought love would be," she announced irrelevantly.

"What did you think it would be like?"

"I didn't think it would be like this." She was looking into his eyes at the moment, but her own dropped as she continued, "You see, I didn't know what this was like."

He offered to draw her toward him again, but it was no more than a tentative muscular movement of the girdling arm, for he feared that he might be greedy. Then he felt her body yielding, and once again she was close in his arms and lips were pressed on lips.

"What will my people say?" she queried, with sudden apprehension, in one of the pauses.

"I don't know. We can find out very easily any time we are so minded."

"But if mamma objects? I am sure I am afraid to tell her."

"Let me tell her," he volunteered valiantly. "I think your mother does not like me, but I can win her around. A fellow who can win you can win anything. And if we don't - "

"Yes?"

"Why, we'll have each other. But there's no danger not winning your mother to our marriage. She loves you too well."

"I should not like to break her heart," Ruth said pensively.

He felt like assuring her that mothers' hearts were not so easily broken, but instead he said, "And love is the greatest thing in the world."

"Do you know, Martin, you sometimes frighten me. I am frightened now, when I think of you and of what you have been. You must be very, very good to me. Remember, after all, that I am only a child. I never loved before."

"Nor I. We are both children together. And we are fortunate above most, for we have found our first love in each other."

"But that is impossible!" she cried, withdrawing herself from his arms with a swift, passionate movement. "Impossible for you. You have been a sailor, and sailors, I have heard, are - are - "

Her voice faltered and died away.

"Are addicted to having a wife in every port?" he suggested. "Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," she answered in a low voice.

"But that is not love." He spoke authoritatively. "I have been in many ports, but I never knew a passing touch of love until I saw you that first night. Do you know, when I said good night and went away, I was almost arrested."

"Arrested?"

"Yes. The policeman thought I was drunk; and I was, too - with love for you."

"But you said we were children, and I said it was impossible, for you, and we have strayed away from the point."

"I said that I never loved anybody but you," he replied. "You are my first, my very first."

"And yet you have been a sailor," she objected.

"But that doesn't prevent me from loving you the first."

"And there have been women - other women - oh!"

And to Martin Eden's supreme surprise, she burst into a storm of tears that took more kisses than one and many caresses to drive away. And all the while there was running through his head Kipling's line: "AND THE COLONEL'S LADY AND JUDY O'GRADY ARE SISTERS UNDER THEIR SKINS." It was true, he decided; though the novels he had read had led him to believe otherwise. His idea, for which the novels were responsible, had been that only formal proposals obtained in the upper classes. It was all right enough, down whence he had come, for youths and maidens to win each other by contact; but for the exalted personages up above on the heights to make love in similar fashion had seemed unthinkable. Yet the novels were wrong. Here was a proof of it. The same pressures and caresses, unaccompanied by speech, that were efficacious with the girls of the working-class, were equally efficacious with the girls above the working-class. They were all of the same flesh, after all, sisters under their skins; and he might have known as much himself had he remembered his Spencer. As he held Ruth in his arms and soothed her, he took great consolation in the thought that the Colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady were pretty much alike under their skins. It brought Ruth closer to him, made her possible. Her dear flesh was as anybody's flesh, as his flesh. There was no bar to their marriage. Class difference was the only difference, and class was extrinsic. It could be shaken off. A slave, he had read, had risen to the Roman purple. That being so, then he could rise to Ruth. Under her purity, and saintliness, and culture, and ethereal beauty of soul, she was, in things fundamentally human, just like Lizzie Connolly and all Lizzie Connollys. All that was possible of them was possible of her. She could love, and hate, maybe have hysterics; and she could certainly be jealous, as she was jealous now, uttering her last sobs in his arms.

"Besides, I am older than you," she remarked suddenly, opening her eyes and looking up at him, "three years older."

"Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty years older than you, in experience," was his answer.

In truth, they were children together, so far as love was concerned, and they were as naive and immature in the expression of their love as a pair of children, and this despite the fact that she was crammed with a university education and that his head was full of scientific philosophy and the hard facts of life.

