"Come on, - I'll show you the real dirt," Brissenden said to him, one evening in January.
They had dined together in San Francisco, and were at the Ferry Building, returning to Oakland, when the whim came to him to show Martin the "real dirt." He turned and fled across the water-front, a meagre shadow in a flapping overcoat, with Martin straining to keep up with him. At a wholesale liquor store he bought two gallon-demijohns of old port, and with one in each hand boarded a Mission Street car, Martin at his heels burdened with several quart-bottles of whiskey.
If Ruth could see me now, was his thought, while he wondered as to what constituted the real dirt.
"Maybe nobody will be there," Brissenden said, when they dismounted and plunged off to the right into the heart of the working-class ghetto, south of Market Street. "In which case you'll miss what you've been looking for so long."
"And what the deuce is that?" Martin asked.
"Men, intelligent men, and not the gibbering nonentities I found you consorting with in that trader's den. You read the books and you found yourself all alone. Well, I'm going to show you to-night some other men who've read the books, so that you won't be lonely any more."
"Not that I bother my head about their everlasting discussions," he said at the end of a block. "I'm not interested in book philosophy. But you'll find these fellows intelligences and not bourgeois swine. But watch out, they'll talk an arm off of you on any subject under the sun."
"Hope Norton's there," he panted a little later, resisting Martin's effort to relieve him of the two demijohns. "Norton's an idealist - a Harvard man. Prodigious memory. Idealism led him to philosophic anarchy, and his family threw him off. Father's a railroad president and many times millionnaire, but the son's starving in 'Frisco, editing an anarchist sheet for twenty-five a month."
Martin was little acquainted in San Francisco, and not at all south of Market; so he had no idea of where he was being led.
"Go ahead," he said; "tell me about them beforehand. What do they do for a living? How do they happen to be here?"
"Hope Hamilton's there." Brissenden paused and rested his hands. "Strawn-Hamilton's his name - hyphenated, you know - comes of old Southern stock. He's a tramp - laziest man I ever knew, though he's clerking, or trying to, in a socialist cooperative store for six dollars a week. But he's a confirmed hobo. Tramped into town. I've seen him sit all day on a bench and never a bite pass his lips, and in the evening, when I invited him to dinner - restaurant two blocks away - have him say, 'Too much trouble, old man. Buy me a package of cigarettes instead.' He was a Spencerian like you till Kreis turned him to materialistic monism. I'll start him on monism if I can. Norton's another monist - only he affirms naught but spirit. He can give Kreis and Hamilton all they want, too."
"Who is Kreis?" Martin asked.
"His rooms we're going to. One time professor - fired from university - usual story. A mind like a steel trap. Makes his living any old way. I know he's been a street fakir when he was down. Unscrupulous. Rob a corpse of a shroud - anything. Difference between him - and the bourgeoisie is that he robs without illusion. He'll talk Nietzsche, or Schopenhauer, or Kant, or anything, but the only thing in this world, not excepting Mary, that he really cares for, is his monism. Haeckel is his little tin god. The only way to insult him is to take a slap at Haeckel."
"Here's the hang-out." Brissenden rested his demijohn at the upstairs entrance, preliminary to the climb. It was the usual two- story corner building, with a saloon and grocery underneath. "The gang lives here - got the whole upstairs to themselves. But Kreis is the only one who has two rooms. Come on."
No lights burned in the upper hall, but Brissenden threaded the utter blackness like a familiar ghost. He stopped to speak to Martin.
"There's one fellow - Stevens - a theosophist. Makes a pretty tangle when he gets going. Just now he's dish-washer in a restaurant. Likes a good cigar. I've seen him eat in a ten-cent hash-house and pay fifty cents for the cigar he smoked afterward. I've got a couple in my pocket for him, if he shows up."
