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然后他转过身来，看到了那个女孩。一见到她，他脑中的种种幻影便都消失不见了。她脸色苍白、体态轻盈，有一对超凡脱俗的蓝色大眼睛，还有一头浓密的金发。他不知道她的穿着如何，只知道她的衣服跟她本人一样好看。他将她比作一朵嫩枝上的淡淡金花。不对，她是个精灵，是个仙子，是个女神；她那升华了的美绝不属于人世间。也许书里说的是对的，在上流社会里有许许多多像她这样的美。她可能也被斯温伯恩那个家伙歌唱过。或许当他描绘桌上那本书里的伊索尔特时，心中想的便是这样一个女孩。所有这些大量的景象、情感和思绪都发生在顷刻间。而在他所处的现实中，一切都不曾中断。他看见她向自己伸出手来，握手时像男人般坦率地直视着他的双眼。他所认识的那些女人可不这样握手。事实上，她们中的大多数根本不和人握手。一阵联想袭来，他结识女人的各种方式涌进他的脑袋，几乎把他淹没。但他把它们甩在一边，只看着她。他从没见过这样一个女人。他所认识的那些女人呀！她们顷刻间在她的两边排列开来。在那永恒的瞬间，他身处一家肖像画廊内，中心位置为她所占据，很多其他女人出现在她的四周，飞快地瞥一眼便能知道她们的体重和尺寸，而她便是衡量的标准。他看到脸色憔悴的工厂女孩和市场南面傻笑喧闹的女孩。还有牧牛区的女人和墨西哥抽烟的黑皮肤老妇女。这些形象转而又被玩偶般走着碎步、脚踩木屐的日本妇女所取代，被面容姣好却又刻上了堕落烙印的欧亚混血儿取代，被身材魁梧、头戴花环、褐色皮肤的南海岛屿妇女所取代。而所有这些形象全都让位给了一群奇形怪状、噩梦般的女人——怀特察普尔人行道上散发着臭味、躲躲闪闪的女人，贫民窟里醉醺醺的妓女，还有一大群地狱来的悍妇，她们满嘴脏话，肮脏下流，乔装成凶悍的妇女来掠夺水手，搜索着港口的垃圾和贫民窟的残渣。
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden? " the girl was saying.
“请坐，伊登先生，” 那女孩说道。
"I have been looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us. It was brave of you—”
“自从阿瑟告诉我们之后我就一直盼望着见到你。你真勇敢……”
He waved his hand deprecatingly and muttered that it was nothing at all, what he had done, and that any fellow would have done it. She noticed that the hand he waved was covered with fresh abrasions, in the process of healing, and a glance at the other loose—hanging hand showed it to be in the same condition. Also, with quick, critical eye, she noted a scar on his cheek, another that peeped out from under the hair of the forehead, and a third that ran down and disappeared under the starched collar. She repressed a smile at sight of the red line that marked the chafe of the collar against the bronzed neck. He was evidently unused to stiff collars. Likewise her feminine eye took in the clothes he wore, the cheap and unaesthetic cut, the wrinkling of the coat across the shoulders, and the series of wrinkles in the sleeves that advertised bulging biceps muscles.
他不以为然地挥了挥手，含糊不清地表示那根本不算什么，任何人都会像他那么做的。她注意到他挥动的那只手上有尚未愈合的擦伤，瞥了一眼另一只松垂着的手，发现也是情况一样。再迅速地一打量，她发现他脸颊上有一道伤疤，前额的头发下也露出一道，还有一道顺脖子而下消失在浆硬的领子里。她看到他那古铜色的脖子上被领子磨出的红印时差点笑了出来。他显然适应不了硬领。同样，她那女性的眼睛也注意到了他的衣服，那廉价而缺乏品位的剪裁，外套肩以及袖子上一道道褶皱像在为他那鼓起的二头肌做广告。
While he waved his hand and muttered that he had done nothing at all, he was obeying her behest by trying to get into a chair. He found time to admire the ease with which she sat down, then lurched toward a chair facing her, overwhelmed with consciousness of the awkward figure he was cutting. This was a new experience for him. All his life, up to then, he had been unaware of being either graceful or awkward. Such thoughts of self had never entered his mind. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, greatly worried by his hands. They were in the way wherever he put them. Arthur was leaving the room, and Martin Eden followed his exit with longing eyes. He felt lost, alone there in the room with that pale spirit of a woman. There was no bar—keeper upon whom to call for drinks, no small boy to send around the corner for a can of beer and by means of that social fluid start the amenities of friendship flowing.
