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diff --git a/1056-0.txt b/1056-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c4acaf --- /dev/null +++ b/1056-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14686 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1056 *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +Martin Eden + +by Jack London + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHAPTER XXVII. + CHAPTER XXVIII. + CHAPTER XXIX. + CHAPTER XXX. + CHAPTER XXXI. + CHAPTER XXXII. + CHAPTER XXXIII. + CHAPTER XXXIV. + CHAPTER XXXV. + CHAPTER XXXVI. + CHAPTER XXXVII. + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + CHAPTER XXXIX. + CHAPTER XL. + CHAPTER XLI. + CHAPTER XLII. + CHAPTER XLIII. + CHAPTER XLIV. + CHAPTER XLV. + CHAPTER XLVI. + + +“Let me live out my years in heat of blood! + Let me lie drunken with the dreamer’s wine! +Let me not see this soul-house built of mud + Go toppling to the dust a vacant shrine!” + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +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.” + +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. + +“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’ to see me neither.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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:- + +“Ruth, this is Mr. Eden.” + +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. + +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. + +“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Eden?” the girl was saying. “I have been +looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us. It was brave +of you—” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“A Mexican with a knife, miss,” he answered, moistening his parched +lips and clearing his throat. “It was just a fight. After I got the +knife away, he tried to bite off my nose.” + +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. + +“Oh,” the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed the shock in +her sensitive face. + +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. + +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. + +“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’ to grab it, an’ I +rushed in an’ got swatted.” + +“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. + +“This man Swineburne,” he began, attempting to put his plan into +execution and pronouncing the _i_ long. + +“Who?” + +“Swineburne,” he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. “The poet.” + +“Swinburne,” she corrected. + +“Yes, that’s the chap,” he stammered, his cheeks hot again. “How long +since he died?” + +“Why, I haven’t heard that he was dead.” She looked at him curiously. +“Where did you make his acquaintance?” + +“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?” + +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. + +“As I was saying—what was I saying?” She broke off abruptly and laughed +merrily at her predicament. + +“You was saying that this man Swinburne failed bein’ a great poet +because—an’ that was as far as you got, miss,” he prompted, while to +himself he seemed suddenly hungry, and delicious little thrills crawled +up and down his spine at the sound of her laughter. Like silver, he +thought to himself, like tinkling silver bells; and on the instant, and +for an instant, he was transported to a far land, where under pink +cherry blossoms, he smoked a cigarette and listened to the bells of the +peaked pagoda calling straw-sandalled devotees to worship. + +“Yes, thank you,” she said. “Swinburne fails, when all is said, because +he is, well, indelicate. There are many of his poems that should never +be read. Every line of the really great poets is filled with beautiful +truth, and calls to all that is high and noble in the human. Not a line +of the great poets can be spared without impoverishing the world by +that much.” + +“I thought it was great,” he said hesitatingly, “the little I read. I +had no idea he was such a—a scoundrel. I guess that crops out in his +other books.” + +“There are many lines that could be spared from the book you were +reading,” she said, her voice primly firm and dogmatic. + +“I must ’a’ missed ’em,” he announced. “What I read was the real goods. +It was all lighted up an’ shining, an’ it shun right into me an’ +lighted me up inside, like the sun or a searchlight. That’s the way it +landed on me, but I guess I ain’t up much on poetry, miss.” + +He broke off lamely. He was confused, painfully conscious of his +inarticulateness. He had felt the bigness and glow of life in what he +had read, but his speech was inadequate. He could not express what he +felt, and to himself he likened himself to a sailor, in a strange ship, +on a dark night, groping about in the unfamiliar running rigging. Well, +he decided, it was up to him to get acquainted in this new world. He +had never seen anything that he couldn’t get the hang of when he wanted +to and it was about time for him to want to learn to talk the things +that were inside of him so that she could understand. _She_ was bulking +large on his horizon. + +“Now Longfellow—” she was saying. + +“Yes, I’ve read ’m,” he broke in impulsively, spurred on to exhibit and +make the most of his little store of book knowledge, desirous of +showing her that he was not wholly a stupid clod. “‘The Psalm of Life,’ +‘Excelsior,’ an’ . . . I guess that’s all.” + +She nodded her head and smiled, and he felt, somehow, that her smile +was tolerant, pitifully tolerant. He was a fool to attempt to make a +pretence that way. That Longfellow chap most likely had written +countless books of poetry. + +“Excuse me, miss, for buttin’ in that way. I guess the real facts is +that I don’t know nothin’ much about such things. It ain’t in my class. +But I’m goin’ to make it in my class.” + +It sounded like a threat. His voice was determined, his eyes were +flashing, the lines of his face had grown harsh. And to her it seemed +that the angle of his jaw had changed; its pitch had become +unpleasantly aggressive. At the same time a wave of intense virility +seemed to surge out from him and impinge upon her. + +“I think you could make it in—in your class,” she finished with a +laugh. “You are very strong.” + +Her gaze rested for a moment on the muscular neck, heavy corded, almost +bull-like, bronzed by the sun, spilling over with rugged health and +strength. And though he sat there, blushing and humble, again she felt +drawn to him. She was surprised by a wanton thought that rushed into +her mind. It seemed to her that if she could lay her two hands upon +that neck that all its strength and vigor would flow out to her. She +was shocked by this thought. It seemed to reveal to her an undreamed +depravity in her nature. Besides, strength to her was a gross and +brutish thing. Her ideal of masculine beauty had always been slender +gracefulness. Yet the thought still persisted. It bewildered her that +she should desire to place her hands on that sunburned neck. In truth, +she was far from robust, and the need of her body and mind was for +strength. But she did not know it. She knew only that no man had ever +affected her before as this one had, who shocked her from moment to +moment with his awful grammar. + +“Yes, I ain’t no invalid,” he said. “When it comes down to hard-pan, I +can digest scrap-iron. But just now I’ve got dyspepsia. Most of what +you was sayin’ I can’t digest. Never trained that way, you see. I like +books and poetry, and what time I’ve had I’ve read ’em, but I’ve never +thought about ’em the way you have. That’s why I can’t talk about ’em. +I’m like a navigator adrift on a strange sea without chart or compass. +Now I want to get my bearin’s. Mebbe you can put me right. How did you +learn all this you’ve ben talkin’?” + +“By going to school, I fancy, and by studying,” she answered. + +“I went to school when I was a kid,” he began to object. + +“Yes; but I mean high school, and lectures, and the university.” + +“You’ve gone to the university?” he demanded in frank amazement. He +felt that she had become remoter from him by at least a million miles. + +“I’m going there now. I’m taking special courses in English.” + +He did not know what “English” meant, but he made a mental note of that +item of ignorance and passed on. + +“How long would I have to study before I could go to the university?” +he asked. + +She beamed encouragement upon his desire for knowledge, and said: “That +depends upon how much studying you have already done. You have never +attended high school? Of course not. But did you finish grammar +school?” + +“I had two years to run, when I left,” he answered. “But I was always +honorably promoted at school.” + +The next moment, angry with himself for the boast, he had gripped the +arms of the chair so savagely that every finger-end was stinging. At +the same moment he became aware that a woman was entering the room. He +saw the girl leave her chair and trip swiftly across the floor to the +newcomer. They kissed each other, and, with arms around each other’s +waists, they advanced toward him. That must be her mother, he thought. +She was a tall, blond woman, slender, and stately, and beautiful. Her +gown was what he might expect in such a house. His eyes delighted in +the graceful lines of it. She and her dress together reminded him of +women on the stage. Then he remembered seeing similar grand ladies and +gowns entering the London theatres while he stood and watched and the +policemen shoved him back into the drizzle beyond the awning. Next his +mind leaped to the Grand Hotel at Yokohama, where, too, from the +sidewalk, he had seen grand ladies. Then the city and the harbor of +Yokohama, in a thousand pictures, began flashing before his eyes. But +he swiftly dismissed the kaleidoscope of memory, oppressed by the +urgent need of the present. He knew that he must stand up to be +introduced, and he struggled painfully to his feet, where he stood with +trousers bagging at the knees, his arms loose-hanging and ludicrous, +his face set hard for the impending ordeal. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +The process of getting into the dining room was a nightmare to him. +Between halts and stumbles, jerks and lurches, locomotion had at times +seemed impossible. But at last he had made it, and was seated alongside +of Her. The array of knives and forks frightened him. They bristled +with unknown perils, and he gazed at them, fascinated, till their +dazzle became a background across which moved a succession of +forecastle pictures, wherein he and his mates sat eating salt beef with +sheath-knives and fingers, or scooping thick pea-soup out of pannikins +by means of battered iron spoons. The stench of bad beef was in his +nostrils, while in his ears, to the accompaniment of creaking timbers +and groaning bulkheads, echoed the loud mouth-noises of the eaters. He +watched them eating, and decided that they ate like pigs. Well, he +would be careful here. He would make no noise. He would keep his mind +upon it all the time. + +He glanced around the table. Opposite him was Arthur, and Arthur’s +brother, Norman. They were her brothers, he reminded himself, and his +heart warmed toward them. How they loved each other, the members of +this family! There flashed into his mind the picture of her mother, of +the kiss of greeting, and of the pair of them walking toward him with +arms entwined. Not in his world were such displays of affection between +parents and children made. It was a revelation of the heights of +existence that were attained in the world above. It was the finest +thing yet that he had seen in this small glimpse of that world. He was +moved deeply by appreciation of it, and his heart was melting with +sympathetic tenderness. He had starved for love all his life. His +nature craved love. It was an organic demand of his being. Yet he had +gone without, and hardened himself in the process. He had not known +that he needed love. Nor did he know it now. He merely saw it in +operation, and thrilled to it, and thought it fine, and high, and +splendid. + +He was glad that Mr. Morse was not there. It was difficult enough +getting acquainted with her, and her mother, and her brother, Norman. +Arthur he already knew somewhat. The father would have been too much +for him, he felt sure. It seemed to him that he had never worked so +hard in his life. The severest toil was child’s play compared with +this. Tiny nodules of moisture stood out on his forehead, and his shirt +was wet with sweat from the exertion of doing so many unaccustomed +things at once. He had to eat as he had never eaten before, to handle +strange tools, to glance surreptitiously about and learn how to +accomplish each new thing, to receive the flood of impressions that was +pouring in upon him and being mentally annotated and classified; to be +conscious of a yearning for her that perturbed him in the form of a +dull, aching restlessness; to feel the prod of desire to win to the +walk in life whereon she trod, and to have his mind ever and again +straying off in speculation and vague plans of how to reach to her. +Also, when his secret glance went across to Norman opposite him, or to +any one else, to ascertain just what knife or fork was to be used in +any particular occasion, that person’s features were seized upon by his +mind, which automatically strove to appraise them and to divine what +they were—all in relation to her. Then he had to talk, to hear what was +said to him and what was said back and forth, and to answer, when it +was necessary, with a tongue prone to looseness of speech that required +a constant curb. And to add confusion to confusion, there was the +servant, an unceasing menace, that appeared noiselessly at his +shoulder, a dire Sphinx that propounded puzzles and conundrums +demanding instantaneous solution. He was oppressed throughout the meal +by the thought of finger-bowls. Irrelevantly, insistently, scores of +times, he wondered when they would come on and what they looked like. +He had heard of such things, and now, sooner or later, somewhere in the +next few minutes, he would see them, sit at table with exalted beings +who used them—ay, and he would use them himself. And most important of +all, far down and yet always at the surface of his thought, was the +problem of how he should comport himself toward these persons. What +should his attitude be? He wrestled continually and anxiously with the +problem. There were cowardly suggestions that he should make believe, +assume a part; and there were still more cowardly suggestions that +warned him he would fail in such course, that his nature was not fitted +to live up to it, and that he would make a fool of himself. + +It was during the first part of the dinner, struggling to decide upon +his attitude, that he was very quiet. He did not know that his +quietness was giving the lie to Arthur’s words of the day before, when +that brother of hers had announced that he was going to bring a wild +man home to dinner and for them not to be alarmed, because they would +find him an interesting wild man. Martin Eden could not have found it +in him, just then, to believe that her brother could be guilty of such +treachery—especially when he had been the means of getting this +particular brother out of an unpleasant row. So he sat at table, +perturbed by his own unfitness and at the same time charmed by all that +went on about him. For the first time he realized that eating was +something more than a utilitarian function. He was unaware of what he +ate. It was merely food. He was feasting his love of beauty at this +table where eating was an aesthetic function. It was an intellectual +function, too. His mind was stirred. He heard words spoken that were +meaningless to him, and other words that he had seen only in books and +that no man or woman he had known was of large enough mental caliber to +pronounce. When he heard such words dropping carelessly from the lips +of the members of this marvellous family, her family, he thrilled with +delight. The romance, and beauty, and high vigor of the books were +coming true. He was in that rare and blissful state wherein a man sees +his dreams stalk out from the crannies of fantasy and become fact. + +Never had he been at such an altitude of living, and he kept himself in +the background, listening, observing, and pleasuring, replying in +reticent monosyllables, saying, “Yes, miss,” and “No, miss,” to her, +and “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, ma’am,” to her mother. He curbed the +impulse, arising out of his sea-training, to say “Yes, sir,” and “No, +sir,” to her brothers. He felt that it would be inappropriate and a +confession of inferiority on his part—which would never do if he was to +win to her. Also, it was a dictate of his pride. “By God!” he cried to +himself, once; “I’m just as good as them, and if they do know lots that +I don’t, I could learn ’m a few myself, all the same!” And the next +moment, when she or her mother addressed him as “Mr. Eden,” his +aggressive pride was forgotten, and he was glowing and warm with +delight. He was a civilized man, that was what he was, shoulder to +shoulder, at dinner, with people he had read about in books. He was in +the books himself, adventuring through the printed pages of bound +volumes. + +But while he belied Arthur’s description, and appeared a gentle lamb +rather than a wild man, he was racking his brains for a course of +action. He was no gentle lamb, and the part of second fiddle would +never do for the high-pitched dominance of his nature. He talked only +when he had to, and then his speech was like his walk to the table, +filled with jerks and halts as he groped in his polyglot vocabulary for +words, debating over words he knew were fit but which he feared he +could not pronounce, rejecting other words he knew would not be +understood or would be raw and harsh. But all the time he was oppressed +by the consciousness that this carefulness of diction was making a +booby of him, preventing him from expressing what he had in him. Also, +his love of freedom chafed against the restriction in much the same way +his neck chafed against the starched fetter of a collar. Besides, he +was confident that he could not keep it up. He was by nature powerful +of thought and sensibility, and the creative spirit was restive and +urgent. He was swiftly mastered by the concept or sensation in him that +struggled in birth-throes to receive expression and form, and then he +forgot himself and where he was, and the old words—the tools of speech +he knew—slipped out. + +Once, he declined something from the servant who interrupted and +pestered at his shoulder, and he said, shortly and emphatically, “Pow!” + +On the instant those at the table were keyed up and expectant, the +servant was smugly pleased, and he was wallowing in mortification. But +he recovered himself quickly. + +“It’s the Kanaka for ‘finish,’” he explained, “and it just come out +naturally. It’s spelt p-a-u.” + +He caught her curious and speculative eyes fixed on his hands, and, +being in explanatory mood, he said:- + +“I just come down the Coast on one of the Pacific mail steamers. She +was behind time, an’ around the Puget Sound ports we worked like +niggers, storing cargo—mixed freight, if you know what that means. +That’s how the skin got knocked off.” + +“Oh, it wasn’t that,” she hastened to explain, in turn. “Your hands +seemed too small for your body.” + +His cheeks were hot. He took it as an exposure of another of his +deficiencies. + +“Yes,” he said depreciatingly. “They ain’t big enough to stand the +strain. I can hit like a mule with my arms and shoulders. They are too +strong, an’ when I smash a man on the jaw the hands get smashed, too.” + +He was not happy at what he had said. He was filled with disgust at +himself. He had loosed the guard upon his tongue and talked about +things that were not nice. + +“It was brave of you to help Arthur the way you did—and you a +stranger,” she said tactfully, aware of his discomfiture though not of +the reason for it. + +He, in turn, realized what she had done, and in the consequent warm +surge of gratefulness that overwhelmed him forgot his loose-worded +tongue. + +“It wasn’t nothin’ at all,” he said. “Any guy ’ud do it for another. +That bunch of hoodlums was lookin’ for trouble, an’ Arthur wasn’t +botherin’ ’em none. They butted in on ’m, an’ then I butted in on them +an’ poked a few. That’s where some of the skin off my hands went, along +with some of the teeth of the gang. I wouldn’t ’a’ missed it for +anything. When I seen—” + +He paused, open-mouthed, on the verge of the pit of his own depravity +and utter worthlessness to breathe the same air she did. And while +Arthur took up the tale, for the twentieth time, of his adventure with +the drunken hoodlums on the ferry-boat and of how Martin Eden had +rushed in and rescued him, that individual, with frowning brows, +meditated upon the fool he had made of himself, and wrestled more +determinedly with the problem of how he should conduct himself toward +these people. He certainly had not succeeded so far. He wasn’t of their +tribe, and he couldn’t talk their lingo, was the way he put it to +himself. He couldn’t fake being their kind. The masquerade would fail, +and besides, masquerade was foreign to his nature. There was no room in +him for sham or artifice. Whatever happened, he must be real. He +couldn’t talk their talk just yet, though in time he would. Upon that +he was resolved. But in the meantime, talk he must, and it must be his +own talk, toned down, of course, so as to be comprehensible to them and +so as not to shock them too much. And furthermore, he wouldn’t claim, +not even by tacit acceptance, to be familiar with anything that was +unfamiliar. In pursuance of this decision, when the two brothers, +talking university shop, had used “trig” several times, Martin Eden +demanded:- + +“What is _trig_?” + +“Trignometry,” Norman said; “a higher form of math.” + +“And what is math?” was the next question, which, somehow, brought the +laugh on Norman. + +“Mathematics, arithmetic,” was the answer. + +Martin Eden nodded. He had caught a glimpse of the apparently +illimitable vistas of knowledge. What he saw took on tangibility. His +abnormal power of vision made abstractions take on concrete form. In +the alchemy of his brain, trigonometry and mathematics and the whole +field of knowledge which they betokened were transmuted into so much +landscape. The vistas he saw were vistas of green foliage and forest +glades, all softly luminous or shot through with flashing lights. In +the distance, detail was veiled and blurred by a purple haze, but +behind this purple haze, he knew, was the glamour of the unknown, the +lure of romance. It was like wine to him. Here was adventure, something +to do with head and hand, a world to conquer—and straightway from the +back of his consciousness rushed the thought, _conquering, to win to +her, that lily-pale spirit sitting beside him_. + +The glimmering vision was rent asunder and dissipated by Arthur, who, +all evening, had been trying to draw his wild man out. Martin Eden +remembered his decision. For the first time he became himself, +consciously and deliberately at first, but soon lost in the joy of +creating in making life as he knew it appear before his listeners’ +eyes. He had been a member of the crew of the smuggling schooner +_Halcyon_ when she was captured by a revenue cutter. He saw with wide +eyes, and he could tell what he saw. He brought the pulsing sea before +them, and the men and the ships upon the sea. He communicated his power +of vision, till they saw with his eyes what he had seen. He selected +from the vast mass of detail with an artist’s touch, drawing pictures +of life that glowed and burned with light and color, injecting movement +so that his listeners surged along with him on the flood of rough +eloquence, enthusiasm, and power. At times he shocked them with the +vividness of the narrative and his terms of speech, but beauty always +followed fast upon the heels of violence, and tragedy was relieved by +humor, by interpretations of the strange twists and quirks of sailors’ +minds. + +And while he talked, the girl looked at him with startled eyes. His +fire warmed her. She wondered if she had been cold all her days. She +wanted to lean toward this burning, blazing man that was like a volcano +spouting forth strength, robustness, and health. She felt that she must +lean toward him, and resisted by an effort. Then, too, there was the +counter impulse to shrink away from him. She was repelled by those +lacerated hands, grimed by toil so that the very dirt of life was +ingrained in the flesh itself, by that red chafe of the collar and +those bulging muscles. His roughness frightened her; each roughness of +speech was an insult to her ear, each rough phase of his life an insult +to her soul. And ever and again would come the draw of him, till she +thought he must be evil to have such power over her. All that was most +firmly established in her mind was rocking. His romance and adventure +were battering at the conventions. Before his facile perils and ready +laugh, life was no longer an affair of serious effort and restraint, +but a toy, to be played with and turned topsy-turvy, carelessly to be +lived and pleasured in, and carelessly to be flung aside. “Therefore, +play!” was the cry that rang through her. “Lean toward him, if so you +will, and place your two hands upon his neck!” She wanted to cry out at +the recklessness of the thought, and in vain she appraised her own +cleanness and culture and balanced all that she was against what he was +not. She glanced about her and saw the others gazing at him with rapt +attention; and she would have despaired had not she seen horror in her +mother’s eyes—fascinated horror, it was true, but none the less horror. +This man from outer darkness was evil. Her mother saw it, and her +mother was right. She would trust her mother’s judgment in this as she +had always trusted it in all things. The fire of him was no longer +warm, and the fear of him was no longer poignant. + +Later, at the piano, she played for him, and at him, aggressively, with +the vague intent of emphasizing the impassableness of the gulf that +separated them. Her music was a club that she swung brutally upon his +head; and though it stunned him and crushed him down, it incited him. +He gazed upon her in awe. In his mind, as in her own, the gulf widened; +but faster than it widened, towered his ambition to win across it. But +he was too complicated a plexus of sensibilities to sit staring at a +gulf a whole evening, especially when there was music. He was +remarkably susceptible to music. It was like strong drink, firing him +to audacities of feeling,—a drug that laid hold of his imagination and +went cloud-soaring through the sky. It banished sordid fact, flooded +his mind with beauty, loosed romance and to its heels added wings. He +did not understand the music she played. It was different from the +dance-hall piano-banging and blatant brass bands he had heard. But he +had caught hints of such music from the books, and he accepted her +playing largely on faith, patiently waiting, at first, for the lilting +measures of pronounced and simple rhythm, puzzled because those +measures were not long continued. Just as he caught the swing of them +and started, his imagination attuned in flight, always they vanished +away in a chaotic scramble of sounds that was meaningless to him, and +that dropped his imagination, an inert weight, back to earth. + +Once, it entered his mind that there was a deliberate rebuff in all +this. He caught her spirit of antagonism and strove to divine the +message that her hands pronounced upon the keys. Then he dismissed the +thought as unworthy and impossible, and yielded himself more freely to +the music. The old delightful condition began to be induced. His feet +were no longer clay, and his flesh became spirit; before his eyes and +behind his eyes shone a great glory; and then the scene before him +vanished and he was away, rocking over the world that was to him a very +dear world. The known and the unknown were commingled in the +dream-pageant that thronged his vision. He entered strange ports of +sun-washed lands, and trod market-places among barbaric peoples that no +man had ever seen. The scent of the spice islands was in his nostrils +as he had known it on warm, breathless nights at sea, or he beat up +against the southeast trades through long tropic days, sinking +palm-tufted coral islets in the turquoise sea behind and lifting +palm-tufted coral islets in the turquoise sea ahead. Swift as thought +the pictures came and went. One instant he was astride a broncho and +flying through the fairy-colored Painted Desert country; the next +instant he was gazing down through shimmering heat into the whited +sepulchre of Death Valley, or pulling an oar on a freezing ocean where +great ice islands towered and glistened in the sun. He lay on a coral +beach where the cocoanuts grew down to the mellow-sounding surf. The +hulk of an ancient wreck burned with blue fires, in the light of which +danced the _hula_ dancers to the barbaric love-calls of the singers, +who chanted to tinkling _ukuleles_ and rumbling tom-toms. It was a +sensuous, tropic night. In the background a volcano crater was +silhouetted against the stars. Overhead drifted a pale crescent moon, +and the Southern Cross burned low in the sky. + +He was a harp; all life that he had known and that was his +consciousness was the strings; and the flood of music was a wind that +poured against those strings and set them vibrating with memories and +dreams. He did not merely feel. Sensation invested itself in form and +color and radiance, and what his imagination dared, it objectified in +some sublimated and magic way. Past, present, and future mingled; and +he went on oscillating across the broad, warm world, through high +adventure and noble deeds to Her—ay, and with her, winning her, his arm +about her, and carrying her on in flight through the empery of his +mind. + +And she, glancing at him across her shoulder, saw something of all this +in his face. It was a transfigured face, with great shining eyes that +gazed beyond the veil of sound and saw behind it the leap and pulse of +life and the gigantic phantoms of the spirit. She was startled. The +raw, stumbling lout was gone. The ill-fitting clothes, battered hands, +and sunburned face remained; but these seemed the prison-bars through +which she saw a great soul looking forth, inarticulate and dumb because +of those feeble lips that would not give it speech. Only for a flashing +moment did she see this, then she saw the lout returned, and she +laughed at the whim of her fancy. But the impression of that fleeting +glimpse lingered, and when the time came for him to beat a stumbling +retreat and go, she lent him the volume of Swinburne, and another of +Browning—she was studying Browning in one of her English courses. He +seemed such a boy, as he stood blushing and stammering his thanks, that +a wave of pity, maternal in its prompting, welled up in her. She did +not remember the lout, nor the imprisoned soul, nor the man who had +stared at her in all masculineness and delighted and frightened her. +She saw before her only a boy, who was shaking her hand with a hand so +calloused that it felt like a nutmeg-grater and rasped her skin, and +who was saying jerkily:- + +“The greatest time of my life. You see, I ain’t used to things. . . ” +He looked about him helplessly. “To people and houses like this. It’s +all new to me, and I like it.” + +“I hope you’ll call again,” she said, as he was saying good night to +her brothers. + +He pulled on his cap, lurched desperately through the doorway, and was +gone. + +“Well, what do you think of him?” Arthur demanded. + +“He is most interesting, a whiff of ozone,” she answered. “How old is +he?” + +“Twenty—almost twenty-one. I asked him this afternoon. I didn’t think +he was that young.” + +And I am three years older, was the thought in her mind as she kissed +her brothers goodnight. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +As Martin Eden went down the steps, his hand dropped into his coat +pocket. It came out with a brown rice paper and a pinch of Mexican +tobacco, which were deftly rolled together into a cigarette. He drew +the first whiff of smoke deep into his lungs and expelled it in a long +and lingering exhalation. “By God!” he said aloud, in a voice of awe +and wonder. “By God!” he repeated. And yet again he murmured, “By God!” +Then his hand went to his collar, which he ripped out of the shirt and +stuffed into his pocket. A cold drizzle was falling, but he bared his +head to it and unbuttoned his vest, swinging along in splendid +unconcern. He was only dimly aware that it was raining. He was in an +ecstasy, dreaming dreams and reconstructing the scenes just past. + +He had met the woman at last—the woman that he had thought little +about, not being given to thinking about women, but whom he had +expected, in a remote way, he would sometime meet. He had sat next to +her at table. He had felt her hand in his, he had looked into her eyes +and caught a vision of a beautiful spirit;—but no more beautiful than +the eyes through which it shone, nor than the flesh that gave it +expression and form. He did not think of her flesh as flesh,—which was +new to him; for of the women he had known that was the only way he +thought. Her flesh was somehow different. He did not conceive of her +body as a body, subject to the ills and frailties of bodies. Her body +was more than the garb of her spirit. It was an emanation of her +spirit, a pure and gracious crystallization of her divine essence. This +feeling of the divine startled him. It shocked him from his dreams to +sober thought. No word, no clew, no hint, of the divine had ever +reached him before. He had never believed in the divine. He had always +been irreligious, scoffing good-naturedly at the sky-pilots and their +immortality of the soul. There was no life beyond, he had contended; it +was here and now, then darkness everlasting. But what he had seen in +her eyes was soul—immortal soul that could never die. No man he had +known, nor any woman, had given him the message of immortality. But she +had. She had whispered it to him the first moment she looked at him. +Her face shimmered before his eyes as he walked along,—pale and +serious, sweet and sensitive, smiling with pity and tenderness as only +a spirit could smile, and pure as he had never dreamed purity could be. +Her purity smote him like a blow. It startled him. He had known good +and bad; but purity, as an attribute of existence, had never entered +his mind. And now, in her, he conceived purity to be the superlative of +goodness and of cleanness, the sum of which constituted eternal life. + +And promptly urged his ambition to grasp at eternal life. He was not +fit to carry water for her—he knew that; it was a miracle of luck and a +fantastic stroke that had enabled him to see her and be with her and +talk with her that night. It was accidental. There was no merit in it. +He did not deserve such fortune. His mood was essentially religious. He +was humble and meek, filled with self-disparagement and abasement. In +such frame of mind sinners come to the penitent form. He was convicted +of sin. But as the meek and lowly at the penitent form catch splendid +glimpses of their future lordly existence, so did he catch similar +glimpses of the state he would gain to by possessing her. But this +possession of her was dim and nebulous and totally different from +possession as he had known it. Ambition soared on mad wings, and he saw +himself climbing the heights with her, sharing thoughts with her, +pleasuring in beautiful and noble things with her. It was a +soul-possession he dreamed, refined beyond any grossness, a free +comradeship of spirit that he could not put into definite thought. He +did not think it. For that matter, he did not think at all. Sensation +usurped reason, and he was quivering and palpitant with emotions he had +never known, drifting deliciously on a sea of sensibility where feeling +itself was exalted and spiritualized and carried beyond the summits of +life. + +He staggered along like a drunken man, murmuring fervently aloud: “By +God! By God!” + +A policeman on a street corner eyed him suspiciously, then noted his +sailor roll. + +“Where did you get it?” the policeman demanded. + +Martin Eden came back to earth. His was a fluid organism, swiftly +adjustable, capable of flowing into and filling all sorts of nooks and +crannies. With the policeman’s hail he was immediately his ordinary +self, grasping the situation clearly. + +“It’s a beaut, ain’t it?” he laughed back. “I didn’t know I was talkin’ +out loud.” + +“You’ll be singing next,” was the policeman’s diagnosis. + +“No, I won’t. Gimme a match an’ I’ll catch the next car home.” + +He lighted his cigarette, said good night, and went on. “Now wouldn’t +that rattle you?” he ejaculated under his breath. “That copper thought +I was drunk.” He smiled to himself and meditated. “I guess I was,” he +added; “but I didn’t think a woman’s face’d do it.” + +He caught a Telegraph Avenue car that was going to Berkeley. It was +crowded with youths and young men who were singing songs and ever and +again barking out college yells. He studied them curiously. They were +university boys. They went to the same university that she did, were in +her class socially, could know her, could see her every day if they +wanted to. He wondered that they did not want to, that they had been +out having a good time instead of being with her that evening, talking +with her, sitting around her in a worshipful and adoring circle. His +thoughts wandered on. He noticed one with narrow-slitted eyes and a +loose-lipped mouth. That fellow was vicious, he decided. On shipboard +he would be a sneak, a whiner, a tattler. He, Martin Eden, was a better +man than that fellow. The thought cheered him. It seemed to draw him +nearer to Her. He began comparing himself with the students. He grew +conscious of the muscled mechanism of his body and felt confident that +he was physically their master. But their heads were filled with +knowledge that enabled them to talk her talk,—the thought depressed +him. But what was a brain for? he demanded passionately. What they had +done, he could do. They had been studying about life from the books +while he had been busy living life. His brain was just as full of +knowledge as theirs, though it was a different kind of knowledge. How +many of them could tie a lanyard knot, or take a wheel or a lookout? +His life spread out before him in a series of pictures of danger and +daring, hardship and toil. He remembered his failures and scrapes in +the process of learning. He was that much to the good, anyway. Later on +they would have to begin living life and going through the mill as he +had gone. Very well. While they were busy with that, he could be +learning the other side of life from the books. + +As the car crossed the zone of scattered dwellings that separated +Oakland from Berkeley, he kept a lookout for a familiar, two-story +building along the front of which ran the proud sign, HIGGINBOTHAM’S +CASH STORE. Martin Eden got off at this corner. He stared up for a +moment at the sign. It carried a message to him beyond its mere +wording. A personality of smallness and egotism and petty +underhandedness seemed to emanate from the letters themselves. Bernard +Higginbotham had married his sister, and he knew him well. He let +himself in with a latch-key and climbed the stairs to the second floor. +Here lived his brother-in-law. The grocery was below. There was a smell +of stale vegetables in the air. As he groped his way across the hall he +stumbled over a toy-cart, left there by one of his numerous nephews and +nieces, and brought up against a door with a resounding bang. “The +pincher,” was his thought; “too miserly to burn two cents’ worth of gas +and save his boarders’ necks.” + +He fumbled for the knob and entered a lighted room, where sat his +sister and Bernard Higginbotham. She was patching a pair of his +trousers, while his lean body was distributed over two chairs, his feet +dangling in dilapidated carpet-slippers over the edge of the second +chair. He glanced across the top of the paper he was reading, showing a +pair of dark, insincere, sharp-staring eyes. Martin Eden never looked +at him without experiencing a sense of repulsion. What his sister had +seen in the man was beyond him. The other affected him as so much +vermin, and always aroused in him an impulse to crush him under his +foot. “Some day I’ll beat the face off of him,” was the way he often +consoled himself for enduring the man’s existence. The eyes, +weasel-like and cruel, were looking at him complainingly. + +“Well,” Martin demanded. “Out with it.” + +“I had that door painted only last week,” Mr. Higginbotham half whined, +half bullied; “and you know what union wages are. You should be more +careful.” + +Martin had intended to reply, but he was struck by the hopelessness of +it. He gazed across the monstrous sordidness of soul to a chromo on the +wall. It surprised him. He had always liked it, but it seemed that now +he was seeing it for the first time. It was cheap, that was what it +was, like everything else in this house. His mind went back to the +house he had just left, and he saw, first, the paintings, and next, +Her, looking at him with melting sweetness as she shook his hand at +leaving. He forgot where he was and Bernard Higginbotham’s existence, +till that gentleman demanded:- + +“Seen a ghost?” + +Martin came back and looked at the beady eyes, sneering, truculent, +cowardly, and there leaped into his vision, as on a screen, the same +eyes when their owner was making a sale in the store below—subservient +eyes, smug, and oily, and flattering. + +“Yes,” Martin answered. “I seen a ghost. Good night. Good night, +Gertrude.” + +He started to leave the room, tripping over a loose seam in the +slatternly carpet. + +“Don’t bang the door,” Mr. Higginbotham cautioned him. + +He felt the blood crawl in his veins, but controlled himself and closed +the door softly behind him. + +Mr. Higginbotham looked at his wife exultantly. + +“He’s ben drinkin’,” he proclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “I told you he +would.” + +She nodded her head resignedly. + +“His eyes was pretty shiny,” she confessed; “and he didn’t have no +collar, though he went away with one. But mebbe he didn’t have more’n a +couple of glasses.” + +“He couldn’t stand up straight,” asserted her husband. “I watched him. +He couldn’t walk across the floor without stumblin’. You heard ’m +yourself almost fall down in the hall.” + +“I think it was over Alice’s cart,” she said. “He couldn’t see it in +the dark.” + +Mr. Higginbotham’s voice and wrath began to rise. All day he effaced +himself in the store, reserving for the evening, with his family, the +privilege of being himself. + +“I tell you that precious brother of yours was drunk.” + +His voice was cold, sharp, and final, his lips stamping the enunciation +of each word like the die of a machine. His wife sighed and remained +silent. She was a large, stout woman, always dressed slatternly and +always tired from the burdens of her flesh, her work, and her husband. + +“He’s got it in him, I tell you, from his father,” Mr. Higginbotham +went on accusingly. “An’ he’ll croak in the gutter the same way. You +know that.” + +She nodded, sighed, and went on stitching. They were agreed that Martin +had come home drunk. They did not have it in their souls to know +beauty, or they would have known that those shining eyes and that +glowing face betokened youth’s first vision of love. + +“Settin’ a fine example to the children,” Mr. Higginbotham snorted, +suddenly, in the silence for which his wife was responsible and which +he resented. Sometimes he almost wished she would oppose him more. “If +he does it again, he’s got to get out. Understand! I won’t put up with +his shinanigan—debotchin’ innocent children with his boozing.” Mr. +Higginbotham liked the word, which was a new one in his vocabulary, +recently gleaned from a newspaper column. “That’s what it is, +debotchin’—there ain’t no other name for it.” + +Still his wife sighed, shook her head sorrowfully, and stitched on. Mr. +Higginbotham resumed the newspaper. + +“Has he paid last week’s board?” he shot across the top of the +newspaper. + +She nodded, then added, “He still has some money.” + +“When is he goin’ to sea again?” + +“When his pay-day’s spent, I guess,” she answered. “He was over to San +Francisco yesterday looking for a ship. But he’s got money, yet, an’ +he’s particular about the kind of ship he signs for.” + +“It’s not for a deck-swab like him to put on airs,” Mr. Higginbotham +snorted. “Particular! Him!” + +“He said something about a schooner that’s gettin’ ready to go off to +some outlandish place to look for buried treasure, that he’d sail on +her if his money held out.” + +“If he only wanted to steady down, I’d give him a job drivin’ the +wagon,” her husband said, but with no trace of benevolence in his +voice. “Tom’s quit.” + +His wife looked alarm and interrogation. + +“Quit to-night. Is goin’ to work for Carruthers. They paid ’m more’n I +could afford.” + +“I told you you’d lose ’m,” she cried out. “He was worth more’n you was +giving him.” + +“Now look here, old woman,” Higginbotham bullied, “for the thousandth +time I’ve told you to keep your nose out of the business. I won’t tell +you again.” + +“I don’t care,” she sniffled. “Tom was a good boy.” Her husband glared +at her. This was unqualified defiance. + +“If that brother of yours was worth his salt, he could take the wagon,” +he snorted. + +“He pays his board, just the same,” was the retort. “An’ he’s my +brother, an’ so long as he don’t owe you money you’ve got no right to +be jumping on him all the time. I’ve got some feelings, if I have been +married to you for seven years.” + +“Did you tell ’m you’d charge him for gas if he goes on readin’ in +bed?” he demanded. + +Mrs. Higginbotham made no reply. Her revolt faded away, her spirit +wilting down into her tired flesh. Her husband was triumphant. He had +her. His eyes snapped vindictively, while his ears joyed in the +sniffles she emitted. He extracted great happiness from squelching her, +and she squelched easily these days, though it had been different in +the first years of their married life, before the brood of children and +his incessant nagging had sapped her energy. + +“Well, you tell ’m to-morrow, that’s all,” he said. “An’ I just want to +tell you, before I forget it, that you’d better send for Marian +to-morrow to take care of the children. With Tom quit, I’ll have to be +out on the wagon, an’ you can make up your mind to it to be down below +waitin’ on the counter.” + +“But to-morrow’s wash day,” she objected weakly. + +“Get up early, then, an’ do it first. I won’t start out till ten +o’clock.” + +He crinkled the paper viciously and resumed his reading. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Martin Eden, with blood still crawling from contact with his +brother-in-law, felt his way along the unlighted back hall and entered +his room, a tiny cubbyhole with space for a bed, a wash-stand, and one +chair. Mr. Higginbotham was too thrifty to keep a servant when his wife +could do the work. Besides, the servant’s room enabled them to take in +two boarders instead of one. Martin placed the Swinburne and Browning +on the chair, took off his coat, and sat down on the bed. A screeching +of asthmatic springs greeted the weight of his body, but he did not +notice them. He started to take off his shoes, but fell to staring at +the white plaster wall opposite him, broken by long streaks of dirty +brown where rain had leaked through the roof. On this befouled +background visions began to flow and burn. He forgot his shoes and +stared long, till his lips began to move and he murmured, “Ruth.” + +“Ruth.” He had not thought a simple sound could be so beautiful. It +delighted his ear, and he grew intoxicated with the repetition of it. +“Ruth.” It was a talisman, a magic word to conjure with. Each time he +murmured it, her face shimmered before him, suffusing the foul wall +with a golden radiance. This radiance did not stop at the wall. It +extended on into infinity, and through its golden depths his soul went +questing after hers. The best that was in him was out in splendid +flood. The very thought of her ennobled and purified him, made him +better, and made him want to be better. This was new to him. He had +never known women who had made him better. They had always had the +counter effect of making him beastly. He did not know that many of them +had done their best, bad as it was. Never having been conscious of +himself, he did not know that he had that in his being that drew love +from women and which had been the cause of their reaching out for his +youth. Though they had often bothered him, he had never bothered about +them; and he would never have dreamed that there were women who had +been better because of him. Always in sublime carelessness had he +lived, till now, and now it seemed to him that they had always reached +out and dragged at him with vile hands. This was not just to them, nor +to himself. But he, who for the first time was becoming conscious of +himself, was in no condition to judge, and he burned with shame as he +stared at the vision of his infamy. + +He got up abruptly and tried to see himself in the dirty looking-glass +over the wash-stand. He passed a towel over it and looked again, long +and carefully. It was the first time he had ever really seen himself. +His eyes were made for seeing, but up to that moment they had been +filled with the ever changing panorama of the world, at which he had +been too busy gazing, ever to gaze at himself. He saw the head and face +of a young fellow of twenty, but, being unused to such appraisement, he +did not know how to value it. Above a square-domed forehead he saw a +mop of brown hair, nut-brown, with a wave to it and hints of curls that +were a delight to any woman, making hands tingle to stroke it and +fingers tingle to pass caresses through it. But he passed it by as +without merit, in Her eyes, and dwelt long and thoughtfully on the +high, square forehead,—striving to penetrate it and learn the quality +of its content. What kind of a brain lay behind there? was his +insistent interrogation. What was it capable of? How far would it take +him? Would it take him to her? + +He wondered if there was soul in those steel-gray eyes that were often +quite blue of color and that were strong with the briny airs of the +sun-washed deep. He wondered, also, how his eyes looked to her. He +tried to imagine himself she, gazing into those eyes of his, but failed +in the jugglery. He could successfully put himself inside other men’s +minds, but they had to be men whose ways of life he knew. He did not +know her way of life. She was wonder and mystery, and how could he +guess one thought of hers? Well, they were honest eyes, he concluded, +and in them was neither smallness nor meanness. The brown sunburn of +his face surprised him. He had not dreamed he was so black. He rolled +up his shirt-sleeve and compared the white underside of the arm with +his face. Yes, he was a white man, after all. But the arms were +sunburned, too. He twisted his arm, rolled the biceps over with his +other hand, and gazed underneath where he was least touched by the sun. +It was very white. He laughed at his bronzed face in the glass at the +thought that it was once as white as the underside of his arm; nor did +he dream that in the world there were few pale spirits of women who +could boast fairer or smoother skins than he—fairer than where he had +escaped the ravages of the sun. + +His might have been a cherub’s mouth, had not the full, sensuous lips a +trick, under stress, of drawing firmly across the teeth. At times, so +tightly did they draw, the mouth became stern and harsh, even ascetic. +They were the lips of a fighter and of a lover. They could taste the +sweetness of life with relish, and they could put the sweetness aside +and command life. The chin and jaw, strong and just hinting of square +aggressiveness, helped the lips to command life. Strength balanced +sensuousness and had upon it a tonic effect, compelling him to love +beauty that was healthy and making him vibrate to sensations that were +wholesome. And between the lips were teeth that had never known nor +needed the dentist’s care. They were white and strong and regular, he +decided, as he looked at them. But as he looked, he began to be +troubled. Somewhere, stored away in the recesses of his mind and +vaguely remembered, was the impression that there were people who +washed their teeth every day. They were the people from up above—people +in her class. She must wash her teeth every day, too. What would she +think if she learned that he had never washed his teeth in all the days +of his life? He resolved to get a tooth-brush and form the habit. He +would begin at once, to-morrow. It was not by mere achievement that he +could hope to win to her. He must make a personal reform in all things, +even to tooth-washing and neck-gear, though a starched collar affected +him as a renunciation of freedom. + +He held up his hand, rubbing the ball of the thumb over the calloused +palm and gazing at the dirt that was ingrained in the flesh itself and +which no brush could scrub away. How different was her palm! He +thrilled deliciously at the remembrance. Like a rose-petal, he thought; +cool and soft as a snowflake. He had never thought that a mere woman’s +hand could be so sweetly soft. He caught himself imagining the wonder +of a caress from such a hand, and flushed guiltily. It was too gross a +thought for her. In ways it seemed to impugn her high spirituality. She +was a pale, slender spirit, exalted far beyond the flesh; but +nevertheless the softness of her palm persisted in his thoughts. He was +used to the harsh callousness of factory girls and working women. Well +he knew why their hands were rough; but this hand of hers . . . It was +soft because she had never used it to work with. The gulf yawned +between her and him at the awesome thought of a person who did not have +to work for a living. He suddenly saw the aristocracy of the people who +did not labor. It towered before him on the wall, a figure in brass, +arrogant and powerful. He had worked himself; his first memories seemed +connected with work, and all his family had worked. There was Gertrude. +When her hands were not hard from the endless housework, they were +swollen and red like boiled beef, what of the washing. And there was +his sister Marian. She had worked in the cannery the preceding summer, +and her slim, pretty hands were all scarred with the tomato-knives. +Besides, the tips of two of her fingers had been left in the cutting +machine at the paper-box factory the preceding winter. He remembered +the hard palms of his mother as she lay in her coffin. And his father +had worked to the last fading gasp; the horned growth on his hands must +have been half an inch thick when he died. But Her hands were soft, and +her mother’s hands, and her brothers’. This last came to him as a +surprise; it was tremendously indicative of the highness of their +caste, of the enormous distance that stretched between her and him. + +He sat back on the bed with a bitter laugh, and finished taking off his +shoes. He was a fool; he had been made drunken by a woman’s face and by +a woman’s soft, white hands. And then, suddenly, before his eyes, on +the foul plaster-wall appeared a vision. He stood in front of a gloomy +tenement house. It was night-time, in the East End of London, and +before him stood Margey, a little factory girl of fifteen. He had seen +her home after the bean-feast. She lived in that gloomy tenement, a +place not fit for swine. His hand was going out to hers as he said good +night. She had put her lips up to be kissed, but he wasn’t going to +kiss her. Somehow he was afraid of her. And then her hand closed on his +and pressed feverishly. He felt her callouses grind and grate on his, +and a great wave of pity welled over him. He saw her yearning, hungry +eyes, and her ill-fed female form which had been rushed from childhood +into a frightened and ferocious maturity; then he put his arms about +her in large tolerance and stooped and kissed her on the lips. Her glad +little cry rang in his ears, and he felt her clinging to him like a +cat. Poor little starveling! He continued to stare at the vision of +what had happened in the long ago. His flesh was crawling as it had +crawled that night when she clung to him, and his heart was warm with +pity. It was a gray scene, greasy gray, and the rain drizzled greasily +on the pavement stones. And then a radiant glory shone on the wall, and +up through the other vision, displacing it, glimmered Her pale face +under its crown of golden hair, remote and inaccessible as a star. + +He took the Browning and the Swinburne from the chair and kissed them. +Just the same, she told me to call again, he thought. He took another +look at himself in the glass, and said aloud, with great solemnity:- + +“Martin Eden, the first thing to-morrow you go to the free library an’ +read up on etiquette. Understand!” + +He turned off the gas, and the springs shrieked under his body. + +“But you’ve got to quit cussin’, Martin, old boy; you’ve got to quit +cussin’,” he said aloud. + +Then he dozed off to sleep and to dream dreams that for madness and +audacity rivalled those of poppy-eaters. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +He awoke next morning from rosy scenes of dream to a steamy atmosphere +that smelled of soapsuds and dirty clothes, and that was vibrant with +the jar and jangle of tormented life. As he came out of his room he +heard the slosh of water, a sharp exclamation, and a resounding smack +as his sister visited her irritation upon one of her numerous progeny. +The squall of the child went through him like a knife. He was aware +that the whole thing, the very air he breathed, was repulsive and mean. +How different, he thought, from the atmosphere of beauty and repose of +the house wherein Ruth dwelt. There it was all spiritual. Here it was +all material, and meanly material. + +“Come here, Alfred,” he called to the crying child, at the same time +thrusting his hand into his trousers pocket, where he carried his money +loose in the same large way that he lived life in general. He put a +quarter in the youngster’s hand and held him in his arms a moment, +soothing his sobs. “Now run along and get some candy, and don’t forget +to give some to your brothers and sisters. Be sure and get the kind +that lasts longest.” + +His sister lifted a flushed face from the wash-tub and looked at him. + +“A nickel’d ha’ ben enough,” she said. “It’s just like you, no idea of +the value of money. The child’ll eat himself sick.” + +“That’s all right, sis,” he answered jovially. “My money’ll take care +of itself. If you weren’t so busy, I’d kiss you good morning.” + +He wanted to be affectionate to this sister, who was good, and who, in +her way, he knew, loved him. But, somehow, she grew less herself as the +years went by, and more and more baffling. It was the hard work, the +many children, and the nagging of her husband, he decided, that had +changed her. It came to him, in a flash of fancy, that her nature +seemed taking on the attributes of stale vegetables, smelly soapsuds, +and of the greasy dimes, nickels, and quarters she took in over the +counter of the store. + +“Go along an’ get your breakfast,” she said roughly, though secretly +pleased. Of all her wandering brood of brothers he had always been her +favorite. “I declare I _will_ kiss you,” she said, with a sudden stir +at her heart. + +With thumb and forefinger she swept the dripping suds first from one +arm and then from the other. He put his arms round her massive waist +and kissed her wet steamy lips. The tears welled into her eyes—not so +much from strength of feeling as from the weakness of chronic overwork. +She shoved him away from her, but not before he caught a glimpse of her +moist eyes. + +“You’ll find breakfast in the oven,” she said hurriedly. “Jim ought to +be up now. I had to get up early for the washing. Now get along with +you and get out of the house early. It won’t be nice to-day, what of +Tom quittin’ an’ nobody but Bernard to drive the wagon.” + +Martin went into the kitchen with a sinking heart, the image of her red +face and slatternly form eating its way like acid into his brain. She +might love him if she only had some time, he concluded. But she was +worked to death. Bernard Higginbotham was a brute to work her so hard. +But he could not help but feel, on the other hand, that there had not +been anything beautiful in that kiss. It was true, it was an unusual +kiss. For years she had kissed him only when he returned from voyages +or departed on voyages. But this kiss had tasted of soapsuds, and the +lips, he had noticed, were flabby. There had been no quick, vigorous +lip-pressure such as should accompany any kiss. Hers was the kiss of a +tired woman who had been tired so long that she had forgotten how to +kiss. He remembered her as a girl, before her marriage, when she would +dance with the best, all night, after a hard day’s work at the laundry, +and think nothing of leaving the dance to go to another day’s hard +work. And then he thought of Ruth and the cool sweetness that must +reside in her lips as it resided in all about her. Her kiss would be +like her hand-shake or the way she looked at one, firm and frank. In +imagination he dared to think of her lips on his, and so vividly did he +imagine that he went dizzy at the thought and seemed to rift through +clouds of rose-petals, filling his brain with their perfume. + +In the kitchen he found Jim, the other boarder, eating mush very +languidly, with a sick, far-away look in his eyes. Jim was a plumber’s +apprentice whose weak chin and hedonistic temperament, coupled with a +certain nervous stupidity, promised to take him nowhere in the race for +bread and butter. + +“Why don’t you eat?” he demanded, as Martin dipped dolefully into the +cold, half-cooked oatmeal mush. “Was you drunk again last night?” + +Martin shook his head. He was oppressed by the utter squalidness of it +all. Ruth Morse seemed farther removed than ever. + +“I was,” Jim went on with a boastful, nervous giggle. “I was loaded +right to the neck. Oh, she was a daisy. Billy brought me home.” + +Martin nodded that he heard,—it was a habit of nature with him to pay +heed to whoever talked to him,—and poured a cup of lukewarm coffee. + +“Goin’ to the Lotus Club dance to-night?” Jim demanded. “They’re goin’ +to have beer, an’ if that Temescal bunch comes, there’ll be a +rough-house. I don’t care, though. I’m takin’ my lady friend just the +same. Cripes, but I’ve got a taste in my mouth!” + +He made a wry face and attempted to wash the taste away with coffee. + +“D’ye know Julia?” + +Martin shook his head. + +“She’s my lady friend,” Jim explained, “and she’s a peach. I’d +introduce you to her, only you’d win her. I don’t see what the girls +see in you, honest I don’t; but the way you win them away from the +fellers is sickenin’.” + +“I never got any away from you,” Martin answered uninterestedly. The +breakfast had to be got through somehow. + +“Yes, you did, too,” the other asserted warmly. “There was Maggie.” + +“Never had anything to do with her. Never danced with her except that +one night.” + +“Yes, an’ that’s just what did it,” Jim cried out. “You just danced +with her an’ looked at her, an’ it was all off. Of course you didn’t +mean nothin’ by it, but it settled me for keeps. Wouldn’t look at me +again. Always askin’ about you. She’d have made fast dates enough with +you if you’d wanted to.” + +“But I didn’t want to.” + +“Wasn’t necessary. I was left at the pole.” Jim looked at him +admiringly. “How d’ye do it, anyway, Mart?” + +“By not carin’ about ’em,” was the answer. + +“You mean makin’ b’lieve you don’t care about them?” Jim queried +eagerly. + +Martin considered for a moment, then answered, “Perhaps that will do, +but with me I guess it’s different. I never have cared—much. If you can +put it on, it’s all right, most likely.” + +“You should ’a’ ben up at Riley’s barn last night,” Jim announced +inconsequently. “A lot of the fellers put on the gloves. There was a +peach from West Oakland. They called ’m ‘The Rat.’ Slick as silk. No +one could touch ’m. We was all wishin’ you was there. Where was you +anyway?” + +“Down in Oakland,” Martin replied. + +“To the show?” + +Martin shoved his plate away and got up. + +“Comin’ to the dance to-night?” the other called after him. + +“No, I think not,” he answered. + +He went downstairs and out into the street, breathing great breaths of +air. He had been suffocating in that atmosphere, while the apprentice’s +chatter had driven him frantic. There had been times when it was all he +could do to refrain from reaching over and mopping Jim’s face in the +mush-plate. The more he had chattered, the more remote had Ruth seemed +to him. How could he, herding with such cattle, ever become worthy of +her? He was appalled at the problem confronting him, weighted down by +the incubus of his working-class station. Everything reached out to +hold him down—his sister, his sister’s house and family, Jim the +apprentice, everybody he knew, every tie of life. Existence did not +taste good in his mouth. Up to then he had accepted existence, as he +had lived it with all about him, as a good thing. He had never +questioned it, except when he read books; but then, they were only +books, fairy stories of a fairer and impossible world. But now he had +seen that world, possible and real, with a flower of a woman called +Ruth in the midmost centre of it; and thenceforth he must know bitter +tastes, and longings sharp as pain, and hopelessness that tantalized +because it fed on hope. + +He had debated between the Berkeley Free Library and the Oakland Free +Library, and decided upon the latter because Ruth lived in Oakland. Who +could tell?—a library was a most likely place for her, and he might see +her there. He did not know the way of libraries, and he wandered +through endless rows of fiction, till the delicate-featured +French-looking girl who seemed in charge, told him that the reference +department was upstairs. He did not know enough to ask the man at the +desk, and began his adventures in the philosophy alcove. He had heard +of book philosophy, but had not imagined there had been so much written +about it. The high, bulging shelves of heavy tomes humbled him and at +the same time stimulated him. Here was work for the vigor of his brain. +He found books on trigonometry in the mathematics section, and ran the +pages, and stared at the meaningless formulas and figures. He could +read English, but he saw there an alien speech. Norman and Arthur knew +that speech. He had heard them talking it. And they were her brothers. +He left the alcove in despair. From every side the books seemed to +press upon him and crush him. + +He had never dreamed that the fund of human knowledge bulked so big. He +was frightened. How could his brain ever master it all? Later, he +remembered that there were other men, many men, who had mastered it; +and he breathed a great oath, passionately, under his breath, swearing +that his brain could do what theirs had done. + +And so he wandered on, alternating between depression and elation as he +stared at the shelves packed with wisdom. In one miscellaneous section +he came upon a “Norrie’s Epitome.” He turned the pages reverently. In a +way, it spoke a kindred speech. Both he and it were of the sea. Then he +found a “Bowditch” and books by Lecky and Marshall. There it was; he +would teach himself navigation. He would quit drinking, work up, and +become a captain. Ruth seemed very near to him in that moment. As a +captain, he could marry her (if she would have him). And if she +wouldn’t, well—he would live a good life among men, because of Her, and +he would quit drinking anyway. Then he remembered the underwriters and +the owners, the two masters a captain must serve, either of which could +and would break him and whose interests were diametrically opposed. He +cast his eyes about the room and closed the lids down on a vision of +ten thousand books. No; no more of the sea for him. There was power in +all that wealth of books, and if he would do great things, he must do +them on the land. Besides, captains were not allowed to take their +wives to sea with them. + +Noon came, and afternoon. He forgot to eat, and sought on for the books +on etiquette; for, in addition to career, his mind was vexed by a +simple and very concrete problem: _When you meet a young lady and she +asks you to call, how soon can you call_? was the way he worded it to +himself. But when he found the right shelf, he sought vainly for the +answer. He was appalled at the vast edifice of etiquette, and lost +himself in the mazes of visiting-card conduct between persons in polite +society. He abandoned his search. He had not found what he wanted, +though he had found that it would take all of a man’s time to be +polite, and that he would have to live a preliminary life in which to +learn how to be polite. + +“Did you find what you wanted?” the man at the desk asked him as he was +leaving. + +“Yes, sir,” he answered. “You have a fine library here.” + +The man nodded. “We should be glad to see you here often. Are you a +sailor?” + +“Yes, sir,” he answered. “And I’ll come again.” + +Now, how did he know that? he asked himself as he went down the stairs. + +And for the first block along the street he walked very stiff and +straight and awkwardly, until he forgot himself in his thoughts, +whereupon his rolling gait gracefully returned to him. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +A terrible restlessness that was akin to hunger afflicted Martin Eden. +He was famished for a sight of the girl whose slender hands had gripped +his life with a giant’s grasp. He could not steel himself to call upon +her. He was afraid that he might call too soon, and so be guilty of an +awful breach of that awful thing called etiquette. He spent long hours +in the Oakland and Berkeley libraries, and made out application blanks +for membership for himself, his sisters Gertrude and Marian, and Jim, +the latter’s consent being obtained at the expense of several glasses +of beer. With four cards permitting him to draw books, he burned the +gas late in the servant’s room, and was charged fifty cents a week for +it by Mr. Higginbotham. + +The many books he read but served to whet his unrest. Every page of +every book was a peep-hole into the realm of knowledge. His hunger fed +upon what he read, and increased. Also, he did not know where to begin, +and continually suffered from lack of preparation. The commonest +references, that he could see plainly every reader was expected to +know, he did not know. And the same was true of the poetry he read +which maddened him with delight. He read more of Swinburne than was +contained in the volume Ruth had lent him; and “Dolores” he understood +thoroughly. But surely Ruth did not understand it, he concluded. How +could she, living the refined life she did? Then he chanced upon +Kipling’s poems, and was swept away by the lilt and swing and glamour +with which familiar things had been invested. He was amazed at the +man’s sympathy with life and at his incisive psychology. _Psychology_ +was a new word in Martin’s vocabulary. He had bought a dictionary, +which deed had decreased his supply of money and brought nearer the day +on which he must sail in search of more. Also, it incensed Mr. +Higginbotham, who would have preferred the money taking the form of +board. + +He dared not go near Ruth’s neighborhood in the daytime, but night +found him lurking like a thief around the Morse home, stealing glimpses +at the windows and loving the very walls that sheltered her. Several +times he barely escaped being caught by her brothers, and once he +trailed Mr. Morse down town and studied his face in the lighted +streets, longing all the while for some quick danger of death to +threaten so that he might spring in and save her father. On another +night, his vigil was rewarded by a glimpse of Ruth through a +second-story window. He saw only her head and shoulders, and her arms +raised as she fixed her hair before a mirror. It was only for a moment, +but it was a long moment to him, during which his blood turned to wine +and sang through his veins. Then she pulled down the shade. But it was +her room—he had learned that; and thereafter he strayed there often, +hiding under a dark tree on the opposite side of the street and smoking +countless cigarettes. One afternoon he saw her mother coming out of a +bank, and received another proof of the enormous distance that +separated Ruth from him. She was of the class that dealt with banks. He +had never been inside a bank in his life, and he had an idea that such +institutions were frequented only by the very rich and the very +powerful. + +In one way, he had undergone a moral revolution. Her cleanness and +purity had reacted upon him, and he felt in his being a crying need to +be clean. He must be that if he were ever to be worthy of breathing the +same air with her. He washed his teeth, and scrubbed his hands with a +kitchen scrub-brush till he saw a nail-brush in a drug-store window and +divined its use. While purchasing it, the clerk glanced at his nails, +suggested a nail-file, and so he became possessed of an additional +toilet-tool. He ran across a book in the library on the care of the +body, and promptly developed a penchant for a cold-water bath every +morning, much to the amazement of Jim, and to the bewilderment of Mr. +Higginbotham, who was not in sympathy with such high-fangled notions +and who seriously debated whether or not he should charge Martin extra +for the water. Another stride was in the direction of creased trousers. +Now that Martin was aroused in such matters, he swiftly noted the +difference between the baggy knees of the trousers worn by the working +class and the straight line from knee to foot of those worn by the men +above the working class. Also, he learned the reason why, and invaded +his sister’s kitchen in search of irons and ironing-board. He had +misadventures at first, hopelessly burning one pair and buying another, +which expenditure again brought nearer the day on which he must put to +sea. + +But the reform went deeper than mere outward appearance. He still +smoked, but he drank no more. Up to that time, drinking had seemed to +him the proper thing for men to do, and he had prided himself on his +strong head which enabled him to drink most men under the table. +Whenever he encountered a chance shipmate, and there were many in San +Francisco, he treated them and was treated in turn, as of old, but he +ordered for himself root beer or ginger ale and good-naturedly endured +their chaffing. And as they waxed maudlin he studied them, watching the +beast rise and master them and thanking God that he was no longer as +they. They had their limitations to forget, and when they were drunk, +their dim, stupid spirits were even as gods, and each ruled in his +heaven of intoxicated desire. With Martin the need for strong drink had +vanished. He was drunken in new and more profound ways—with Ruth, who +had fired him with love and with a glimpse of higher and eternal life; +with books, that had set a myriad maggots of desire gnawing in his +brain; and with the sense of personal cleanliness he was achieving, +that gave him even more superb health than what he had enjoyed and that +made his whole body sing with physical well-being. + +One night he went to the theatre, on the blind chance that he might see +her there, and from the second balcony he did see her. He saw her come +down the aisle, with Arthur and a strange young man with a football mop +of hair and eyeglasses, the sight of whom spurred him to instant +apprehension and jealousy. He saw her take her seat in the orchestra +circle, and little else than her did he see that night—a pair of +slender white shoulders and a mass of pale gold hair, dim with +distance. But there were others who saw, and now and again, glancing at +those about him, he noted two young girls who looked back from the row +in front, a dozen seats along, and who smiled at him with bold eyes. He +had always been easy-going. It was not in his nature to give rebuff. In +the old days he would have smiled back, and gone further and encouraged +smiling. But now it was different. He did smile back, then looked away, +and looked no more deliberately. But several times, forgetting the +existence of the two girls, his eyes caught their smiles. He could not +re-thumb himself in a day, nor could he violate the intrinsic +kindliness of his nature; so, at such moments, he smiled at the girls +in warm human friendliness. It was nothing new to him. He knew they +were reaching out their woman’s hands to him. But it was different now. +Far down there in the orchestra circle was the one woman in all the +world, so different, so terrifically different, from these two girls of +his class, that he could feel for them only pity and sorrow. He had it +in his heart to wish that they could possess, in some small measure, +her goodness and glory. And not for the world could he hurt them +because of their outreaching. He was not flattered by it; he even felt +a slight shame at his lowliness that permitted it. He knew, did he +belong in Ruth’s class, that there would be no overtures from these +girls; and with each glance of theirs he felt the fingers of his own +class clutching at him to hold him down. + +He left his seat before the curtain went down on the last act, intent +on seeing Her as she passed out. There were always numbers of men who +stood on the sidewalk outside, and he could pull his cap down over his +eyes and screen himself behind some one’s shoulder so that she should +not see him. He emerged from the theatre with the first of the crowd; +but scarcely had he taken his position on the edge of the sidewalk when +the two girls appeared. They were looking for him, he knew; and for the +moment he could have cursed that in him which drew women. Their casual +edging across the sidewalk to the curb, as they drew near, apprised him +of discovery. They slowed down, and were in the thick of the crowd as +they came up with him. One of them brushed against him and apparently +for the first time noticed him. She was a slender, dark girl, with +black, defiant eyes. But they smiled at him, and he smiled back. + +“Hello,” he said. + +It was automatic; he had said it so often before under similar +circumstances of first meetings. Besides, he could do no less. There +was that large tolerance and sympathy in his nature that would permit +him to do no less. The black-eyed girl smiled gratification and +greeting, and showed signs of stopping, while her companion, arm linked +in arm, giggled and likewise showed signs of halting. He thought +quickly. It would never do for Her to come out and see him talking +there with them. Quite naturally, as a matter of course, he swung in +along-side the dark-eyed one and walked with her. There was no +awkwardness on his part, no numb tongue. He was at home here, and he +held his own royally in the badinage, bristling with slang and +sharpness, that was always the preliminary to getting acquainted in +these swift-moving affairs. At the corner where the main stream of +people flowed onward, he started to edge out into the cross street. But +the girl with the black eyes caught his arm, following him and dragging +her companion after her, as she cried: + +“Hold on, Bill! What’s yer rush? You’re not goin’ to shake us so sudden +as all that?” + +He halted with a laugh, and turned, facing them. Across their shoulders +he could see the moving throng passing under the street lamps. Where he +stood it was not so light, and, unseen, he would be able to see Her as +she passed by. She would certainly pass by, for that way led home. + +“What’s her name?” he asked of the giggling girl, nodding at the +dark-eyed one. + +“You ask her,” was the convulsed response. + +“Well, what is it?” he demanded, turning squarely on the girl in +question. + +“You ain’t told me yours, yet,” she retorted. + +“You never asked it,” he smiled. “Besides, you guessed the first +rattle. It’s Bill, all right, all right.” + +“Aw, go ’long with you.” She looked him in the eyes, her own sharply +passionate and inviting. “What is it, honest?” + +Again she looked. All the centuries of woman since sex began were +eloquent in her eyes. And he measured her in a careless way, and knew, +bold now, that she would begin to retreat, coyly and delicately, as he +pursued, ever ready to reverse the game should he turn fainthearted. +And, too, he was human, and could feel the draw of her, while his ego +could not but appreciate the flattery of her kindness. Oh, he knew it +all, and knew them well, from A to Z. Good, as goodness might be +measured in their particular class, hard-working for meagre wages and +scorning the sale of self for easier ways, nervously desirous for some +small pinch of happiness in the desert of existence, and facing a +future that was a gamble between the ugliness of unending toil and the +black pit of more terrible wretchedness, the way whereto being briefer +though better paid. + +“Bill,” he answered, nodding his head. “Sure, Pete, Bill an’ no other.” + +“No joshin’?” she queried. + +“It ain’t Bill at all,” the other broke in. + +“How do you know?” he demanded. “You never laid eyes on me before.” + +“No need to, to know you’re lyin’,” was the retort. + +“Straight, Bill, what is it?” the first girl asked. + +“Bill’ll do,” he confessed. + +She reached out to his arm and shook him playfully. “I knew you was +lyin’, but you look good to me just the same.” + +He captured the hand that invited, and felt on the palm familiar +markings and distortions. + +“When’d you chuck the cannery?” he asked. + +“How’d yeh know?” and, “My, ain’t cheh a mind-reader!” the girls +chorussed. + +And while he exchanged the stupidities of stupid minds with them, +before his inner sight towered the book-shelves of the library, filled +with the wisdom of the ages. He smiled bitterly at the incongruity of +it, and was assailed by doubts. But between inner vision and outward +pleasantry he found time to watch the theatre crowd streaming by. And +then he saw Her, under the lights, between her brother and the strange +young man with glasses, and his heart seemed to stand still. He had +waited long for this moment. He had time to note the light, fluffy +something that hid her queenly head, the tasteful lines of her wrapped +figure, the gracefulness of her carriage and of the hand that caught up +her skirts; and then she was gone and he was left staring at the two +girls of the cannery, at their tawdry attempts at prettiness of dress, +their tragic efforts to be clean and trim, the cheap cloth, the cheap +ribbons, and the cheap rings on the fingers. He felt a tug at his arm, +and heard a voice saying:- + +“Wake up, Bill! What’s the matter with you?” + +“What was you sayin’?” he asked. + +“Oh, nothin’,” the dark girl answered, with a toss of her head. “I was +only remarkin’—” + +“What?” + +“Well, I was whisperin’ it’d be a good idea if you could dig up a +gentleman friend—for her” (indicating her companion), “and then, we +could go off an’ have ice-cream soda somewhere, or coffee, or +anything.” + +He was afflicted by a sudden spiritual nausea. The transition from Ruth +to this had been too abrupt. Ranged side by side with the bold, defiant +eyes of the girl before him, he saw Ruth’s clear, luminous eyes, like a +saint’s, gazing at him out of unplumbed depths of purity. And, somehow, +he felt within him a stir of power. He was better than this. Life meant +more to him than it meant to these two girls whose thoughts did not go +beyond ice-cream and a gentleman friend. He remembered that he had led +always a secret life in his thoughts. These thoughts he had tried to +share, but never had he found a woman capable of understanding—nor a +man. He had tried, at times, but had only puzzled his listeners. And as +his thoughts had been beyond them, so, he argued now, he must be beyond +them. He felt power move in him, and clenched his fists. If life meant +more to him, then it was for him to demand more from life, but he could +not demand it from such companionship as this. Those bold black eyes +had nothing to offer. He knew the thoughts behind them—of ice-cream and +of something else. But those saint’s eyes alongside—they offered all he +knew and more than he could guess. They offered books and painting, +beauty and repose, and all the fine elegance of higher existence. +Behind those black eyes he knew every thought process. It was like +clockwork. He could watch every wheel go around. Their bid was low +pleasure, narrow as the grave, that palled, and the grave was at the +end of it. But the bid of the saint’s eyes was mystery, and wonder +unthinkable, and eternal life. He had caught glimpses of the soul in +them, and glimpses of his own soul, too. + +“There’s only one thing wrong with the programme,” he said aloud. “I’ve +got a date already.” + +The girl’s eyes blazed her disappointment. + +“To sit up with a sick friend, I suppose?” she sneered. + +“No, a real, honest date with—” he faltered, “with a girl.” + +“You’re not stringin’ me?” she asked earnestly. + +He looked her in the eyes and answered: “It’s straight, all right. But +why can’t we meet some other time? You ain’t told me your name yet. An’ +where d’ye live?” + +“Lizzie,” she replied, softening toward him, her hand pressing his arm, +while her body leaned against his. “Lizzie Connolly. And I live at +Fifth an’ Market.” + +He talked on a few minutes before saying good night. He did not go home +immediately; and under the tree where he kept his vigils he looked up +at a window and murmured: “That date was with you, Ruth. I kept it for +you.