"And there's another fellow - Parry - an Australian, a statistician and a sporting encyclopaedia. Ask him the grain output of Paraguay for 1903, or the English importation of sheetings into China for 1890, or at what weight Jimmy Britt fought Battling Nelson, or who was welter-weight champion of the United States in '68, and you'll get the correct answer with the automatic celerity of a slot- machine. And there's Andy, a stone-mason, has ideas on everything, a good chess-player; and another fellow, Harry, a baker, red hot socialist and strong union man. By the way, you remember Cooks' and Waiters' strike - Hamilton was the chap who organized that union and precipitated the strike - planned it all out in advance, right here in Kreis's rooms. Did it just for the fun of it, but was too lazy to stay by the union. Yet he could have risen high if he wanted to. There's no end to the possibilities in that man - if he weren't so insuperably lazy."
Brissenden advanced through the darkness till a thread of light marked the threshold of a door. A knock and an answer opened it, and Martin found himself shaking hands with Kreis, a handsome brunette man, with dazzling white teeth, a drooping black mustache, and large, flashing black eyes. Mary, a matronly young blonde, was washing dishes in the little back room that served for kitchen and dining room. The front room served as bedchamber and living room. Overhead was the week's washing, hanging in festoons so low that Martin did not see at first the two men talking in a corner. They hailed Brissenden and his demijohns with acclamation, and, on being introduced, Martin learned they were Andy and Parry. He joined them and listened attentively to the description of a prize-fight Parry had seen the night before; while Brissenden, in his glory, plunged into the manufacture of a toddy and the serving of wine and whiskey-and-sodas. At his command, "Bring in the clan," Andy departed to go the round of the rooms for the lodgers.
"We're lucky that most of them are here," Brissenden whispered to Martin. "There's Norton and Hamilton; come on and meet them. Stevens isn't around, I hear. I'm going to get them started on monism if I can. Wait till they get a few jolts in them and they'll warm up."
At first the conversation was desultory. Nevertheless Martin could not fail to appreciate the keen play of their minds. They were men with opinions, though the opinions often clashed, and, though they were witty and clever, they were not superficial. He swiftly saw, no matter upon what they talked, that each man applied the correlation of knowledge and had also a deep-seated and unified conception of society and the Cosmos. Nobody manufactured their opinions for them; they were all rebels of one variety or another, and their lips were strangers to platitudes. Never had Martin, at the Morses', heard so amazing a range of topics discussed. There seemed no limit save time to the things they were alive to. The talk wandered from Mrs. Humphry Ward's new book to Shaw's latest play, through the future of the drama to reminiscences of Mansfield. They appreciated or sneered at the morning editorials, jumped from labor conditions in New Zealand to Henry James and Brander Matthews, passed on to the German designs in the Far East and the economic aspect of the Yellow Peril, wrangled over the German elections and Bebel's last speech, and settled down to local politics, the latest plans and scandals in the union labor party administration, and the wires that were pulled to bring about the Coast Seamen's strike. Martin was struck by the inside knowledge they possessed. They knew what was never printed in the newspapers - the wires and strings and the hidden hands that made the puppets dance. To Martin's surprise, the girl, Mary, joined in the conversation, displaying an intelligence he had never encountered in the few women he had met. They talked together on Swinburne and Rossetti, after which she led him beyond his depth into the by- paths of French literature. His revenge came when she defended Maeterlinck and he brought into action the carefully-thought-out thesis of "The Shame of the Sun."
Several other men had dropped in, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke, when Brissenden waved the red flag.
"Here's fresh meat for your axe, Kreis," he said; "a rose-white youth with the ardor of a lover for Herbert Spencer. Make a Haeckelite of him - if you can."
Kreis seemed to wake up and flash like some metallic, magnetic thing, while Norton looked at Martin sympathetically, with a sweet, girlish smile, as much as to say that he would be amply protected.
Kreis began directly on Martin, but step by step Norton interfered, until he and Kreis were off and away in a personal battle. Martin listened and fain would have rubbed his eyes. It was impossible that this should be, much less in the labor ghetto south of Market. The books were alive in these men. They talked with fire and enthusiasm, the intellectual stimulant stirring them as he had seen drink and anger stir other men. What he heard was no longer the philosophy of the dry, printed word, written by half-mythical demigods like Kant and Spencer. It was living philosophy, with warm, red blood, incarnated in these two men till its very features worked with excitement. Now and again other men joined in, and all followed the discussion with cigarettes going out in their hands and with alert, intent faces.