They sat on through the passing glory of the day, talking as lovers are prone to talk, marvelling at the wonder of love and at destiny that had flung them so strangely together, and dogmatically believing that they loved to a degree never attained by lovers before. And they returned insistently, again and again, to a rehearsal of their first impressions of each other and to hopeless attempts to analyze just precisely what they felt for each other and how much there was of it.

The cloud-masses on the western horizon received the descending sun, and the circle of the sky turned to rose, while the zenith glowed with the same warm color. The rosy light was all about them, flooding over them, as she sang, "Good-by, Sweet Day." She sang softly, leaning in the cradle of his arm, her hands in his, their hearts in each other's hands.

一个美丽的秋日来临了。暖洋洋世懒洋洋，季节快要变化所带来的平静令人提心吊胆。那是个加利福尼亚州的小阳春日子。太阳的光模糊朦胧，细细的风轻轻吹拂，却吹不醒沉睡的空气。紫红色的薄雾已不是水气，而是用彩色织成的鲛绡，在群山的沟壑里隐约藏匿。旧金山卧在山顶，有如一片模糊的烟霭。其间的海湾发一片融熔的金属的暗淡的光，海湾上的船只有的静静地旋泊，有的随着淡荡的潮水漂流。远处，塔马派斯山在金门旁巍巍矗立，在银色的雾震中依稀可见。西沉的夕阳下的金门是一脉淡金色的水道。再往外，缥缈浩瀚的太平洋升起在天际，驱赶着滚滚云团向大陆袭来，已在声势煊煊地发出寒冬的呼啸的第一道警报。

夏季马上就会被抹掉，可她却恋恋不肯便走，还在群山里停留，在那里凋零萎谢，把她的丘壑染得越发红紫。现在她正用衰微的力气和过度的欢乐编织着烟霭的尸衣，要怀着不虚此生的平静的满足死去。马丁和露丝正在群山之间他们喜爱的丘陵项上并排坐着，两颗头俯在同一本书上。马丁正朗诵着一个女诗人的十四行诗，那女诗人对勃朗宁的爱是世上的男子绝少得到的。

但那朗诵早已设精打采。他们周围正在消失的美大迷人。辉煌的一年是个全无怨尤的美丽的荡妇，她正在辉煌地死去。空气里弥漫着回忆中的狂欢与满足。那感觉进入了他们心里，情做而迷茫，削弱者意志，也给道德和理智蒙上一层烟霭，一层紫雾。马丁柔情脉脉，不时有股股热力通过全身。他的头跟她的头十分靠近，在幽灵样的清风吹过，把她的头发拣到他脸上时，他眼前的书页便荡漾起来。

"我相信你根本不知道自己在读些什么。"有一次他找不到自己读的地方时，她说。

他用燃烧的眼睛望着她，快要露出窘相，唇边却冒出了一句反驳的话。

"我怕是你也不知道吧。刚才的十四行说的是什么？"

"我也不知道，"她坦然地笑了，"已经忘了。咱们就别读了吧。今天天气真美！"

"这是我们一段时间之内最后一次上山了呢，"他心情沉重地宣布，"海面上已酝酿着风暴。"

书本从他手里滑落到地下。两人默默地闲坐着，用怀着幻梦却还看不见的眼睛望着幻梦样的海湾。露丝瞥了一眼他的脖子。她并没有偎依过去，只是被身外的某种力量吸引了去。那力量比地心引力还强，强大得有如命运。要偎过去只有一英寸距离，她全没有想就偎过去了。她的肩头挨着了他的肩头，轻得像蝴蝶点着花朵。对方的反应也同样轻微。她感到他的肩头靠着了自己，一阵震颤穿过她全身。已是她挪开身子的时候了，可她已成了个机器人，她的动作已不受意志支配--她感到一阵疯狂的迷醉，根本没想到控制或是压抑。他的手臂悄悄地伸到了她背后，搂住了她。一阵欢乐折磨着她，她等着。那手缓缓移动起来。她等着，不知等着什么，喘着气，嘴唇干涸，脉搏急跳，一种期待的狂热弥漫了她的血液。搂着她的手往上移动了，把她接了过去，温存地慢慢地搂了过去。她再也不能等待了。她发出一声疲劳的叹息，主动地，痉挛地，全不思考地靠到了他的胸脯上。他立即低下头去，他的嘴唇刚刚靠近，她的嘴唇早已迎了上来。