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +A week of heavy reading had passed since the evening he first met Ruth +Morse, and still he dared not call. Time and again he nerved himself up +to call, but under the doubts that assailed him his determination died +away. He did not know the proper time to call, nor was there any one to +tell him, and he was afraid of committing himself to an irretrievable +blunder. Having shaken himself free from his old companions and old +ways of life, and having no new companions, nothing remained for him +but to read, and the long hours he devoted to it would have ruined a +dozen pairs of ordinary eyes. But his eyes were strong, and they were +backed by a body superbly strong. Furthermore, his mind was fallow. It +had lain fallow all his life so far as the abstract thought of the +books was concerned, and it was ripe for the sowing. It had never been +jaded by study, and it bit hold of the knowledge in the books with +sharp teeth that would not let go. + +It seemed to him, by the end of the week, that he had lived centuries, +so far behind were the old life and outlook. But he was baffled by lack +of preparation. He attempted to read books that required years of +preliminary specialization. One day he would read a book of antiquated +philosophy, and the next day one that was ultra-modern, so that his +head would be whirling with the conflict and contradiction of ideas. It +was the same with the economists. On the one shelf at the library he +found Karl Marx, Ricardo, Adam Smith, and Mill, and the abstruse +formulas of the one gave no clew that the ideas of another were +obsolete. He was bewildered, and yet he wanted to know. He had become +interested, in a day, in economics, industry, and politics. Passing +through the City Hall Park, he had noticed a group of men, in the +centre of which were half a dozen, with flushed faces and raised +voices, earnestly carrying on a discussion. He joined the listeners, +and heard a new, alien tongue in the mouths of the philosophers of the +people. One was a tramp, another was a labor agitator, a third was a +law-school student, and the remainder was composed of wordy workingmen. +For the first time he heard of socialism, anarchism, and single tax, +and learned that there were warring social philosophies. He heard +hundreds of technical words that were new to him, belonging to fields +of thought that his meagre reading had never touched upon. Because of +this he could not follow the arguments closely, and he could only guess +at and surmise the ideas wrapped up in such strange expressions. Then +there was a black-eyed restaurant waiter who was a theosophist, a union +baker who was an agnostic, an old man who baffled all of them with the +strange philosophy that _what is is right_, and another old man who +discoursed interminably about the cosmos and the father-atom and the +mother-atom. + +Martin Eden’s head was in a state of addlement when he went away after +several hours, and he hurried to the library to look up the definitions +of a dozen unusual words. And when he left the library, he carried +under his arm four volumes: Madam Blavatsky’s “Secret Doctrine,” +“Progress and Poverty,” “The Quintessence of Socialism,” and “Warfare +of Religion and Science.” Unfortunately, he began on the “Secret +Doctrine.” Every line bristled with many-syllabled words he did not +understand. He sat up in bed, and the dictionary was in front of him +more often than the book. He looked up so many new words that when they +recurred, he had forgotten their meaning and had to look them up again. +He devised the plan of writing the definitions in a note-book, and +filled page after page with them. And still he could not understand. He +read until three in the morning, and his brain was in a turmoil, but +not one essential thought in the text had he grasped. He looked up, and +it seemed that the room was lifting, heeling, and plunging like a ship +upon the sea. Then he hurled the “Secret Doctrine” and many curses +across the room, turned off the gas, and composed himself to sleep. Nor +did he have much better luck with the other three books. It was not +that his brain was weak or incapable; it could think these thoughts +were it not for lack of training in thinking and lack of the +thought-tools with which to think. He guessed this, and for a while +entertained the idea of reading nothing but the dictionary until he had +mastered every word in it. + +Poetry, however, was his solace, and he read much of it, finding his +greatest joy in the simpler poets, who were more understandable. He +loved beauty, and there he found beauty. Poetry, like music, stirred +him profoundly, and, though he did not know it, he was preparing his +mind for the heavier work that was to come. The pages of his mind were +blank, and, without effort, much he read and liked, stanza by stanza, +was impressed upon those pages, so that he was soon able to extract +great joy from chanting aloud or under his breath the music and the +beauty of the printed words he had read. Then he stumbled upon Gayley’s +“Classic Myths” and Bulfinch’s “Age of Fable,” side by side on a +library shelf. It was illumination, a great light in the darkness of +his ignorance, and he read poetry more avidly than ever. + +The man at the desk in the library had seen Martin there so often that +he had become quite cordial, always greeting him with a smile and a nod +when he entered. It was because of this that Martin did a daring thing. +Drawing out some books at the desk, and while the man was stamping the +cards, Martin blurted out:- + +“Say, there’s something I’d like to ask you.” + +The man smiled and paid attention. + +“When you meet a young lady an’ she asks you to call, how soon can you +call?” + +Martin felt his shirt press and cling to his shoulders, what of the +sweat of the effort. + +“Why I’d say any time,” the man answered. + +“Yes, but this is different,” Martin objected. “She—I—well, you see, +it’s this way: maybe she won’t be there. She goes to the university.” + +“Then call again.” + +“What I said ain’t what I meant,” Martin confessed falteringly, while +he made up his mind to throw himself wholly upon the other’s mercy. +“I’m just a rough sort of a fellow, an’ I ain’t never seen anything of +society. This girl is all that I ain’t, an’ I ain’t anything that she +is. You don’t think I’m playin’ the fool, do you?” he demanded +abruptly. + +“No, no; not at all, I assure you,” the other protested. “Your request +is not exactly in the scope of the reference department, but I shall be +only too pleased to assist you.” + +Martin looked at him admiringly. + +“If I could tear it off that way, I’d be all right,” he said. + +“I beg pardon?” + +“I mean if I could talk easy that way, an’ polite, an’ all the rest.” + +“Oh,” said the other, with comprehension. + +“What is the best time to call? The afternoon?—not too close to +meal-time? Or the evening? Or Sunday?” + +“I’ll tell you,” the librarian said with a brightening face. “You call +her up on the telephone and find out.” + +“I’ll do it,” he said, picking up his books and starting away. + +He turned back and asked:- + +“When you’re speakin’ to a young lady—say, for instance, Miss Lizzie +Smith—do you say ‘Miss Lizzie’? or ‘Miss Smith’?” + +“Say ‘Miss Smith,’” the librarian stated authoritatively. “Say ‘Miss +Smith’ always—until you come to know her better.” + +So it was that Martin Eden solved the problem. + +“Come down any time; I’ll be at home all afternoon,” was Ruth’s reply +over the telephone to his stammered request as to when he could return +the borrowed books. + +She met him at the door herself, and her woman’s eyes took in +immediately the creased trousers and the certain slight but indefinable +change in him for the better. Also, she was struck by his face. It was +almost violent, this health of his, and it seemed to rush out of him +and at her in waves of force. She felt the urge again of the desire to +lean toward him for warmth, and marvelled again at the effect his +presence produced upon her. And he, in turn, knew again the swimming +sensation of bliss when he felt the contact of her hand in greeting. +The difference between them lay in that she was cool and self-possessed +while his face flushed to the roots of the hair. He stumbled with his +old awkwardness after her, and his shoulders swung and lurched +perilously. + +Once they were seated in the living-room, he began to get on +easily—more easily by far than he had expected. She made it easy for +him; and the gracious spirit with which she did it made him love her +more madly than ever. They talked first of the borrowed books, of the +Swinburne he was devoted to, and of the Browning he did not understand; +and she led the conversation on from subject to subject, while she +pondered the problem of how she could be of help to him. She had +thought of this often since their first meeting. She wanted to help +him. He made a call upon her pity and tenderness that no one had ever +made before, and the pity was not so much derogatory of him as maternal +in her. Her pity could not be of the common sort, when the man who drew +it was so much man as to shock her with maidenly fears and set her mind +and pulse thrilling with strange thoughts and feelings. The old +fascination of his neck was there, and there was sweetness in the +thought of laying her hands upon it. It seemed still a wanton impulse, +but she had grown more used to it. She did not dream that in such guise +new-born love would epitomize itself. Nor did she dream that the +feeling he excited in her was love. She thought she was merely +interested in him as an unusual type possessing various potential +excellencies, and she even felt philanthropic about it. + +She did not know she desired him; but with him it was different. He +knew that he loved her, and he desired her as he had never before +desired anything in his life. He had loved poetry for beauty’s sake; +but since he met her the gates to the vast field of love-poetry had +been opened wide. She had given him understanding even more than +Bulfinch and Gayley. There was a line that a week before he would not +have favored with a second thought—“God’s own mad lover dying on a +kiss”; but now it was ever insistent in his mind. He marvelled at the +wonder of it and the truth; and as he gazed upon her he knew that he +could die gladly upon a kiss. He felt himself God’s own mad lover, and +no accolade of knighthood could have given him greater pride. And at +last he knew the meaning of life and why he had been born. + +As he gazed at her and listened, his thoughts grew daring. He reviewed +all the wild delight of the pressure of her hand in his at the door, +and longed for it again. His gaze wandered often toward her lips, and +he yearned for them hungrily. But there was nothing gross or earthly +about this yearning. It gave him exquisite delight to watch every +movement and play of those lips as they enunciated the words she spoke; +yet they were not ordinary lips such as all men and women had. Their +substance was not mere human clay. They were lips of pure spirit, and +his desire for them seemed absolutely different from the desire that +had led him to other women’s lips. He could kiss her lips, rest his own +physical lips upon them, but it would be with the lofty and awful +fervor with which one would kiss the robe of God. He was not conscious +of this transvaluation of values that had taken place in him, and was +unaware that the light that shone in his eyes when he looked at her was +quite the same light that shines in all men’s eyes when the desire of +love is upon them. He did not dream how ardent and masculine his gaze +was, nor that the warm flame of it was affecting the alchemy of her +spirit. Her penetrative virginity exalted and disguised his own +emotions, elevating his thoughts to a star-cool chastity, and he would +have been startled to learn that there was that shining out of his +eyes, like warm waves, that flowed through her and kindled a kindred +warmth. She was subtly perturbed by it, and more than once, though she +knew not why, it disrupted her train of thought with its delicious +intrusion and compelled her to grope for the remainder of ideas partly +uttered. Speech was always easy with her, and these interruptions would +have puzzled her had she not decided that it was because he was a +remarkable type. She was very sensitive to impressions, and it was not +strange, after all, that this aura of a traveller from another world +should so affect her. + +The problem in the background of her consciousness was how to help him, +and she turned the conversation in that direction; but it was Martin +who came to the point first. + +“I wonder if I can get some advice from you,” he began, and received an +acquiescence of willingness that made his heart bound. “You remember +the other time I was here I said I couldn’t talk about books an’ things +because I didn’t know how? Well, I’ve ben doin’ a lot of thinkin’ ever +since. I’ve ben to the library a whole lot, but most of the books I’ve +tackled have ben over my head. Mebbe I’d better begin at the beginnin’. +I ain’t never had no advantages. I’ve worked pretty hard ever since I +was a kid, an’ since I’ve ben to the library, lookin’ with new eyes at +books—an’ lookin’ at new books, too—I’ve just about concluded that I +ain’t ben reading the right kind. You know the books you find in +cattle-camps an’ fo’c’s’ls ain’t the same you’ve got in this house, for +instance. Well, that’s the sort of readin’ matter I’ve ben accustomed +to. And yet—an’ I ain’t just makin’ a brag of it—I’ve ben different +from the people I’ve herded with. Not that I’m any better than the +sailors an’ cow-punchers I travelled with,—I was cow-punchin’ for a +short time, you know,—but I always liked books, read everything I could +lay hands on, an’—well, I guess I think differently from most of ’em. + +“Now, to come to what I’m drivin’ at. I was never inside a house like +this. When I come a week ago, an’ saw all this, an’ you, an’ your +mother, an’ brothers, an’ everything—well, I liked it. I’d heard about +such things an’ read about such things in some of the books, an’ when I +looked around at your house, why, the books come true. But the thing +I’m after is I liked it. I wanted it. I want it now. I want to breathe +air like you get in this house—air that is filled with books, and +pictures, and beautiful things, where people talk in low voices an’ are +clean, an’ their thoughts are clean. The air I always breathed was +mixed up with grub an’ house-rent an’ scrappin’ an booze an’ that’s all +they talked about, too. Why, when you was crossin’ the room to kiss +your mother, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I ever seen. +I’ve seen a whole lot of life, an’ somehow I’ve seen a whole lot more +of it than most of them that was with me. I like to see, an’ I want to +see more, an’ I want to see it different. + +“But I ain’t got to the point yet. Here it is. I want to make my way to +the kind of life you have in this house. There’s more in life than +booze, an’ hard work, an’ knockin’ about. Now, how am I goin’ to get +it? Where do I take hold an’ begin? I’m willin’ to work my passage, you +know, an’ I can make most men sick when it comes to hard work. Once I +get started, I’ll work night an’ day. Mebbe you think it’s funny, me +askin’ you about all this. I know you’re the last person in the world I +ought to ask, but I don’t know anybody else I could ask—unless it’s +Arthur. Mebbe I ought to ask him. If I was—” + +His voice died away. His firmly planned intention had come to a halt on +the verge of the horrible probability that he should have asked Arthur +and that he had made a fool of himself. Ruth did not speak immediately. +She was too absorbed in striving to reconcile the stumbling, uncouth +speech and its simplicity of thought with what she saw in his face. She +had never looked in eyes that expressed greater power. Here was a man +who could do anything, was the message she read there, and it accorded +ill with the weakness of his spoken thought. And for that matter so +complex and quick was her own mind that she did not have a just +appreciation of simplicity. And yet she had caught an impression of +power in the very groping of this mind. It had seemed to her like a +giant writhing and straining at the bonds that held him down. Her face +was all sympathy when she did speak. + +“What you need, you realize yourself, and it is education. You should +go back and finish grammar school, and then go through to high school +and university.” + +“But that takes money,” he interrupted. + +“Oh!” she cried. “I had not thought of that. But then you have +relatives, somebody who could assist you?” + +He shook his head. + +“My father and mother are dead. I’ve two sisters, one married, an’ the +other’ll get married soon, I suppose. Then I’ve a string of +brothers,—I’m the youngest,—but they never helped nobody. They’ve just +knocked around over the world, lookin’ out for number one. The oldest +died in India. Two are in South Africa now, an’ another’s on a whaling +voyage, an’ one’s travellin’ with a circus—he does trapeze work. An’ I +guess I’m just like them. I’ve taken care of myself since I was +eleven—that’s when my mother died. I’ve got to study by myself, I +guess, an’ what I want to know is where to begin.” + +“I should say the first thing of all would be to get a grammar. Your +grammar is—” She had intended saying “awful,” but she amended it to “is +not particularly good.” + +He flushed and sweated. + +“I know I must talk a lot of slang an’ words you don’t understand. But +then they’re the only words I know—how to speak. I’ve got other words +in my mind, picked ’em up from books, but I can’t pronounce ’em, so I +don’t use ’em.” + +“It isn’t what you say, so much as how you say it. You don’t mind my +being frank, do you? I don’t want to hurt you.” + +“No, no,” he cried, while he secretly blessed her for her kindness. +“Fire away. I’ve got to know, an’ I’d sooner know from you than anybody +else.” + +“Well, then, you say, ‘You was’; it should be, ‘You were.’ You say ‘I +seen’ for ‘I saw.’ You use the double negative—” + +“What’s the double negative?” he demanded; then added humbly, “You see, +I don’t even understand your explanations.” + +“I’m afraid I didn’t explain that,” she smiled. “A double negative +is—let me see—well, you say, ‘never helped nobody.’ ‘Never’ is a +negative. ‘Nobody’ is another negative. It is a rule that two negatives +make a positive. ‘Never helped nobody’ means that, not helping nobody, +they must have helped somebody.” + +“That’s pretty clear,” he said. “I never thought of it before. But it +don’t mean they _must_ have helped somebody, does it? Seems to me that +‘never helped nobody’ just naturally fails to say whether or not they +helped somebody. I never thought of it before, and I’ll never say it +again.” + +She was pleased and surprised with the quickness and surety of his +mind. As soon as he had got the clew he not only understood but +corrected her error. + +“You’ll find it all in the grammar,” she went on. “There’s something +else I noticed in your speech. You say ‘don’t’ when you shouldn’t. +‘Don’t’ is a contraction and stands for two words. Do you know them?” + +He thought a moment, then answered, “‘Do not.’” + +She nodded her head, and said, “And you use ‘don’t’ when you mean ‘does +not.’” + +He was puzzled over this, and did not get it so quickly. + +“Give me an illustration,” he asked. + +“Well—” She puckered her brows and pursed up her mouth as she thought, +while he looked on and decided that her expression was most adorable. +“‘It don’t do to be hasty.’ Change ‘don’t’ to ‘do not,’ and it reads, +‘It do not do to be hasty,’ which is perfectly absurd.” + +He turned it over in his mind and considered. + +“Doesn’t it jar on your ear?” she suggested. + +“Can’t say that it does,” he replied judicially. + +“Why didn’t you say, ‘Can’t say that it do’?” she queried. + +“That sounds wrong,” he said slowly. “As for the other I can’t make up +my mind. I guess my ear ain’t had the trainin’ yours has.” + +“There is no such word as ‘ain’t,’” she said, prettily emphatic. + +Martin flushed again. + +“And you say ‘ben’ for ‘been,’” she continued; “‘come’ for ‘came’; and +the way you chop your endings is something dreadful.” + +“How do you mean?” He leaned forward, feeling that he ought to get down +on his knees before so marvellous a mind. “How do I chop?” + +“You don’t complete the endings. ‘A-n-d’ spells ‘and.’ You pronounce it +‘an’.’ ‘I-n-g’ spells ‘ing.’ Sometimes you pronounce it ‘ing’ and +sometimes you leave off the ‘g.’ And then you slur by dropping initial +letters and diphthongs. ‘T-h-e-m’ spells ‘them.’ You pronounce it—oh, +well, it is not necessary to go over all of them. What you need is the +grammar. I’ll get one and show you how to begin.” + +As she arose, there shot through his mind something that he had read in +the etiquette books, and he stood up awkwardly, worrying as to whether +he was doing the right thing, and fearing that she might take it as a +sign that he was about to go. + +“By the way, Mr. Eden,” she called back, as she was leaving the room. +“What is _booze_? You used it several times, you know.” + +“Oh, booze,” he laughed. “It’s slang. It means whiskey an’ +beer—anything that will make you drunk.” + +“And another thing,” she laughed back. “Don’t use ‘you’ when you are +impersonal. ‘You’ is very personal, and your use of it just now was not +precisely what you meant.” + +“I don’t just see that.” + +“Why, you said just now, to me, ‘whiskey and beer—anything that will +make you drunk’—make me drunk, don’t you see?” + +“Well, it would, wouldn’t it?” + +“Yes, of course,” she smiled. “But it would be nicer not to bring me +into it. Substitute ‘one’ for ‘you’ and see how much better it sounds.” + +When she returned with the grammar, she drew a chair near his—he +wondered if he should have helped her with the chair—and sat down +beside him. She turned the pages of the grammar, and their heads were +inclined toward each other. He could hardly follow her outlining of the +work he must do, so amazed was he by her delightful propinquity. But +when she began to lay down the importance of conjugation, he forgot all +about her. He had never heard of conjugation, and was fascinated by the +glimpse he was catching into the tie-ribs of language. He leaned closer +to the page, and her hair touched his cheek. He had fainted but once in +his life, and he thought he was going to faint again. He could scarcely +breathe, and his heart was pounding the blood up into his throat and +suffocating him. Never had she seemed so accessible as now. For the +moment the great gulf that separated them was bridged. But there was no +diminution in the loftiness of his feeling for her. She had not +descended to him. It was he who had been caught up into the clouds and +carried to her. His reverence for her, in that moment, was of the same +order as religious awe and fervor. It seemed to him that he had +intruded upon the holy of holies, and slowly and carefully he moved his +head aside from the contact which thrilled him like an electric shock +and of which she had not been aware. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +Several weeks went by, during which Martin Eden studied his grammar, +reviewed the books on etiquette, and read voraciously the books that +caught his fancy. Of his own class he saw nothing. The girls of the +Lotus Club wondered what had become of him and worried Jim with +questions, and some of the fellows who put on the glove at Riley’s were +glad that Martin came no more. He made another discovery of +treasure-trove in the library. As the grammar had shown him the +tie-ribs of language, so that book showed him the tie-ribs of poetry, +and he began to learn metre and construction and form, beneath the +beauty he loved finding the why and wherefore of that beauty. Another +modern book he found treated poetry as a representative art, treated it +exhaustively, with copious illustrations from the best in literature. +Never had he read fiction with so keen zest as he studied these books. +And his fresh mind, untaxed for twenty years and impelled by maturity +of desire, gripped hold of what he read with a virility unusual to the +student mind. + +When he looked back now from his vantage-ground, the old world he had +known, the world of land and sea and ships, of sailor-men and +harpy-women, seemed a very small world; and yet it blended in with this +new world and expanded. His mind made for unity, and he was surprised +when at first he began to see points of contact between the two worlds. +And he was ennobled, as well, by the loftiness of thought and beauty he +found in the books. This led him to believe more firmly than ever that +up above him, in society like Ruth and her family, all men and women +thought these thoughts and lived them. Down below where he lived was +the ignoble, and he wanted to purge himself of the ignoble that had +soiled all his days, and to rise to that sublimated realm where dwelt +the upper classes. All his childhood and youth had been troubled by a +vague unrest; he had never known what he wanted, but he had wanted +something that he had hunted vainly for until he met Ruth. And now his +unrest had become sharp and painful, and he knew at last, clearly and +definitely, that it was beauty, and intellect, and love that he must +have. + +During those several weeks he saw Ruth half a dozen times, and each +time was an added inspiration. She helped him with his English, +corrected his pronunciation, and started him on arithmetic. But their +intercourse was not all devoted to elementary study. He had seen too +much of life, and his mind was too matured, to be wholly content with +fractions, cube root, parsing, and analysis; and there were times when +their conversation turned on other themes—the last poetry he had read, +the latest poet she had studied. And when she read aloud to him her +favorite passages, he ascended to the topmost heaven of delight. Never, +in all the women he had heard speak, had he heard a voice like hers. +The least sound of it was a stimulus to his love, and he thrilled and +throbbed with every word she uttered. It was the quality of it, the +repose, and the musical modulation—the soft, rich, indefinable product +of culture and a gentle soul. As he listened to her, there rang in the +ears of his memory the harsh cries of barbarian women and of hags, and, +in lesser degrees of harshness, the strident voices of working women +and of the girls of his own class. Then the chemistry of vision would +begin to work, and they would troop in review across his mind, each, by +contrast, multiplying Ruth’s glories. Then, too, his bliss was +heightened by the knowledge that her mind was comprehending what she +read and was quivering with appreciation of the beauty of the written +thought. She read to him much from “The Princess,” and often he saw her +eyes swimming with tears, so finely was her aesthetic nature strung. At +such moments her own emotions elevated him till he was as a god, and, +as he gazed at her and listened, he seemed gazing on the face of life +and reading its deepest secrets. And then, becoming aware of the +heights of exquisite sensibility he attained, he decided that this was +love and that love was the greatest thing in the world. And in review +would pass along the corridors of memory all previous thrills and +burnings he had known,—the drunkenness of wine, the caresses of women, +the rough play and give and take of physical contests,—and they seemed +trivial and mean compared with this sublime ardor he now enjoyed. + +The situation was obscured to Ruth. She had never had any experiences +of the heart. Her only experiences in such matters were of the books, +where the facts of ordinary day were translated by fancy into a fairy +realm of unreality; and she little knew that this rough sailor was +creeping into her heart and storing there pent forces that would some +day burst forth and surge through her in waves of fire. She did not +know the actual fire of love. Her knowledge of love was purely +theoretical, and she conceived of it as lambent flame, gentle as the +fall of dew or the ripple of quiet water, and cool as the velvet-dark +of summer nights. Her idea of love was more that of placid affection, +serving the loved one softly in an atmosphere, flower-scented and +dim-lighted, of ethereal calm. She did not dream of the volcanic +convulsions of love, its scorching heat and sterile wastes of parched +ashes. She knew neither her own potencies, nor the potencies of the +world; and the deeps of life were to her seas of illusion. The conjugal +affection of her father and mother constituted her ideal of +love-affinity, and she looked forward some day to emerging, without +shock or friction, into that same quiet sweetness of existence with a +loved one. + +So it was that she looked upon Martin Eden as a novelty, a strange +individual, and she identified with novelty and strangeness the effects +he produced upon her. It was only natural. In similar ways she had +experienced unusual feelings when she looked at wild animals in the +menagerie, or when she witnessed a storm of wind, or shuddered at the +bright-ribbed lightning. There was something cosmic in such things, and +there was something cosmic in him. He came to her breathing of large +airs and great spaces. The blaze of tropic suns was in his face, and in +his swelling, resilient muscles was the primordial vigor of life. He +was marred and scarred by that mysterious world of rough men and +rougher deeds, the outposts of which began beyond her horizon. He was +untamed, wild, and in secret ways her vanity was touched by the fact +that he came so mildly to her hand. Likewise she was stirred by the +common impulse to tame the wild thing. It was an unconscious impulse, +and farthest from her thoughts that her desire was to re-thumb the clay +of him into a likeness of her father’s image, which image she believed +to be the finest in the world. Nor was there any way, out of her +inexperience, for her to know that the cosmic feel she caught of him +was that most cosmic of things, love, which with equal power drew men +and women together across the world, compelled stags to kill each other +in the rutting season, and drove even the elements irresistibly to +unite. + +His swift development was a source of surprise and interest. She +detected unguessed finenesses in him that seemed to bud, day by day, +like flowers in congenial soil. She read Browning aloud to him, and was +often puzzled by the strange interpretations he gave to mooted +passages. It was beyond her to realize that, out of his experience of +men and women and life, his interpretations were far more frequently +correct than hers. His conceptions seemed naive to her, though she was +often fired by his daring flights of comprehension, whose orbit-path +was so wide among the stars that she could not follow and could only +sit and thrill to the impact of unguessed power. Then she played to +him—no longer at him—and probed him with music that sank to depths +beyond her plumb-line. His nature opened to music as a flower to the +sun, and the transition was quick from his working-class rag-time and +jingles to her classical display pieces that she knew nearly by heart. +Yet he betrayed a democratic fondness for Wagner, and the “Tannhäuser” +overture, when she had given him the clew to it, claimed him as nothing +else she played. In an immediate way it personified his life. All his +past was the _Venusburg_ motif, while her he identified somehow with +the _Pilgrim’s Chorus_ motif; and from the exalted state this elevated +him to, he swept onward and upward into that vast shadow-realm of +spirit-groping, where good and evil war eternally. + +Sometimes he questioned, and induced in her mind temporary doubts as to +the correctness of her own definitions and conceptions of music. But +her singing he did not question. It was too wholly her, and he sat +always amazed at the divine melody of her pure soprano voice. And he +could not help but contrast it with the weak pipings and shrill +quaverings of factory girls, ill-nourished and untrained, and with the +raucous shriekings from gin-cracked throats of the women of the seaport +towns. She enjoyed singing and playing to him. In truth, it was the +first time she had ever had a human soul to play with, and the plastic +clay of him was a delight to mould; for she thought she was moulding +it, and her intentions were good. Besides, it was pleasant to be with +him. He did not repel her. That first repulsion had been really a fear +of her undiscovered self, and the fear had gone to sleep. Though she +did not know it, she had a feeling in him of proprietary right. Also, +he had a tonic effect upon her. She was studying hard at the +university, and it seemed to strengthen her to emerge from the dusty +books and have the fresh sea-breeze of his personality blow upon her. +Strength! Strength was what she needed, and he gave it to her in +generous measure. To come into the same room with him, or to meet him +at the door, was to take heart of life. And when he had gone, she would +return to her books with a keener zest and fresh store of energy. + +She knew her Browning, but it had never sunk into her that it was an +awkward thing to play with souls. As her interest in Martin increased, +the remodelling of his life became a passion with her. + +“There is Mr. Butler,” she said one afternoon, when grammar and +arithmetic and poetry had been put aside. + +“He had comparatively no advantages at first. His father had been a +bank cashier, but he lingered for years, dying of consumption in +Arizona, so that when he was dead, Mr. Butler, Charles Butler he was +called, found himself alone in the world. His father had come from +Australia, you know, and so he had no relatives in California. He went +to work in a printing-office,—I have heard him tell of it many +times,—and he got three dollars a week, at first. His income to-day is +at least thirty thousand a year. How did he do it? He was honest, and +faithful, and industrious, and economical. He denied himself the +enjoyments that most boys indulge in. He made it a point to save so +much every week, no matter what he had to do without in order to save +it. Of course, he was soon earning more than three dollars a week, and +as his wages increased he saved more and more. + +“He worked in the daytime, and at night he went to night school. He had +his eyes fixed always on the future. Later on he went to night high +school. When he was only seventeen, he was earning excellent wages at +setting type, but he was ambitious. He wanted a career, not a +livelihood, and he was content to make immediate sacrifices for his +ultimate gain. He decided upon the law, and he entered father’s office +as an office boy—think of that!—and got only four dollars a week. But +he had learned how to be economical, and out of that four dollars he +went on saving money.” + +She paused for breath, and to note how Martin was receiving it. His +face was lighted up with interest in the youthful struggles of Mr. +Butler; but there was a frown upon his face as well. + +“I’d say they was pretty hard lines for a young fellow,” he remarked. +“Four dollars a week! How could he live on it? You can bet he didn’t +have any frills. Why, I pay five dollars a week for board now, an’ +there’s nothin’ excitin’ about it, you can lay to that. He must have +lived like a dog. The food he ate—” + +“He cooked for himself,” she interrupted, “on a little kerosene stove.” + +“The food he ate must have been worse than what a sailor gets on the +worst-feedin’ deep-water ships, than which there ain’t much that can be +possibly worse.” + +“But think of him now!” she cried enthusiastically. “Think of what his +income affords him. His early denials are paid for a thousand-fold.” + +Martin looked at her sharply. + +“There’s one thing I’ll bet you,” he said, “and it is that Mr. Butler +is nothin’ gay-hearted now in his fat days. He fed himself like that +for years an’ years, on a boy’s stomach, an’ I bet his stomach’s none +too good now for it.” + +Her eyes dropped before his searching gaze. + +“I’ll bet he’s got dyspepsia right now!” Martin challenged. + +“Yes, he has,” she confessed; “but—” + +“An’ I bet,” Martin dashed on, “that he’s solemn an’ serious as an old +owl, an’ doesn’t care a rap for a good time, for all his thirty +thousand a year. An’ I’ll bet he’s not particularly joyful at seein’ +others have a good time. Ain’t I right?” + +She nodded her head in agreement, and hastened to explain:- + +“But he is not that type of man. By nature he is sober and serious. He +always was that.” + +“You can bet he was,” Martin proclaimed. “Three dollars a week, an’ +four dollars a week, an’ a young boy cookin’ for himself on an +oil-burner an’ layin’ up money, workin’ all day an’ studyin’ all night, +just workin’ an’ never playin’, never havin’ a good time, an’ never +learnin’ how to have a good time—of course his thirty thousand came +along too late.” + +His sympathetic imagination was flashing upon his inner sight all the +thousands of details of the boy’s existence and of his narrow spiritual +development into a thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year man. With the +swiftness and wide-reaching of multitudinous thought Charles Butler’s +whole life was telescoped upon his vision. + +“Do you know,” he added, “I feel sorry for Mr. Butler. He was too young +to know better, but he robbed himself of life for the sake of thirty +thousand a year that’s clean wasted upon him. Why, thirty thousand, +lump sum, wouldn’t buy for him right now what ten cents he was layin’ +up would have bought him, when he was a kid, in the way of candy an’ +peanuts or a seat in nigger heaven.” + +It was just such uniqueness of points of view that startled Ruth. Not +only were they new to her, and contrary to her own beliefs, but she +always felt in them germs of truth that threatened to unseat or modify +her own convictions. Had she been fourteen instead of twenty-four, she +might have been changed by them; but she was twenty-four, conservative +by nature and upbringing, and already crystallized into the cranny of +life where she had been born and formed. It was true, his bizarre +judgments troubled her in the moments they were uttered, but she +ascribed them to his novelty of type and strangeness of living, and +they were soon forgotten. Nevertheless, while she disapproved of them, +the strength of their utterance, and the flashing of eyes and +earnestness of face that accompanied them, always thrilled her and drew +her toward him. She would never have guessed that this man who had come +from beyond her horizon, was, in such moments, flashing on beyond her +horizon with wider and deeper concepts. Her own limits were the limits +of her horizon; but limited minds can recognize limitations only in +others. And so she felt that her outlook was very wide indeed, and that +where his conflicted with hers marked his limitations; and she dreamed +of helping him to see as she saw, of widening his horizon until it was +identified with hers. + +“But I have not finished my story,” she said. “He worked, so father +says, as no other office boy he ever had. Mr. Butler was always eager +to work. He never was late, and he was usually at the office a few +minutes before his regular time. And yet he saved his time. Every spare +moment was devoted to study. He studied book-keeping and type-writing, +and he paid for lessons in shorthand by dictating at night to a court +reporter who needed practice. He quickly became a clerk, and he made +himself invaluable. Father appreciated him and saw that he was bound to +rise. It was on father’s suggestion that he went to law college. He +became a lawyer, and hardly was he back in the office when father took +him in as junior partner. He is a great man. He refused the United +States Senate several times, and father says he could become a justice +of the Supreme Court any time a vacancy occurs, if he wants to. Such a +life is an inspiration to all of us. It shows us that a man with will +may rise superior to his environment.” + +“He is a great man,” Martin said sincerely. + +But it seemed to him there was something in the recital that jarred +upon his sense of beauty and life. He could not find an adequate motive +in Mr. Butler’s life of pinching and privation. Had he done it for love +of a woman, or for attainment of beauty, Martin would have understood. +God’s own mad lover should do anything for the kiss, but not for thirty +thousand dollars a year. He was dissatisfied with Mr. Butler’s career. +There was something paltry about it, after all. Thirty thousand a year +was all right, but dyspepsia and inability to be humanly happy robbed +such princely income of all its value. + +Much of this he strove to express to Ruth, and shocked her and made it +clear that more remodelling was necessary. Hers was that common +insularity of mind that makes human creatures believe that their color, +creed, and politics are best and right and that other human creatures +scattered over the world are less fortunately placed than they. It was +the same insularity of mind that made the ancient Jew thank God he was +not born a woman, and sent the modern missionary god-substituting to +the ends of the earth; and it made Ruth desire to shape this man from +other crannies of life into the likeness of the men who lived in her +particular cranny of life. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +Back from sea Martin Eden came, homing for California with a lover’s +desire. His store of money exhausted, he had shipped before the mast on +the treasure-hunting schooner; and the Solomon Islands, after eight +months of failure to find treasure, had witnessed the breaking up of +the expedition. The men had been paid off in Australia, and Martin had +immediately shipped on a deep-water vessel for San Francisco. Not alone +had those eight months earned him enough money to stay on land for many +weeks, but they had enabled him to do a great deal of studying and +reading. + +His was the student’s mind, and behind his ability to learn was the +indomitability of his nature and his love for Ruth. The grammar he had +taken along he went through again and again until his unjaded brain had +mastered it. He noticed the bad grammar used by his shipmates, and made +a point of mentally correcting and reconstructing their crudities of +speech. To his great joy he discovered that his ear was becoming +sensitive and that he was developing grammatical nerves. A double +negative jarred him like a discord, and often, from lack of practice, +it was from his own lips that the jar came. His tongue refused to learn +new tricks in a day. + +After he had been through the grammar repeatedly, he took up the +dictionary and added twenty words a day to his vocabulary. He found +that this was no light task, and at wheel or lookout he steadily went +over and over his lengthening list of pronunciations and definitions, +while he invariably memorized himself to sleep. “Never did anything,” +“if I were,” and “those things,” were phrases, with many variations, +that he repeated under his breath in order to accustom his tongue to +the language spoken by Ruth. “And” and “ing,” with the “d” and “g” +pronounced emphatically, he went over thousands of times; and to his +surprise he noticed that he was beginning to speak cleaner and more +correct English than the officers themselves and the +gentleman-adventurers in the cabin who had financed the expedition. + +The captain was a fishy-eyed Norwegian who somehow had fallen into +possession of a complete Shakespeare, which he never read, and Martin +had washed his clothes for him and in return been permitted access to +the precious volumes. For a time, so steeped was he in the plays and in +the many favorite passages that impressed themselves almost without +effort on his brain, that all the world seemed to shape itself into +forms of Elizabethan tragedy or comedy and his very thoughts were in +blank verse. It trained his ear and gave him a fine appreciation for +noble English; withal it introduced into his mind much that was archaic +and obsolete. + +The eight months had been well spent, and, in addition to what he had +learned of right speaking and high thinking, he had learned much of +himself. Along with his humbleness because he knew so little, there +arose a conviction of power. He felt a sharp gradation between himself +and his shipmates, and was wise enough to realize that the difference +lay in potentiality rather than achievement. What he could do,—they +could do; but within him he felt a confused ferment working that told +him there was more in him than he had done. He was tortured by the +exquisite beauty of the world, and wished that Ruth were there to share +it with him. He decided that he would describe to her many of the bits +of South Sea beauty. The creative spirit in him flamed up at the +thought and urged that he recreate this beauty for a wider audience +than Ruth. And then, in splendor and glory, came the great idea. He +would write. He would be one of the eyes through which the world saw, +one of the ears through which it heard, one of the hearts through which +it felt. He would write—everything—poetry and prose, fiction and +description, and plays like Shakespeare. There was career and the way +to win to Ruth. The men of literature were the world’s giants, and he +conceived them to be far finer than the Mr. Butlers who earned thirty +thousand a year and could be Supreme Court justices if they wanted to. + +Once the idea had germinated, it mastered him, and the return voyage to +San Francisco was like a dream. He was drunken with unguessed power and +felt that he could do anything. In the midst of the great and lonely +sea he gained perspective. Clearly, and for the first time, he saw Ruth +and her world. It was all visualized in his mind as a concrete thing +which he could take up in his two hands and turn around and about and +examine. There was much that was dim and nebulous in that world, but he +saw it as a whole and not in detail, and he saw, also, the way to +master it. To write! The thought was fire in him. He would begin as +soon as he got back. The first thing he would do would be to describe +the voyage of the treasure-hunters. He would sell it to some San +Francisco newspaper. He would not tell Ruth anything about it, and she +would be surprised and pleased when she saw his name in print. While he +wrote, he could go on studying. There were twenty-four hours in each +day. He was invincible. He knew how to work, and the citadels would go +down before him. He would not have to go to sea again—as a sailor; and +for the instant he caught a vision of a steam yacht. There were other +writers who possessed steam yachts. Of course, he cautioned himself, it +would be slow succeeding at first, and for a time he would be content +to earn enough money by his writing to enable him to go on studying. +And then, after some time,—a very indeterminate time,—when he had +learned and prepared himself, he would write the great things and his +name would be on all men’s lips. But greater than that, infinitely +greater and greatest of all, he would have proved himself worthy of +Ruth. Fame was all very well, but it was for Ruth that his splendid +dream arose. He was not a fame-monger, but merely one of God’s mad +lovers. + +Arrived in Oakland, with his snug pay-day in his pocket, he took up his +old room at Bernard Higginbotham’s and set to work. He did not even let +Ruth know he was back. He would go and see her when he finished the +article on the treasure-hunters. It was not so difficult to abstain +from seeing her, because of the violent heat of creative fever that +burned in him. Besides, the very article he was writing would bring her +nearer to him. He did not know how long an article he should write, but +he counted the words in a double-page article in the Sunday supplement +of the _San Francisco Examiner_, and guided himself by that. Three +days, at white heat, completed his narrative; but when he had copied it +carefully, in a large scrawl that was easy to read, he learned from a +rhetoric he picked up in the library that there were such things as +paragraphs and quotation marks. He had never thought of such things +before; and he promptly set to work writing the article over, referring +continually to the pages of the rhetoric and learning more in a day +about composition than the average schoolboy in a year. When he had +copied the article a second time and rolled it up carefully, he read in +a newspaper an item on hints to beginners, and discovered the iron law +that manuscripts should never be rolled and that they should be written +on one side of the paper. He had violated the law on both counts. Also, +he learned from the item that first-class papers paid a minimum of ten +dollars a column. So, while he copied the manuscript a third time, he +consoled himself by multiplying ten columns by ten dollars. The product +was always the same, one hundred dollars, and he decided that that was +better than seafaring. If it hadn’t been for his blunders, he would +have finished the article in three days. One hundred dollars in three +days! It would have taken him three months and longer on the sea to +earn a similar amount. A man was a fool to go to sea when he could +write, he concluded, though the money in itself meant nothing to him. +Its value was in the liberty it would get him, the presentable garments +it would buy him, all of which would bring him nearer, swiftly nearer, +to the slender, pale girl who had turned his life back upon itself and +given him inspiration. + +He mailed the manuscript in a flat envelope, and addressed it to the +editor of the _San Francisco Examiner_. He had an idea that anything +accepted by a paper was published immediately, and as he had sent the +manuscript in on Friday he expected it to come out on the following +Sunday. He conceived that it would be fine to let that event apprise +Ruth of his return. Then, Sunday afternoon, he would call and see her. +In the meantime he was occupied by another idea, which he prided +himself upon as being a particularly sane, careful, and modest idea. He +would write an adventure story for boys and sell it to _The Youth’s +Companion_. He went to the free reading-room and looked through the +files of _The Youth’s Companion_. Serial stories, he found, were +usually published in that weekly in five instalments of about three +thousand words each. He discovered several serials that ran to seven +instalments, and decided to write one of that length. + +He had been on a whaling voyage in the Arctic, once—a voyage that was +to have been for three years and which had terminated in shipwreck at +the end of six months. While his imagination was fanciful, even +fantastic at times, he had a basic love of reality that compelled him +to write about the things he knew. He knew whaling, and out of the real +materials of his knowledge he proceeded to manufacture the fictitious +adventures of the two boys he intended to use as joint heroes. It was +easy work, he decided on Saturday evening. He had completed on that day +the first instalment of three thousand words—much to the amusement of +Jim, and to the open derision of Mr. Higginbotham, who sneered +throughout meal-time at the “litery” person they had discovered in the +family. + +Martin contented himself by picturing his brother-in-law’s surprise on +Sunday morning when he opened his _Examiner_ and saw the article on the +treasure-hunters. Early that morning he was out himself to the front +door, nervously racing through the many-sheeted newspaper. He went +through it a second time, very carefully, then folded it up and left it +where he had found it. He was glad he had not told any one about his +article. On second thought he concluded that he had been wrong about +the speed with which things found their way into newspaper columns. +Besides, there had not been any news value in his article, and most +likely the editor would write to him about it first. + +After breakfast he went on with his serial. The words flowed from his +pen, though he broke off from the writing frequently to look up +definitions in the dictionary or to refer to the rhetoric. He often +read or re-read a chapter at a time, during such pauses; and he +consoled himself that while he was not writing the great things he felt +to be in him, he was learning composition, at any rate, and training +himself to shape up and express his thoughts. He toiled on till dark, +when he went out to the reading-room and explored magazines and +weeklies until the place closed at ten o’clock. This was his programme +for a week. Each day he did three thousand words, and each evening he +puzzled his way through the magazines, taking note of the stories, +articles, and poems that editors saw fit to publish. One thing was +certain: What these multitudinous writers did he could do, and only +give him time and he would do what they could not do. He was cheered to +read in _Book News_, in a paragraph on the payment of magazine writers, +not that Rudyard Kipling received a dollar per word, but that the +minimum rate paid by first-class magazines was two cents a word. _The +Youth’s Companion_ was certainly first class, and at that rate the +three thousand words he had written that day would bring him sixty +dollars—two months’ wages on the sea! + +On Friday night he finished the serial, twenty-one thousand words long. +At two cents a word, he calculated, that would bring him four hundred +and twenty dollars. Not a bad week’s work. It was more money than he +had ever possessed at one time. He did not know how he could spend it +all. He had tapped a gold mine. Where this came from he could always +get more. He planned to buy some more clothes, to subscribe to many +magazines, and to buy dozens of reference books that at present he was +compelled to go to the library to consult. And still there was a large +portion of the four hundred and twenty dollars unspent. This worried +him until the thought came to him of hiring a servant for Gertrude and +of buying a bicycle for Marian. + +He mailed the bulky manuscript to _The Youth’s Companion_, and on +Saturday afternoon, after having planned an article on pearl-diving, he +went to see Ruth. He had telephoned, and she went herself to greet him +at the door. The old familiar blaze of health rushed out from him and +struck her like a blow. It seemed to enter into her body and course +through her veins in a liquid glow, and to set her quivering with its +imparted strength. He flushed warmly as he took her hand and looked +into her blue eyes, but the fresh bronze of eight months of sun hid the +flush, though it did not protect the neck from the gnawing chafe of the +stiff collar. She noted the red line of it with amusement which quickly +vanished as she glanced at his clothes. They really fitted him,—it was +his first made-to-order suit,—and he seemed slimmer and better +modelled. In addition, his cloth cap had been replaced by a soft hat, +which she commanded him to put on and then complimented him on his +appearance. She did not remember when she had felt so happy. This +change in him was her handiwork, and she was proud of it and fired with +ambition further to help him. + +But the most radical change of all, and the one that pleased her most, +was the change in his speech. Not only did he speak more correctly, but +he spoke more easily, and there were many new words in his vocabulary. +When he grew excited or enthusiastic, however, he dropped back into the +old slurring and the dropping of final consonants. Also, there was an +awkward hesitancy, at times, as he essayed the new words he had +learned. On the other hand, along with his ease of expression, he +displayed a lightness and facetiousness of thought that delighted her. +It was his old spirit of humor and badinage that had made him a +favorite in his own class, but which he had hitherto been unable to use +in her presence through lack of words and training. He was just +beginning to orientate himself and to feel that he was not wholly an +intruder. But he was very tentative, fastidiously so, letting Ruth set +the pace of sprightliness and fancy, keeping up with her but never +daring to go beyond her. + +He told her of what he had been doing, and of his plan to write for a +livelihood and of going on with his studies. But he was disappointed at +her lack of approval. She did not think much of his plan. + +“You see,” she said frankly, “writing must be a trade, like anything +else. Not that I know anything about it, of course. I only bring common +judgment to bear. You couldn’t hope to be a blacksmith without spending +three years at learning the trade—or is it five years! Now writers are +so much better paid than blacksmiths that there must be ever so many +more men who would like to write, who—try to write.” + +“But then, may not I be peculiarly constituted to write?” he queried, +secretly exulting at the language he had used, his swift imagination +throwing the whole scene and atmosphere upon a vast screen along with a +thousand other scenes from his life—scenes that were rough and raw, +gross and bestial. + +The whole composite vision was achieved with the speed of light, +producing no pause in the conversation, nor interrupting his calm train +of thought. On the screen of his imagination he saw himself and this +sweet and beautiful girl, facing each other and conversing in good +English, in a room of books and paintings and tone and culture, and all +illuminated by a bright light of steadfast brilliance; while ranged +about and fading away to the remote edges of the screen were +antithetical scenes, each scene a picture, and he the onlooker, free to +look at will upon what he wished. He saw these other scenes through +drifting vapors and swirls of sullen fog dissolving before shafts of +red and garish light. He saw cowboys at the bar, drinking fierce +whiskey, the air filled with obscenity and ribald language, and he saw +himself with them drinking and cursing with the wildest, or sitting at +table with them, under smoking kerosene lamps, while the chips clicked +and clattered and the cards were dealt around. He saw himself, stripped +to the waist, with naked fists, fighting his great fight with Liverpool +Red in the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_; and he saw the bloody deck +of the _John Rogers_, that gray morning of attempted mutiny, the mate +kicking in death-throes on the main-hatch, the revolver in the old +man’s hand spitting fire and smoke, the men with passion-wrenched +faces, of brutes screaming vile blasphemies and falling about him—and +then he returned to the central scene, calm and clean in the steadfast +light, where Ruth sat and talked with him amid books and paintings; and +he saw the grand piano upon which she would later play to him; and he +heard the echoes of his own selected and correct words, “But then, may +I not be peculiarly constituted to write?” + +“But no matter how peculiarly constituted a man may be for +blacksmithing,” she was laughing, “I never heard of one becoming a +blacksmith without first serving his apprenticeship.” + +“What would you advise?” he asked. “And don’t forget that I feel in me +this capacity to write—I can’t explain it; I just know that it is in +me.” + +“You must get a thorough education,” was the answer, “whether or not +you ultimately become a writer. This education is indispensable for +whatever career you select, and it must not be slipshod or sketchy. You +should go to high school.” + +“Yes—” he began; but she interrupted with an afterthought:- + +“Of course, you could go on with your writing, too.” + +“I would have to,” he said grimly. + +“Why?” She looked at him, prettily puzzled, for she did not quite like +the persistence with which he clung to his notion. + +“Because, without writing there wouldn’t be any high school. I must +live and buy books and clothes, you know.” + +“I’d forgotten that,” she laughed. “Why weren’t you born with an +income?” + +“I’d rather have good health and imagination,” he answered. “I can make +good on the income, but the other things have to be made good for—” He +almost said “you,” then amended his sentence to, “have to be made good +for one.” + +“Don’t say ‘make good,’” she cried, sweetly petulant. “It’s slang, and +it’s horrid.” + +He flushed, and stammered, “That’s right, and I only wish you’d correct +me every time.” + +“I—I’d like to,” she said haltingly. “You have so much in you that is +good that I want to see you perfect.” + +He was clay in her hands immediately, as passionately desirous of being +moulded by her as she was desirous of shaping him into the image of her +ideal of man. And when she pointed out the opportuneness of the time, +that the entrance examinations to high school began on the following +Monday, he promptly volunteered that he would take them. + +Then she played and sang to him, while he gazed with hungry yearning at +her, drinking in her loveliness and marvelling that there should not be +a hundred suitors listening there and longing for her as he listened +and longed. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +He stopped to dinner that evening, and, much to Ruth’s satisfaction, +made a favorable impression on her father. They talked about the sea as +a career, a subject which Martin had at his finger-ends, and Mr. Morse +remarked afterward that he seemed a very clear-headed young man. In his +avoidance of slang and his search after right words, Martin was +compelled to talk slowly, which enabled him to find the best thoughts +that were in him. He was more at ease than that first night at dinner, +nearly a year before, and his shyness and modesty even commended him to +Mrs. Morse, who was pleased at his manifest improvement. + +“He is the first man that ever drew passing notice from Ruth,” she told +her husband. “She has been so singularly backward where men are +concerned that I have been worried greatly.” + +Mr. Morse looked at his wife curiously. + +“You mean to use this young sailor to wake her up?” he questioned. + +“I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it,” was the +answer. “If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in +general, it will be a good thing.” + +“A very good thing,” he commented. “But suppose,—and we must suppose, +sometimes, my dear,—suppose he arouses her interest too particularly in +him?” + +“Impossible,” Mrs. Morse laughed. “She is three years older than he, +and, besides, it is impossible. Nothing will ever come of it. Trust +that to me.” + +And so Martin’s rôle was arranged for him, while he, led on by Arthur +and Norman, was meditating an extravagance. They were going out for a +ride into the hills Sunday morning on their wheels, which did not +interest Martin until he learned that Ruth, too, rode a wheel and was +going along. He did not ride, nor own a wheel, but if Ruth rode, it was +up to him to begin, was his decision; and when he said good night, he +stopped in at a cyclery on his way home and spent forty dollars for a +wheel. It was more than a month’s hard-earned wages, and it reduced his +stock of money amazingly; but when he added the hundred dollars he was +to receive from the _Examiner_ to the four hundred and twenty dollars +that was the least _The Youth’s Companion_ could pay him, he felt that +he had reduced the perplexity the unwonted amount of money had caused +him. Nor did he mind, in the course of learning to ride the wheel home, +the fact that he ruined his suit of clothes. He caught the tailor by +telephone that night from Mr. Higginbotham’s store and ordered another +suit. Then he carried the wheel up the narrow stairway that clung like +a fire-escape to the rear wall of the building, and when he had moved +his bed out from the wall, found there was just space enough in the +small room for himself and the wheel. + +Sunday he had intended to devote to studying for the high school +examination, but the pearl-diving article lured him away, and he spent +the day in the white-hot fever of re-creating the beauty and romance +that burned in him. The fact that the _Examiner_ of that morning had +failed to publish his treasure-hunting article did not dash his +spirits. He was at too great a height for that, and having been deaf to +a twice-repeated summons, he went without the heavy Sunday dinner with +which Mr. Higginbotham invariably graced his table. To Mr. Higginbotham +such a dinner was advertisement of his worldly achievement and +prosperity, and he honored it by delivering platitudinous sermonettes +upon American institutions and the opportunity said institutions gave +to any hard-working man to rise—the rise, in his case, which he pointed +out unfailingly, being from a grocer’s clerk to the ownership of +Higginbotham’s Cash Store. + +Martin Eden looked with a sigh at his unfinished “Pearl-diving” on +Monday morning, and took the car down to Oakland to the high school. +And when, days later, he applied for the results of his examinations, +he learned that he had failed in everything save grammar. + +“Your grammar is excellent,” Professor Hilton informed him, staring at +him through heavy spectacles; “but you know nothing, positively +nothing, in the other branches, and your United States history is +abominable—there is no other word for it, abominable. I should advise +you—” + +Professor Hilton paused and glared at him, unsympathetic and +unimaginative as one of his own test-tubes. He was professor of physics +in the high school, possessor of a large family, a meagre salary, and a +select fund of parrot-learned knowledge. + +“Yes, sir,” Martin said humbly, wishing somehow that the man at the +desk in the library was in Professor Hilton’s place just then. + +“And I should advise you to go back to the grammar school for at least +two years. Good day.” + +Martin was not deeply affected by his failure, though he was surprised +at Ruth’s shocked expression when he told her Professor Hilton’s +advice. Her disappointment was so evident that he was sorry he had +failed, but chiefly so for her sake. + +“You see I was right,” she said. “You know far more than any of the +students entering high school, and yet you can’t pass the examinations. +It is because what education you have is fragmentary, sketchy. You need +the discipline of study, such as only skilled teachers can give you. +You must be thoroughly grounded. Professor Hilton is right, and if I +were you, I’d go to night school. A year and a half of it might enable +you to catch up that additional six months. Besides, that would leave +you your days in which to write, or, if you could not make your living +by your pen, you would have your days in which to work in some +position.” + +But if my days are taken up with work and my nights with school, when +am I going to see you?—was Martin’s first thought, though he refrained +from uttering it. Instead, he said:- + +“It seems so babyish for me to be going to night school. But I wouldn’t +mind that if I thought it would pay. But I don’t think it will pay. I +can do the work quicker than they can teach me. It would be a loss of +time—” he thought of her and his desire to have her—“and I can’t afford +the time. I haven’t the time to spare, in fact.” + +“There is so much that is necessary.” She looked at him gently, and he +was a brute to oppose her. “Physics and chemistry—you can’t do them +without laboratory study; and you’ll find algebra and geometry almost +hopeless without instruction. You need the skilled teachers, the +specialists in the art of imparting knowledge.” + +He was silent for a minute, casting about for the least vainglorious +way in which to express himself. + +“Please don’t think I’m bragging,” he began. “I don’t intend it that +way at all. But I have a feeling that I am what I may call a natural +student. I can study by myself. I take to it kindly, like a duck to +water. You see yourself what I did with grammar. And I’ve learned much +of other things—you would never dream how much. And I’m only getting +started. Wait till I get—” He hesitated and assured himself of the +pronunciation before he said “momentum. I’m getting my first real feel +of things now. I’m beginning to size up the situation—” + +“Please don’t say ‘size up,’” she interrupted. + +“To get a line on things,” he hastily amended. + +“That doesn’t mean anything in correct English,” she objected. + +He floundered for a fresh start. + +“What I’m driving at is that I’m beginning to get the lay of the land.” + +Out of pity she forebore, and he went on. + +“Knowledge seems to me like a chart-room. Whenever I go into the +library, I am impressed that way. The part played by teachers is to +teach the student the contents of the chart-room in a systematic way. +The teachers are guides to the chart-room, that’s all. It’s not +something that they have in their own heads. They don’t make it up, +don’t create it. It’s all in the chart-room and they know their way +about in it, and it’s their business to show the place to strangers who +might else get lost. Now I don’t get lost easily. I have the bump of +location. I usually know where I’m at—What’s wrong now?” + +“Don’t say ‘where I’m at.’” + +“That’s right,” he said gratefully, “where I am. But where am I at—I +mean, where am I? Oh, yes, in the chart-room. Well, some people—” + +“Persons,” she corrected. + +“Some persons need guides, most persons do; but I think I can get along +without them. I’ve spent a lot of time in the chart-room now, and I’m +on the edge of knowing my way about, what charts I want to refer to, +what coasts I want to explore. And from the way I line it up, I’ll +explore a whole lot more quickly by myself. The speed of a fleet, you +know, is the speed of the slowest ship, and the speed of the teachers +is affected the same way. They can’t go any faster than the ruck of +their scholars, and I can set a faster pace for myself than they set +for a whole schoolroom.” + +“‘He travels the fastest who travels alone,’” she quoted at him. + +But I’d travel faster with you just the same, was what he wanted to +blurt out, as he caught a vision of a world without end of sunlit +spaces and starry voids through which he drifted with her, his arm +around her, her pale gold hair blowing about his face. In the same +instant he was aware of the pitiful inadequacy of speech. God! If he +could so frame words that she could see what he then saw! And he felt +the stir in him, like a throe of yearning pain, of the desire to paint +these visions that flashed unsummoned on the mirror of his mind. Ah, +that was it! He caught at the hem of the secret. It was the very thing +that the great writers and master-poets did. That was why they were +giants. They knew how to express what they thought, and felt, and saw. +Dogs asleep in the sun often whined and barked, but they were unable to +tell what they saw that made them whine and bark. He had often wondered +what it was. And that was all he was, a dog asleep in the sun. He saw +noble and beautiful visions, but he could only whine and bark at Ruth. +But he would cease sleeping in the sun. He would stand up, with open +eyes, and he would struggle and toil and learn until, with eyes +unblinded and tongue untied, he could share with her his visioned +wealth. Other men had discovered the trick of expression, of making +words obedient servitors, and of making combinations of words mean more +than the sum of their separate meanings. He was stirred profoundly by +the passing glimpse at the secret, and he was again caught up in the +vision of sunlit spaces and starry voids—until it came to him that it +was very quiet, and he saw Ruth regarding him with an amused expression +and a smile in her eyes. + +“I have had a great visioning,” he said, and at the sound of his words +in his own ears his heart gave a leap. Where had those words come from? +They had adequately expressed the pause his vision had put in the +conversation. It was a miracle. Never had he so loftily framed a lofty +thought. But never had he attempted to frame lofty thoughts in words. +That was it. That explained it. He had never tried. But Swinburne had, +and Tennyson, and Kipling, and all the other poets. His mind flashed on +to his “Pearl-diving.” He had never dared the big things, the spirit of +the beauty that was a fire in him. That article would be a different +thing when he was done with it. He was appalled by the vastness of the +beauty that rightfully belonged in it, and again his mind flashed and +dared, and he demanded of himself why he could not chant that beauty in +noble verse as the great poets did. And there was all the mysterious +delight and spiritual wonder of his love for Ruth. Why could he not +chant that, too, as the poets did? They had sung of love. So would he. +By God!— + +And in his frightened ears he heard his exclamation echoing. Carried +away, he had breathed it aloud. The blood surged into his face, wave +upon wave, mastering the bronze of it till the blush of shame flaunted +itself from collar-rim to the roots of his hair. + +“I—I—beg your pardon,” he stammered. “I was thinking.” + +“It sounded as if you were praying,” she said bravely, but she felt +herself inside to be withering and shrinking. It was the first time she +had heard an oath from the lips of a man she knew, and she was shocked, +not merely as a matter of principle and training, but shocked in spirit +by this rough blast of life in the garden of her sheltered maidenhood. + +But she forgave, and with surprise at the ease of her forgiveness. +Somehow it was not so difficult to forgive him anything. He had not had +a chance to be as other men, and he was trying so hard, and succeeding, +too. It never entered her head that there could be any other reason for +her being kindly disposed toward him. She was tenderly disposed toward +him, but she did not know it. She had no way of knowing it. The placid +poise of twenty-four years without a single love affair did not fit her +with a keen perception of her own feelings, and she who had never +warmed to actual love was unaware that she was warming now. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +Martin went back to his pearl-diving article, which would have been +finished sooner if it had not been broken in upon so frequently by his +attempts to write poetry. His poems were love poems, inspired by Ruth, +but they were never completed. Not in a day could he learn to chant in +noble verse. Rhyme and metre and structure were serious enough in +themselves, but there was, over and beyond them, an intangible and +evasive something that he caught in all great poetry, but which he +could not catch and imprison in his own. It was the elusive spirit of +poetry itself that he sensed and sought after but could not capture. It +seemed a glow to him, a warm and trailing vapor, ever beyond his +reaching, though sometimes he was rewarded by catching at shreds of it +and weaving them into phrases that echoed in his brain with haunting +notes or drifted across his vision in misty wafture of unseen beauty. +It was baffling. He ached with desire to express and could but gibber +prosaically as everybody gibbered. He read his fragments aloud. The +metre marched along on perfect feet, and the rhyme pounded a longer and +equally faultless rhythm, but the glow and high exaltation that he felt +within were lacking. He could not understand, and time and again, in +despair, defeated and depressed, he returned to his article. Prose was +certainly an easier medium. + +Following the “Pearl-diving,” he wrote an article on the sea as a +career, another on turtle-catching, and a third on the northeast +trades. Then he tried, as an experiment, a short story, and before he +broke his stride he had finished six short stories and despatched them +to various magazines. He wrote prolifically, intensely, from morning +till night, and late at night, except when he broke off to go to the +reading-room, draw books from the library, or to call on Ruth. He was +profoundly happy. Life was pitched high. He was in a fever that never +broke. The joy of creation that is supposed to belong to the gods was +his. All the life about him—the odors of stale vegetables and soapsuds, +the slatternly form of his sister, and the jeering face of Mr. +Higginbotham—was a dream. The real world was in his mind, and the +stories he wrote were so many pieces of reality out of his mind. + +The days were too short. There was so much he wanted to study. He cut +his sleep down to five hours and found that he could get along upon it. +He tried four hours and a half, and regretfully came back to five. He +could joyfully have spent all his waking hours upon any one of his +pursuits. It was with regret that he ceased from writing to study, that +he ceased from study to go to the library, that he tore himself away +from that chart-room of knowledge or from the magazines in the +reading-room that were filled with the secrets of writers who succeeded +in selling their wares. It was like severing heart strings, when he was +with Ruth, to stand up and go; and he scorched through the dark streets +so as to get home to his books at the least possible expense of time. +And hardest of all was it to shut up the algebra or physics, put +note-book and pencil aside, and close his tired eyes in sleep. He hated +the thought of ceasing to live, even for so short a time, and his sole +consolation was that the alarm clock was set five hours ahead. He would +lose only five hours anyway, and then the jangling bell would jerk him +out of unconsciousness and he would have before him another glorious +day of nineteen hours. + +In the meantime the weeks were passing, his money was ebbing low, and +there was no money coming in. A month after he had mailed it, the +adventure serial for boys was returned to him by _The Youth’s +Companion_. The rejection slip was so tactfully worded that he felt +kindly toward the editor. But he did not feel so kindly toward the +editor of the _San Francisco Examiner_. After waiting two whole weeks, +Martin had written to him. A week later he wrote again. At the end of +the month, he went over to San Francisco and personally called upon the +editor. But he did not meet that exalted personage, thanks to a +Cerberus of an office boy, of tender years and red hair, who guarded +the portals. At the end of the fifth week the manuscript came back to +him, by mail, without comment. There was no rejection slip, no +explanation, nothing. In the same way his other articles were tied up +with the other leading San Francisco papers. When he recovered them, he +sent them to the magazines in the East, from which they were returned +more promptly, accompanied always by the printed rejection slips. + +The short stories were returned in similar fashion. He read them over +and over, and liked them so much that he could not puzzle out the cause +of their rejection, until, one day, he read in a newspaper that +manuscripts should always be typewritten. That explained it. Of course +editors were so busy that they could not afford the time and strain of +reading handwriting. Martin rented a typewriter and spent a day +mastering the machine. Each day he typed what he composed, and he typed +his earlier manuscripts as fast as they were returned him. He was +surprised when the typed ones began to come back. His jaw seemed to +become squarer, his chin more aggressive, and he bundled the +manuscripts off to new editors. + +The thought came to him that he was not a good judge of his own work. +He tried it out on Gertrude. He read his stories aloud to her. Her eyes +glistened, and she looked at him proudly as she said:- + +“Ain’t it grand, you writin’ those sort of things.” + +“Yes, yes,” he demanded impatiently. “But the story—how did you like +it?” + +“Just grand,” was the reply. “Just grand, an’ thrilling, too. I was all +worked up.” + +He could see that her mind was not clear. The perplexity was strong in +her good-natured face. So he waited. + +“But, say, Mart,” after a long pause, “how did it end? Did that young +man who spoke so highfalutin’ get her?” + +And, after he had explained the end, which he thought he had made +artistically obvious, she would say:- + +“That’s what I wanted to know. Why didn’t you write that way in the +story?” + +One thing he learned, after he had read her a number of stories, +namely, that she liked happy endings. + +“That story was perfectly grand,” she announced, straightening up from +the wash-tub with a tired sigh and wiping the sweat from her forehead +with a red, steamy hand; “but it makes me sad. I want to cry. There is +too many sad things in the world anyway. It makes me happy to think +about happy things. Now if he’d married her, and—You don’t mind, Mart?” +she queried apprehensively. “I just happen to feel that way, because +I’m tired, I guess. But the story was grand just the same, perfectly +grand. Where are you goin’ to sell it?” + +“That’s a horse of another color,” he laughed. + +“But if you _did_ sell it, what do you think you’d get for it?” + +“Oh, a hundred dollars. That would be the least, the way prices go.” + +“My! I do hope you’ll sell it!” + +“Easy money, eh?” Then he added proudly: “I wrote it in two days. +That’s fifty dollars a day.” + +He longed to read his stories to Ruth, but did not dare. He would wait +till some were published, he decided, then she would understand what he +had been working for. In the meantime he toiled on. Never had the +spirit of adventure lured him more strongly than on this amazing +exploration of the realm of mind. He bought the text-books on physics +and chemistry, and, along with his algebra, worked out problems and +demonstrations. He took the laboratory proofs on faith, and his intense +power of vision enabled him to see the reactions of chemicals more +understandingly than the average student saw them in the laboratory. +Martin wandered on through the heavy pages, overwhelmed by the clews he +was getting to the nature of things. He had accepted the world as the +world, but now he was comprehending the organization of it, the play +and interplay of force and matter. Spontaneous explanations of old +matters were continually arising in his mind. Levers and purchases +fascinated him, and his mind roved backward to hand-spikes and blocks +and tackles at sea. The theory of navigation, which enabled the ships +to travel unerringly their courses over the pathless ocean, was made +clear to him. The mysteries of storm, and rain, and tide were revealed, +and the reason for the existence of trade-winds made him wonder whether +he had written his article on the northeast trade too soon. At any rate +he knew he could write it better now. One afternoon he went out with +Arthur to the University of California, and, with bated breath and a +feeling of religious awe, went through the laboratories, saw +demonstrations, and listened to a physics professor lecturing to his +classes. + +But he did not neglect his writing. A stream of short stories flowed +from his pen, and he branched out into the easier forms of verse—the +kind he saw printed in the magazines—though he lost his head and wasted +two weeks on a tragedy in blank verse, the swift rejection of which, by +half a dozen magazines, dumfounded him. Then he discovered Henley and +wrote a series of sea-poems on the model of “Hospital Sketches.” They +were simple poems, of light and color, and romance and adventure. “Sea +Lyrics,” he called them, and he judged them to be the best work he had +yet done. There were thirty, and he completed them in a month, doing +one a day after having done his regular day’s work on fiction, which +day’s work was the equivalent to a week’s work of the average +successful writer. The toil meant nothing to him. It was not toil. He +was finding speech, and all the beauty and wonder that had been pent +for years behind his inarticulate lips was now pouring forth in a wild +and virile flood. + +He showed the “Sea Lyrics” to no one, not even to the editors. He had +become distrustful of editors. But it was not distrust that prevented +him from submitting the “Lyrics.” They were so beautiful to him that he +was impelled to save them to share with Ruth in some glorious, far-off +time when he would dare to read to her what he had written. Against +that time he kept them with him, reading them aloud, going over them +until he knew them by heart. + +He lived every moment of his waking hours, and he lived in his sleep, +his subjective mind rioting through his five hours of surcease and +combining the thoughts and events of the day into grotesque and +impossible marvels. In reality, he never rested, and a weaker body or a +less firmly poised brain would have been prostrated in a general +break-down. His late afternoon calls on Ruth were rarer now, for June +was approaching, when she would take her degree and finish with the +university. Bachelor of Arts!—when he thought of her degree, it seemed +she fled beyond him faster than he could pursue. + +One afternoon a week she gave to him, and arriving late, he usually +stayed for dinner and for music afterward. Those were his red-letter +days. The atmosphere of the house, in such contrast with that in which +he lived, and the mere nearness to her, sent him forth each time with a +firmer grip on his resolve to climb the heights. In spite of the beauty +in him, and the aching desire to create, it was for her that he +struggled. He was a lover first and always. All other things he +subordinated to love. + +Greater than his adventure in the world of thought was his +love-adventure. The world itself was not so amazing because of the +atoms and molecules that composed it according to the propulsions of +irresistible force; what made it amazing was the fact that Ruth lived +in it. She was the most amazing thing he had ever known, or dreamed, or +guessed. + +But he was oppressed always by her remoteness. She was so far from him, +and he did not know how to approach her. He had been a success with +girls and women in his own class; but he had never loved any of them, +while he did love her, and besides, she was not merely of another +class. His very love elevated her above all classes. She was a being +apart, so far apart that he did not know how to draw near to her as a +lover should draw near. It was true, as he acquired knowledge and +language, that he was drawing nearer, talking her speech, discovering +ideas and delights in common; but this did not satisfy his lover’s +yearning. His lover’s imagination had made her holy, too holy, too +spiritualized, to have any kinship with him in the flesh. It was his +own love that thrust her from him and made her seem impossible for him. +Love itself denied him the one thing that it desired. + +And then, one day, without warning, the gulf between them was bridged +for a moment, and thereafter, though the gulf remained, it was ever +narrower. They had been eating cherries—great, luscious, black cherries +with a juice of the color of dark wine. And later, as she read aloud to +him from “The Princess,” he chanced to notice the stain of the cherries +on her lips. For the moment her divinity was shattered. She was clay, +after all, mere clay, subject to the common law of clay as his clay was +subject, or anybody’s clay. Her lips were flesh like his, and cherries +dyed them as cherries dyed his. And if so with her lips, then was it so +with all of her. She was woman, all woman, just like any woman. It came +upon him abruptly. It was a revelation that stunned him. It was as if +he had seen the sun fall out of the sky, or had seen worshipped purity +polluted. + +Then he realized the significance of it, and his heart began pounding +and challenging him to play the lover with this woman who was not a +spirit from other worlds but a mere woman with lips a cherry could +stain. He trembled at the audacity of his thought; but all his soul was +singing, and reason, in a triumphant paean, assured him he was right. +Something of this change in him must have reached her, for she paused +from her reading, looked up at him, and smiled. His eyes dropped from +her blue eyes to her lips, and the sight of the stain maddened him. His +arms all but flashed out to her and around her, in the way of his old +careless life. She seemed to lean toward him, to wait, and all his will +fought to hold him back. + +“You were not following a word,” she pouted. + +Then she laughed at him, delighting in his confusion, and as he looked +into her frank eyes and knew that she had divined nothing of what he +felt, he became abashed. He had indeed in thought dared too far. Of all +the women he had known there was no woman who would not have +guessed—save her. And she had not guessed. There was the difference. +She was different. He was appalled by his own grossness, awed by her +clear innocence, and he gazed again at her across the gulf. The bridge +had broken down. + +But still the incident had brought him nearer. The memory of it +persisted, and in the moments when he was most cast down, he dwelt upon +it eagerly. The gulf was never again so wide. He had accomplished a +distance vastly greater than a bachelorship of arts, or a dozen +bachelorships. She was pure, it was true, as he had never dreamed of +purity; but cherries stained her lips. She was subject to the laws of +the universe just as inexorably as he was. She had to eat to live, and +when she got her feet wet, she caught cold. But that was not the point. +If she could feel hunger and thirst, and heat and cold, then could she +feel love—and love for a man. Well, he was a man. And why could he not +be the man? “It’s up to me to make good,” he would murmur fervently. “I +will be _the_ man. I will make myself _the_ man. I will make good.” + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +Early one evening, struggling with a sonnet that twisted all awry the +beauty and thought that trailed in glow and vapor through his brain, +Martin was called to the telephone. + +“It’s a lady’s voice, a fine lady’s,” Mr. Higginbotham, who had called +him, jeered. + +Martin went to the telephone in the corner of the room, and felt a wave +of warmth rush through him as he heard Ruth’s voice. In his battle with +the sonnet he had forgotten her existence, and at the sound of her +voice his love for her smote him like a sudden blow. And such a +voice!