Idealism had never attracted Martin, but the exposition it now received at the hands of Norton was a revelation. The logical plausibility of it, that made an appeal to his intellect, seemed missed by Kreis and Hamilton, who sneered at Norton as a metaphysician, and who, in turn, sneered back at them as metaphysicians. PHENOMENON and NOUMENON were bandied back and forth. They charged him with attempting to explain consciousness by itself. He charged them with word-jugglery, with reasoning from words to theory instead of from facts to theory. At this they were aghast. It was the cardinal tenet of their mode of reasoning to start with facts and to give names to the facts.
When Norton wandered into the intricacies of Kant, Kreis reminded him that all good little German philosophies when they died went to Oxford. A little later Norton reminded them of Hamilton's Law of Parsimony, the application of which they immediately claimed for every reasoning process of theirs. And Martin hugged his knees and exulted in it all. But Norton was no Spencerian, and he, too, strove for Martin's philosophic soul, talking as much at him as to his two opponents.
"You know Berkeley has never been answered," he said, looking directly at Martin. "Herbert Spencer came the nearest, which was not very near. Even the stanchest of Spencer's followers will not go farther. I was reading an essay of Saleeby's the other day, and the best Saleeby could say was that Herbert Spencer NEARLY succeeded in answering Berkeley."
"You know what Hume said?" Hamilton asked. Norton nodded, but Hamilton gave it for the benefit of the rest. "He said that Berkeley's arguments admit of no answer and produce no conviction."
"In his, Hume's, mind," was the reply. "And Hume's mind was the same as yours, with this difference: he was wise enough to admit there was no answering Berkeley."
Norton was sensitive and excitable, though he never lost his head, while Kreis and Hamilton were like a pair of cold-blooded savages, seeking out tender places to prod and poke. As the evening grew late, Norton, smarting under the repeated charges of being a metaphysician, clutching his chair to keep from jumping to his feet, his gray eyes snapping and his girlish face grown harsh and sure, made a grand attack upon their position.
"All right, you Haeckelites, I may reason like a medicine man, but, pray, how do you reason? You have nothing to stand on, you unscientific dogmatists with your positive science which you are always lugging about into places it has no right to be. Long before the school of materialistic monism arose, the ground was removed so that there could be no foundation. Locke was the man, John Locke. Two hundred years ago - more than that, even in his 'Essay concerning the Human Understanding,' he proved the non- existence of innate ideas. The best of it is that that is precisely what you claim. To-night, again and again, you have asserted the non-existence of innate ideas.
"And what does that mean? It means that you can never know ultimate reality. Your brains are empty when you are born. Appearances, or phenomena, are all the content your minds can receive from your five senses. Then noumena, which are not in your minds when you are born, have no way of getting in - "
"I deny - " Kreis started to interrupt.
"You wait till I'm done," Norton shouted. "You can know only that much of the play and interplay of force and matter as impinges in one way or another on our senses. You see, I am willing to admit, for the sake of the argument, that matter exists; and what I am about to do is to efface you by your own argument. I can't do it any other way, for you are both congenitally unable to understand a philosophic abstraction."
"And now, what do you know of matter, according to your own positive science? You know it only by its phenomena, its appearances. You are aware only of its changes, or of such changes in it as cause changes in your consciousness. Positive science deals only with phenomena, yet you are foolish enough to strive to be ontologists and to deal with noumena. Yet, by the very definition of positive science, science is concerned only with appearances. As somebody has said, phenomenal knowledge cannot transcend phenomena."
"You cannot answer Berkeley, even if you have annihilated Kant, and yet, perforce, you assume that Berkeley is wrong when you affirm that science proves the non-existence of God, or, as much to the point, the existence of matter. - You know I granted the reality of matter only in order to make myself intelligible to your understanding. Be positive scientists, if you please; but ontology has no place in positive science, so leave it alone. Spencer is right in his agnosticism, but if Spencer - "
But it was time to catch the last ferry-boat for Oakland, and Brissenden and Martin slipped out, leaving Norton still talking and Kreis and Hamilton waiting to pounce on him like a pair of hounds as soon as he finished.