这肯定就是爱情，在她获得瞬间的理智时，她想。要不是爱情，就太可耻了。只能是爱情。她爱这个搂着她、吻着她的男人。她扭了扭身子，对他靠得更紧了。过了一会，她突然激动地挣开了他部分的搂抱，伸出胳膊搂住了马丁·伊登那被太阳晒黑了的脖子。爱情和欲望得到了满足，那感觉是那么美妙，她不禁发出了一声低低的呻吟，然后放松了胳膊，半昏迷地躺在了他的怀里。

两人没有说话，很久没有说话。他两次弯过身子亲她，她两次都用嘴唇羞答答迎接他的嘴唇，而且欢喜地往他怀里钻。她偎依着他，无法挪开。他坐着，用两条手臂半托着她，凝望着海湾那边巨大的城市的模糊形象--虽然看不见。这一回他脑子里只有光和色在脉动，没出现幻想，那光与色跟那天天气一样温暖，跟爱情一样火热。他向她俯过身去，她已在说话了。

"你什么时候爱上我的？"她低声问。

"从第一次看见你的时候，就在第一次看见你的时候我就爱上你了。我爱得发狂，那以后更是越爱越狂，而现在是爱得最狂的时候，亲爱的。我差不多成了个狂人。我快活得脑袋都发晕了。"

"我很高兴成了个女人了，马丁--亲爱的。"她长叹了一声，说。

他一次又一次紧紧地拥抱她，然后问道：--

"你呢？你是什么时候开始知道的？"

"啊，我一直都知道，差不多从开始就知道。"

"可我却像个编幅一样没看见！"他叫了起来，带着懊恼的调子。"我连做梦也没想到，直到刚才我--亲了你才算明白过来。"

"我不是那个意思。"她哪开了一点，望着他。"我是说我差不多从开始就知道你在爱我。"

"可你呢，你爱我吗？"他追问。

"我是突然发现的。"她说得很慢，眼睛热烘烘的，闪动着，柔情脉脉，颊上升起了淡淡的红晕，经久不散。"我一直都不知道--是刚才你搂着我我才明白过来的。我从没有想过和你结婚，马丁，刚才以前都没想过。你是用什么办法让我爱上你的？"

"我不知道，"他笑了起来，"办法只是爱吧。因为我太爱你，怕是连石头的心也能融化的，更不用说像你这样活生生的。会呼吸的女人的心了。"

"这跟我想像中的爱情太不一样了。"她转换了话题。

"你想像中的爱情是什么样的呢？"

"我没想到它会是这样。"说时她望着他的眼睛，但随即低下了眼帘，说道，"你看，我就不知道爱情是什么样子。"

他又想把她接过去，却只是让接着她的手臂微微动了一动--他怕自己大贪婪，这时他却感到她的身子依从了。她再一次倒进了他的怀里，嘴唇紧贴到他的嘴唇上。

"我家的人会怎么说呢？"在一次停顿时她突然忧心忡忡地问道。

"我不知道，若是想知道什么时候都可以问的，很容易。"

"可要是妈妈不同意怎么办泥？我真害怕告诉她。"

"我去跟她讲好了，"他自告奋勇说，"我觉得你妈妈不喜欢我，但我可以争取她。能争取到你的人是什么人都能争取到的。即使我们没有争取到--"

"那怎么办？"

"那有什么，我们仍然彼此相爱。不过，要争取你妈妈并不难，她太爱你。"

"我可不愿意伤她的心，"露丝沉吟着说。

他很想向她保证她妈妈不会那么容易就伤心的，却说道："爱情是世界上最伟大的东西。"

"你知道不，马丁，你有时候真叫我害怕。我现在想起你和你的过去都还害怕呢。你一定要对我非常非常好。你要记住我毕竟还是个孩子，从来没有恋爱过。"