—delicate and sweet, like a strain of music heard far off and +faint, or, better, like a bell of silver, a perfect tone, crystal-pure. +No mere woman had a voice like that. There was something celestial +about it, and it came from other worlds. He could scarcely hear what it +said, so ravished was he, though he controlled his face, for he knew +that Mr. Higginbotham’s ferret eyes were fixed upon him. + +It was not much that Ruth wanted to say—merely that Norman had been +going to take her to a lecture that night, but that he had a headache, +and she was so disappointed, and she had the tickets, and that if he +had no other engagement, would he be good enough to take her? + +Would he! He fought to suppress the eagerness in his voice. It was +amazing. He had always seen her in her own house. And he had never +dared to ask her to go anywhere with him. Quite irrelevantly, still at +the telephone and talking with her, he felt an overpowering desire to +die for her, and visions of heroic sacrifice shaped and dissolved in +his whirling brain. He loved her so much, so terribly, so hopelessly. +In that moment of mad happiness that she should go out with him, go to +a lecture with him—with him, Martin Eden—she soared so far above him +that there seemed nothing else for him to do than die for her. It was +the only fit way in which he could express the tremendous and lofty +emotion he felt for her. It was the sublime abnegation of true love +that comes to all lovers, and it came to him there, at the telephone, +in a whirlwind of fire and glory; and to die for her, he felt, was to +have lived and loved well. And he was only twenty-one, and he had never +been in love before. + +His hand trembled as he hung up the receiver, and he was weak from the +organ which had stirred him. His eyes were shining like an angel’s, and +his face was transfigured, purged of all earthly dross, and pure and +holy. + +“Makin’ dates outside, eh?” his brother-in-law sneered. “You know what +that means. You’ll be in the police court yet.” + +But Martin could not come down from the height. Not even the bestiality +of the allusion could bring him back to earth. Anger and hurt were +beneath him. He had seen a great vision and was as a god, and he could +feel only profound and awful pity for this maggot of a man. He did not +look at him, and though his eyes passed over him, he did not see him; +and as in a dream he passed out of the room to dress. It was not until +he had reached his own room and was tying his necktie that he became +aware of a sound that lingered unpleasantly in his ears. On +investigating this sound he identified it as the final snort of Bernard +Higginbotham, which somehow had not penetrated to his brain before. + +As Ruth’s front door closed behind them and he came down the steps with +her, he found himself greatly perturbed. It was not unalloyed bliss, +taking her to the lecture. He did not know what he ought to do. He had +seen, on the streets, with persons of her class, that the women took +the men’s arms. But then, again, he had seen them when they didn’t; and +he wondered if it was only in the evening that arms were taken, or only +between husbands and wives and relatives. + +Just before he reached the sidewalk, he remembered Minnie. Minnie had +always been a stickler. She had called him down the second time she +walked out with him, because he had gone along on the inside, and she +had laid the law down to him that a gentleman always walked on the +outside—when he was with a lady. And Minnie had made a practice of +kicking his heels, whenever they crossed from one side of the street to +the other, to remind him to get over on the outside. He wondered where +she had got that item of etiquette, and whether it had filtered down +from above and was all right. + +It wouldn’t do any harm to try it, he decided, by the time they had +reached the sidewalk; and he swung behind Ruth and took up his station +on the outside. Then the other problem presented itself. Should he +offer her his arm? He had never offered anybody his arm in his life. +The girls he had known never took the fellows’ arms. For the first +several times they walked freely, side by side, and after that it was +arms around the waists, and heads against the fellows’ shoulders where +the streets were unlighted. But this was different. She wasn’t that +kind of a girl. He must do something. + +He crooked the arm next to her—crooked it very slightly and with secret +tentativeness, not invitingly, but just casually, as though he was +accustomed to walk that way. And then the wonderful thing happened. He +felt her hand upon his arm. Delicious thrills ran through him at the +contact, and for a few sweet moments it seemed that he had left the +solid earth and was flying with her through the air. But he was soon +back again, perturbed by a new complication. They were crossing the +street. This would put him on the inside. He should be on the outside. +Should he therefore drop her arm and change over? And if he did so, +would he have to repeat the manoeuvre the next time? And the next? +There was something wrong about it, and he resolved not to caper about +and play the fool. Yet he was not satisfied with his conclusion, and +when he found himself on the inside, he talked quickly and earnestly, +making a show of being carried away by what he was saying, so that, in +case he was wrong in not changing sides, his enthusiasm would seem the +cause for his carelessness. + +As they crossed Broadway, he came face to face with a new problem. In +the blaze of the electric lights, he saw Lizzie Connolly and her giggly +friend. Only for an instant he hesitated, then his hand went up and his +hat came off. He could not be disloyal to his kind, and it was to more +than Lizzie Connolly that his hat was lifted. She nodded and looked at +him boldly, not with soft and gentle eyes like Ruth’s, but with eyes +that were handsome and hard, and that swept on past him to Ruth and +itemized her face and dress and station. And he was aware that Ruth +looked, too, with quick eyes that were timid and mild as a dove’s, but +which saw, in a look that was a flutter on and past, the working-class +girl in her cheap finery and under the strange hat that all +working-class girls were wearing just then. + +“What a pretty girl!” Ruth said a moment later. + +Martin could have blessed her, though he said:- + +“I don’t know. I guess it’s all a matter of personal taste, but she +doesn’t strike me as being particularly pretty.” + +“Why, there isn’t one woman in ten thousand with features as regular as +hers. They are splendid. Her face is as clear-cut as a cameo. And her +eyes are beautiful.” + +“Do you think so?” Martin queried absently, for to him there was only +one beautiful woman in the world, and she was beside him, her hand upon +his arm. + +“Do I think so? If that girl had proper opportunity to dress, Mr. Eden, +and if she were taught how to carry herself, you would be fairly +dazzled by her, and so would all men.” + +“She would have to be taught how to speak,” he commented, “or else most +of the men wouldn’t understand her. I’m sure you couldn’t understand a +quarter of what she said if she just spoke naturally.” + +“Nonsense! You are as bad as Arthur when you try to make your point.” + +“You forget how I talked when you first met me. I have learned a new +language since then. Before that time I talked as that girl talks. Now +I can manage to make myself understood sufficiently in your language to +explain that you do not know that other girl’s language. And do you +know why she carries herself the way she does? I think about such +things now, though I never used to think about them, and I am beginning +to understand—much.” + +“But why does she?” + +“She has worked long hours for years at machines. When one’s body is +young, it is very pliable, and hard work will mould it like putty +according to the nature of the work. I can tell at a glance the trades +of many workingmen I meet on the street. Look at me. Why am I rolling +all about the shop? Because of the years I put in on the sea. If I’d +put in the same years cow-punching, with my body young and pliable, I +wouldn’t be rolling now, but I’d be bow-legged. And so with that girl. +You noticed that her eyes were what I might call hard. She has never +been sheltered. She has had to take care of herself, and a young girl +can’t take care of herself and keep her eyes soft and gentle like—like +yours, for example.” + +“I think you are right,” Ruth said in a low voice. “And it is too bad. +She is such a pretty girl.” + +He looked at her and saw her eyes luminous with pity. And then he +remembered that he loved her and was lost in amazement at his fortune +that permitted him to love her and to take her on his arm to a lecture. + +Who are you, Martin Eden? he demanded of himself in the looking-glass, +that night when he got back to his room. He gazed at himself long and +curiously. Who are you? What are you? Where do you belong? You belong +by rights to girls like Lizzie Connolly. You belong with the legions of +toil, with all that is low, and vulgar, and unbeautiful. You belong +with the oxen and the drudges, in dirty surroundings among smells and +stenches. There are the stale vegetables now. Those potatoes are +rotting. Smell them, damn you, smell them. And yet you dare to open the +books, to listen to beautiful music, to learn to love beautiful +paintings, to speak good English, to think thoughts that none of your +own kind thinks, to tear yourself away from the oxen and the Lizzie +Connollys and to love a pale spirit of a woman who is a million miles +beyond you and who lives in the stars! Who are you? and what are you? +damn you! And are you going to make good? + +He shook his fist at himself in the glass, and sat down on the edge of +the bed to dream for a space with wide eyes. Then he got out note-book +and algebra and lost himself in quadratic equations, while the hours +slipped by, and the stars dimmed, and the gray of dawn flooded against +his window. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +It was the knot of wordy socialists and working-class philosophers that +held forth in the City Hall Park on warm afternoons that was +responsible for the great discovery. Once or twice in the month, while +riding through the park on his way to the library, Martin dismounted +from his wheel and listened to the arguments, and each time he tore +himself away reluctantly. The tone of discussion was much lower than at +Mr. Morse’s table. The men were not grave and dignified. They lost +their tempers easily and called one another names, while oaths and +obscene allusions were frequent on their lips. Once or twice he had +seen them come to blows. And yet, he knew not why, there seemed +something vital about the stuff of these men’s thoughts. Their +logomachy was far more stimulating to his intellect than the reserved +and quiet dogmatism of Mr. Morse. These men, who slaughtered English, +gesticulated like lunatics, and fought one another’s ideas with +primitive anger, seemed somehow to be more alive than Mr. Morse and his +crony, Mr. Butler. + +Martin had heard Herbert Spencer quoted several times in the park, but +one afternoon a disciple of Spencer’s appeared, a seedy tramp with a +dirty coat buttoned tightly at the throat to conceal the absence of a +shirt. Battle royal was waged, amid the smoking of many cigarettes and +the expectoration of much tobacco-juice, wherein the tramp successfully +held his own, even when a socialist workman sneered, “There is no god +but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is his prophet.” Martin was +puzzled as to what the discussion was about, but when he rode on to the +library he carried with him a new-born interest in Herbert Spencer, and +because of the frequency with which the tramp had mentioned “First +Principles,” Martin drew out that volume. + +So the great discovery began. Once before he had tried Spencer, and +choosing the “Principles of Psychology” to begin with, he had failed as +abjectly as he had failed with Madam Blavatsky. There had been no +understanding the book, and he had returned it unread. But this night, +after algebra and physics, and an attempt at a sonnet, he got into bed +and opened “First Principles.” Morning found him still reading. It was +impossible for him to sleep. Nor did he write that day. He lay on the +bed till his body grew tired, when he tried the hard floor, reading on +his back, the book held in the air above him, or changing from side to +side. He slept that night, and did his writing next morning, and then +the book tempted him and he fell, reading all afternoon, oblivious to +everything and oblivious to the fact that that was the afternoon Ruth +gave to him. His first consciousness of the immediate world about him +was when Bernard Higginbotham jerked open the door and demanded to know +if he thought they were running a restaurant. + +Martin Eden had been mastered by curiosity all his days. He wanted to +know, and it was this desire that had sent him adventuring over the +world. But he was now learning from Spencer that he never had known, +and that he never could have known had he continued his sailing and +wandering forever. He had merely skimmed over the surface of things, +observing detached phenomena, accumulating fragments of facts, making +superficial little generalizations—and all and everything quite +unrelated in a capricious and disorderly world of whim and chance. The +mechanism of the flight of birds he had watched and reasoned about with +understanding; but it had never entered his head to try to explain the +process whereby birds, as organic flying mechanisms, had been +developed. He had never dreamed there was such a process. That birds +should have come to be, was unguessed. They always had been. They just +happened. + +And as it was with birds, so had it been with everything. His ignorant +and unprepared attempts at philosophy had been fruitless. The medieval +metaphysics of Kant had given him the key to nothing, and had served +the sole purpose of making him doubt his own intellectual powers. In +similar manner his attempt to study evolution had been confined to a +hopelessly technical volume by Romanes. He had understood nothing, and +the only idea he had gathered was that evolution was a dry-as-dust +theory, of a lot of little men possessed of huge and unintelligible +vocabularies. And now he learned that evolution was no mere theory but +an accepted process of development; that scientists no longer disagreed +about it, their only differences being over the method of evolution. + +And here was the man Spencer, organizing all knowledge for him, +reducing everything to unity, elaborating ultimate realities, and +presenting to his startled gaze a universe so concrete of realization +that it was like the model of a ship such as sailors make and put into +glass bottles. There was no caprice, no chance. All was law. It was in +obedience to law that the bird flew, and it was in obedience to the +same law that fermenting slime had writhed and squirmed and put out +legs and wings and become a bird. + +Martin had ascended from pitch to pitch of intellectual living, and +here he was at a higher pitch than ever. All the hidden things were +laying their secrets bare. He was drunken with comprehension. At night, +asleep, he lived with the gods in colossal nightmare; and awake, in the +day, he went around like a somnambulist, with absent stare, gazing upon +the world he had just discovered. At table he failed to hear the +conversation about petty and ignoble things, his eager mind seeking out +and following cause and effect in everything before him. In the meat on +the platter he saw the shining sun and traced its energy back through +all its transformations to its source a hundred million miles away, or +traced its energy ahead to the moving muscles in his arms that enabled +him to cut the meat, and to the brain wherewith he willed the muscles +to move to cut the meat, until, with inward gaze, he saw the same sun +shining in his brain. He was entranced by illumination, and did not +hear the “Bughouse,” whispered by Jim, nor see the anxiety on his +sister’s face, nor notice the rotary motion of Bernard Higginbotham’s +finger, whereby he imparted the suggestion of wheels revolving in his +brother-in-law’s head. + +What, in a way, most profoundly impressed Martin, was the correlation +of knowledge—of all knowledge. He had been curious to know things, and +whatever he acquired he had filed away in separate memory compartments +in his brain. Thus, on the subject of sailing he had an immense store. +On the subject of woman he had a fairly large store. But these two +subjects had been unrelated. Between the two memory compartments there +had been no connection. That, in the fabric of knowledge, there should +be any connection whatever between a woman with hysterics and a +schooner carrying a weather-helm or heaving to in a gale, would have +struck him as ridiculous and impossible. But Herbert Spencer had shown +him not only that it was not ridiculous, but that it was impossible for +there to be no connection. All things were related to all other things +from the farthermost star in the wastes of space to the myriads of +atoms in the grain of sand under one’s foot. This new concept was a +perpetual amazement to Martin, and he found himself engaged continually +in tracing the relationship between all things under the sun and on the +other side of the sun. He drew up lists of the most incongruous things +and was unhappy until he succeeded in establishing kinship between them +all—kinship between love, poetry, earthquake, fire, rattlesnakes, +rainbows, precious gems, monstrosities, sunsets, the roaring of lions, +illuminating gas, cannibalism, beauty, murder, lovers, fulcrums, and +tobacco. Thus, he unified the universe and held it up and looked at it, +or wandered through its byways and alleys and jungles, not as a +terrified traveller in the thick of mysteries seeking an unknown goal, +but observing and charting and becoming familiar with all there was to +know. And the more he knew, the more passionately he admired the +universe, and life, and his own life in the midst of it all. + +“You fool!” he cried at his image in the looking-glass. “You wanted to +write, and you tried to write, and you had nothing in you to write +about. What did you have in you?—some childish notions, a few +half-baked sentiments, a lot of undigested beauty, a great black mass +of ignorance, a heart filled to bursting with love, and an ambition as +big as your love and as futile as your ignorance. And you wanted to +write! Why, you’re just on the edge of beginning to get something in +you to write about. You wanted to create beauty, but how could you when +you knew nothing about the nature of beauty? You wanted to write about +life when you knew nothing of the essential characteristics of life. +You wanted to write about the world and the scheme of existence when +the world was a Chinese puzzle to you and all that you could have +written would have been about what you did not know of the scheme of +existence. But cheer up, Martin, my boy. You’ll write yet. You know a +little, a very little, and you’re on the right road now to know more. +Some day, if you’re lucky, you may come pretty close to knowing all +that may be known. Then you will write.” + +He brought his great discovery to Ruth, sharing with her all his joy +and wonder in it. But she did not seem to be so enthusiastic over it. +She tacitly accepted it and, in a way, seemed aware of it from her own +studies. It did not stir her deeply, as it did him, and he would have +been surprised had he not reasoned it out that it was not new and fresh +to her as it was to him. Arthur and Norman, he found, believed in +evolution and had read Spencer, though it did not seem to have made any +vital impression upon them, while the young fellow with the glasses and +the mop of hair, Will Olney, sneered disagreeably at Spencer and +repeated the epigram, “There is no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert +Spencer is his prophet.” + +But Martin forgave him the sneer, for he had begun to discover that +Olney was not in love with Ruth. Later, he was dumfounded to learn from +various little happenings not only that Olney did not care for Ruth, +but that he had a positive dislike for her. Martin could not understand +this. It was a bit of phenomena that he could not correlate with all +the rest of the phenomena in the universe. But nevertheless he felt +sorry for the young fellow because of the great lack in his nature that +prevented him from a proper appreciation of Ruth’s fineness and beauty. +They rode out into the hills several Sundays on their wheels, and +Martin had ample opportunity to observe the armed truce that existed +between Ruth and Olney. The latter chummed with Norman, throwing Arthur +and Martin into company with Ruth, for which Martin was duly grateful. + +Those Sundays were great days for Martin, greatest because he was with +Ruth, and great, also, because they were putting him more on a par with +the young men of her class. In spite of their long years of disciplined +education, he was finding himself their intellectual equal, and the +hours spent with them in conversation was so much practice for him in +the use of the grammar he had studied so hard. He had abandoned the +etiquette books, falling back upon observation to show him the right +things to do. Except when carried away by his enthusiasm, he was always +on guard, keenly watchful of their actions and learning their little +courtesies and refinements of conduct. + +The fact that Spencer was very little read was for some time a source +of surprise to Martin. “Herbert Spencer,” said the man at the desk in +the library, “oh, yes, a great mind.” But the man did not seem to know +anything of the content of that great mind. One evening, at dinner, +when Mr. Butler was there, Martin turned the conversation upon Spencer. +Mr. Morse bitterly arraigned the English philosopher’s agnosticism, but +confessed that he had not read “First Principles”; while Mr. Butler +stated that he had no patience with Spencer, had never read a line of +him, and had managed to get along quite well without him. Doubts arose +in Martin’s mind, and had he been less strongly individual he would +have accepted the general opinion and given Herbert Spencer up. As it +was, he found Spencer’s explanation of things convincing; and, as he +phrased it to himself, to give up Spencer would be equivalent to a +navigator throwing the compass and chronometer overboard. So Martin +went on into a thorough study of evolution, mastering more and more the +subject himself, and being convinced by the corroborative testimony of +a thousand independent writers. The more he studied, the more vistas he +caught of fields of knowledge yet unexplored, and the regret that days +were only twenty-four hours long became a chronic complaint with him. + +One day, because the days were so short, he decided to give up algebra +and geometry. Trigonometry he had not even attempted. Then he cut +chemistry from his study-list, retaining only physics. + +“I am not a specialist,” he said, in defence, to Ruth. “Nor am I going +to try to be a specialist. There are too many special fields for any +one man, in a whole lifetime, to master a tithe of them. I must pursue +general knowledge. When I need the work of specialists, I shall refer +to their books.” + +“But that is not like having the knowledge yourself,” she protested. + +“But it is unnecessary to have it. We profit from the work of the +specialists. That’s what they are for. When I came in, I noticed the +chimney-sweeps at work. They’re specialists, and when they get done, +you will enjoy clean chimneys without knowing anything about the +construction of chimneys.” + +“That’s far-fetched, I am afraid.” + +She looked at him curiously, and he felt a reproach in her gaze and +manner. But he was convinced of the rightness of his position. + +“All thinkers on general subjects, the greatest minds in the world, in +fact, rely on the specialists. Herbert Spencer did that. He generalized +upon the findings of thousands of investigators. He would have had to +live a thousand lives in order to do it all himself. And so with +Darwin. He took advantage of all that had been learned by the florists +and cattle-breeders.” + +“You’re right, Martin,” Olney said. “You know what you’re after, and +Ruth doesn’t. She doesn’t know what she is after for herself even.” + +“—Oh, yes,” Olney rushed on, heading off her objection, “I know you +call it general culture. But it doesn’t matter what you study if you +want general culture. You can study French, or you can study German, or +cut them both out and study Esperanto, you’ll get the culture tone just +the same. You can study Greek or Latin, too, for the same purpose, +though it will never be any use to you. It will be culture, though. +Why, Ruth studied Saxon, became clever in it,—that was two years +ago,—and all that she remembers of it now is ‘Whan that sweet Aprile +with his schowers soote’—isn’t that the way it goes?” + +“But it’s given you the culture tone just the same,” he laughed, again +heading her off. “I know. We were in the same classes.” + +“But you speak of culture as if it should be a means to something,” +Ruth cried out. Her eyes were flashing, and in her cheeks were two +spots of color. “Culture is the end in itself.” + +“But that is not what Martin wants.” + +“How do you know?” + +“What do you want, Martin?” Olney demanded, turning squarely upon him. + +Martin felt very uncomfortable, and looked entreaty at Ruth. + +“Yes, what do you want?” Ruth asked. “That will settle it.” + +“Yes, of course, I want culture,” Martin faltered. “I love beauty, and +culture will give me a finer and keener appreciation of beauty.” + +She nodded her head and looked triumph. + +“Rot, and you know it,” was Olney’s comment. “Martin’s after career, +not culture. It just happens that culture, in his case, is incidental +to career. If he wanted to be a chemist, culture would be unnecessary. +Martin wants to write, but he’s afraid to say so because it will put +you in the wrong.” + +“And why does Martin want to write?” he went on. “Because he isn’t +rolling in wealth. Why do you fill your head with Saxon and general +culture? Because you don’t have to make your way in the world. Your +father sees to that. He buys your clothes for you, and all the rest. +What rotten good is our education, yours and mine and Arthur’s and +Norman’s? We’re soaked in general culture, and if our daddies went +broke to-day, we’d be falling down to-morrow on teachers’ examinations. +The best job you could get, Ruth, would be a country school or music +teacher in a girls’ boarding-school.” + +“And pray what would you do?” she asked. + +“Not a blessed thing. I could earn a dollar and a half a day, common +labor, and I might get in as instructor in Hanley’s cramming joint—I +say might, mind you, and I might be chucked out at the end of the week +for sheer inability.” + +Martin followed the discussion closely, and while he was convinced that +Olney was right, he resented the rather cavalier treatment he accorded +Ruth. A new conception of love formed in his mind as he listened. +Reason had nothing to do with love. It mattered not whether the woman +he loved reasoned correctly or incorrectly. Love was above reason. If +it just happened that she did not fully appreciate his necessity for a +career, that did not make her a bit less lovable. She was all lovable, +and what she thought had nothing to do with her lovableness. + +“What’s that?” he replied to a question from Olney that broke in upon +his train of thought. + +“I was saying that I hoped you wouldn’t be fool enough to tackle +Latin.” + +“But Latin is more than culture,” Ruth broke in. “It is equipment.” + +“Well, are you going to tackle it?” Olney persisted. + +Martin was sore beset. He could see that Ruth was hanging eagerly upon +his answer. + +“I am afraid I won’t have time,” he said finally. “I’d like to, but I +won’t have time.” + +“You see, Martin’s not seeking culture,” Olney exulted. “He’s trying to +get somewhere, to do something.” + +“Oh, but it’s mental training. It’s mind discipline. It’s what makes +disciplined minds.” Ruth looked expectantly at Martin, as if waiting +for him to change his judgment. “You know, the foot-ball players have +to train before the big game. And that is what Latin does for the +thinker. It trains.” + +“Rot and bosh! That’s what they told us when we were kids. But there is +one thing they didn’t tell us then. They let us find it out for +ourselves afterwards.” Olney paused for effect, then added, “And what +they didn’t tell us was that every gentleman should have studied Latin, +but that no gentleman should know Latin.” + +“Now that’s unfair,” Ruth cried. “I knew you were turning the +conversation just in order to get off something.” + +“It’s clever all right,” was the retort, “but it’s fair, too. The only +men who know their Latin are the apothecaries, the lawyers, and the +Latin professors. And if Martin wants to be one of them, I miss my +guess. But what’s all that got to do with Herbert Spencer anyway? +Martin’s just discovered Spencer, and he’s wild over him. Why? Because +Spencer is taking him somewhere. Spencer couldn’t take me anywhere, nor +you. We haven’t got anywhere to go. You’ll get married some day, and +I’ll have nothing to do but keep track of the lawyers and business +agents who will take care of the money my father’s going to leave me.” + +Onley got up to go, but turned at the door and delivered a parting +shot. + +“You leave Martin alone, Ruth. He knows what’s best for himself. Look +at what he’s done already. He makes me sick sometimes, sick and ashamed +of myself. He knows more now about the world, and life, and man’s +place, and all the rest, than Arthur, or Norman, or I, or you, too, for +that matter, and in spite of all our Latin, and French, and Saxon, and +culture.” + +“But Ruth is my teacher,” Martin answered chivalrously. “She is +responsible for what little I have learned.” + +“Rats!” Olney looked at Ruth, and his expression was malicious. “I +suppose you’ll be telling me next that you read Spencer on her +recommendation—only you didn’t. And she doesn’t know anything more +about Darwin and evolution than I do about King Solomon’s mines. What’s +that jawbreaker definition about something or other, of Spencer’s, that +you sprang on us the other day—that indefinite, incoherent homogeneity +thing? Spring it on her, and see if she understands a word of it. That +isn’t culture, you see. Well, tra la, and if you tackle Latin, Martin, +I won’t have any respect for you.” + +And all the while, interested in the discussion, Martin had been aware +of an irk in it as well. It was about studies and lessons, dealing with +the rudiments of knowledge, and the schoolboyish tone of it conflicted +with the big things that were stirring in him—with the grip upon life +that was even then crooking his fingers like eagle’s talons, with the +cosmic thrills that made him ache, and with the inchoate consciousness +of mastery of it all. He likened himself to a poet, wrecked on the +shores of a strange land, filled with power of beauty, stumbling and +stammering and vainly trying to sing in the rough, barbaric tongue of +his brethren in the new land. And so with him. He was alive, painfully +alive, to the great universal things, and yet he was compelled to +potter and grope among schoolboy topics and debate whether or not he +should study Latin. + +“What in hell has Latin to do with it?” he demanded before his mirror +that night. “I wish dead people would stay dead. Why should I and the +beauty in me be ruled by the dead? Beauty is alive and everlasting. +Languages come and go. They are the dust of the dead.” + +And his next thought was that he had been phrasing his ideas very well, +and he went to bed wondering why he could not talk in similar fashion +when he was with Ruth. He was only a schoolboy, with a schoolboy’s +tongue, when he was in her presence. + +“Give me time,” he said aloud. “Only give me time.” + +Time! Time! Time! was his unending plaint. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +It was not because of Olney, but in spite of Ruth, and his love for +Ruth, that he finally decided not to take up Latin. His money meant +time. There was so much that was more important than Latin, so many +studies that clamored with imperious voices. And he must write. He must +earn money. He had had no acceptances. Twoscore of manuscripts were +travelling the endless round of the magazines. How did the others do +it? He spent long hours in the free reading-room, going over what +others had written, studying their work eagerly and critically, +comparing it with his own, and wondering, wondering, about the secret +trick they had discovered which enabled them to sell their work. + +He was amazed at the immense amount of printed stuff that was dead. No +light, no life, no color, was shot through it. There was no breath of +life in it, and yet it sold, at two cents a word, twenty dollars a +thousand—the newspaper clipping had said so. He was puzzled by +countless short stories, written lightly and cleverly he confessed, but +without vitality or reality. Life was so strange and wonderful, filled +with an immensity of problems, of dreams, and of heroic toils, and yet +these stories dealt only with the commonplaces of life. He felt the +stress and strain of life, its fevers and sweats and wild +insurgences—surely this was the stuff to write about! He wanted to +glorify the leaders of forlorn hopes, the mad lovers, the giants that +fought under stress and strain, amid terror and tragedy, making life +crackle with the strength of their endeavor. And yet the magazine short +stories seemed intent on glorifying the Mr. Butlers, the sordid +dollar-chasers, and the commonplace little love affairs of commonplace +little men and women. Was it because the editors of the magazines were +commonplace? he demanded. Or were they afraid of life, these writers +and editors and readers? + +But his chief trouble was that he did not know any editors or writers. +And not merely did he not know any writers, but he did not know anybody +who had ever attempted to write. There was nobody to tell him, to hint +to him, to give him the least word of advice. He began to doubt that +editors were real men. They seemed cogs in a machine. That was what it +was, a machine. He poured his soul into stories, articles, and poems, +and intrusted them to the machine. He folded them just so, put the +proper stamps inside the long envelope along with the manuscript, +sealed the envelope, put more stamps outside, and dropped it into the +mail-box. It travelled across the continent, and after a certain lapse +of time the postman returned him the manuscript in another long +envelope, on the outside of which were the stamps he had enclosed. +There was no human editor at the other end, but a mere cunning +arrangement of cogs that changed the manuscript from one envelope to +another and stuck on the stamps. It was like the slot machines wherein +one dropped pennies, and, with a metallic whirl of machinery had +delivered to him a stick of chewing-gum or a tablet of chocolate. It +depended upon which slot one dropped the penny in, whether he got +chocolate or gum. And so with the editorial machine. One slot brought +checks and the other brought rejection slips. So far he had found only +the latter slot. + +It was the rejection slips that completed the horrible machinelikeness +of the process. These slips were printed in stereotyped forms and he +had received hundreds of them—as many as a dozen or more on each of his +earlier manuscripts. If he had received one line, one personal line, +along with one rejection of all his rejections, he would have been +cheered. But not one editor had given that proof of existence. And he +could conclude only that there were no warm human men at the other end, +only mere cogs, well oiled and running beautifully in the machine. + +He was a good fighter, whole-souled and stubborn, and he would have +been content to continue feeding the machine for years; but he was +bleeding to death, and not years but weeks would determine the fight. +Each week his board bill brought him nearer destruction, while the +postage on forty manuscripts bled him almost as severely. He no longer +bought books, and he economized in petty ways and sought to delay the +inevitable end; though he did not know how to economize, and brought +the end nearer by a week when he gave his sister Marian five dollars +for a dress. + +He struggled in the dark, without advice, without encouragement, and in +the teeth of discouragement. Even Gertrude was beginning to look +askance. At first she had tolerated with sisterly fondness what she +conceived to be his foolishness; but now, out of sisterly solicitude, +she grew anxious. To her it seemed that his foolishness was becoming a +madness. Martin knew this and suffered more keenly from it than from +the open and nagging contempt of Bernard Higginbotham. Martin had faith +in himself, but he was alone in this faith. Not even Ruth had faith. +She had wanted him to devote himself to study, and, though she had not +openly disapproved of his writing, she had never approved. + +He had never offered to show her his work. A fastidious delicacy had +prevented him. Besides, she had been studying heavily at the +university, and he felt averse to robbing her of her time. But when she +had taken her degree, she asked him herself to let her see something of +what he had been doing. Martin was elated and diffident. Here was a +judge. She was a bachelor of arts. She had studied literature under +skilled instructors. Perhaps the editors were capable judges, too. But +she would be different from them. She would not hand him a stereotyped +rejection slip, nor would she inform him that lack of preference for +his work did not necessarily imply lack of merit in his work. She would +talk, a warm human being, in her quick, bright way, and, most important +of all, she would catch glimpses of the real Martin Eden. In his work +she would discern what his heart and soul were like, and she would come +to understand something, a little something, of the stuff of his dreams +and the strength of his power. + +Martin gathered together a number of carbon copies of his short +stories, hesitated a moment, then added his “Sea Lyrics.” They mounted +their wheels on a late June afternoon and rode for the hills. It was +the second time he had been out with her alone, and as they rode along +through the balmy warmth, just chilled by she sea-breeze to refreshing +coolness, he was profoundly impressed by the fact that it was a very +beautiful and well-ordered world and that it was good to be alive and +to love. They left their wheels by the roadside and climbed to the +brown top of an open knoll where the sunburnt grass breathed a harvest +breath of dry sweetness and content. + +“Its work is done,” Martin said, as they seated themselves, she upon +his coat, and he sprawling close to the warm earth. He sniffed the +sweetness of the tawny grass, which entered his brain and set his +thoughts whirling on from the particular to the universal. “It has +achieved its reason for existence,” he went on, patting the dry grass +affectionately. “It quickened with ambition under the dreary downpour +of last winter, fought the violent early spring, flowered, and lured +the insects and the bees, scattered its seeds, squared itself with its +duty and the world, and—” + +“Why do you always look at things with such dreadfully practical eyes?” +she interrupted. + +“Because I’ve been studying evolution, I guess. It’s only recently that +I got my eyesight, if the truth were told.” + +“But it seems to me you lose sight of beauty by being so practical, +that you destroy beauty like the boys who catch butterflies and rub the +down off their beautiful wings.” + +He shook his head. + +“Beauty has significance, but I never knew its significance before. I +just accepted beauty as something meaningless, as something that was +just beautiful without rhyme or reason. I did not know anything about +beauty. But now I know, or, rather, am just beginning to know. This +grass is more beautiful to me now that I know why it is grass, and all +the hidden chemistry of sun and rain and earth that makes it become +grass. Why, there is romance in the life-history of any grass, yes, and +adventure, too. The very thought of it stirs me. When I think of the +play of force and matter, and all the tremendous struggle of it, I feel +as if I could write an epic on the grass. + +“How well you talk,” she said absently, and he noted that she was +looking at him in a searching way. + +He was all confusion and embarrassment on the instant, the blood +flushing red on his neck and brow. + +“I hope I am learning to talk,” he stammered. “There seems to be so +much in me I want to say. But it is all so big. I can’t find ways to +say what is really in me. Sometimes it seems to me that all the world, +all life, everything, had taken up residence inside of me and was +clamoring for me to be the spokesman. I feel—oh, I can’t describe it—I +feel the bigness of it, but when I speak, I babble like a little child. +It is a great task to transmute feeling and sensation into speech, +written or spoken, that will, in turn, in him who reads or listens, +transmute itself back into the selfsame feeling and sensation. It is a +lordly task. See, I bury my face in the grass, and the breath I draw in +through my nostrils sets me quivering with a thousand thoughts and +fancies. It is a breath of the universe I have breathed. I know song +and laughter, and success and pain, and struggle and death; and I see +visions that arise in my brain somehow out of the scent of the grass, +and I would like to tell them to you, to the world. But how can I? My +tongue is tied. I have tried, by the spoken word, just now, to describe +to you the effect on me of the scent of the grass. But I have not +succeeded. I have no more than hinted in awkward speech. My words seem +gibberish to me. And yet I am stifled with desire to tell. Oh!—” he +threw up his hands with a despairing gesture—“it is impossible! It is +not understandable! It is incommunicable!” + +“But you do talk well,” she insisted. “Just think how you have improved +in the short time I have known you. Mr. Butler is a noted public +speaker. He is always asked by the State Committee to go out on stump +during campaign. Yet you talked just as well as he the other night at +dinner. Only he was more controlled. You get too excited; but you will +get over that with practice. Why, you would make a good public speaker. +You can go far—if you want to. You are masterly. You can lead men, I am +sure, and there is no reason why you should not succeed at anything you +set your hand to, just as you have succeeded with grammar. You would +make a good lawyer. You should shine in politics. There is nothing to +prevent you from making as great a success as Mr. Butler has made. And +minus the dyspepsia,” she added with a smile. + +They talked on; she, in her gently persistent way, returning always to +the need of thorough grounding in education and to the advantages of +Latin as part of the foundation for any career. She drew her ideal of +the successful man, and it was largely in her father’s image, with a +few unmistakable lines and touches of color from the image of Mr. +Butler. He listened eagerly, with receptive ears, lying on his back and +looking up and joying in each movement of her lips as she talked. But +his brain was not receptive. There was nothing alluring in the pictures +she drew, and he was aware of a dull pain of disappointment and of a +sharper ache of love for her. In all she said there was no mention of +his writing, and the manuscripts he had brought to read lay neglected +on the ground. + +At last, in a pause, he glanced at the sun, measured its height above +the horizon, and suggested his manuscripts by picking them up. + +“I had forgotten,” she said quickly. “And I am so anxious to hear.” + +He read to her a story, one that he flattered himself was among his +very best. He called it “The Wine of Life,” and the wine of it, that +had stolen into his brain when he wrote it, stole into his brain now as +he read it. There was a certain magic in the original conception, and +he had adorned it with more magic of phrase and touch. All the old fire +and passion with which he had written it were reborn in him, and he was +swayed and swept away so that he was blind and deaf to the faults of +it. But it was not so with Ruth. Her trained ear detected the +weaknesses and exaggerations, the overemphasis of the tyro, and she was +instantly aware each time the sentence-rhythm tripped and faltered. She +scarcely noted the rhythm otherwise, except when it became too pompous, +at which moments she was disagreeably impressed with its +amateurishness. That was her final judgment on the story as a +whole—amateurish, though she did not tell him so. Instead, when he had +done, she pointed out the minor flaws and said that she liked the +story. + +But he was disappointed. Her criticism was just. He acknowledged that, +but he had a feeling that he was not sharing his work with her for the +purpose of schoolroom correction. The details did not matter. They +could take care of themselves. He could mend them, he could learn to +mend them. Out of life he had captured something big and attempted to +imprison it in the story. It was the big thing out of life he had read +to her, not sentence-structure and semicolons. He wanted her to feel +with him this big thing that was his, that he had seen with his own +eyes, grappled with his own brain, and placed there on the page with +his own hands in printed words. Well, he had failed, was his secret +decision. Perhaps the editors were right. He had felt the big thing, +but he had failed to transmute it. He concealed his disappointment, and +joined so easily with her in her criticism that she did not realize +that deep down in him was running a strong undercurrent of +disagreement. + +“This next thing I’ve called ‘The Pot’,” he said, unfolding the +manuscript. “It has been refused by four or five magazines now, but +still I think it is good. In fact, I don’t know what to think of it, +except that I’ve caught something there. Maybe it won’t affect you as +it does me. It’s a short thing—only two thousand words.” + +“How dreadful!” she cried, when he had finished. “It is horrible, +unutterably horrible!” + +He noted her pale face, her eyes wide and tense, and her clenched +hands, with secret satisfaction. He had succeeded. He had communicated +the stuff of fancy and feeling from out of his brain. It had struck +home. No matter whether she liked it or not, it had gripped her and +mastered her, made her sit there and listen and forget details. + +“It is life,” he said, “and life is not always beautiful. And yet, +perhaps because I am strangely made, I find something beautiful there. +It seems to me that the beauty is tenfold enhanced because it is +there—” + +“But why couldn’t the poor woman—” she broke in disconnectedly. Then +she left the revolt of her thought unexpressed to cry out: “Oh! It is +degrading! It is not nice! It is nasty!” + +For the moment it seemed to him that his heart stood still. _Nasty_! He +had never dreamed it. He had not meant it. The whole sketch stood +before him in letters of fire, and in such blaze of illumination he +sought vainly for nastiness. Then his heart began to beat again. He was +not guilty. + +“Why didn’t you select a nice subject?” she was saying. “We know there +are nasty things in the world, but that is no reason—” + +She talked on in her indignant strain, but he was not following her. He +was smiling to himself as he looked up into her virginal face, so +innocent, so penetratingly innocent, that its purity seemed always to +enter into him, driving out of him all dross and bathing him in some +ethereal effulgence that was as cool and soft and velvety as starshine. +_We know there are nasty things in the world_! He cuddled to him the +notion of her knowing, and chuckled over it as a love joke. The next +moment, in a flashing vision of multitudinous detail, he sighted the +whole sea of life’s nastiness that he had known and voyaged over and +through, and he forgave her for not understanding the story. It was +through no fault of hers that she could not understand. He thanked God +that she had been born and sheltered to such innocence. But he knew +life, its foulness as well as its fairness, its greatness in spite of +the slime that infested it, and by God he was going to have his say on +it to the world. Saints in heaven—how could they be anything but fair +and pure? No praise to them. But saints in slime—ah, that was the +everlasting wonder! That was what made life worth while. To see moral +grandeur rising out of cesspools of iniquity; to rise himself and first +glimpse beauty, faint and far, through mud-dripping eyes; to see out of +weakness, and frailty, and viciousness, and all abysmal brutishness, +arising strength, and truth, and high spiritual endowment— + +He caught a stray sequence of sentences she was uttering. + +“The tone of it all is low. And there is so much that is high. Take ‘In +Memoriam.’” + +He was impelled to suggest “Locksley Hall,” and would have done so, had +not his vision gripped him again and left him staring at her, the +female of his kind, who, out of the primordial ferment, creeping and +crawling up the vast ladder of life for a thousand thousand centuries, +had emerged on the topmost rung, having become one Ruth, pure, and +fair, and divine, and with power to make him know love, and to aspire +toward purity, and to desire to taste divinity—him, Martin Eden, who, +too, had come up in some amazing fashion from out of the ruck and the +mire and the countless mistakes and abortions of unending creation. +There was the romance, and the wonder, and the glory. There was the +stuff to write, if he could only find speech. Saints in heaven!