"You have given me a glimpse of fairyland," Martin said on the ferry-boat. "It makes life worth while to meet people like that. My mind is all worked up. I never appreciated idealism before. Yet I can't accept it. I know that I shall always be a realist. I am so made, I guess. But I'd like to have made a reply to Kreis and Hamilton, and I think I'd have had a word or two for Norton. I didn't see that Spencer was damaged any. I'm as excited as a child on its first visit to the circus. I see I must read up some more. I'm going to get hold of Saleeby. I still think Spencer is unassailable, and next time I'm going to take a hand myself."
But Brissenden, breathing painfully, had dropped off to sleep, his chin buried in a scarf and resting on his sunken chest, his body wrapped in the long overcoat and shaking to the vibration of the propellers.
“来，来，我让你见识见识真正的草芥之民。”一月份的某一个晚上布里森登对他说。
两人刚在旧金山吃完晚饭，要回奥克兰，来到了轮渡大厦。这时布世森登心血来潮，要叫他看看“草芥之民”。他转过身来，他那外衣飘闪的瘦削的身影飘过了海岸，马丁努力跟着。布卫森登在一家批发饮料站买了两大瓶陈年葡萄酒，大胜瓶装的，一手拎一瓶上了教会街的电车。马丁拿了几瓶夸脱装的威士忌紧跟在后。
他心里想，这要是叫露丝看见可不得了，同时猜测那“真正的草芥之民”是怎么回事。“也许那儿一个人也没有，”两人下了车，便直奔市场街南面工人阶级贫民窟的中心，这时布里森登说，“那你就会错过你长期想找的人了。”
“究竟是什么呀？”
“人，聪明的人，而不是我发现你在那个生意人窝周交往的卿卿喳喳的无聊的人。你已经读了些书，发现自己完全孤独了。今天晚上我要叫你见识见识一些也读过书的人，那你就再也不会孤独了。
“我对他们的讨论没有兴趣，”他来到一个街区的尽头时说，“书本上的哲学打动不了我，但你会发现这些人是聪明人，不是资产阶级的猪猡。可你得小动，他们会就太阳之下的任何题目对你唠叨个没完的。
“我希望诺尔屯在那甲，”说到这儿他有一点气喘，却拒绝了马丁把他那两个大肚子酒瓶接过手去的好意。“诺尔屯是个理想主义者——哈佛大学的，有惊人的记忆力。理想主义把他引向了哲学上的无政府主义，被家庭赶了出来。他爸爸是一条铁路的总裁，有好几百万家产，可儿子却在旧金山挨饿，编着一份无政府主义报纸，每月二十五块。”
马丁对旧金山不熟，对市场街以南更是一无所知。因此他不知道自己已被领到了什么地方。
