CHAPTER I1

第一章

The one opened the door with a latch—key and went in, followed by a young fellow who awkwardly removed his cap. He wore rough clothes that smacked of the sea, and he was manifestly out of place in the spacious hall in which he found himself. He did not know what to do with his cap, and was stuffing it into his coat pocket when the other took it from him. The act was done quietly and naturally, and the awkward young fellow appreciated it. "He understands, " was his thought. "He'll see me through all right. "

那人拿一把弹簧钥匙开了门，然后走了进来，后面跟着一个小伙子。这小伙子笨拙地脱下了便帽。他穿的粗布衣服带着海洋的咸味，发现自己身处这宽敞的大厅，他明显感到很拘束。他不知道该怎么处置自己的帽子，正要塞进外套口袋时，另外那个人便接了过去。那人的动作是如此自然且不露声色，笨拙的小伙子不禁对此充满感激。 “他了解我。” 他心想。 “他定会帮我度过这一切的。”

He walked at the other's heels with a swing to his shoulders, and his legs spread unwittingly, as if the level floors were tilting up and sinking down to the heave and lunge of the sea. The wide rooms seemed too narrow for his rolling gait, and to himself he was in terror lest his broad shoulders should collide with the doorways or sweep the bric—a—brac from the low mantel. He recoiled from side to side between the various objects and multiplied the hazards that in reality lodged only in his mind. Between a grand piano and a centre—table piled high with books was space for a half a dozen to walk abreast, yet he essayed it with trepidation. His heavy arms hung loosely at his sides. He did not know what to do with those arms and hands, and when, to his excited vision, one arm seemed liable to brush against the books on the table, he lurched away like a frightened horse, barely missing the piano stool. He watched the easy walk of the other in front of him, and for the first time realized that his walk was different from that of other men. He experienced a momentary pang of shame that he should walk so uncouthly. The sweat burst through the skin of his forehead in tiny beads, and he paused and mopped his bronzed face with his handkerchief.

他紧跟在那人身后走着，摇晃着肩膀，双腿不自觉地张开，似乎那平坦的地板正随着海浪左右倾斜、上下颠簸。宽大的房间对他晃动的脚步来说似乎还是太窄了，而他自己也很紧张，唯恐自己宽阔的肩膀会撞上门框或是把低矮的壁炉架上的小摆设给扫到地上。他在各种物件之间闪来闪去，而那让那原本存在于他心里的恐惧感又成倍地增加了。一架大钢琴和屋子正中一张堆满书籍的桌子之间的空间可供六个人并行通过，但他却走得提心吊胆。他的胳膊十分沉重，松松地挂在身体两侧。他不知该拿自己的胳膊和双手怎么办，突然紧张地发现一条胳膊似乎快要撞到桌上的书了，于是像一匹受惊的马一般向旁边一个趔趄，几乎碰翻琴凳。他看着走在前面那人轻松的步伐，第一次意识到自己走路与别人不同。想到自己走路如此笨拙，他顿时感到难堪。细小的汗珠渗出他的前额，他停下来用手帕擦了擦他古铜色的脸。

"Hold on, Arthur, my boy, " he said, attempting to mask his anxiety with facetious utterance. "This is too much all at once for yours truly. Give me a chance to get my nerve. You know I didn't want to come, an 'I guess your fam' ly ain't hankerin't o see me neither. "

“等一下，阿瑟老兄。” 他说道，想用句玩笑话来掩饰自己的紧张。 “这一切对你家人来说确实太突然了。” 让我先定定神。你知道我不想来的，我想你家人也未必想要见我。”

"That's all right, " was the reassuring answer. "You mustn't be frightened at us. We're just homely people— Hello, there's a letter for me. "

“没事的，” 阿瑟安慰道， “千万别被我家人吓到。我们只是普普通通的人——嘿，这儿还有一封我的信呢。”

He stepped back to the table, tore open the envelope, and began to read, giving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. And the stranger understood and appreciated. His was the gift of sympathy, understanding; and beneath his alarmed exterior that sympathetic process went on. He mopped his forehead dry and glanced about him with a controlled face, though in the eyes there was an expression such as wild animals betray when they fear the trap. He was surrounded by the unknown, apprehensive of what might happen, ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked and bore himself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power of him was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelessly self—conscious, and the amused glance that the other stole privily at him over the top of the letter burned into him like a dagger—thrust. He saw the glance, but he gave no sign, for among the things he had learned was discipline. Also, that dagger—thrust went to his pride. He cursed himself for having come, and at the same time resolved that, happen what would, having come, he would carry it through. The lines of his face hardened, and into his eyes came a fighting light. He looked about more unconcernedly, sharply observant, every detail of the pretty interior registering itself on his brain. His eyes were wide apart; nothing in their field of vision escaped; and as they drank in the beauty before them the fighting light died out and a warm glow took its place. He was responsive to beauty, and here was cause to respond.