"我也从来没有恋爱过。我们俩都是孩子。我们是最幸运的，因为彼此都是初恋。"

"不可能！"她立即从他怀抱里激动地抽开了身子。"对你是不可能的。你当过水手，而我听说，水手是--是--"

她犹豫了，没说出来。

"水手都有个嗜好，在每个港口有个老婆，是么？"他提示道，"你是这个意思么？"

"是的。"她低声答道。

"可那并不是爱情，"他专断地说，"我去过许多港口，但在那个晚上第一次遇见你之前我一点也没有恋爱过。我跟你分手之后几乎被抓了起来你知道么？"

"抓了起来？"

"真的，警察还以为我喝醉了呢；我那时确实醉了--因为爱上了你。"

"可你说我们还是孩子，而我说你不可能还是个孩子，我们离题了。"

"我说了除了你之外我没有爱过任何人，"他回答，"你是我的初恋，头一个恋人。"

"但你做过水手，"她反驳。

"可那并不能说明我跟你不是初恋。"

"你有过女人--别的女人--啊！"

令马丁·伊登极其意外的是，她忽然泪流满面，大哭起来。他用了许多亲吻和爱抚才叫她平静下去。在劝慰她时他一直想着吉卜林的诗句："上校的夫人和无论什么贱女，说到底也同是血肉之躯。"他认为这话不错；虽然他读过的小说曾给过他别的看法。那些小说应对他负责的看法是：上流社会只有靠正式求婚才能缔结婚姻，而在他出身的下层，姑娘和小伙子靠身体的接触而互相拥有是正常的事。但若要说上层社会的高雅人物也用同样的方式彼此追求，他就觉得难以想像了。可是小说错了，眼前就有一个证据。默不作声的接触和爱抚对工人阶级的姑娘有效，对高于工人阶级的姑娘也同样有效。她们毕竟也显血肉之躯，骨子里都是姐妹。他若是没忘记他的斯宾塞的话，对这些早就该知道了。在他拥抱着露丝、安慰着她的时候，便不禁想起上校的夫人和无论什么贱女说到底都很相像的话，感到非常安慰。这让露丝跟他更接近了，她不再高不可攀了。她那亲爱的身子也和任何人的身子一样，和他的身子一样。他们的婚姻再没了障碍。唯一的差异是阶级的差异，而阶级是外在的，可以摆脱.他曾读到一个从奴隶上升为罗马穿红着紫的人物的故事。既然如此，他也可以上升到露丝的地位。在她那纯贞、圣洁、有教养、和仙灵一样美丽的灵魂之下，她作为人的基本方面和丽齐·康诺利以及类似的姑娘并没有两样。她们可能做的事地也可能做。她可能爱，可能恨，说不定还可能歇斯底里；她肯定可能护忌，她现在就在他的怀抱里最后抽泣着，妒忌着呢。

"而且，我比你大，"她突然说，睁开眼睛望着他，"大三岁。"

"别闹了，你还是个孩子，要讲经验的话，我比你大四十岁，"他回答。

事实上，就爱情而论，他们俩都是孩子，在表达爱情上也都幼稚，不成熟，尽管她脑子里塞满了从大学学来的知识，他也有满脑子科学的哲学思想和实实在在的生活经验。

两人继续坐着，望着辉煌的景色逐渐暗淡，谈着情人们总要絮叨的情话。他们对爱情的奇迹，对把他们俩那样离奇地撮合到一起的命运感到惊奇，而且武断地认为他俩爱情之深沉是任句情侣也赶不上的。他们反反复复不疲倦地倾谈着对彼此的第一个印象，又全无希望他想准确分析彼此的感情，夸说着它的强烈。

太阳落入了西边地平线上的云阵里，周围的天转成了玫瑰色的一片，连天顶也燃烧着同样的温暖色调。他们四面都是敦瑰色的光，她唱了起来："再见吧，甜蜜的日子，"那光便泻满了他们全身。她偎在他的怀里，曼声唱着，她的手握在他手里，他俩的心握在彼此手里。
关键字:马丁·伊登
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