“讲吧，”他说，“先给我介绍介绍。他们靠什么过日子？怎么会到这儿来的？”
“但愿汉密尔顿也在这几，”市里森登站了一会儿，歇了歇手。“他的姓是斯特罗恩一汉密尔顿（中间是个连字符），出身南方世家。一个流浪汉——我所见过的最懒的人，虽然他在一家社会主义的合作社里做职员（或者说勉强凑合作着做），每周六块钱，可他是个积习难改的占普赛人，是流浪到这儿来的。我曾见他在一张长凳上坐过一整天，一点东西都没进嘴，到了晚上我请他吃饭——只须走两段街就到了馆子，他却回答说：‘太麻烦，老兄，给我买盒烟就行了！’他原来跟你一样，是斯宾塞主义者，后来被克瑞斯转变成了个唯物主义的一元论者。我如果能够，倒想跟他谈谈一元论；诺尔屯也是个一元论者——不过他只肯定精神，对其他的一切都怀疑。而他却可以提供克瑞斯和汉密尔顿所缺少的一切。”
“克瑞斯是谁呀、马丁问道。
“我们就是到他的屋里去呢，当过大学教授——被开除了——老一套的故事。那张嘴像刀子，用一切古老的形式混着饭吃。我知道他倒霉的时候在街上摆过摊，什么都满不在乎地干，连死人的尸衣也偷——什么都偷。他跟资产阶级不同，偷时并不制造假象。他谈尼采，谈叔本华，谈康德，什么都谈。但在世界上他真正关心的只有他的一元论，别的他都不放在心上，包括圣母玛利亚在内。海克尔是他崇拜的一个小偶像，你要侮辱他有一个办法法，打海克尔一耳光就行。
“咱们的老窝到了，”布里森登把他的大肚子酒瓶在阶梯口放了一会儿，做好上楼准备。那是常见的一楼一底的街角房，楼下是一间沙龙和一间杂货店。“这帮家伙就住这儿——楼上整个凡是他们的天下。只有克瑞斯一人住两间。来吧。”
楼上大厅里没有灯光，但布里森登却在沉沉的黑暗里穿来穿去，像个熟悉环境的幽灵。他停下脚步对马丁说：
“这儿有一个人叫史梯劳斯，是个通神论者，话匣子一打开可热闹呢。他现在在一家饭馆院盘子。喜欢抽高级雪茄烟。我见过他在一家‘一角餐厅’吃饭，然后花五角钱买雪茄抽。他要是来了，我兜里还为他准备了几支雪茄。
“还有一个家伙叫巴瑞，澳洲人‘统计学家，是一部挺有趣的百科全书。你问他一九０三年巴拉圭的粮食产量是多少，一八九０年英国向中国输出的床单是多少，吉米·布里特对杀手纳尔逊拳击战是哪个量级，一八六八年全美次重最级冠军是谁，都可以得到迅速准确的答案，像从自动售货机里出来的一样。还有安迪，是个五匠，对什么都有自己的看法，棋艺极棒。还有个家伙叫哈里，面包师傅，激烈的社会主义者和坚定的工联主义者。附带说一句，你记得厨工待者大罢工么？就是他组织了工会搞的——事先对一切都作了安排，地点就在这儿：克瑞斯家里。他搞罢工只是为了好玩，可是太懒，不愿留在工会里。他只要愿意是可以爬上去的。那家伙要不是懒得出奇，他的能量可以说是无穷无尽。”
布里森登在黑暗里穿行，直到一缕微光指明了门槛的所在。他敲了敲门，有人回答，门开了。马丁发现自己已在跟克瑞斯握着手。克瑞斯是个漂亮的人，浅黑色皮肤，黑色八字胡，牙齿白得耀眼，眼睛黑而且大，目光炯炯。玛丽是个金头发白皮肤的年轻妇女，主妇模样，正在后面一间小屋里洗碟子。那小屋是厨房，兼作饭厅；前屋是客厅，兼作寝室。一周来的衣服洗过了，像万国旗一样低低地晾在屋里，马丁刚进来时竟没看见有两个人在一个角落里谈话。两人用欢呼迎接了布里森登和他的大肚子酒瓶。经过介绍马丁知道他们是安迪和巴瑞。马丁来到一两人身边，仔细听巴瑞描述他头天晚上看过的拳击赛，这时布巴森登便用葡萄酒和威士忌苏打得意杨扬地调制好甜威士忌，端了上来。他一声令下“把那伙人请来”，那两人便到各个房间去叫人。