他走回桌边，拆开信封看了起来，正好让这个客人有机会镇定一下。客人心里明白，也很感激。同情人、理解人是他的天赋；眼下，在他警觉的外表下，理解他人的机制仍在运转。他擦干了额头的汗珠，摆出平静的样子环视四周，但眼里却藏不住那种野兽害怕陷阱时露出的神色。他身处从未见过的事物之中，担心会发生什么，却又不知道自己该做什么，意识到自己的步伐和举止十分笨拙，害怕自己所有的特性和能力也会受到类似的折磨。他极度敏感，自我意识强烈得不可救药，而那人偏又越过信纸用饶有兴致的眼神偷偷打量他，那眼神如匕首般深深刺痛了他。他瞧见了那眼神，却不动声色，因为在他学到的本领中有一样叫做克制。那 “匕首” 同样伤到了他的自尊。他咒骂自己不该来，但同时也下定决心，不管发生什么，既然来了就一定要坚持下去。他脸部的线条变得僵硬，眼中闪现出一种拼搏的光芒。他更加满不在乎地打量起四周，目光敏锐，头脑中记录下了这华丽厅堂里的每一个细节。他双眼圆睁；目光所及之处，丝毫不漏；随着双眼痛饮着室内的美景，那拼搏的光渐渐变弱，最终被温暖的光所取代。他对美敏感，眼前的便是令他敏感的事物。

An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy surf thundered and burst over an outjutting rock; lowering storm—clouds covered the sky; and, outside the line of surf, a pilot—schooner, close—hauled, heeled over till every detail of her deck was visible, was surging along against a stormy sunset sky. There was beauty, and it drew him irresistibly. He forgot his awkward walk and came closer to the painting, very close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. His face expressed his bepuzzlement. He stared at what seemed a careless daub of paint, then stepped away. Immediately all the beauty flashed back into the canvas. "A trick picture, " was his thought, as he dismissed it, though in the midst of the multitudinous impressions he was receiving he found time to feel a prod of indignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed to make a trick. He did not know painting. He had been brought up on chromos and lithographs that were always definite and sharp, near or far. He had seen oil paintings, it was true, in the show windows of shops, but the glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyes from approaching too near.

他被一幅油画吸引住了。巨浪轰鸣着在一块横空斜出的岩石上方爆裂开来；孕育着风暴的乌云低垂着布满天空；浪涛的轮廓线外是一艘领港船正在风暴将至的落日天空下迎风前进，船身倾斜着，甲板上的一切都清晰可见。这便是美，无可抗拒地吸引住了他。他忘掉了自己笨拙的步伐，向那幅画靠近，靠得非常近。美从画布上消失了。他的脸色表达了他的困惑。他瞪着那片仿佛是胡乱涂抹的画，然后走开了。那美又瞬间全部回到了画布上。 “一幅错觉画。” 他转身走开时想，在纷至沓来的众多印象中，他还感到被愤怒刺了一下：那么多的美竟被用来做一幅错觉画。他不懂绘画。他从小只见过彩色石印和石版画，远看近看都是轮廓分明、线条清晰的。他也见过油画，这倒不假，是在商店的展示橱窗里，只是橱窗玻璃让他渴望的眼睛无法靠得太近。

He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and saw the books on the table. Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into the eyes of a starving man at sight of food. An impulsive stride, with one lurch to right and left of the shoulders, brought him to the table, where he began affectionately handling the books. He glanced at the titles and the authors' names, read fragments of text, caressing the volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once, recognized a book he had read. For the rest, they were strange books and strange authors. He chanced upon a volume of Swinburne and began reading steadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing. Twice he closed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of the author. Swinburne! he would remember that name. That fellow had eyes, and he had certainly seen color and flashing light. But who was Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of the poets? Or was he alive still, and writing? He turned to the title—page…yes, he had written other books; well, he would go to the free library the first thing in the morning and try to get hold of some of Swinburne's stuff. He went back to the text and lost himself. He did not notice that a young woman had entered the room. The first he knew was when he heard Arthur's voice saying:

他瞥了一眼还在看信的朋友，看见了桌上的书。他的眼中立即闪现出一种期待和渴望，就好像饥饿的人看到了食物那般。他冲动地迈出一大步，肩膀左右一晃便来到了桌边，在那里开始热切地翻阅起来。他浏览了书名和作者，读了些文章的片段，用眼神和双手爱抚书，有一次还认出了一本读过的书。而其余的书都是陌生的，作者也是陌生的。他偶然看起一本斯温伯恩的书，便一直看了下去，脸上放出光芒，全然忘了自己身处何地。他两次用食指插着合上书，好看看作者的名字。斯温伯恩！他会记住这个名字的。这家伙有眼光，他肯定把握住了色彩和那一闪即逝的光芒。但斯温伯格是谁呢？他也像大多数诗人那样已经死去一百多年了吗？抑或他仍然在世，仍在创作？他翻到书名页……是的，他还写过其他书；好吧，明早第一件事就是去免费图书馆，看能不能借到他的书籍。他重又看起书来，看得出了神。他没有注意到一位年轻女士已经进了房间。他首先注意到的是阿瑟的声音：

"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden. "

“鲁思，这位是伊登先生。”

The book was closed on his forefinger, and before he turned he was thrilling to the first new impression, which was not of the girl, but of her brother's words. Under that muscled body of his he was a mass of quivering sensibilities. At the slightest impact of the outside world upon his consciousness, his thoughts, sympathies, and emotions leapt and played like lambent flame. He was extraordinarily receptive and responsive, while his imagination, pitched high, was ever at work establishing relations of likeness and difference. "Mr. Eden, " was what he had thrilled to—he who had been called "Eden, " or "Martin Eden, " or just "Martin, " all his life. And "Mister! " It was certainly going some, was his internal comment. His mind seemed to turn, on the instant, into a vast camera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his consciousness endless pictures from his life, of stoke—holes and forecastles, camps and beaches, jails and boozing—kens, fever—hospitals and slum streets, wherein the thread of association was the fashion in which he had been addressed in those various situations.

他把食指插在书中合上书，还没转过身来就已经为这崭新的第一印象而激动了，但这并非因为那女孩，而是因为她哥哥的话。在他肌肉发达的身体下面，布满了颤抖的敏感神经。外部世界对他意识最轻微的刺激也能使他的思想、感受和情绪犹如摇曳的火焰一样跳动起来。他异常善于接纳和回应，而他的想象力活跃，总在为事物的异同建立着联系。正是 “伊登先生” 这个称呼使他激动——他一生都被人称为 “伊登” 、 “马丁·伊登” 或者只是 “马丁” 。现在成了 “先生” ！这实在是太妙了，他心想。他的头脑似乎立刻化为一台巨大的投影仪，在他的意识中呈现出无数的生活画面：锅炉舱和水手舱、帐篷和海滩、监狱和酒吧、高烧病房和贫民窟的街道，在各种各样的环境中别人跟他的关系都表现在对他的那些称呼上。

And then he turned and saw the girl. The phantasmagoria of his brain vanished at sight of her. She was a pale, ethereal creature, with wide, spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He did not know how she was dressed, except that the dress was as wonderful as she. He likened her to a pale gold flower upon a slender stem. No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess; such sublimated beauty was not of the earth. Or perhaps the books were right, and there were many such as she in the upper walks of life. She might well be sung by that chap, Swinburne. Perhaps he had had somebody like her in mind when he painted that girl, Iseult, in the book there on the table. All this plethora of sight, and feeling, and thought occurred on the instant. There was no pause of the realities wherein he moved. He saw her hand coming out to his, and she looked him straight in the eyes as she shook hands, frankly, like a man. The women he had known did not shake hands that way. For that matter, most of them did not shake hands at all. A flood of associations, visions of various ways he had made the acquaintance of women, rushed into his mind and threatened to swamp it. But he shook them aside and looked at her. Never had he seen such a woman. The women he had known! Immediately, beside her, on either hand, ranged the women he had known. For an eternal second he stood in the midst of a portrait gallery, wherein she occupied the central place, while about her were limned many women, all to be weighed and measured by a fleeting glance, herself the unit of weight and measure. He saw the weak and sickly faces of the girls of the factories, and the simpering, boisterous girls from the south of Market. There were women of the cattle camps, and swarthy cigarette—smoking women of Old Mexico. These, in turn, were crowded out by Japanese women, doll—like, stepping mincingly on wooden clogs; by Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped with degeneracy; by full—bodied South—Sea—Island women, flower—crowned and brown—skinned. All these were blotted out by a grotesque and terrible nightmare brood—frowsy, shuffling creatures from the pavements of Whitechapel, gin—bloated hags of the stews, and all the vast hell's following of harpies, vile—mouthed and filthy, that under the guise of monstrous female form prey upon sailors, the scrapings of the ports, the scum and slime of the human pit.