他挥手并含糊地表示自己并没做什么时，也打算遵从她的要求找椅子坐下。他抽空欣赏了她坐下时的轻松优雅，便跌跌撞撞地走向她对面的一把椅子，心中完全明白自己的样子是多么笨拙。这对他来说是种新的体验。直到刚才之前，他一辈子也没留意过外表的优雅或是笨拙。这种自我意识从没进过他的脑袋。他小心翼翼地在椅子边缘坐下，同时非常担心他的双手。不管放在哪里，它们都很碍事。阿瑟离开了房间，马丁·伊登不情愿地看着他走掉。与那苍白的、仙女般的女人独处一室使他感到不知所措。这里没有酒吧老板可以叫酒来喝，也没有小孩可以打发去街角买啤酒，因此没法用社交的饮料来开始亲密的友谊。
"You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden, " the girl was saying. "How did it happen? I am sure it must have been some adventure. "
“你脖子上有那样一条伤疤，伊登先生，” 那女孩说道， “那是怎么来的？我确信那一定是次冒险。”
"A Mexican with a knife, miss, " he answered, moistening his parched lips and clearing hip throat. "It was just a fight. After I got the knife away, he tried to bite off my nose. "
“被一个墨西哥人用刀划伤的，小姐，” 他舔了舔干渴的嘴唇，清了清嗓子回答道， “只不过是打架而已。我把他的刀弄掉以后，他还想把我的鼻子给咬掉。”
Baldly as he had stated it, in his eyes was a rich vision of that hot, starry night at Salina Cruz, the white strip of beach, the lights of the sugar steamers in the harbor, the voices of the drunken sailors in the distance, the jostling stevedores, the flaming passion in the Mexican's face, the glint of the beast—eyes in the starlight, the sting of the steel in his neck, and the rush of blood, the crowd and the cries, the two bodies, his and the Mexican's, locked together, rolling over and over and tearing up the sand, and from away off somewhere the mellow tinkling of a guitar. Such was the picture, and he thrilled to the memory of it, wondering if the man could paint it who had painted the pilot—schooner on the wall. The white beach, the stars, and the lights of the sugar steamers would look great, he thought, and midway on the sand the dark group of figures that surrounded the fighters. The knife occupied a place in the picture, he decided, and would show well, with a sort of gleam, in the light of the stars. But of all this no hint had crept into his speech. "He tried to bite off my nose, " he concluded.
尽管说得不好，但他眼前却浮现出了萨利纳克鲁斯那个炎热的星夜里各种的景象。有狭长的白色海滩，港口运糖船的灯光，远处醉酒的水手们的声音，熙熙攘攘的码头苦力，墨西哥人脸上那火热的怒气，星光下那露出凶光的野兽般的眼睛，钢刀在自己脖子上的那种刺痛，那喷涌而出的鲜血，那人群，那叫喊，他和墨西哥人的躯体纠缠翻滚，沙尘飞扬，遥远的某处传来动听的吉他声。这便是那幅画，现在想起来也还是令他激动，他想知道画出墙上领航船那幅画的画家是否能把这个场景也画下来。他想，那白色的沙滩、点点的星光、运糖船的灯火，还有沙滩中间围观打斗者的黑压压的人群，若是画出来一定会很棒。他决定在画里给那把刀留个位置，如果在星光下带点闪光那就更棒了。但这一切他都丝毫没有提及。 “他还想把我的鼻子给咬掉。” 他结束了回答。
"Oh, " the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed the shock in her sensitive face.
“啊。” 那女孩说，声音微弱而遥远，他注意到她敏感的脸上显露出的震惊。
He felt a shock himself, and a blush of embarrassment shone faintly on his sunburned cheeks, though to him it burned as hotly as when his cheeks had been exposed to the open furnace—door in the fire—room. Such sordid things as stabbing affrays were evidently not fit subjects for conversation with a lady. People in the books, in her walk of life, did not talk about such things—perhaps they did not know about them, either.
他自己也感到震惊，被太阳晒黑的脸颊因尴尬而微微有些发红，尽管事实上他已燥热得仿佛暴露在锅炉舱敞开的炉门前。打架动刀子这类低贱的事显然不适合成为与一位女士交谈的话题。书里的人们，她那个阶层的人们，是不会谈论这类事的——或许他们根本不知道这类事。
There was a brief pause in the conversation they were trying to get started. Then she asked tentatively about the scar on his cheek. Even as she asked, he realized that she was making an effort to talk his talk, and he resolved to get away from it and talk hers.
他们努力想要开始的谈话稍稍停顿了一下。然后她试探性地问起他脸上的伤疤。她的问话刚一出口，他便意识到她正努力着谈自己的话题，便决定抛开这个话题转而去谈她的话题。
"It was just an accident, " he said, putting his hand to his cheek. "One night, in a calm, with a heavy sea running, the main—boom—lift carried away, an 'next the tackle. The lift was wire, an' it was threshin 'around like a snake. The whole watch was tryin't o grab it, an' I rushed in an 'got swatted. "
“只是一次意外罢了，” 他边说边用手摸了摸脸颊， “一天晚上，一丝风也没有，却碰上了湍急的海流，主吊杆的吊索断了，接着复滑车也坏了。吊索是钢缆做的，像蛇一样猛烈抽打着。所有值班水手都想抓住它，我冲了上去，然后就挨了一鞭。”
"Oh, " she said, this time with an accent of comprehension, though secretly his speech had been so much Greek to her and she was wondering what a lift was and what swatted meant.