“我们运气不错，大部分人都在，”布里森登悄悄对马丁说，“诺尔屯和汉密尔顿在，来，跟他们见面吧。听说斯梯芬斯不在。如果能办到我就设法让他们谈一元论。先等他们喝两杯酒‘热热身’再说。”
谈话开始时有点凌乱，但马丁仍可以欣赏到他们那敏锐的心灵活动。全都是有思想的人，尽管常常互相碰撞；每个人都聪明风趣，但决不浅薄。很快他就发现他们无论谈什么问题都能综合地运用知识，对社会和宇宙具有深沉而系统的理解。他们都是某种类型的叛逆者，他们的思想不是任何人预先炮制好的，嘴里没有陈词滥调，讨论的问题多得惊人，那是马丁在莫尔斯家从没见过的。他们感到兴趣的问题若不是受到时间限制似乎可以无穷无尽。他们从亨福雷·华尔德夫人的新书谈到萧伯纳的最新剧本；从戏剧的前途谈到对曼殊菲尔的回忆。他们对早报的社论表示欣赏或是鄙弃；他们从新西兰的劳工条件猛然转入亨利·詹姆斯和布兰德·马修斯，又转入德国的远东阴谋和黄祸的经济侧面；他们争论德国的选举和倍倍尔的最新讲话；然后又落到当他的政治，联合劳工党政权的最新计划和丑闻；还有那导致了海岸海员罢工的幕后牵线情况。他们所掌握的内幕新闻之多个马丁震惊。他们知道报纸上从没有发表的东西——那操纵着木偶们跳舞的一条条线和一只只手。还有一件事也令马丁吃惊：玛丽也参加了谈话，并表现了在他所接触过的少数妇女身上从未见到过的智慧。她和他一起讨论史文朋和罗塞蒂，然后便把他引进了马丁感到陌生的法国文学的小胡同已去。等到她为梅特林克辩护时，马丁便把他在《太阳的耻辱押深思熟虑的理论使用出来，算是有了回敬她的机会。
另外的人也参加了讨论，空气里是浓烈的香烟味，这时布里森登挥动了辩论的红旗。
“克瑞斯，你那板斧有了新对象了，”他说，“一个纯洁得像白玫瑰的青年，对斯宾塞怀着恋人一样的热情。让他改信海克尔吧——你要是有本领的话！”
克瑞斯似乎醒了过来，像某种带磁性的金属一样闪出了光＃。此时诺尔屯同情地望着马丁，发出一个姑娘般的甜笑，似乎在告诉他他可以得到强有力的保护。
克瑞斯直接向马丁开了火。可是诺尔中逐步进行了干预，辩论便转而在他们俩之间进行了。马丁听着听着几乎不相信自己的眼睛了：这简直是不可能的，尤其是在市场街以南的劳工贫民窟里。这些人书读得很灵活，谈话时怀着烈火和激情。他们为智慧的力量驱使时有如马丁见到别人受到酒精和愤怒驱使时一样激动。他所听见的东西不再是出自康德或斯宾塞这种神秘的仙灵笔下，不再是书本上的枯燥的哲学文字，而是奔流着鲜红的热血的活生生的哲学。那哲学体现在他们俩身上，直到它热情澎湃地显露出了本来面目。别的人也偶然插几句嘴。所有的人都紧跟着讨论的进程，手上的香烟渐渐熄灭，脸上露出敏锐的专注的神色。
唯心主义从来没有吸引过马丁，但经过诺尔屯一解释却给了他启示。唯心论的值得赞扬的逻辑启发了他的智力，但克瑞斯和汉密尔顿对之却似乎充耳不闻。他们嘲笑诺尔屯是个玄学鬼。诺尔屯也嗤之以鼻，回敬他们以玄学鬼的称号。他们用现象和本体两个字互相攻击。克瑞斯和汉密尔顿攻击诺尔屯企图以意识解释意识；诺尔屯则攻击他们俩玩弄词语，思考时从词语到理论，而不是从实际到理论。诺尔屯的话把他们俩惊呆了——他们的推理模式的根本信条一向是从事实出发，绘事实加上些名词术语。
诺尔屯钻进了康德的复杂世界，这时克瑞斯便提醒他说德国所有的小哲学学派死亡之后都跑到牛津去落户。不久诺尔屯又反提醒他们汉密尔顿的悭吝律。他们随即宣称他们的每一个推理过程都是应用着这一规律的。马丁抱着膝头听着，感到兴高采烈。但是诺尔屯并不是个斯宾塞主义者，他也在努力理解马丁哲学的精髓，一面对他的对手说话一面也对马丁说话。
“你知道贝克莱提出的问题谁也没有回答出来，”他直面着马丁，说，“赫伯特·斯宾塞的回答最接近于解决，但距离仍不算近。即使斯宾塞的最坚强的信徒也难于再前进了。那天我读了撤里比的一篇论文，撒里比所能说出的最好的话不过是：赫伯特·斯宾塞几乎回答了贝克莱的问题。”
“你知道休谟的话么？”汉密尔顿问道。诺尔屯点点头，但是汉密尔顿为了让大家明白，把它交代了出来。“他说贝克莱的那些论点虽无可辩驳，却不具说服力。”
“那是休谟的思想，”回答是，“而休谟的思想正和你的思想相同——只有一点不同：他很聪明，承认了贝克莱的问题无法回答。”
诺尔屯虽然从来不会糊涂，却敏感而易于冲动利而克瑞斯和汉密尔顿却像一对冷血的野蛮人，专找他的弱点戳他，顶他。夜色渐深，诺尔屯受到了反复的攻击，他们说他是个官学鬼，把他刺痛了，诺尔克怕自己会跳起来，忙攥住了椅子；他灰色的眼睛闪亮着，姑娘一样的面孔变得严厉而坚毅了。他对他们的立场发表了一通精彩的攻忐。
“好吧，你们这些海克尔主义者，就算我的思维像个定方郎中，可请问，你们是怎么推理的？你们这些不科学的教条主义者，你们没何立．足之地，老把你们的实证科学往它并无权利进去的地方乱搡。在唯物的一元论学派出现以前很久你们那根据早就被挖掉了，早没了基础。挖掉它的是洛克，约翰·洛克两百年以前．甚至更早以前，在他的论文《论人的理解》里他已经证明了没有与生俱来的意念。最精彩的是：你们的说法也正如此，今晚你们所一再肯定的正是没有与生俱来的意念。”
“你那话是什么意思？那正说明了你无法知道终极的现实，你出生时头脑里空空如上。表象，或者说现象，就是你的心灵从五种感官所能获得的全部内容。因此本体，你出生时所没有的东西，是没有法子进入——”
“我否认——”克瑞斯开始插嘴。
“你等我说完，”诺尔屯叫道，“对于力与物质的作用和两者的相互作用你所能知道的就那么一点点，因为它们以某种形式触动了你们的感官。你看，为了辩论，我倒是乐意承认物质是存在的。因为我打算以子之矛攻子之盾，只好先承认它，因为你们俩天生就无法理解哲学的抽象。
“那么，根据你们的实证科学，你们对物质又知道什么呢？你们只能通过它的现象，它的表象，知道它，你们只知道它的变化，或者说通过它的变化所引起的你们的意识的变化去知道它。实证科学只能处理现象，而你们却很策，偏要努力去做本体论者，去研究本体。然而就从实证科学的定义出发也很清楚，科学是只关心现象的。有人说过，从现象得来的知识是无法超越现象的。
“即使你们打倒了康德，你们也回答不了贝克莱的问题。但是，也许你们在确认科学证明了上帝并不存在，或者差不多证明了物质的存在时就已假定贝克莱错了。你们知道我承认物质的现实性只是为了能让你们懂得我的意思。你们要是高兴，就做实证科学家吧，但是本体论在实证科学里并没有地位，因此别去谈什么实证科学。斯宾塞的怀疑主义是对的。但是如果斯宾塞——”
不过，已经到了去赶最后一班轮渡回奥克兰的时候了。布里森登和马丁溜了出来，留下诺尔屯还在那里侃侃而谈，而克瑞斯和汉密尔顿则像两条措拘一样，等他一住目就扑上去。
“你让我瞥见了神仙的世界，”马丁在轮渡上说，“跟那样的人见面使生活变得有了价值。我的头脑全调动起来了。以前我从没有欣赏过唯心主义，尽管我仍然接受不了。我知道我永远是个现实主义者。我估计那是天生的。可我倒很想回答克瑞斯和汉密尔顿几句，也对诺尔屯发表点意见。我并不认为斯宾塞已被打倒。我很激动，像小孩第一次见到马戏团一样激动。我看我还得多读点书。我要找撒里比来读读。我仍然认为斯宾塞无懈可击。下一回我就要自己上阵了。”
但是布里森登已经睡着了。他痛苦地呼吸着，下巴顶住他那凹陷的胸口，埋在围巾里，身子裹在长大衣里随着推进器的震动而摇晃着。