“啊。” 她说。这次带着理解的口气，尽管暗地里觉得他说的话简直无法理解，她不知道什么是 “吊索” ，也不知道 “挨了一鞭” 是何种感受。
"This man Swineburne, " he began, attempting to put his plan into execution and pronouncing the i long.
“这个叫斯外温伯恩的人。” 他说道，打算执行自己的计划，却把 “斯温” 念成了 “斯外恩” 。
"Who? "
“谁？”
"Swineburne, " he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The poet. "
“斯外恩伯恩，” 他重复道，但还是念错了音， “那个诗人。”
"Swinburne, " she corrected.
“是斯温伯恩。” 她纠正道。
"Yes, that's the chap, " he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long since he died? "
“没错，就是那个家伙，” 他结结巴巴地说，脸颊又发热了， “他死了有多久了？”
"Why, I haven't heard that he was dead. " She looked at him curiously. "Where did you make his acquaintance? "
“什么？我没听说他死了呀。” 她莫名其妙地望着他。 “你在哪里认识他的？”
"I never clapped eyes on him, " was the reply. "But I read some of his poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How do you like his poetry? "
“我可没见过他，” 他回答说， “不过在你进来前我倒是从桌上的那本书里读了几首他的诗。你觉得他的诗怎么样？”
And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject he had suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly from the edge of the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands, as if it might get away from him and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in making her talk her talk, and while she rattled on, he strove to follow her, marvelling at all the knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty head of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of her face. Follow her he did, though bothered by unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips and by critical phrases and thought—processes that were foreign to his mind, but that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here was intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and stared at her with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win to, to fight for—ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such women in the world. She was one of them. She lent wings to his imagination, and great, luminous canvases spread themselves before him whereon loomed vague, gigantic figures of love and romance, and of heroic deeds for woman's sake—for a pale woman, a flower of gold. And through the swaying, palpitant vision, as through a fairy mirage, he stared at the real woman, sitting there and talking of literature and art. He listened as well, but he stared, unconscious of the fixity of his gaze or of the fact that all that was essentially masculine in his nature was shining in his eyes. But she, who knew little of the world of men, being a woman, was keenly aware of his burning eyes. She had never had men look at her in such fashion, and it embarrassed her. She stumbled and halted in her utterance. The thread of argument slipped from her. He frightened her, and at the same time it was strangely pleasant to be so looked upon. Her training warned her of peril and of wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while her instincts rang clarion—voiced through her being, impelling her to hurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from another world, to this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a line of raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throat, who, all too evidently, was soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. She was clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she was woman, and she was just beginning to learn the paradox of woman.
于是她便就他提起的话题轻松、快速地谈了起来。他感觉好多了，从椅子边缘稍稍往后靠了靠，并紧紧地握住扶手，生怕它会挣脱，把他摔在地上。他成功地使她谈起了她的话题。她侃侃而谈，他则努力跟上，他惊讶于她那美丽的脑袋竟装了那么多知识，同时也尽情欣赏着她那苍白而美丽的脸庞。他跟上了她的话，尽管她唇边不经意流淌出的陌生词汇、评论术语和他从未知晓的思维过程使他感到有些吃力，但仍刺激了他的头脑，使之兴奋。这便是智力生活，他想，这便是美，连做梦都想不到它竟是如此温暖、美好。他忘却了自我，饥渴的双眼紧盯着她。这便是一个人为之生活、为之奋斗、为之争取的东西——是的，为之献出生命的东西。那些书说的是对的。世上确有这样的女子。她便是其中之一。她为他的想象插上翅膀，巨大而光辉的画布在他眼前展开，画布上隐约可见的模糊而巨大的形象，那是爱情，是浪漫故事，是为女人而做出的英雄事迹——为一个苍白的女人，一朵金色的花朵。那摇晃、悸动的景象犹如仙女创造的海市蜃楼，透过它，他凝视着这个坐在那里谈论文学与艺术的真实的女人。他同样倾听着，但完全没有意识到自己已目不转睛，也不知道自己眼中闪耀的正是他天性中的阳刚之气。她虽对男人的世界所知甚少，但身为一个女人，还是敏锐地察觉到了他火热的眼神。她从未见过男人这般看她，这使她局促不安。她说话变得结巴，没有再说下去。思路离她而去。他把她吓到了，但同时，被这样看着她竟出奇地感到愉快。她的教养警告她有危险，有不应有的、微妙的、神秘的诱惑；但她的本能却发出了嘹亮的呐喊，穿透她的身体，驱使她克服阶级、地位和得失的障碍奔向这个来自另一个世界的旅人，奔向这个手上有伤、喉咙被不习惯的亚麻布磨出红印的粗俗的年轻人，这个年轻人很明显已经受了粗野生活方式的污染。她是纯洁的，她的纯洁令她对这个年轻人感到抵触；但她同时又是女人，她刚开始体会到女人的矛盾。