—They +were only saints and could not help themselves. But he was a man. + +“You have strength,” he could hear her saying, “but it is untutored +strength.” + +“Like a bull in a china shop,” he suggested, and won a smile. + +“And you must develop discrimination. You must consult taste, and +fineness, and tone.” + +“I dare too much,” he muttered. + +She smiled approbation, and settled herself to listen to another story. + +“I don’t know what you’ll make of this,” he said apologetically. “It’s +a funny thing. I’m afraid I got beyond my depth in it, but my +intentions were good. Don’t bother about the little features of it. +Just see if you catch the feel of the big thing in it. It is big, and +it is true, though the chance is large that I have failed to make it +intelligible.” + +He read, and as he read he watched her. At last he had reached her, he +thought. She sat without movement, her eyes steadfast upon him, +scarcely breathing, caught up and out of herself, he thought, by the +witchery of the thing he had created. He had entitled the story +“Adventure,” and it was the apotheosis of adventure—not of the +adventure of the storybooks, but of real adventure, the savage +taskmaster, awful of punishment and awful of reward, faithless and +whimsical, demanding terrible patience and heartbreaking days and +nights of toil, offering the blazing sunlight glory or dark death at +the end of thirst and famine or of the long drag and monstrous delirium +of rotting fever, through blood and sweat and stinging insects leading +up by long chains of petty and ignoble contacts to royal culminations +and lordly achievements. + +It was this, all of it, and more, that he had put into his story, and +it was this, he believed, that warmed her as she sat and listened. Her +eyes were wide, color was in her pale cheeks, and before he finished it +seemed to him that she was almost panting. Truly, she was warmed; but +she was warmed, not by the story, but by him. She did not think much of +the story; it was Martin’s intensity of power, the old excess of +strength that seemed to pour from his body and on and over her. The +paradox of it was that it was the story itself that was freighted with +his power, that was the channel, for the time being, through which his +strength poured out to her. She was aware only of the strength, and not +of the medium, and when she seemed most carried away by what he had +written, in reality she had been carried away by something quite +foreign to it—by a thought, terrible and perilous, that had formed +itself unsummoned in her brain. She had caught herself wondering what +marriage was like, and the becoming conscious of the waywardness and +ardor of the thought had terrified her. It was unmaidenly. It was not +like her. She had never been tormented by womanhood, and she had lived +in a dreamland of Tennysonian poesy, dense even to the full +significance of that delicate master’s delicate allusions to the +grossnesses that intrude upon the relations of queens and knights. She +had been asleep, always, and now life was thundering imperatively at +all her doors. Mentally she was in a panic to shoot the bolts and drop +the bars into place, while wanton instincts urged her to throw wide her +portals and bid the deliciously strange visitor to enter in. + +Martin waited with satisfaction for her verdict. He had no doubt of +what it would be, and he was astounded when he heard her say: + +“It is beautiful.” + +“It is beautiful,” she repeated, with emphasis, after a pause. + +Of course it was beautiful; but there was something more than mere +beauty in it, something more stingingly splendid which had made beauty +its handmaiden. He sprawled silently on the ground, watching the grisly +form of a great doubt rising before him. He had failed. He was +inarticulate. He had seen one of the greatest things in the world, and +he had not expressed it. + +“What did you think of the—” He hesitated, abashed at his first attempt +to use a strange word. “Of the _motif_?” he asked. + +“It was confused,” she answered. “That is my only criticism in the +large way. I followed the story, but there seemed so much else. It is +too wordy. You clog the action by introducing so much extraneous +material.” + +“That was the major _motif_,” he hurriedly explained, “the big +underrunning _motif_, the cosmic and universal thing. I tried to make +it keep time with the story itself, which was only superficial after +all. I was on the right scent, but I guess I did it badly. I did not +succeed in suggesting what I was driving at. But I’ll learn in time.” + +She did not follow him. She was a bachelor of arts, but he had gone +beyond her limitations. This she did not comprehend, attributing her +incomprehension to his incoherence. + +“You were too voluble,” she said. “But it was beautiful, in places.” + +He heard her voice as from far off, for he was debating whether he +would read her the “Sea Lyrics.” He lay in dull despair, while she +watched him searchingly, pondering again upon unsummoned and wayward +thoughts of marriage. + +“You want to be famous?” she asked abruptly. + +“Yes, a little bit,” he confessed. “That is part of the adventure. It +is not the being famous, but the process of becoming so, that counts. +And after all, to be famous would be, for me, only a means to something +else. I want to be famous very much, for that matter, and for that +reason.” + +“For your sake,” he wanted to add, and might have added had she proved +enthusiastic over what he had read to her. + +But she was too busy in her mind, carving out a career for him that +would at least be possible, to ask what the ultimate something was +which he had hinted at. There was no career for him in literature. Of +that she was convinced. He had proved it to-day, with his amateurish +and sophomoric productions. He could talk well, but he was incapable of +expressing himself in a literary way. She compared Tennyson, and +Browning, and her favorite prose masters with him, and to his hopeless +discredit. Yet she did not tell him her whole mind. Her strange +interest in him led her to temporize. His desire to write was, after +all, a little weakness which he would grow out of in time. Then he +would devote himself to the more serious affairs of life. And he would +succeed, too. She knew that. He was so strong that he could not fail—if +only he would drop writing. + +“I wish you would show me all you write, Mr. Eden,” she said. + +He flushed with pleasure. She was interested, that much was sure. And +at least she had not given him a rejection slip. She had called certain +portions of his work beautiful, and that was the first encouragement he +had ever received from any one. + +“I will,” he said passionately. “And I promise you, Miss Morse, that I +will make good. I have come far, I know that; and I have far to go, and +I will cover it if I have to do it on my hands and knees.” He held up a +bunch of manuscript. “Here are the ‘Sea Lyrics.’ When you get home, +I’ll turn them over to you to read at your leisure. And you must be +sure to tell me just what you think of them. What I need, you know, +above all things, is criticism. And do, please, be frank with me.” + +“I will be perfectly frank,” she promised, with an uneasy conviction +that she had not been frank with him and with a doubt if she could be +quite frank with him the next time. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +“The first battle, fought and finished,” Martin said to the +looking-glass ten days later. “But there will be a second battle, and a +third battle, and battles to the end of time, unless—” + +He had not finished the sentence, but looked about the mean little room +and let his eyes dwell sadly upon a heap of returned manuscripts, still +in their long envelopes, which lay in a corner on the floor. He had no +stamps with which to continue them on their travels, and for a week +they had been piling up. More of them would come in on the morrow, and +on the next day, and the next, till they were all in. And he would be +unable to start them out again. He was a month’s rent behind on the +typewriter, which he could not pay, having barely enough for the week’s +board which was due and for the employment office fees. + +He sat down and regarded the table thoughtfully. There were ink stains +upon it, and he suddenly discovered that he was fond of it. + +“Dear old table,” he said, “I’ve spent some happy hours with you, and +you’ve been a pretty good friend when all is said and done. You never +turned me down, never passed me out a reward-of-unmerit rejection slip, +never complained about working overtime.” + +He dropped his arms upon the table and buried his face in them. His +throat was aching, and he wanted to cry. It reminded him of his first +fight, when he was six years old, when he punched away with the tears +running down his cheeks while the other boy, two years his elder, had +beaten and pounded him into exhaustion. He saw the ring of boys, +howling like barbarians as he went down at last, writhing in the throes +of nausea, the blood streaming from his nose and the tears from his +bruised eyes. + +“Poor little shaver,” he murmured. “And you’re just as badly licked +now. You’re beaten to a pulp. You’re down and out.” + +But the vision of that first fight still lingered under his eyelids, +and as he watched he saw it dissolve and reshape into the series of +fights which had followed. Six months later Cheese-Face (that was the +boy) had whipped him again. But he had blacked Cheese-Face’s eye that +time. That was going some. He saw them all, fight after fight, himself +always whipped and Cheese-Face exulting over him. But he had never run +away. He felt strengthened by the memory of that. He had always stayed +and taken his medicine. Cheese-Face had been a little fiend at +fighting, and had never once shown mercy to him. But he had stayed! He +had stayed with it! + +Next, he saw a narrow alley, between ramshackle frame buildings. The +end of the alley was blocked by a one-story brick building, out of +which issued the rhythmic thunder of the presses, running off the first +edition of the _Enquirer_. He was eleven, and Cheese-Face was thirteen, +and they both carried the _Enquirer_. That was why they were there, +waiting for their papers. And, of course, Cheese-Face had picked on him +again, and there was another fight that was indeterminate, because at +quarter to four the door of the press-room was thrown open and the gang +of boys crowded in to fold their papers. + +“I’ll lick you to-morrow,” he heard Cheese-Face promise; and he heard +his own voice, piping and trembling with unshed tears, agreeing to be +there on the morrow. + +And he had come there the next day, hurrying from school to be there +first, and beating Cheese-Face by two minutes. The other boys said he +was all right, and gave him advice, pointing out his faults as a +scrapper and promising him victory if he carried out their +instructions. The same boys gave Cheese-Face advice, too. How they had +enjoyed the fight! He paused in his recollections long enough to envy +them the spectacle he and Cheese-Face had put up. Then the fight was +on, and it went on, without rounds, for thirty minutes, until the +press-room door was opened. + +He watched the youthful apparition of himself, day after day, hurrying +from school to the _Enquirer_ alley. He could not walk very fast. He +was stiff and lame from the incessant fighting. His forearms were black +and blue from wrist to elbow, what of the countless blows he had warded +off, and here and there the tortured flesh was beginning to fester. His +head and arms and shoulders ached, the small of his back ached,—he +ached all over, and his brain was heavy and dazed. He did not play at +school. Nor did he study. Even to sit still all day at his desk, as he +did, was a torment. It seemed centuries since he had begun the round of +daily fights, and time stretched away into a nightmare and infinite +future of daily fights. Why couldn’t Cheese-Face be licked? he often +thought; that would put him, Martin, out of his misery. It never +entered his head to cease fighting, to allow Cheese-Face to whip him. + +And so he dragged himself to the _Enquirer_ alley, sick in body and +soul, but learning the long patience, to confront his eternal enemy, +Cheese-Face, who was just as sick as he, and just a bit willing to quit +if it were not for the gang of newsboys that looked on and made pride +painful and necessary. One afternoon, after twenty minutes of desperate +efforts to annihilate each other according to set rules that did not +permit kicking, striking below the belt, nor hitting when one was down, +Cheese-Face, panting for breath and reeling, offered to call it quits. +And Martin, head on arms, thrilled at the picture he caught of himself, +at that moment in the afternoon of long ago, when he reeled and panted +and choked with the blood that ran into his mouth and down his throat +from his cut lips; when he tottered toward Cheese-Face, spitting out a +mouthful of blood so that he could speak, crying out that he would +never quit, though Cheese-Face could give in if he wanted to. And +Cheese-Face did not give in, and the fight went on. + +The next day and the next, days without end, witnessed the afternoon +fight. When he put up his arms, each day, to begin, they pained +exquisitely, and the first few blows, struck and received, racked his +soul; after that things grew numb, and he fought on blindly, seeing as +in a dream, dancing and wavering, the large features and burning, +animal-like eyes of Cheese-Face. He concentrated upon that face; all +else about him was a whirling void. There was nothing else in the world +but that face, and he would never know rest, blessed rest, until he had +beaten that face into a pulp with his bleeding knuckles, or until the +bleeding knuckles that somehow belonged to that face had beaten him +into a pulp. And then, one way or the other, he would have rest. But to +quit,—for him, Martin, to quit,—that was impossible! + +Came the day when he dragged himself into the _Enquirer_ alley, and +there was no Cheese-Face. Nor did Cheese-Face come. The boys +congratulated him, and told him that he had licked Cheese-Face. But +Martin was not satisfied. He had not licked Cheese-Face, nor had +Cheese-Face licked him. The problem had not been solved. It was not +until afterward that they learned that Cheese-Face’s father had died +suddenly that very day. + +Martin skipped on through the years to the night in the nigger heaven +at the Auditorium. He was seventeen and just back from sea. A row +started. Somebody was bullying somebody, and Martin interfered, to be +confronted by Cheese-Face’s blazing eyes. + +“I’ll fix you after de show,” his ancient enemy hissed. + +Martin nodded. The nigger-heaven bouncer was making his way toward the +disturbance. + +“I’ll meet you outside, after the last act,” Martin whispered, the +while his face showed undivided interest in the buck-and-wing dancing +on the stage. + +The bouncer glared and went away. + +“Got a gang?” he asked Cheese-Face, at the end of the act. + +“Sure.” + +“Then I got to get one,” Martin announced. + +Between the acts he mustered his following—three fellows he knew from +the nail works, a railroad fireman, and half a dozen of the Boo Gang, +along with as many more from the dread Eighteen-and-Market Gang. + +When the theatre let out, the two gangs strung along inconspicuously on +opposite sides of the street. When they came to a quiet corner, they +united and held a council of war. + +“Eighth Street Bridge is the place,” said a red-headed fellow belonging +to Cheese-Face’s Gang. “You kin fight in the middle, under the electric +light, an’ whichever way the bulls come in we kin sneak the other way.” + +“That’s agreeable to me,” Martin said, after consulting with the +leaders of his own gang. + +The Eighth Street Bridge, crossing an arm of San Antonio Estuary, was +the length of three city blocks. In the middle of the bridge, and at +each end, were electric lights. No policeman could pass those +end-lights unseen. It was the safe place for the battle that revived +itself under Martin’s eyelids. He saw the two gangs, aggressive and +sullen, rigidly keeping apart from each other and backing their +respective champions; and he saw himself and Cheese-Face stripping. A +short distance away lookouts were set, their task being to watch the +lighted ends of the bridge. A member of the Boo Gang held Martin’s +coat, and shirt, and cap, ready to race with them into safety in case +the police interfered. Martin watched himself go into the centre, +facing Cheese-Face, and he heard himself say, as he held up his hand +warningly:- + +“They ain’t no hand-shakin’ in this. Understand? They ain’t nothin’ but +scrap. No throwin’ up the sponge. This is a grudge-fight an’ it’s to a +finish. Understand? Somebody’s goin’ to get licked.” + +Cheese-Face wanted to demur,—Martin could see that,—but Cheese-Face’s +old perilous pride was touched before the two gangs. + +“Aw, come on,” he replied. “Wot’s the good of chewin’ de rag about it? +I’m wit’ cheh to de finish.” + +Then they fell upon each other, like young bulls, in all the glory of +youth, with naked fists, with hatred, with desire to hurt, to maim, to +destroy. All the painful, thousand years’ gains of man in his upward +climb through creation were lost. Only the electric light remained, a +milestone on the path of the great human adventure. Martin and +Cheese-Face were two savages, of the stone age, of the squatting place +and the tree refuge. They sank lower and lower into the muddy abyss, +back into the dregs of the raw beginnings of life, striving blindly and +chemically, as atoms strive, as the star-dust of the heavens strives, +colliding, recoiling, and colliding again and eternally again. + +“God! We are animals! Brute-beasts!” Martin muttered aloud, as he +watched the progress of the fight. It was to him, with his splendid +power of vision, like gazing into a kinetoscope. He was both onlooker +and participant. His long months of culture and refinement shuddered at +the sight; then the present was blotted out of his consciousness and +the ghosts of the past possessed him, and he was Martin Eden, just +returned from sea and fighting Cheese-Face on the Eighth Street Bridge. +He suffered and toiled and sweated and bled, and exulted when his naked +knuckles smashed home. + +They were twin whirlwinds of hatred, revolving about each other +monstrously. The time passed, and the two hostile gangs became very +quiet. They had never witnessed such intensity of ferocity, and they +were awed by it. The two fighters were greater brutes than they. The +first splendid velvet edge of youth and condition wore off, and they +fought more cautiously and deliberately. There had been no advantage +gained either way. “It’s anybody’s fight,” Martin heard some one +saying. Then he followed up a feint, right and left, was fiercely +countered, and felt his cheek laid open to the bone. No bare knuckle +had done that. He heard mutters of amazement at the ghastly damage +wrought, and was drenched with his own blood. But he gave no sign. He +became immensely wary, for he was wise with knowledge of the low +cunning and foul vileness of his kind. He watched and waited, until he +feigned a wild rush, which he stopped midway, for he had seen the glint +of metal. + +“Hold up yer hand!” he screamed. “Them’s brass knuckles, an’ you hit me +with ’em!” + +Both gangs surged forward, growling and snarling. In a second there +would be a free-for-all fight, and he would be robbed of his vengeance. +He was beside himself. + +“You guys keep out!” he screamed hoarsely. “Understand? Say, d’ye +understand?” + +They shrank away from him. They were brutes, but he was the arch-brute, +a thing of terror that towered over them and dominated them. + +“This is my scrap, an’ they ain’t goin’ to be no buttin’ in. Gimme them +knuckles.” + +Cheese-Face, sobered and a bit frightened, surrendered the foul weapon. + +“You passed ’em to him, you red-head sneakin’ in behind the push +there,” Martin went on, as he tossed the knuckles into the water. “I +seen you, an’ I was wonderin’ what you was up to. If you try anything +like that again, I’ll beat cheh to death. Understand?” + +They fought on, through exhaustion and beyond, to exhaustion +immeasurable and inconceivable, until the crowd of brutes, its +blood-lust sated, terrified by what it saw, begged them impartially to +cease. And Cheese-Face, ready to drop and die, or to stay on his legs +and die, a grisly monster out of whose features all likeness to +Cheese-Face had been beaten, wavered and hesitated; but Martin sprang +in and smashed him again and again. + +Next, after a seeming century or so, with Cheese-Face weakening fast, +in a mix-up of blows there was a loud snap, and Martin’s right arm +dropped to his side. It was a broken bone. Everybody heard it and knew; +and Cheese-Face knew, rushing like a tiger in the other’s extremity and +raining blow on blow. Martin’s gang surged forward to interfere. Dazed +by the rapid succession of blows, Martin warned them back with vile and +earnest curses sobbed out and groaned in ultimate desolation and +despair. + +He punched on, with his left hand only, and as he punched, doggedly, +only half-conscious, as from a remote distance he heard murmurs of fear +in the gangs, and one who said with shaking voice: “This ain’t a scrap, +fellows. It’s murder, an’ we ought to stop it.” + +But no one stopped it, and he was glad, punching on wearily and +endlessly with his one arm, battering away at a bloody something before +him that was not a face but a horror, an oscillating, hideous, +gibbering, nameless thing that persisted before his wavering vision and +would not go away. And he punched on and on, slower and slower, as the +last shreds of vitality oozed from him, through centuries and aeons and +enormous lapses of time, until, in a dim way, he became aware that the +nameless thing was sinking, slowly sinking down to the rough +board-planking of the bridge. And the next moment he was standing over +it, staggering and swaying on shaky legs, clutching at the air for +support, and saying in a voice he did not recognize:- + +“D’ye want any more? Say, d’ye want any more?” + +He was still saying it, over and over,—demanding, entreating, +threatening, to know if it wanted any more,—when he felt the fellows of +his gang laying hands on him, patting him on the back and trying to put +his coat on him. And then came a sudden rush of blackness and oblivion. + +The tin alarm-clock on the table ticked on, but Martin Eden, his face +buried on his arms, did not hear it. He heard nothing. He did not +think. So absolutely had he relived life that he had fainted just as he +fainted years before on the Eighth Street Bridge. For a full minute the +blackness and the blankness endured. Then, like one from the dead, he +sprang upright, eyes flaming, sweat pouring down his face, shouting:- + +“I licked you, Cheese-Face! It took me eleven years, but I licked you!” + +His knees were trembling under him, he felt faint, and he staggered +back to the bed, sinking down and sitting on the edge of it. He was +still in the clutch of the past. He looked about the room, perplexed, +alarmed, wondering where he was, until he caught sight of the pile of +manuscripts in the corner. Then the wheels of memory slipped ahead +through four years of time, and he was aware of the present, of the +books he had opened and the universe he had won from their pages, of +his dreams and ambitions, and of his love for a pale wraith of a girl, +sensitive and sheltered and ethereal, who would die of horror did she +witness but one moment of what he had just lived through—one moment of +all the muck of life through which he had waded. + +He arose to his feet and confronted himself in the looking-glass. + +“And so you arise from the mud, Martin Eden,” he said solemnly. “And +you cleanse your eyes in a great brightness, and thrust your shoulders +among the stars, doing what all life has done, letting the ‘ape and +tiger die’ and wresting highest heritage from all powers that be.” + +He looked more closely at himself and laughed. + +“A bit of hysteria and melodrama, eh?” he queried. “Well, never mind. +You licked Cheese-Face, and you’ll lick the editors if it takes twice +eleven years to do it in. You can’t stop here. You’ve got to go on. +It’s to a finish, you know.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +The alarm-clock went off, jerking Martin out of sleep with a suddenness +that would have given headache to one with less splendid constitution. +Though he slept soundly, he awoke instantly, like a cat, and he awoke +eagerly, glad that the five hours of unconsciousness were gone. He +hated the oblivion of sleep. There was too much to do, too much of life +to live. He grudged every moment of life sleep robbed him of, and +before the clock had ceased its clattering he was head and ears in the +washbasin and thrilling to the cold bite of the water. + +But he did not follow his regular programme. There was no unfinished +story waiting his hand, no new story demanding articulation. He had +studied late, and it was nearly time for breakfast. He tried to read a +chapter in Fiske, but his brain was restless and he closed the book. +To-day witnessed the beginning of the new battle, wherein for some time +there would be no writing. He was aware of a sadness akin to that with +which one leaves home and family. He looked at the manuscripts in the +corner. That was it. He was going away from them, his pitiful, +dishonored children that were welcome nowhere. He went over and began +to rummage among them, reading snatches here and there, his favorite +portions. “The Pot” he honored with reading aloud, as he did +“Adventure.” “Joy,” his latest-born, completed the day before and +tossed into the corner for lack of stamps, won his keenest approbation. + +“I can’t understand,” he murmured. “Or maybe it’s the editors who can’t +understand. There’s nothing wrong with that. They publish worse every +month. Everything they publish is worse—nearly everything, anyway.” + +After breakfast he put the type-writer in its case and carried it down +into Oakland. + +“I owe a month on it,” he told the clerk in the store. “But you tell +the manager I’m going to work and that I’ll be in in a month or so and +straighten up.” + +He crossed on the ferry to San Francisco and made his way to an +employment office. “Any kind of work, no trade,” he told the agent; and +was interrupted by a new-comer, dressed rather foppishly, as some +workingmen dress who have instincts for finer things. The agent shook +his head despondently. + +“Nothin’ doin’ eh?” said the other. “Well, I got to get somebody +to-day.” + +He turned and stared at Martin, and Martin, staring back, noted the +puffed and discolored face, handsome and weak, and knew that he had +been making a night of it. + +“Lookin’ for a job?” the other queried. “What can you do?” + +“Hard labor, sailorizing, run a type-writer, no shorthand, can sit on a +horse, willing to do anything and tackle anything,” was the answer. + +The other nodded. + +“Sounds good to me. My name’s Dawson, Joe Dawson, an’ I’m tryin’ to +scare up a laundryman.” + +“Too much for me.” Martin caught an amusing glimpse of himself ironing +fluffy white things that women wear. But he had taken a liking to the +other, and he added: “I might do the plain washing. I learned that much +at sea.” Joe Dawson thought visibly for a moment. + +“Look here, let’s get together an’ frame it up. Willin’ to listen?” + +Martin nodded. + +“This is a small laundry, up country, belongs to Shelly Hot +Springs,—hotel, you know. Two men do the work, boss and assistant. I’m +the boss. You don’t work for me, but you work under me. Think you’d be +willin’ to learn?” + +Martin paused to think. The prospect was alluring. A few months of it, +and he would have time to himself for study. He could work hard and +study hard. + +“Good grub an’ a room to yourself,” Joe said. + +That settled it. A room to himself where he could burn the midnight oil +unmolested. + +“But work like hell,” the other added. + +Martin caressed his swelling shoulder-muscles significantly. “That came +from hard work.” + +“Then let’s get to it.” Joe held his hand to his head for a moment. +“Gee, but it’s a stem-winder. Can hardly see. I went down the line last +night—everything—everything. Here’s the frame-up. The wages for two is +a hundred and board. I’ve ben drawin’ down sixty, the second man forty. +But he knew the biz. You’re green. If I break you in, I’ll be doing +plenty of your work at first. Suppose you begin at thirty, an’ work up +to the forty. I’ll play fair. Just as soon as you can do your share you +get the forty.” + +“I’ll go you,” Martin announced, stretching out his hand, which the +other shook. “Any advance?—for rail-road ticket and extras?” + +“I blew it in,” was Joe’s sad answer, with another reach at his aching +head. “All I got is a return ticket.” + +“And I’m broke—when I pay my board.” + +“Jump it,” Joe advised. + +“Can’t. Owe it to my sister.” + +Joe whistled a long, perplexed whistle, and racked his brains to little +purpose. + +“I’ve got the price of the drinks,” he said desperately. “Come on, an’ +mebbe we’ll cook up something.” + +Martin declined. + +“Water-wagon?” + +This time Martin nodded, and Joe lamented, “Wish I was.” + +“But I somehow just can’t,” he said in extenuation. “After I’ve ben +workin’ like hell all week I just got to booze up. If I didn’t, I’d cut +my throat or burn up the premises. But I’m glad you’re on the wagon. +Stay with it.” + +Martin knew of the enormous gulf between him and this man—the gulf the +books had made; but he found no difficulty in crossing back over that +gulf. He had lived all his life in the working-class world, and the +_camaraderie_ of labor was second nature with him. He solved the +difficulty of transportation that was too much for the other’s aching +head. He would send his trunk up to Shelly Hot Springs on Joe’s ticket. +As for himself, there was his wheel. It was seventy miles, and he could +ride it on Sunday and be ready for work Monday morning. In the meantime +he would go home and pack up. There was no one to say good-by to. Ruth +and her whole family were spending the long summer in the Sierras, at +Lake Tahoe. + +He arrived at Shelly Hot Springs, tired and dusty, on Sunday night. Joe +greeted him exuberantly. With a wet towel bound about his aching brow, +he had been at work all day. + +“Part of last week’s washin’ mounted up, me bein’ away to get you,” he +explained. “Your box arrived all right. It’s in your room. But it’s a +hell of a thing to call a trunk. An’ what’s in it? Gold bricks?” + +Joe sat on the bed while Martin unpacked. The box was a packing-case +for breakfast food, and Mr. Higginbotham had charged him half a dollar +for it. Two rope handles, nailed on by Martin, had technically +transformed it into a trunk eligible for the baggage-car. Joe watched, +with bulging eyes, a few shirts and several changes of underclothes +come out of the box, followed by books, and more books. + +“Books clean to the bottom?” he asked. + +Martin nodded, and went on arranging the books on a kitchen table which +served in the room in place of a wash-stand. + +“Gee!” Joe exploded, then waited in silence for the deduction to arise +in his brain. At last it came. + +“Say, you don’t care for the girls—much?” he queried. + +“No,” was the answer. “I used to chase a lot before I tackled the +books. But since then there’s no time.” + +“And there won’t be any time here. All you can do is work an’ sleep.” + +Martin thought of his five hours’ sleep a night, and smiled. The room +was situated over the laundry and was in the same building with the +engine that pumped water, made electricity, and ran the laundry +machinery. The engineer, who occupied the adjoining room, dropped in to +meet the new hand and helped Martin rig up an electric bulb, on an +extension wire, so that it travelled along a stretched cord from over +the table to the bed. + +The next morning, at quarter-past six, Martin was routed out for a +quarter-to-seven breakfast. There happened to be a bath-tub for the +servants in the laundry building, and he electrified Joe by taking a +cold bath. + +“Gee, but you’re a hummer!” Joe announced, as they sat down to +breakfast in a corner of the hotel kitchen. + +With them was the engineer, the gardener, and the assistant gardener, +and two or three men from the stable. They ate hurriedly and gloomily, +with but little conversation, and as Martin ate and listened he +realized how far he had travelled from their status. Their small mental +caliber was depressing to him, and he was anxious to get away from +them. So he bolted his breakfast, a sickly, sloppy affair, as rapidly +as they, and heaved a sigh of relief when he passed out through the +kitchen door. + +It was a perfectly appointed, small steam laundry, wherein the most +modern machinery did everything that was possible for machinery to do. +Martin, after a few instructions, sorted the great heaps of soiled +clothes, while Joe started the masher and made up fresh supplies of +soft-soap, compounded of biting chemicals that compelled him to swathe +his mouth and nostrils and eyes in bath-towels till he resembled a +mummy. Finished the sorting, Martin lent a hand in wringing the +clothes. This was done by dumping them into a spinning receptacle that +went at a rate of a few thousand revolutions a minute, tearing the +water from the clothes by centrifugal force. Then Martin began to +alternate between the dryer and the wringer, between times “shaking +out” socks and stockings. By the afternoon, one feeding and one +stacking up, they were running socks and stockings through the mangle +while the irons were heating. Then it was hot irons and underclothes +till six o’clock, at which time Joe shook his head dubiously. + +“Way behind,” he said. “Got to work after supper.” And after supper +they worked until ten o’clock, under the blazing electric lights, until +the last piece of under-clothing was ironed and folded away in the +distributing room. It was a hot California night, and though the +windows were thrown wide, the room, with its red-hot ironing-stove, was +a furnace. Martin and Joe, down to undershirts, bare armed, sweated and +panted for air. + +“Like trimming cargo in the tropics,” Martin said, when they went +upstairs. + +“You’ll do,” Joe answered. “You take hold like a good fellow. If you +keep up the pace, you’ll be on thirty dollars only one month. The +second month you’ll be gettin’ your forty. But don’t tell me you never +ironed before. I know better.” + +“Never ironed a rag in my life, honestly, until to-day,” Martin +protested. + +He was surprised at his weariness when he got into his room, forgetful +of the fact that he had been on his feet and working without let up for +fourteen hours. He set the alarm clock at six, and measured back five +hours to one o’clock. He could read until then. Slipping off his shoes, +to ease his swollen feet, he sat down at the table with his books. He +opened Fiske, where he had left off to read. But he found trouble and +began to read it through a second time. Then he awoke, in pain from his +stiffened muscles and chilled by the mountain wind that had begun to +blow in through the window. He looked at the clock. It marked two. He +had been asleep four hours. He pulled off his clothes and crawled into +bed, where he was asleep the moment after his head touched the pillow. + +Tuesday was a day of similar unremitting toil. The speed with which Joe +worked won Martin’s admiration. Joe was a dozen of demons for work. He +was keyed up to concert pitch, and there was never a moment in the long +day when he was not fighting for moments. He concentrated himself upon +his work and upon how to save time, pointing out to Martin where he did +in five motions what could be done in three, or in three motions what +could be done in two. “Elimination of waste motion,” Martin phrased it +as he watched and patterned after. He was a good workman himself, quick +and deft, and it had always been a point of pride with him that no man +should do any of his work for him or outwork him. As a result, he +concentrated with a similar singleness of purpose, greedily snapping up +the hints and suggestions thrown out by his working mate. He “rubbed +out” collars and cuffs, rubbing the starch out from between the double +thicknesses of linen so that there would be no blisters when it came to +the ironing, and doing it at a pace that elicited Joe’s praise. + +There was never an interval when something was not at hand to be done. +Joe waited for nothing, waited on nothing, and went on the jump from +task to task. They starched two hundred white shirts, with a single +gathering movement seizing a shirt so that the wristbands, neckband, +yoke, and bosom protruded beyond the circling right hand. At the same +moment the left hand held up the body of the shirt so that it would not +enter the starch, and at the same moment the right hand dipped into the +starch—starch so hot that, in order to wring it out, their hands had to +thrust, and thrust continually, into a bucket of cold water. And that +night they worked till half-past ten, dipping “fancy starch”—all the +frilled and airy, delicate wear of ladies. + +“Me for the tropics and no clothes,” Martin laughed. + +“And me out of a job,” Joe answered seriously. “I don’t know nothin’ +but laundrying.” + +“And you know it well.” + +“I ought to. Began in the Contra Costa in Oakland when I was eleven, +shakin’ out for the mangle. That was eighteen years ago, an’ I’ve never +done a tap of anything else. But this job is the fiercest I ever had. +Ought to be one more man on it at least. We work to-morrow night. +Always run the mangle Wednesday nights—collars an’ cuffs.” + +Martin set his alarm, drew up to the table, and opened Fiske. He did +not finish the first paragraph. The lines blurred and ran together and +his head nodded. He walked up and down, batting his head savagely with +his fists, but he could not conquer the numbness of sleep. He propped +the book before him, and propped his eyelids with his fingers, and fell +asleep with his eyes wide open. Then he surrendered, and, scarcely +conscious of what he did, got off his clothes and into bed. He slept +seven hours of heavy, animal-like sleep, and awoke by the alarm, +feeling that he had not had enough. + +“Doin’ much readin’?” Joe asked. + +Martin shook his head. + +“Never mind. We got to run the mangle to-night, but Thursday we’ll +knock off at six. That’ll give you a chance.” + +Martin washed woollens that day, by hand, in a large barrel, with +strong soft-soap, by means of a hub from a wagon wheel, mounted on a +plunger-pole that was attached to a spring-pole overhead. + +“My invention,” Joe said proudly. “Beats a washboard an’ your knuckles, +and, besides, it saves at least fifteen minutes in the week, an’ +fifteen minutes ain’t to be sneezed at in this shebang.” + +Running the collars and cuffs through the mangle was also Joe’s idea. +That night, while they toiled on under the electric lights, he +explained it. + +“Something no laundry ever does, except this one. An’ I got to do it if +I’m goin’ to get done Saturday afternoon at three o’clock. But I know +how, an’ that’s the difference. Got to have right heat, right pressure, +and run ’em through three times. Look at that!” He held a cuff aloft. +“Couldn’t do it better by hand or on a tiler.” + +Thursday, Joe was in a rage. A bundle of extra “fancy starch” had come +in. + +“I’m goin’ to quit,” he announced. “I won’t stand for it. I’m goin’ to +quit it cold. What’s the good of me workin’ like a slave all week, +a-savin’ minutes, an’ them a-comin’ an’ ringin’ in fancy-starch extras +on me? This is a free country, an’ I’m to tell that fat Dutchman what I +think of him. An’ I won’t tell ’m in French. Plain United States is +good enough for me. Him a-ringin’ in fancy starch extras!” + +“We got to work to-night,” he said the next moment, reversing his +judgment and surrendering to fate. + +And Martin did no reading that night. He had seen no daily paper all +week, and, strangely to him, felt no desire to see one. He was not +interested in the news. He was too tired and jaded to be interested in +anything, though he planned to leave Saturday afternoon, if they +finished at three, and ride on his wheel to Oakland. It was seventy +miles, and the same distance back on Sunday afternoon would leave him +anything but rested for the second week’s work. It would have been +easier to go on the train, but the round trip was two dollars and a +half, and he was intent on saving money. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +Martin learned to do many things. In the course of the first week, in +one afternoon, he and Joe accounted for the two hundred white shirts. +Joe ran the tiler, a machine wherein a hot iron was hooked on a steel +string which furnished the pressure. By this means he ironed the yoke, +wristbands, and neckband, setting the latter at right angles to the +shirt, and put the glossy finish on the bosom. As fast as he finished +them, he flung the shirts on a rack between him and Martin, who caught +them up and “backed” them. This task consisted of ironing all the +unstarched portions of the shirts. + +It was exhausting work, carried on, hour after hour, at top speed. Out +on the broad verandas of the hotel, men and women, in cool white, +sipped iced drinks and kept their circulation down. But in the laundry +the air was sizzling. The huge stove roared red hot and white hot, +while the irons, moving over the damp cloth, sent up clouds of steam. +The heat of these irons was different from that used by housewives. An +iron that stood the ordinary test of a wet finger was too cold for Joe +and Martin, and such test was useless. They went wholly by holding the +irons close to their cheeks, gauging the heat by some secret mental +process that Martin admired but could not understand. When the fresh +irons proved too hot, they hooked them on iron rods and dipped them +into cold water. This again required a precise and subtle judgment. A +fraction of a second too long in the water and the fine and silken edge +of the proper heat was lost, and Martin found time to marvel at the +accuracy he developed—an automatic accuracy, founded upon criteria that +were machine-like and unerring. + +But there was little time in which to marvel. All Martin’s +consciousness was concentrated in the work. Ceaselessly active, head +and hand, an intelligent machine, all that constituted him a man was +devoted to furnishing that intelligence. There was no room in his brain +for the universe and its mighty problems. All the broad and spacious +corridors of his mind were closed and hermetically sealed. The echoing +chamber of his soul was a narrow room, a conning tower, whence were +directed his arm and shoulder muscles, his ten nimble fingers, and the +swift-moving iron along its steaming path in broad, sweeping strokes, +just so many strokes and no more, just so far with each stroke and not +a fraction of an inch farther, rushing along interminable sleeves, +sides, backs, and tails, and tossing the finished shirts, without +rumpling, upon the receiving frame. And even as his hurrying soul +tossed, it was reaching for another shirt. This went on, hour after +hour, while outside all the world swooned under the overhead California +sun. But there was no swooning in that superheated room. The cool +guests on the verandas needed clean linen. + +The sweat poured from Martin. He drank enormous quantities of water, +but so great was the heat of the day and of his exertions, that the +water sluiced through the interstices of his flesh and out at all his +pores. Always, at sea, except at rare intervals, the work he performed +had given him ample opportunity to commune with himself. The master of +the ship had been lord of Martin’s time; but here the manager of the +hotel was lord of Martin’s thoughts as well. He had no thoughts save +for the nerve-racking, body-destroying toil. Outside of that it was +impossible to think. He did not know that he loved Ruth. She did not +even exist, for his driven soul had no time to remember her. It was +only when he crawled to bed at night, or to breakfast in the morning, +that she asserted herself to him in fleeting memories. + +“This is hell, ain’t it?” Joe remarked once. + +Martin nodded, but felt a rasp of irritation. The statement had been +obvious and unnecessary. They did not talk while they worked. +Conversation threw them out of their stride, as it did this time, +compelling Martin to miss a stroke of his iron and to make two extra +motions before he caught his stride again. + +On Friday morning the washer ran. Twice a week they had to put through +hotel linen,—the sheets, pillow-slips, spreads, table-cloths, and +napkins. This finished, they buckled down to “fancy starch.” It was +slow work, fastidious and delicate, and Martin did not learn it so +readily. Besides, he could not take chances. Mistakes were disastrous. + +“See that,” Joe said, holding up a filmy corset-cover that he could +have crumpled from view in one hand. “Scorch that an’ it’s twenty +dollars out of your wages.” + +So Martin did not scorch that, and eased down on his muscular tension, +though nervous tension rose higher than ever, and he listened +sympathetically to the other’s blasphemies as he toiled and suffered +over the beautiful things that women wear when they do not have to do +their own laundrying. “Fancy starch” was Martin’s nightmare, and it was +Joe’s, too. It was “fancy starch” that robbed them of their hard-won +minutes. They toiled at it all day. At seven in the evening they broke +off to run the hotel linen through the mangle. At ten o’clock, while +the hotel guests slept, the two laundrymen sweated on at “fancy starch” +till midnight, till one, till two. At half-past two they knocked off. + +Saturday morning it was “fancy starch,” and odds and ends, and at three +in the afternoon the week’s work was done. + +“You ain’t a-goin’ to ride them seventy miles into Oakland on top of +this?” Joe demanded, as they sat on the stairs and took a triumphant +smoke. + +“Got to,” was the answer. + +“What are you goin’ for?—a girl?” + +“No; to save two and a half on the railroad ticket. I want to renew +some books at the library.” + +“Why don’t you send ’em down an’ up by express? That’ll cost only a +quarter each way.” + +Martin considered it. + +“An’ take a rest to-morrow,” the other urged. “You need it. I know I +do. I’m plumb tuckered out.” + +He looked it. Indomitable, never resting, fighting for seconds and +minutes all week, circumventing delays and crushing down obstacles, a +fount of resistless energy, a high-driven human motor, a demon for +work, now that he had accomplished the week’s task he was in a state of +collapse. He was worn and haggard, and his handsome face drooped in +lean exhaustion. He pulled his cigarette spiritlessly, and his voice +was peculiarly dead and monotonous. All the snap and fire had gone out +of him. His triumph seemed a sorry one. + +“An’ next week we got to do it all over again,” he said sadly. “An’ +what’s the good of it all, hey? Sometimes I wish I was a hobo. They +don’t work, an’ they get their livin’. Gee! I wish I had a glass of +beer; but I can’t get up the gumption to go down to the village an’ get +it. You’ll stay over, an’ send your books down by express, or else +you’re a damn fool.” + +“But what can I do here all day Sunday?” Martin asked. + +“Rest. You don’t know how tired you are. Why, I’m that tired Sunday I +can’t even read the papers. I was sick once—typhoid. In the hospital +two months an’ a half. Didn’t do a tap of work all that time. It was +beautiful.” + +“It was beautiful,” he repeated dreamily, a minute later. + +Martin took a bath, after which he found that the head laundryman had +disappeared. Most likely he had gone for a glass of beer Martin +decided, but the half-mile walk down to the village to find out seemed +a long journey to him. He lay on his bed with his shoes off, trying to +make up his mind. He did not reach out for a book. He was too tired to +feel sleepy, and he lay, scarcely thinking, in a semi-stupor of +weariness, until it was time for supper. Joe did not appear for that +function, and when Martin heard the gardener remark that most likely he +was ripping the slats off the bar, Martin understood. He went to bed +immediately afterward, and in the morning decided that he was greatly +rested. Joe being still absent, Martin procured a Sunday paper and lay +down in a shady nook under the trees. The morning passed, he knew not +how. He did not sleep, nobody disturbed him, and he did not finish the +paper. He came back to it in the afternoon, after dinner, and fell +asleep over it. + +So passed Sunday, and Monday morning he was hard at work, sorting +clothes, while Joe, a towel bound tightly around his head, with groans +and blasphemies, was running the washer and mixing soft-soap. + +“I simply can’t help it,” he explained. “I got to drink when Saturday +night comes around.” + +Another week passed, a great battle that continued under the electric +lights each night and that culminated on Saturday afternoon at three +o’clock, when Joe tasted his moment of wilted triumph and then drifted +down to the village to forget. Martin’s Sunday was the same as before. +He slept in the shade of the trees, toiled aimlessly through the +newspaper, and spent long hours lying on his back, doing nothing, +thinking nothing. He was too dazed to think, though he was aware that +he did not like himself. He was self-repelled, as though he had +undergone some degradation or was intrinsically foul. All that was +god-like in him was blotted out. The spur of ambition was blunted; he +had no vitality with which to feel the prod of it. He was dead. His +soul seemed dead. He was a beast, a work-beast. He saw no beauty in the +sunshine sifting down through the green leaves, nor did the azure vault +of the sky whisper as of old and hint of cosmic vastness and secrets +trembling to disclosure. Life was intolerably dull and stupid, and its +taste was bad in his mouth. A black screen was drawn across his mirror +of inner vision, and fancy lay in a darkened sick-room where entered no +ray of light. He envied Joe, down in the village, rampant, tearing the +slats off the bar, his brain gnawing with maggots, exulting in maudlin +ways over maudlin things, fantastically and gloriously drunk and +forgetful of Monday morning and the week of deadening toil to come. + +A third week went by, and Martin loathed himself, and loathed life. He +was oppressed by a sense of failure. There was reason for the editors +refusing his stuff. He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself +and the dreams he had dreamed. Ruth returned his “Sea Lyrics” by mail. +He read her letter apathetically. She did her best to say how much she +liked them and that they were beautiful. But she could not lie, and she +could not disguise the truth from herself. She knew they were failures, +and he read her disapproval in every perfunctory and unenthusiastic +line of her letter. And she was right. He was firmly convinced of it as +he read the poems over. Beauty and wonder had departed from him, and as +he read the poems he caught himself puzzling as to what he had had in +mind when he wrote them. His audacities of phrase struck him as +grotesque, his felicities of expression were monstrosities, and +everything was absurd, unreal, and impossible. He would have burned the +“Sea Lyrics” on the spot, had his will been strong enough to set them +aflame. There was the engine-room, but the exertion of carrying them to +the furnace was not worth while. All his exertion was used in washing +other persons’ clothes. He did not have any left for private affairs. + +He resolved that when Sunday came he would pull himself together and +answer Ruth’s letter. But Saturday afternoon, after work was finished +and he had taken a bath, the desire to forget overpowered him. “I guess +I’ll go down and see how Joe’s getting on,” was the way he put it to +himself; and in the same moment he knew that he lied. But he did not +have the energy to consider the lie. If he had had the energy, he would +have refused to consider the lie, because he wanted to forget. He +started for the village slowly and casually, increasing his pace in +spite of himself as he neared the saloon. + +“I thought you was on the water-wagon,” was Joe’s greeting. + +Martin did not deign to offer excuses, but called for whiskey, filling +his own glass brimming before he passed the bottle. + +“Don’t take all night about it,” he said roughly. + +The other was dawdling with the bottle, and Martin refused to wait for +him, tossing the glass off in a gulp and refilling it. + +“Now, I can wait for you,” he said grimly; “but hurry up.” + +Joe hurried, and they drank together. + +“The work did it, eh?” Joe queried. + +Martin refused to discuss the matter. + +“It’s fair hell, I know,” the other went on, “but I kind of hate to see +you come off the wagon, Mart. Well, here’s how!” + +Martin drank on silently, biting out his orders and invitations and +awing the barkeeper, an effeminate country youngster with watery blue +eyes and hair parted in the middle. + +“It’s something scandalous the way they work us poor devils,” Joe was +remarking. “If I didn’t bowl up, I’d break loose an’ burn down the +shebang. My bowlin’ up is all that saves ’em, I can tell you that.” + +But Martin made no answer. A few more drinks, and in his brain he felt +the maggots of intoxication beginning to crawl. Ah, it was living, the +first breath of life he had breathed in three weeks. His dreams came +back to him. Fancy came out of the darkened room and lured him on, a +thing of flaming brightness. His mirror of vision was silver-clear, a +flashing, dazzling palimpsest of imagery. Wonder and beauty walked with +him, hand in hand, and all power was his. He tried to tell it to Joe, +but Joe had visions of his own, infallible schemes whereby he would +escape the slavery of laundry-work and become himself the owner of a +great steam laundry. + +“I tell yeh, Mart, they won’t be no kids workin’ in my laundry—not on +yer life. An’ they won’t be no workin’ a livin’ soul after six P.M. You +hear me talk! They’ll be machinery enough an’ hands enough to do it all +in decent workin’ hours, an’ Mart, s’help me, I’ll make yeh +superintendent of the shebang—the whole of it, all of it. Now here’s +the scheme. I get on the water-wagon an’ save my money for two +years—save an’ then—” + +But Martin turned away, leaving him to tell it to the barkeeper, until +that worthy was called away to furnish drinks to two farmers who, +coming in, accepted Martin’s invitation. Martin dispensed royal +largess, inviting everybody up, farm-hands, a stableman, and the +gardener’s assistant from the hotel, the barkeeper, and the furtive +hobo who slid in like a shadow and like a shadow hovered at the end of +the bar. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +Monday morning, Joe groaned over the first truck load of clothes to the +washer. + +“I say,” he began. + +“Don’t talk to me,” Martin snarled. + +“I’m sorry, Joe,” he said at noon, when they knocked off for dinner. + +Tears came into the other’s eyes. + +“That’s all right, old man,” he said. “We’re in hell, an’ we can’t help +ourselves. An’, you know, I kind of like you a whole lot. That’s what +made it—hurt. I cottoned to you from the first.” + +Martin shook his hand. + +“Let’s quit,” Joe suggested. “Let’s chuck it, an’ go hoboin’. I ain’t +never tried it, but it must be dead easy. An’ nothin’ to do. Just think +of it, nothin’ to do. I was sick once, typhoid, in the hospital, an’ it +was beautiful. I wish I’d get sick again.” + +The week dragged on. The hotel was full, and extra “fancy starch” +poured in upon them. They performed prodigies of valor. They fought +late each night under the electric lights, bolted their meals, and even +got in a half hour’s work before breakfast. Martin no longer took his +cold baths. Every moment was drive, drive, drive, and Joe was the +masterful shepherd of moments, herding them carefully, never losing +one, counting them over like a miser counting gold, working on in a +frenzy, toil-mad, a feverish machine, aided ably by that other machine +that thought of itself as once having been one Martin Eden, a man. + +But it was only at rare moments that Martin was able to think. The +house of thought was closed, its windows boarded up, and he was its +shadowy caretaker. He was a shadow. Joe was right. They were both +shadows, and this was the unending limbo of toil. Or was it a dream? +Sometimes, in the steaming, sizzling heat, as he swung the heavy irons +back and forth over the white garments, it came to him that it was a +dream. In a short while, or maybe after a thousand years or so, he +would awake, in his little room with the ink-stained table, and take up +his writing where he had left off the day before. Or maybe that was a +dream, too, and the awakening would be the changing of the watches, +when he would drop down out of his bunk in the lurching forecastle and +go up on deck, under the tropic stars, and take the wheel and feel the +cool tradewind blowing through his flesh. + +Came Saturday and its hollow victory at three o’clock. + +“Guess I’ll go down an’ get a glass of beer,” Joe said, in the queer, +monotonous tones that marked his week-end collapse. + +Martin seemed suddenly to wake up. He opened the kit bag and oiled his +wheel, putting graphite on the chain and adjusting the bearings. Joe +was halfway down to the saloon when Martin passed by, bending low over +the handle-bars, his legs driving the ninety-six gear with rhythmic +strength, his face set for seventy miles of road and grade and dust. He +slept in Oakland that night, and on Sunday covered the seventy miles +back. And on Monday morning, weary, he began the new week’s work, but +he had kept sober. + +A fifth week passed, and a sixth, during which he lived and toiled as a +machine, with just a spark of something more in him, just a glimmering +bit of soul, that compelled him, at each week-end, to scorch off the +hundred and forty miles. But this was not rest. It was +super-machinelike, and it helped to crush out the glimmering bit of +soul that was all that was left him from former life. At the end of the +seventh week, without intending it, too weak to resist, he drifted down +to the village with Joe and drowned life and found life until Monday +morning. + +Again, at the week-ends, he ground out the one hundred and forty miles, +obliterating the numbness of too great exertion by the numbness of +still greater exertion. At the end of three months he went down a third +time to the village with Joe. He forgot, and lived again, and, living, +he saw, in clear illumination, the beast he was making of himself—not +by the drink, but by the work. The drink was an effect, not a cause. It +followed inevitably upon the work, as the night follows upon the day. +Not by becoming a toil-beast could he win to the heights, was the +message the whiskey whispered to him, and he nodded approbation. The +whiskey was wise. It told secrets on itself. + +He called for paper and pencil, and for drinks all around, and while +they drank his very good health, he clung to the bar and scribbled. + +“A telegram, Joe,” he said. “Read it.” + +Joe read it with a drunken, quizzical leer. But what he read seemed to +sober him. He looked at the other reproachfully, tears oozing into his +eyes and down his cheeks. + +“You ain’t goin’ back on me, Mart?” he queried hopelessly. + +Martin nodded, and called one of the loungers to him to take the +message to the telegraph office. + +“Hold on,” Joe muttered thickly. “Lemme think.” + +He held on to the bar, his legs wobbling under him, Martin’s arm around +him and supporting him, while he thought. + +“Make that two laundrymen,” he said abruptly. “Here, lemme fix it.” + +“What are you quitting for?” Martin demanded. + +“Same reason as you.” + +“But I’m going to sea. You can’t do that.” + +“Nope,” was the answer, “but I can hobo all right, all right.” + +Martin looked at him searchingly for a moment, then cried:- + +“By God, I think you’re right! Better a hobo than a beast of toil. Why, +man, you’ll live. And that’s more than you ever did before.” + +“I was in hospital, once,” Joe corrected. “It was beautiful. +Typhoid—did I tell you?” + +While Martin changed the telegram to “two laundrymen,” Joe went on:- + +“I never wanted to drink when I was in hospital. Funny, ain’t it? But +when I’ve ben workin’ like a slave all week, I just got to bowl up. +Ever noticed that cooks drink like hell?—an’ bakers, too? It’s the +work. They’ve sure got to. Here, lemme pay half of that telegram.” + +“I’ll shake you for it,” Martin offered. + +“Come on, everybody drink,” Joe called, as they rattled the dice and +rolled them out on the damp bar. + +Monday morning Joe was wild with anticipation. He did not mind his +aching head, nor did he take interest in his work. Whole herds of +moments stole away and were lost while their careless shepherd gazed +out of the window at the sunshine and the trees. + +“Just look at it!” he cried. “An’ it’s all mine! It’s free. I can lie +down under them trees an’ sleep for a thousan’ years if I want to. Aw, +come on, Mart, let’s chuck it. What’s the good of waitin’ another +moment. That’s the land of nothin’ to do out there, an’ I got a ticket +for it—an’ it ain’t no return ticket, b’gosh!” + +A few minutes later, filling the truck with soiled clothes for the +washer, Joe spied the hotel manager’s shirt. He knew its mark, and with +a sudden glorious consciousness of freedom he threw it on the floor and +stamped on it. + +“I wish you was in it, you pig-headed Dutchman!” he shouted. “In it, +an’ right there where I’ve got you! Take that! an’ that! an’ that! damn +you! Hold me back, somebody! Hold me back!” + +Martin laughed and held him to his work. On Tuesday night the new +laundrymen arrived, and the rest of the week was spent breaking them +into the routine. Joe sat around and explained his system, but he did +no more work. + +“Not a tap,” he announced. “Not a tap. They can fire me if they want +to, but if they do, I’ll quit. No more work in mine, thank you kindly. +Me for the freight cars an’ the shade under the trees. Go to it, you +slaves! That’s right. Slave an’ sweat! Slave an’ sweat! An’ when you’re +dead, you’ll rot the same as me, an’ what’s it matter how you live?—eh? +Tell me that—what’s it matter in the long run?” + +On Saturday they drew their pay and came to the parting of the ways. + +“They ain’t no use in me askin’ you to change your mind an’ hit the +road with me?” Joe asked hopelessly: + +Martin shook his head. He was standing by his wheel, ready to start. +They shook hands, and Joe held on to his for a moment, as he said:- + +“I’m goin’ to see you again, Mart, before you an’ me die. That’s +straight dope. I feel it in my bones. Good-by, Mart, an’ be good. I +like you like hell, you know.” + +He stood, a forlorn figure, in the middle of the road, watching until +Martin turned a bend and was gone from sight. + +“He’s a good Indian, that boy,” he muttered. “A good Indian.” + +Then he plodded down the road himself, to the water tank, where half a +dozen empties lay on a side-track waiting for the up freight. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +Ruth and her family were home again, and Martin, returned to Oakland, +saw much of her. Having gained her degree, she was doing no more +studying; and he, having worked all vitality out of his mind and body, +was doing no writing. This gave them time for each other that they had +never had before, and their intimacy ripened fast. + +At first, Martin had done nothing but rest. He had slept a great deal, +and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing. He was like +one recovering from some terrible bout of hardship. The first signs of +reawakening came when he discovered more than languid interest in the +daily paper. Then he began to read again—light novels, and poetry; and +after several days more he was head over heels in his long-neglected +Fiske. His splendid body and health made new vitality, and he possessed +all the resiliency and rebound of youth. + +Ruth showed her disappointment plainly when he announced that he was +going to sea for another voyage as soon as he was well rested. + +“Why do you want to do that?” she asked. + +“Money,” was the answer. “I’ll have to lay in a supply for my next +attack on the editors. Money is the sinews of war, in my case—money and +patience.” + +“But if all you wanted was money, why didn’t you stay in the laundry?” + +“Because the laundry was making a beast of me. Too much work of that +sort drives to drink.” + +She stared at him with horror in her eyes. + +“Do you mean—?” she quavered. + +It would have been easy for him to get out of it; but his natural +impulse was for frankness, and he remembered his old resolve to be +frank, no matter what happened. + +“Yes,” he answered. “Just that. Several times.” + +She shivered and drew away from him. + +“No man that I have ever known did that—ever did that.” + +“Then they never worked in the laundry at Shelly Hot Springs,” he +laughed bitterly. “Toil is a good thing. It is necessary for human +health, so all the preachers say, and Heaven knows I’ve never been +afraid of it. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, +and the laundry up there is one of them. And that’s why I’m going to +sea one more voyage. It will be my last, I think, for when I come back, +I shall break into the magazines. I am certain of it.” + +She was silent, unsympathetic, and he watched her moodily, realizing +how impossible it was for her to understand what he had been through. + +“Some day I shall write it up—‘The Degradation of Toil’ or the +‘Psychology of Drink in the Working-class,’ or something like that for +a title.” + +Never, since the first meeting, had they seemed so far apart as that +day. His confession, told in frankness, with the spirit of revolt +behind, had repelled her. But she was more shocked by the repulsion +itself than by the cause of it. It pointed out to her how near she had +drawn to him, and once accepted, it paved the way for greater intimacy. +Pity, too, was aroused, and innocent, idealistic thoughts of reform. +She would save this raw young man who had come so far. She would save +him from the curse of his early environment, and she would save him +from himself in spite of himself. And all this affected her as a very +noble state of consciousness; nor did she dream that behind it and +underlying it were the jealousy and desire of love. + +They rode on their wheels much in the delightful fall weather, and out +in the hills they read poetry aloud, now one and now the other, noble, +uplifting poetry that turned one’s thoughts to higher things. +Renunciation, sacrifice, patience, industry, and high endeavor were the +principles she thus indirectly preached—such abstractions being +objectified in her mind by her father, and Mr. Butler, and by Andrew +Carnegie, who, from a poor immigrant boy had arisen to be the +book-giver of the world. All of which was appreciated and enjoyed by +Martin. He followed her mental processes more clearly now, and her soul +was no longer the sealed wonder it had been. He was on terms of +intellectual equality with her. But the points of disagreement did not +affect his love. His love was more ardent than ever, for he loved her +for what she was, and even her physical frailty was an added charm in +his eyes. He read of sickly Elizabeth Barrett, who for years had not +placed her feet upon the ground, until that day of flame when she +eloped with Browning and stood upright, upon the earth, under the open +sky; and what Browning had done for her, Martin decided he could do for +Ruth. But first, she must love him. The rest would be easy. He would +give her strength and health. And he caught glimpses of their life, in +the years to come, wherein, against a background of work and comfort +and general well-being, he saw himself and Ruth reading and discussing +poetry, she propped amid a multitude of cushions on the ground while +she read aloud to him. This was the key to the life they would live. +And always he saw that particular picture. Sometimes it was she who +leaned against him while he read, one arm about her, her head upon his +shoulder. Sometimes they pored together over the printed pages of +beauty. Then, too, she loved nature, and with generous imagination he +changed the scene of their reading—sometimes they read in closed-in +valleys with precipitous walls, or in high mountain meadows, and, +again, down by the gray sand-dunes with a wreath of billows at their +feet, or afar on some volcanic tropic isle where waterfalls descended +and became mist, reaching the sea in vapor veils that swayed and +shivered to every vagrant wisp of wind. But always, in the foreground, +lords of beauty and eternally reading and sharing, lay he and Ruth, and +always in the background that was beyond the background of nature, dim +and hazy, were work and success and money earned that made them free of +the world and all its treasures. + +“I should recommend my little girl to be careful,” her mother warned +her one day. + +“I know what you mean. But it is impossible. He is not—” + +Ruth was blushing, but it was the blush of maidenhood called upon for +the first time to discuss the sacred things of life with a mother held +equally sacred. + +“Your kind.” Her mother finished the sentence for her. + +Ruth nodded. + +“I did not want to say it, but he is not. He is rough, brutal, +strong—too strong. He has not—” + +She hesitated and could not go on. It was a new experience, talking +over such matters with her mother. And again her mother completed her +thought for her. + +“He has not lived a clean life, is what you wanted to say.” + +Again Ruth nodded, and again a blush mantled her face. + +“It is just that,” she said. “It has not been his fault, but he has +played much with—” + +“With pitch?” + +“Yes, with pitch. And he frightens me. Sometimes I am positively in +terror of him, when he talks in that free and easy way of the things he +has done—as if they did not matter. They do matter, don’t they?” + +They sat with their arms twined around each other, and in the pause her +mother patted her hand and waited for her to go on. + +“But I am interested in him dreadfully,” she continued. “In a way he is +my protégé. Then, too, he is my first boy friend—but not exactly +friend; rather protégé and friend combined. Sometimes, too, when he +frightens me, it seems that he is a bulldog I have taken for a +plaything, like some of the ‘frat’ girls, and he is tugging hard, and +showing his teeth, and threatening to break loose.” + +Again her mother waited. + +“He interests me, I suppose, like the bulldog. And there is much good +in him, too; but there is much in him that I would not like in—in the +other way. You see, I have been thinking. He swears, he smokes, he +drinks, he has fought with his fists (he has told me so, and he likes +it; he says so). He is all that a man should not be—a man I would want +for my—” her voice sank very low—“husband. Then he is too strong. My +prince must be tall, and slender, and dark—a graceful, bewitching +prince. No, there is no danger of my falling in love with Martin Eden. +It would be the worst fate that could befall me.” + +“But it is not that that I spoke about,” her mother equivocated. “Have +you thought about him? He is so ineligible in every way, you know, and +suppose he should come to love you?” + +“But he does—already,” she cried. + +“It was to be expected,” Mrs. Morse said gently. “How could it be +otherwise with any one who knew you?” + +“Olney hates me!” she exclaimed passionately. “And I hate Olney. I feel +always like a cat when he is around. I feel that I must be nasty to +him, and even when I don’t happen to feel that way, why, he’s nasty to +me, anyway. But I am happy with Martin Eden. No one ever loved me +before—no man, I mean, in that way. And it is sweet to be loved—that +way. You know what I mean, mother dear. It is sweet to feel that you +are really and truly a woman.” She buried her face in her mother’s lap, +sobbing. “You think I am dreadful, I know, but I am honest, and I tell +you just how I feel.” + +Mrs. Morse was strangely sad and happy. Her child-daughter, who was a +bachelor of arts, was gone; but in her place was a woman-daughter. The +experiment had succeeded. The strange void in Ruth’s nature had been +filled, and filled without danger or penalty. This rough sailor-fellow +had been the instrument, and, though Ruth did not love him, he had made +her conscious of her womanhood. + +“His hand trembles,” Ruth was confessing, her face, for shame’s sake, +still buried. “It is most amusing and ridiculous, but I feel sorry for +him, too. And when his hands are too trembly, and his eyes too shiny, +why, I lecture him about his life and the wrong way he is going about +it to mend it. But he worships me, I know. His eyes and his hands do +not lie. And it makes me feel grown-up, the thought of it, the very +thought of it; and I feel that I am possessed of something that is by +rights my own—that makes me like the other girls—and—and young women. +And, then, too, I knew that I was not like them before, and I knew that +it worried you. You thought you did not let me know that dear worry of +yours, but I did, and I wanted to—‘to make good,’ as Martin Eden says.” + +It was a holy hour for mother and daughter, and their eyes were wet as +they talked on in the twilight, Ruth all white innocence and frankness, +her mother sympathetic, receptive, yet calmly explaining and guiding. + +“He is four years younger than you,” she said. “He has no place in the +world. He has neither position nor salary. He is impractical. Loving +you, he should, in the name of common sense, be doing something that +would give him the right to marry, instead of paltering around with +those stories of his and with childish dreams. Martin Eden, I am +afraid, will never grow up. He does not take to responsibility and a +man’s work in the world like your father did, or like all our friends, +Mr. Butler for one. Martin Eden, I am afraid, will never be a +money-earner. And this world is so ordered that money is necessary to +happiness—oh, no, not these swollen fortunes, but enough of money to +permit of common comfort and decency. He—he has never spoken?” + +“He has not breathed a word. He has not attempted to; but if he did, I +would not let him, because, you see, I do not love him.” + +“I am glad of that. I should not care to see my daughter, my one +daughter, who is so clean and pure, love a man like him. There are +noble men in the world who are clean and true and manly. Wait for them. +You will find one some day, and you will love him and be loved by him, +and you will be happy with him as your father and I have been happy +with each other. And there is one thing you must always carry in mind—” + +“Yes, mother.” + +Mrs. Morse’s voice was low and sweet as she said, “And that is the +children.” + +“I—have thought about them,” Ruth confessed, remembering the wanton +thoughts that had vexed her in the past, her face again red with maiden +shame that she should be telling such things. + +“And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible,” Mrs. +Morse went on incisively. “Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I +am afraid, not clean. Your father has told me of sailors’ lives, +and—and you understand.” + +Ruth pressed her mother’s hand in assent, feeling that she really did +understand, though her conception was of something vague, remote, and +terrible that was beyond the scope of imagination. + +“You know I do nothing without telling you,” she began. “—Only, +sometimes you must ask me, like this time. I wanted to tell you, but I +did not know how. It is false modesty, I know it is that, but you can +make it easy for me. Sometimes, like this time, you must ask me, you +must give me a chance.” + +“Why, mother, you are a woman, too!” she cried exultantly, as they +stood up, catching her mother’s hands and standing erect, facing her in +the twilight, conscious of a strangely sweet equality between them. “I +should never have thought of you in that way if we had not had this +talk. I had to learn that I was a woman to know that you were one, +too.” + +“We are women together,” her mother said, drawing her to her and +kissing her. “We are women together,” she repeated, as they went out of +the room, their arms around each other’s waists, their hearts swelling +with a new sense of companionship. + +“Our little girl has become a woman,” Mrs. Morse said proudly to her +husband an hour later. + +“That means,” he said, after a long look at his wife, “that means she +is in love.” + +“No, but that she is loved,” was the smiling rejoinder. “The experiment +has succeeded. She is awakened at last.” + +“Then we’ll have to get rid of him.” Mr. Morse spoke briskly, in +matter-of-fact, businesslike tones. + +But his wife shook her head. “It will not be necessary. Ruth says he is +going to sea in a few days. When he comes back, she will not be here. +We will send her to Aunt Clara’s. And, besides, a year in the East, +with the change in climate, people, ideas, and everything, is just the +thing she needs.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +The desire to write was stirring in Martin once more. Stories and poems +were springing into spontaneous creation in his brain, and he made +notes of them against the future time when he would give them +expression. But he did not write. This was his little vacation; he had +resolved to devote it to rest and love, and in both matters he +prospered. He was soon spilling over with vitality, and each day he saw +Ruth, at the moment of meeting, she experienced the old shock of his +strength and health. + +“Be careful,” her mother warned her once again. “I am afraid you are +seeing too much of Martin Eden.” + +But Ruth laughed from security. She was sure of herself, and in a few +days he would be off to sea. Then, by the time he returned, she would +be away on her visit East. There was a magic, however, in the strength +and health of Martin. He, too, had been told of her contemplated +Eastern trip, and he felt the need for haste. Yet he did not know how +to make love to a girl like Ruth. Then, too, he was handicapped by the +possession of a great fund of experience with girls and women who had +been absolutely different from her. They had known about love and life +and flirtation, while she knew nothing about such things. Her +prodigious innocence appalled him, freezing on his lips all ardors of +speech, and convincing him, in spite of himself, of his own +unworthiness. Also he was handicapped in another way. He had himself +never been in love before. He had liked women in that turgid past of +his, and been fascinated by some of them, but he had not known what it +was to love them. He had whistled in a masterful, careless way, and +they had come to him. They had been diversions, incidents, part of the +game men play, but a small part at most. And now, and for the first +time, he was a suppliant, tender and timid and doubting. He did not +know the way of love, nor its speech, while he was frightened at his +loved one’s clear innocence. + +In the course of getting acquainted with a varied world, whirling on +through the ever changing phases of it, he had learned a rule of +conduct which was to the effect that when one played a strange game, he +should let the other fellow play first. This had stood him in good +stead a thousand times and trained him as an observer as well. He knew +how to watch the thing that was strange, and to wait for a weakness, +for a place of entrance, to divulge itself. It was like sparring for an +opening in fist-fighting. And when such an opening came, he knew by +long experience to play for it and to play hard. + +So he waited with Ruth and watched, desiring to speak his love but not +daring. He was afraid of shocking her, and he was not sure of himself. +Had he but known it, he was following the right course with her. Love +came into the world before articulate speech, and in its own early +youth it had learned ways and means that it had never forgotten. It was +in this old, primitive way that Martin wooed Ruth. He did not know he +was doing it at first, though later he divined it. The touch of his +hand on hers was vastly more potent than any word he could utter, the +impact of his strength on her imagination was more alluring than the +printed poems and spoken passions of a thousand generations of lovers. +Whatever his tongue could express would have appealed, in part, to her +judgment; but the touch of hand, the fleeting contact, made its way +directly to her instinct. Her judgment was as young as she, but her +instincts were as old as the race and older. They had been young when +love was young, and they were wiser than convention and opinion and all +the new-born things. So her judgment did not act. There was no call +upon it, and she did not realize the strength of the appeal Martin made +from moment to moment to her love-nature. That he loved her, on the +other hand, was as clear as day, and she consciously delighted in +beholding his love-manifestations—the glowing eyes with their tender +lights, the trembling hands, and the never failing swarthy flush that +flooded darkly under his sunburn. She even went farther, in a timid way +inciting him, but doing it so delicately that he never suspected, and +doing it half-consciously, so that she scarcely suspected herself. She +thrilled with these proofs of her power that proclaimed her a woman, +and she took an Eve-like delight in tormenting him and playing upon +him. + +Tongue-tied by inexperience and by excess of ardor, wooing unwittingly +and awkwardly, Martin continued his approach by contact. The touch of +his hand was pleasant to her, and something deliciously more than +pleasant. Martin did not know it, but he did know that it was not +distasteful to her. Not that they touched hands often, save at meeting +and parting; but that in handling the bicycles, in strapping on the +books of verse they carried into the hills, and in conning the pages of +books side by side, there were opportunities for hand to stray against +hand. And there were opportunities, too, for her hair to brush his +cheek, and for shoulder to touch shoulder, as they leaned together over +the beauty of the books. She smiled to herself at vagrant impulses +which arose from nowhere and suggested that she rumple his hair; while +he desired greatly, when they tired of reading, to rest his head in her +lap and dream with closed eyes about the future that was to be theirs. +On Sunday picnics at Shellmound Park and Schuetzen Park, in the past, +he had rested his head on many laps, and, usually, he had slept soundly +and selfishly while the girls shaded his face from the sun and looked +down and loved him and wondered at his lordly carelessness of their +love. To rest his head in a girl’s lap had been the easiest thing in +the world until now, and now he found Ruth’s lap inaccessible and +impossible. Yet it was right here, in his reticence, that the strength +of his wooing lay. It was because of this reticence that he never +alarmed her. Herself fastidious and timid, she never awakened to the +perilous trend of their intercourse. Subtly and unaware she grew toward +him and closer to him, while he, sensing the growing closeness, longed +to dare but was afraid. + +Once he dared, one afternoon, when he found her in the darkened living +room with a blinding headache. + +“Nothing can do it any good,” she had answered his inquiries. “And +besides, I don’t take headache powders. Doctor Hall won’t permit me.” + +“I can cure it, I think, and without drugs,” was Martin’s answer. “I am +not sure, of course, but I’d like to try. It’s simply massage. I +learned the trick first from the Japanese. They are a race of masseurs, +you know. Then I learned it all over again with variations from the +Hawaiians. They call it _lomi-lomi_. It can accomplish most of the +things drugs accomplish and a few things that drugs can’t.” + +Scarcely had his hands touched her head when she sighed deeply. + +“That is so good,” she said. + +She spoke once again, half an hour later, when she asked, “Aren’t you +tired?” + +The question was perfunctory, and she knew what the answer would be. +Then she lost herself in drowsy contemplation of the soothing balm of +his strength: Life poured from the ends of his fingers, driving the +pain before it, or so it seemed to her, until with the easement of +pain, she fell asleep and he stole away. + +She called him up by telephone that evening to thank him. + +“I slept until dinner,” she said. “You cured me completely, Mr. Eden, +and I don’t know how to thank you.” + +He was warm, and bungling of speech, and very happy, as he replied to +her, and there was dancing in his mind, throughout the telephone +conversation, the memory of Browning and of sickly Elizabeth Barrett. +What had been done could be done again, and he, Martin Eden, could do +it and would do it for Ruth Morse. He went back to his room and to the +volume of Spencer’s “Sociology” lying open on the bed. But he could not +read. Love tormented him and overrode his will, so that, despite all +determination, he found himself at the little ink-stained table. The +sonnet he composed that night was the first of a love-cycle of fifty +sonnets which was completed within two months. He had the “Love-sonnets +from the Portuguese” in mind as he wrote, and he wrote under the best +conditions for great work, at a climacteric of living, in the throes of +his own sweet love-madness. + +The many hours he was not with Ruth he devoted to the “Love-cycle,” to +reading at home, or to the public reading-rooms, where he got more +closely in touch with the magazines of the day and the nature of their +policy and content. The hours he spent with Ruth were maddening alike +in promise and in inconclusiveness. It was a week after he cured her +headache that a moonlight sail on Lake Merritt was proposed by Norman +and seconded by Arthur and Olney. Martin was the only one capable of +handling a boat, and he was pressed into service. Ruth sat near him in +the stern, while the three young fellows lounged amidships, deep in a +wordy wrangle over “frat” affairs. + +The moon had not yet risen, and Ruth, gazing into the starry vault of +the sky and exchanging no speech with Martin, experienced a sudden +feeling of loneliness. She glanced at him. A puff of wind was heeling +the boat over till the deck was awash, and he, one hand on tiller and +the other on main-sheet, was luffing slightly, at the same time peering +ahead to make out the near-lying north shore. He was unaware of her +gaze, and she watched him intently, speculating fancifully about the +strange warp of soul that led him, a young man with signal powers, to +fritter away his time on the writing of stories and poems foredoomed to +mediocrity and failure. + +Her eyes wandered along the strong throat, dimly seen in the starlight, +and over the firm-poised head, and the old desire to lay her hands upon +his neck came back to her. The strength she abhorred attracted her. Her +feeling of loneliness became more pronounced, and she felt tired. Her +position on the heeling boat irked her, and she remembered the headache +he had cured and the soothing rest that resided in him. He was sitting +beside her, quite beside her, and the boat seemed to tilt her toward +him. Then arose in her the impulse to lean against him, to rest herself +against his strength—a vague, half-formed impulse, which, even as she +considered it, mastered her and made her lean toward him. Or was it the +heeling of the boat? She did not know. She never knew. She knew only +that she was leaning against him and that the easement and soothing +rest were very good. Perhaps it had been the boat’s fault, but she made +no effort to retrieve it. She leaned lightly against his shoulder, but +she leaned, and she continued to lean when he shifted his position to +make it more comfortable for her. + +It was a madness, but she refused to consider the madness. She was no +longer herself but a woman, with a woman’s clinging need; and though +she leaned ever so lightly, the need seemed satisfied. She was no +longer tired. Martin did not speak. Had he, the spell would have been +broken. But his reticence of love prolonged it. He was dazed and dizzy. +He could not understand what was happening. It was too wonderful to be +anything but a delirium. He conquered a mad desire to let go sheet and +tiller and to clasp her in his arms. His intuition told him it was the +wrong thing to do, and he was glad that sheet and tiller kept his hands +occupied and fended off temptation. But he luffed the boat less +delicately, spilling the wind shamelessly from the sail so as to +prolong the tack to the north shore. The shore would compel him to go +about, and the contact would be broken. He sailed with skill, stopping +way on the boat without exciting the notice of the wranglers, and +mentally forgiving his hardest voyages in that they had made this +marvellous night possible, giving him mastery over sea and boat and +wind so that he could sail with her beside him, her dear weight against +him on his shoulder. + +When the first light of the rising moon touched the sail, illuminating +the boat with pearly radiance, Ruth moved away from him. And, even as +she moved, she felt him move away. The impulse to avoid detection was +mutual. The episode was tacitly and secretly intimate. She sat apart +from him with burning cheeks, while the full force of it came home to +her. She had been guilty of something she would not have her brothers +see, nor Olney see. Why had she done it? She had never done anything +like it in her life, and yet she had been moonlight-sailing with young +men before. She had never desired to do anything like it. She was +overcome with shame and with the mystery of her own burgeoning +womanhood. She stole a glance at Martin, who was busy putting the boat +about on the other tack, and she could have hated him for having made +her do an immodest and shameful thing. And he, of all men! Perhaps her +mother was right, and she was seeing too much of him. It would never +happen again, she resolved, and she would see less of him in the +future. She entertained a wild idea of explaining to him the first time +they were alone together, of lying to him, of mentioning casually the +attack of faintness that had overpowered her just before the moon came +up. Then she remembered how they had drawn mutually away before the +revealing moon, and she knew he would know it for a lie. + +In the days that swiftly followed she was no longer herself but a +strange, puzzling creature, wilful over judgment and scornful of +self-analysis, refusing to peer into the future or to think about +herself and whither she was drifting. She was in a fever of tingling +mystery, alternately frightened and charmed, and in constant +bewilderment. She had one idea firmly fixed, however, which insured her +security. She would not let Martin speak his love. As long as she did +this, all would be well. In a few days he would be off to sea. And even +if he did speak, all would be well. It could not be otherwise, for she +did not love him. Of course, it would be a painful half hour for him, +and an embarrassing half hour for her, because it would be her first +proposal. She thrilled deliciously at the thought. She was really a +woman, with a man ripe to ask for her in marriage. It was a lure to all +that was fundamental in her sex. The fabric of her life, of all that +constituted her, quivered and grew tremulous. The thought fluttered in +her mind like a flame-attracted moth. She went so far as to imagine +Martin proposing, herself putting the words into his mouth; and she +rehearsed her refusal, tempering it with kindness and exhorting him to +true and noble manhood. And especially he must stop smoking cigarettes. +She would make a point of that. But no, she must not let him speak at +all. She could stop him, and she had told her mother that she would. +All flushed and burning, she regretfully dismissed the conjured +situation. Her first proposal would have to be deferred to a more +propitious time and a more eligible suitor. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + +Mrs. Morse did not require a mother’s intuition to read the +advertisement in Ruth’s face when she returned home. The flush that +would not leave the cheeks told the simple story, and more eloquently +did the eyes, large and bright, reflecting an unmistakable inward +glory. + +“What has happened?” Mrs. Morse asked, having bided her time till Ruth +had gone to bed. + +“You know?” Ruth queried, with trembling lips. + +For reply, her mother’s arm went around her, and a hand was softly +caressing her hair. + +“He did not speak,” she blurted out. “I did not intend that it should +happen, and I would never have let him speak—only he didn’t speak.” + +“But if he did not speak, then nothing could have happened, could it?” + +“But it did, just the same.” + +“In the name of goodness, child, what are you babbling about?” Mrs. +Morse was bewildered. “I don’t think I know what happened, after all. +What did happen?” + +Ruth looked at her mother in surprise. + +“I thought you knew. Why, we’re engaged, Martin and I.” + +Mrs. Morse laughed with incredulous vexation. + +“No, he didn’t speak,” Ruth explained. “He just loved me, that was all. +I was as surprised as you are. He didn’t say a word. He just put his +arm around me. And—and I was not myself. And he kissed me, and I kissed +him. I couldn’t help it. I just had to. And then I knew I loved him.” + +She paused, waiting with expectancy the benediction of her mother’s +kiss, but Mrs. Morse was coldly silent. + +“It is a dreadful accident, I know,” Ruth recommenced with a sinking +voice. “And I don’t know how you will ever forgive me. But I couldn’t +help it. I did not dream that I loved him until that moment. And you +must tell father for me.” + +“Would it not be better not to tell your father? Let me see Martin +Eden, and talk with him, and explain. He will understand and release +you.” + +“No! no!” Ruth cried, starting up. “I do not want to be released. I +love him, and love is very sweet. I am going to marry him—of course, if +you will let me.” + +“We have other plans for you, Ruth, dear, your father and I—oh, no, no; +no man picked out for you, or anything like that. Our plans go no +farther than your marrying some man in your own station in life, a good +and honorable gentleman, whom you will select yourself, when you love +him.” + +“But I love Martin already,” was the plaintive protest. + +“We would not influence your choice in any way; but you are our +daughter, and we could not bear to see you make a marriage such as +this. He has nothing but roughness and coarseness to offer you in +exchange for all that is refined and delicate in you. He is no match +for you in any way. He could not support you. We have no foolish ideas +about wealth, but comfort is another matter, and our daughter should at +least marry a man who can give her that—and not a penniless adventurer, +a sailor, a cowboy, a smuggler, and Heaven knows what else, who, in +addition to everything, is hare-brained and irresponsible.” + +Ruth was silent. Every word she recognized as true. + +“He wastes his time over his writing, trying to accomplish what +geniuses and rare men with college educations sometimes accomplish. A +man thinking of marriage should be preparing for marriage. But not he. +As I have said, and I know you agree with me, he is irresponsible. And +why should he not be? It is the way of sailors. He has never learned to +be economical or temperate. The spendthrift years have marked him. It +is not his fault, of course, but that does not alter his nature. And +have you thought of the years of licentiousness he inevitably has +lived? Have you thought of that, daughter? You know what marriage +means.” + +Ruth shuddered and clung close to her mother. + +“I have thought.” Ruth waited a long time for the thought to frame +itself. “And it is terrible. It sickens me to think of it. I told you +it was a dreadful accident, my loving him; but I can’t help myself. +Could you help loving father? Then it is the same with me. There is +something in me, in him—I never knew it was there until to-day—but it +is there, and it makes me love him. I never thought to love him, but, +you see, I do,” she concluded, a certain faint triumph in her voice. + +They talked long, and to little purpose, in conclusion agreeing to wait +an indeterminate time without doing anything. + +The same conclusion was reached, a little later that night, between +Mrs. Morse and her husband, after she had made due confession of the +miscarriage of her plans. + +“It could hardly have come otherwise,” was Mr. Morse’s judgment. “This +sailor-fellow has been the only man she was in touch with. Sooner or +later she was going to awaken anyway; and she did awaken, and lo! here +was this sailor-fellow, the only accessible man at the moment, and of +course she promptly loved him, or thought she did, which amounts to the +same thing.” + +Mrs. Morse took it upon herself to work slowly and indirectly upon +Ruth, rather than to combat her. There would be plenty of time for +this, for Martin was not in position to marry. + +“Let her see all she wants of him,” was Mr. Morse’s advice. “The more +she knows him, the less she’ll love him, I wager. And give her plenty +of contrast. Make a point of having young people at the house. Young +women and young men, all sorts of young men, clever men, men who have +done something or who are doing things, men of her own class, +gentlemen. She can gauge him by them. They will show him up for what he +is. And after all, he is a mere boy of twenty-one. Ruth is no more than +a child. It is calf love with the pair of them, and they will grow out +of it.” + +So the matter rested. Within the family it was accepted that Ruth and +Martin were engaged, but no announcement was made. The family did not +think it would ever be necessary. Also, it was tacitly understood that +it was to be a long engagement. They did not ask Martin to go to work, +nor to cease writing. They did not intend to encourage him to mend +himself. And he aided and abetted them in their unfriendly designs, for +going to work was farthest from his thoughts. + +“I wonder if you’ll like what I have done!” he said to Ruth several +days later. “I’ve decided that boarding with my sister is too +expensive, and I am going to board myself. I’ve rented a little room +out in North Oakland, retired neighborhood and all the rest, you know, +and I’ve bought an oil-burner on which to cook.” + +Ruth was overjoyed. The oil-burner especially pleased her. + +“That was the way Mr. Butler began his start,” she said. + +Martin frowned inwardly at the citation of that worthy gentleman, and +went on: “I put stamps on all my manuscripts and started them off to +the editors again. Then to-day I moved in, and to-morrow I start to +work.” + +“A position!” she cried, betraying the gladness of her surprise in all +her body, nestling closer to him, pressing his hand, smiling. “And you +never told me! What is it?” + +He shook his head. + +“I meant that I was going to work at my writing.” Her face fell, and he +went on hastily. “Don’t misjudge me. I am not going in this time with +any iridescent ideas. It is to be a cold, prosaic, matter-of-fact +business proposition. It is better than going to sea again, and I shall +earn more money than any position in Oakland can bring an unskilled +man.” + +“You see, this vacation I have taken has given me perspective. I +haven’t been working the life out of my body, and I haven’t been +writing, at least not for publication. All I’ve done has been to love +you and to think. I’ve read some, too, but it has been part of my +thinking, and I have read principally magazines. I have generalized +about myself, and the world, my place in it, and my chance to win to a +place that will be fit for you. Also, I’ve been reading Spencer’s +‘Philosophy of Style,’ and found out a lot of what was the matter with +me—or my writing, rather; and for that matter with most of the writing +that is published every month in the magazines.” + +“But the upshot of it all—of my thinking and reading and loving—is that +I am going to move to Grub Street. I shall leave masterpieces alone and +do hack-work—jokes, paragraphs, feature articles, humorous verse, and +society verse—all the rot for which there seems so much demand. Then +there are the newspaper syndicates, and the newspaper short-story +syndicates, and the syndicates for the Sunday supplements. I can go +ahead and hammer out the stuff they want, and earn the equivalent of a +good salary by it. There are free-lances, you know, who earn as much as +four or five hundred a month. I don’t care to become as they; but I’ll +earn a good living, and have plenty of time to myself, which I wouldn’t +have in any position.” + +“Then, I’ll have my spare time for study and for real work. In between +the grind I’ll try my hand at masterpieces, and I’ll study and prepare +myself for the writing of masterpieces. Why, I am amazed at the +distance I have come already. When I first tried to write, I had +nothing to write about except a few paltry experiences which I neither +understood nor appreciated. But I had no thoughts. I really didn’t. I +didn’t even have the words with which to think. My experiences were so +many meaningless pictures. But as I began to add to my knowledge, and +to my vocabulary, I saw something more in my experiences than mere +pictures. I retained the pictures and I found their interpretation. +That was when I began to do good work, when I wrote ‘Adventure,’ ‘Joy,’ +‘The Pot,’ ‘The Wine of Life,’ ‘The Jostling Street,’ the ‘Love-cycle,’ +and the ‘Sea Lyrics.’ I shall write more like them, and better; but I +shall do it in my spare time. My feet are on the solid earth, now. +Hack-work and income first, masterpieces afterward. Just to show you, I +wrote half a dozen jokes last night for the comic weeklies; and just as +I was going to bed, the thought struck me to try my hand at a triolet—a +humorous one; and inside an hour I had written four. They ought to be +worth a dollar apiece. Four dollars right there for a few afterthoughts +on the way to bed.” + +“Of course it’s all valueless, just so much dull and sordid plodding; +but it is no more dull and sordid than keeping books at sixty dollars a +month, adding up endless columns of meaningless figures until one dies. +And furthermore, the hack-work keeps me in touch with things literary +and gives me time to try bigger things.” + +“But what good are these bigger things, these masterpieces?” Ruth +demanded. “You can’t sell them.” + +“Oh, yes, I can,” he began; but she interrupted. + +“All those you named, and which you say yourself are good—you have not +sold any of them. We can’t get married on masterpieces that won’t +sell.” + +“Then we’ll get married on triolets that will sell,” he asserted +stoutly, putting his arm around her and drawing a very unresponsive +sweetheart toward him. + +“Listen to this,” he went on in attempted gayety. “It’s not art, but +it’s a dollar. + +“He came in + When I was out, +To borrow some tin +Was why he came in, + And he went without; +So I was in + And he was out.” + + +The merry lilt with which he had invested the jingle was at variance +with the dejection that came into his face as he finished. He had drawn +no smile from Ruth. She was looking at him in an earnest and troubled +way. + +“It may be a dollar,” she said, “but it is a jester’s dollar, the fee +of a clown. Don’t you see, Martin, the whole thing is lowering. I want +the man I love and honor to be something finer and higher than a +perpetrator of jokes and doggerel.” + +“You want him to be like—say Mr. Butler?” he suggested. + +“I know you don’t like Mr. Butler,” she began. + +“Mr. Butler’s all right,” he interrupted. “It’s only his indigestion I +find fault with. But to save me I can’t see any difference between +writing jokes or comic verse and running a type-writer, taking +dictation, or keeping sets of books. It is all a means to an end. Your +theory is for me to begin with keeping books in order to become a +successful lawyer or man of business. Mine is to begin with hack-work +and develop into an able author.” + +“There is a difference,” she insisted. + +“What is it?” + +“Why, your good work, what you yourself call good, you can’t sell. You +have tried, you know that,—but the editors won’t buy it.” + +“Give me time, dear,” he pleaded. “The hack-work is only makeshift, and +I don’t take it seriously. Give me two years. I shall succeed in that +time, and the editors will be glad to buy my good work. I know what I +am saying; I have faith in myself. I know what I have in me; I know +what literature is, now; I know the average rot that is poured out by a +lot of little men; and I know that at the end of two years I shall be +on the highroad to success. As for business, I shall never succeed at +it. I am not in sympathy with it. It strikes me as dull, and stupid, +and mercenary, and tricky. Anyway I am not adapted for it. I’d never +get beyond a clerkship, and how could you and I be happy on the paltry +earnings of a clerk? I want the best of everything in the world for +you, and the only time when I won’t want it will be when there is +something better. And I’m going to get it, going to get all of it. The +income of a successful author makes Mr. Butler look cheap. A +‘best-seller’ will earn anywhere between fifty and a hundred thousand +dollars—sometimes more and sometimes less; but, as a rule, pretty close +to those figures.” + +She remained silent; her disappointment was apparent. + +“Well?” he asked. + +“I had hoped and planned otherwise. I had thought, and I still think, +that the best thing for you would be to study shorthand—you already +know type-writing—and go into father’s office. You have a good mind, +and I am confident you would succeed as a lawyer.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +That Ruth had little faith in his power as a writer, did not alter her +nor diminish her in Martin’s eyes. In the breathing spell of the +vacation he had taken, he had spent many hours in self-analysis, and +thereby learned much of himself. He had discovered that he loved beauty +more than fame, and that what desire he had for fame was largely for +Ruth’s sake. It was for this reason that his desire for fame was +strong. He wanted to be great in the world’s eyes; “to make good,” as +he expressed it, in order that the woman he loved should be proud of +him and deem him worthy. + +As for himself, he loved beauty passionately, and the joy of serving +her was to him sufficient wage. And more than beauty he loved Ruth. He +considered love the finest thing in the world. It was love that had +worked the revolution in him, changing him from an uncouth sailor to a +student and an artist; therefore, to him, the finest and greatest of +the three, greater than learning and artistry, was love. Already he had +discovered that his brain went beyond Ruth’s, just as it went beyond +the brains of her brothers, or the brain of her father. In spite of +every advantage of university training, and in the face of her +bachelorship of arts, his power of intellect overshadowed hers, and his +year or so of self-study and equipment gave him a mastery of the +affairs of the world and art and life that she could never hope to +possess. + +All this he realized, but it did not affect his love for her, nor her +love for him. Love was too fine and noble, and he was too loyal a lover +for him to besmirch love with criticism. What did love have to do with +Ruth’s divergent views on art, right conduct, the French Revolution, or +equal suffrage? They were mental processes, but love was beyond reason; +it was superrational. He could not belittle love. He worshipped it. +Love lay on the mountain-tops beyond the valley-land of reason. It was +a sublimated condition of existence, the topmost peak of living, and it +came rarely. Thanks to the school of scientific philosophers he +favored, he knew the biological significance of love; but by a refined +process of the same scientific reasoning he reached the conclusion that +the human organism achieved its highest purpose in love, that love must +not be questioned, but must be accepted as the highest guerdon of life. +Thus, he considered the lover blessed over all creatures, and it was a +delight to him to think of “God’s own mad lover,” rising above the +things of earth, above wealth and judgment, public opinion and +applause, rising above life itself and “dying on a kiss.” + +Much of this Martin had already reasoned out, and some of it he +reasoned out later. In the meantime he worked, taking no recreation +except when he went to see Ruth, and living like a Spartan. He paid two +dollars and a half a month rent for the small room he got from his +Portuguese landlady, Maria Silva, a virago and a widow, hard working +and harsher tempered, rearing her large brood of children somehow, and +drowning her sorrow and fatigue at irregular intervals in a gallon of +the thin, sour wine that she bought from the corner grocery and saloon +for fifteen cents. From detesting her and her foul tongue at first, +Martin grew to admire her as he observed the brave fight she made. +There were but four rooms in the little house—three, when Martin’s was +subtracted. One of these, the parlor, gay with an ingrain carpet and +dolorous with a funeral card and a death-picture of one of her numerous +departed babes, was kept strictly for company. The blinds were always +down, and her barefooted tribe was never permitted to enter the sacred +precinct save on state occasions. She cooked, and all ate, in the +kitchen, where she likewise washed, starched, and ironed clothes on all +days of the week except Sunday; for her income came largely from taking +in washing from her more prosperous neighbors. Remained the bedroom, +small as the one occupied by Martin, into which she and her seven +little ones crowded and slept. It was an everlasting miracle to Martin +how it was accomplished, and from her side of the thin partition he +heard nightly every detail of the going to bed, the squalls and +squabbles, the soft chattering, and the sleepy, twittering noises as of +birds. Another source of income to Maria were her cows, two of them, +which she milked night and morning and which gained a surreptitious +livelihood from vacant lots and the grass that grew on either side the +public side walks, attended always by one or more of her ragged boys, +whose watchful guardianship consisted chiefly in keeping their eyes out +for the poundmen. + +In his own small room Martin lived, slept, studied, wrote, and kept +house. Before the one window, looking out on the tiny front porch, was +the kitchen table that served as desk, library, and type-writing stand. +The bed, against the rear wall, occupied two-thirds of the total space +of the room. The table was flanked on one side by a gaudy bureau, +manufactured for profit and not for service, the thin veneer of which +was shed day by day. This bureau stood in the corner, and in the +opposite corner, on the table’s other flank, was the kitchen—the +oil-stove on a dry-goods box, inside of which were dishes and cooking +utensils, a shelf on the wall for provisions, and a bucket of water on +the floor. Martin had to carry his water from the kitchen sink, there +being no tap in his room. On days when there was much steam to his +cooking, the harvest of veneer from the bureau was unusually generous. +Over the bed, hoisted by a tackle to the ceiling, was his bicycle. At +first he had tried to keep it in the basement; but the tribe of Silva, +loosening the bearings and puncturing the tires, had driven him out. +Next he attempted the tiny front porch, until a howling southeaster +drenched the wheel a night-long. Then he had retreated with it to his +room and slung it aloft. + +A small closet contained his clothes and the books he had accumulated +and for which there was no room on the table or under the table. Hand +in hand with reading, he had developed the habit of making notes, and +so copiously did he make them that there would have been no existence +for him in the confined quarters had he not rigged several +clothes-lines across the room on which the notes were hung. Even so, he +was crowded until navigating the room was a difficult task. He could +not open the door without first closing the closet door, and _vice +versa_. It was impossible for him anywhere to traverse the room in a +straight line. To go from the door to the head of the bed was a zigzag +course that he was never quite able to accomplish in the dark without +collisions. Having settled the difficulty of the conflicting doors, he +had to steer sharply to the right to avoid the kitchen. Next, he +sheered to the left, to escape the foot of the bed; but this sheer, if +too generous, brought him against the corner of the table. With a +sudden twitch and lurch, he terminated the sheer and bore off to the +right along a sort of canal, one bank of which was the bed, the other +the table. When the one chair in the room was at its usual place before +the table, the canal was unnavigable. When the chair was not in use, it +reposed on top of the bed, though sometimes he sat on the chair when +cooking, reading a book while the water boiled, and even becoming +skilful enough to manage a paragraph or two while steak was frying. +Also, so small was the little corner that constituted the kitchen, he +was able, sitting down, to reach anything he needed. In fact, it was +expedient to cook sitting down; standing up, he was too often in his +own way. + +In conjunction with a perfect stomach that could digest anything, he +possessed knowledge of the various foods that were at the same time +nutritious and cheap. Pea-soup was a common article in his diet, as +well as potatoes and beans, the latter large and brown and cooked in +Mexican style. Rice, cooked as American housewives never cook it and +can never learn to cook it, appeared on Martin’s table at least once a +day. Dried fruits were less expensive than fresh, and he had usually a +pot of them, cooked and ready at hand, for they took the place of +butter on his bread. Occasionally he graced his table with a piece of +round-steak, or with a soup-bone. Coffee, without cream or milk, he had +twice a day, in the evening substituting tea; but both coffee and tea +were excellently cooked. + +There was need for him to be economical. His vacation had consumed +nearly all he had earned in the laundry, and he was so far from his +market that weeks must elapse before he could hope for the first +returns from his hack-work. Except at such times as he saw Ruth, or +dropped in to see his sister Gertude, he lived a recluse, in each day +accomplishing at least three days’ labor of ordinary men. He slept a +scant five hours, and only one with a constitution of iron could have +held himself down, as Martin did, day after day, to nineteen +consecutive hours of toil. He never lost a moment. On the looking-glass +were lists of definitions and pronunciations; when shaving, or +dressing, or combing his hair, he conned these lists over. Similar +lists were on the wall over the oil-stove, and they were similarly +conned while he was engaged in cooking or in washing the dishes. New +lists continually displaced the old ones. Every strange or partly +familiar word encountered in his reading was immediately jotted down, +and later, when a sufficient number had been accumulated, were typed +and pinned to the wall or looking-glass. He even carried them in his +pockets, and reviewed them at odd moments on the street, or while +waiting in butcher shop or grocery to be served. + +He went farther in the matter. Reading the works of men who had +arrived, he noted every result achieved by them, and worked out the +tricks by which they had been achieved—the tricks of narrative, of +exposition, of style, the points of view, the contrasts, the epigrams; +and of all these he made lists for study. He did not ape. He sought +principles. He drew up lists of effective and fetching mannerisms, till +out of many such, culled from many writers, he was able to induce the +general principle of mannerism, and, thus equipped, to cast about for +new and original ones of his own, and to weigh and measure and appraise +them properly. In similar manner he collected lists of strong phrases, +the phrases of living language, phrases that bit like acid and scorched +like flame, or that glowed and were mellow and luscious in the midst of +the arid desert of common speech. He sought always for the principle +that lay behind and beneath. He wanted to know how the thing was done; +after that he could do it for himself. He was not content with the fair +face of beauty. He dissected beauty in his crowded little bedroom +laboratory, where cooking smells alternated with the outer bedlam of +the Silva tribe; and, having dissected and learned the anatomy of +beauty, he was nearer being able to create beauty itself. + +He was so made that he could work only with understanding. He could not +work blindly, in the dark, ignorant of what he was producing and +trusting to chance and the star of his genius that the effect produced +should be right and fine. He had no patience with chance effects. He +wanted to know why and how. His was deliberate creative genius, and, +before he began a story or poem, the thing itself was already alive in +his brain, with the end in sight and the means of realizing that end in +his conscious possession. Otherwise the effort was doomed to failure. +On the other hand, he appreciated the chance effects in words and +phrases that came lightly and easily into his brain, and that later +stood all tests of beauty and power and developed tremendous and +incommunicable connotations. Before such he bowed down and marvelled, +knowing that they were beyond the deliberate creation of any man. And +no matter how much he dissected beauty in search of the principles that +underlie beauty and make beauty possible, he was aware, always, of the +innermost mystery of beauty to which he did not penetrate and to which +no man had ever penetrated. He knew full well, from his Spencer, that +man can never attain ultimate knowledge of anything, and that the +mystery of beauty was no less than that of life—nay, more—that the +fibres of beauty and life were intertwisted, and that he himself was +but a bit of the same nonunderstandable fabric, twisted of sunshine and +star-dust and wonder. + +In fact, it was when filled with these thoughts that he wrote his essay +entitled “Star-dust,” in which he had his fling, not at the principles +of criticism, but at the principal critics. It was brilliant, deep, +philosophical, and deliciously touched with laughter. Also it was +promptly rejected by the magazines as often as it was submitted. But +having cleared his mind of it, he went serenely on his way. It was a +habit he developed, of incubating and maturing his thought upon a +subject, and of then rushing into the type-writer with it. That it did +not see print was a matter of small moment with him. The writing of it +was the culminating act of a long mental process, the drawing together +of scattered threads of thought and the final generalizing upon all the +data with which his mind was burdened. To write such an article was the +conscious effort by which he freed his mind and made it ready for fresh +material and problems. It was in a way akin to that common habit of men +and women troubled by real or fancied grievances, who periodically and +volubly break their long-suffering silence and “have their say” till +the last word is said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +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 grocer assured +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 passionate utterance +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 hopeless realist. 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 +perfectly legitimate 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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +Maria Silva was poor, and all the ways of poverty were clear to her. +Poverty, to Ruth, was a word signifying a not-nice condition of +existence. That was her total knowledge on the subject. She knew Martin +was poor, and his condition she associated in her mind with the boyhood +of Abraham Lincoln, of Mr. Butler, and of other men who had become +successes. Also, while aware that poverty was anything but delectable, +she had a comfortable middle-class feeling that poverty was salutary, +that it was a sharp spur that urged on to success all men who were not +degraded and hopeless drudges. So that her knowledge that Martin was so +poor that he had pawned his watch and overcoat did not disturb her. She +even considered it the hopeful side of the situation, believing that +sooner or later it would arouse him and compel him to abandon his +writing. + +Ruth never read hunger in Martin’s face, which had grown lean and had +enlarged the slight hollows in the cheeks. In fact, she marked the +change in his face with satisfaction. It seemed to refine him, to +remove from him much of the dross of flesh and the too animal-like +vigor that lured her while she detested it. Sometimes, when with her, +she noted an unusual brightness in his eyes, and she admired it, for it +made him appear more the poet and the scholar—the things he would have +liked to be and which she would have liked him to be. But Maria Silva +read a different tale in the hollow cheeks and the burning eyes, and +she noted the changes in them from day to day, by them following the +ebb and flow of his fortunes. She saw him leave the house with his +overcoat and return without it, though the day was chill and raw, and +promptly she saw his cheeks fill out slightly and the fire of hunger +leave his eyes. In the same way she had seen his wheel and watch go, +and after each event she had seen his vigor bloom again. + +Likewise she watched his toils, and knew the measure of the midnight +oil he burned. Work! She knew that he outdid her, though his work was +of a different order. And she was surprised to behold that the less +food he had, the harder he worked. On occasion, in a casual sort of +way, when she thought hunger pinched hardest, she would send him in a +loaf of new baking, awkwardly covering the act with banter to the +effect that it was better than he could bake. And again, she would send +one of her toddlers in to him with a great pitcher of hot soup, +debating inwardly the while whether she was justified in taking it from +the mouths of her own flesh and blood. Nor was Martin ungrateful, +knowing as he did the lives of the poor, and that if ever in the world +there was charity, this was it. + +On a day when she had filled her brood with what was left in the house, +Maria invested her last fifteen cents in a gallon of cheap wine. +Martin, coming into her kitchen to fetch water, was invited to sit down +and drink. He drank her very-good health, and in return she drank his. +Then she drank to prosperity in his undertakings, and he drank to the +hope that James Grant would show up and pay her for his washing. James +Grant was a journeymen carpenter who did not always pay his bills and +who owed Maria three dollars. + +Both Maria and Martin drank the sour new wine on empty stomachs, and it +went swiftly to their heads. Utterly differentiated creatures that they +were, they were lonely in their misery, and though the misery was +tacitly ignored, it was the bond that drew them together. Maria was +amazed to learn that he had been in the Azores, where she had lived +until she was eleven. She was doubly amazed that he had been in the +Hawaiian Islands, whither she had migrated from the Azores with her +people. But her amazement passed all bounds when he told her he had +been on Maui, the particular island whereon she had attained womanhood +and married. Kahului, where she had first met her husband,—he, Martin, +had been there twice! Yes, she remembered the sugar steamers, and he +had been on them—well, well, it was a small world. And Wailuku! That +place, too! Did he know the head-luna of the plantation? Yes, and had +had a couple of drinks with him. + +And so they reminiscenced and drowned their hunger in the raw, sour +wine. To Martin the future did not seem so dim. Success trembled just +before him. He was on the verge of clasping it. Then he studied the +deep-lined face of the toil-worn woman before him, remembered her soups +and loaves of new baking, and felt spring up in him the warmest +gratitude and philanthropy. + +“Maria,” he exclaimed suddenly. “What would you like to have?” + +She looked at him, bepuzzled. + +“What would you like to have now, right now, if you could get it?” + +“Shoe alla da roun’ for da childs—seven pairs da shoe.” + +“You shall have them,” he announced, while she nodded her head gravely. +“But I mean a big wish, something big that you want.” + +Her eyes sparkled good-naturedly. He was choosing to make fun with her, +Maria, with whom few made fun these days. + +“Think hard,” he cautioned, just as she was opening her mouth to speak. + +“Alla right,” she answered. “I thinka da hard. I lika da house, dis +house—all mine, no paya da rent, seven dollar da month.” + +“You shall have it,” he granted, “and in a short time. Now wish the +great wish. Make believe I am God, and I say to you anything you want +you can have. Then you wish that thing, and I listen.” + +Maria considered solemnly for a space. + +“You no ’fraid?” she asked warningly. + +“No, no,” he laughed, “I’m not afraid. Go ahead.” + +“Most verra big,” she warned again. + +“All right. Fire away.” + +“Well, den—” She drew a big breath like a child, as she voiced to the +uttermost all she cared to demand of life. “I lika da have one milka +ranch—good milka ranch. Plenty cow, plenty land, plenty grass. I lika +da have near San Le-an; my sister liva dere. I sella da milk in +Oakland. I maka da plentee mon. Joe an’ Nick no runna da cow. Dey go-a +to school. Bimeby maka da good engineer, worka da railroad. Yes, I lika +da milka ranch.” + +She paused and regarded Martin with twinkling eyes. + +“You shall have it,” he answered promptly. + +She nodded her head and touched her lips courteously to the wine-glass +and to the giver of the gift she knew would never be given. His heart +was right, and in her own heart she appreciated his intention as much +as if the gift had gone with it. + +“No, Maria,” he went on; “Nick and Joe won’t have to peddle milk, and +all the kids can go to school and wear shoes the whole year round. It +will be a first-class milk ranch—everything complete. There will be a +house to live in and a stable for the horses, and cow-barns, of course. +There will be chickens, pigs, vegetables, fruit trees, and everything +like that; and there will be enough cows to pay for a hired man or two. +Then you won’t have anything to do but take care of the children. For +that matter, if you find a good man, you can marry and take it easy +while he runs the ranch.” + +And from such largess, dispensed from his future, Martin turned and +took his one good suit of clothes to the pawnshop. His plight was +desperate for him to do this, for it cut him off from Ruth. He had no +second-best suit that was presentable, and though he could go to the +butcher and the baker, and even on occasion to his sister’s, it was +beyond all daring to dream of entering the Morse home so disreputably +apparelled. + +He toiled on, miserable and well-nigh hopeless. It began to appear to +him that the second battle was lost and that he would have to go to +work. In doing this he would satisfy everybody—the grocer, his sister, +Ruth, and even Maria, to whom he owed a month’s room rent. He was two +months behind with his type-writer, and the agency was clamoring for +payment or for the return of the machine. In desperation, all but ready +to surrender, to make a truce with fate until he could get a fresh +start, he took the civil service examinations for the Railway Mail. To +his surprise, he passed first. The job was assured, though when the +call would come to enter upon his duties nobody knew. + +It was at this time, at the lowest ebb, that the smooth-running +editorial machine broke down. A cog must have slipped or an oil-cup run +dry, for the postman brought him one morning a short, thin envelope. +Martin glanced at the upper left-hand corner and read the name and +address of the _Transcontinental Monthly_. His heart gave a great leap, +and he suddenly felt faint, the sinking feeling accompanied by a +strange trembling of the knees. He staggered into his room and sat down +on the bed, the envelope still unopened, and in that moment came +understanding to him how people suddenly fall dead upon receipt of +extraordinarily good news. + +Of course this was good news. There was no manuscript in that thin +envelope, therefore it was an acceptance. He knew the story in the +hands of the _Transcontinental_. It was “The Ring of Bells,” one of his +horror stories, and it was an even five thousand words. And, since +first-class magazines always paid on acceptance, there was a check +inside. Two cents a word—twenty dollars a thousand; the check must be a +hundred dollars. One hundred dollars! As he tore the envelope open, +every item of all his debts surged in his brain—$3.85 to the grocer; +butcher $4.00 flat; baker, $2.00; fruit store, $5.00; total, $14.85. +Then there was room rent, $2.50; another month in advance, $2.50; two +months’ type-writer, $8.00; a month in advance, $4.00; total, $31.85. +And finally to be added, his pledges, plus interest, with the +pawnbroker—watch, $5.50; overcoat, $5.50; wheel, $7.75; suit of +clothes, $5.50 (60 % interest, but what did it matter?)—grand total, +$56.10. He saw, as if visible in the air before him, in illuminated +figures, the whole sum, and the subtraction that followed and that gave +a remainder of $43.90. When he had squared every debt, redeemed every +pledge, he would still have jingling in his pockets a princely $43.90. +And on top of that he would have a month’s rent paid in advance on the +type-writer and on the room. + +By this time he had drawn the single sheet of type-written letter out +and spread it open. There was no check. He peered into the envelope, +held it to the light, but could not trust his eyes, and in trembling +haste tore the envelope apart. There was no check. He read the letter, +skimming it line by line, dashing through the editor’s praise of his +story to the meat of the letter, the statement why the check had not +been sent. He found no such statement, but he did find that which made +him suddenly wilt. The letter slid from his hand. His eyes went +lack-lustre, and he lay back on the pillow, pulling the blanket about +him and up to his chin. + +Five dollars for “The Ring of Bells”—five dollars for five thousand +words! Instead of two cents a word, ten words for a cent! And the +editor had praised it, too. And he would receive the check when the +story was published. Then it was all poppycock, two cents a word for +minimum rate and payment upon acceptance. It was a lie, and it had led +him astray. He would never have attempted to write had he known that. +He would have gone to work—to work for Ruth. He went back to the day he +first attempted to write, and was appalled at the enormous waste of +time—and all for ten words for a cent. And the other high rewards of +writers, that he had read about, must be lies, too. His second-hand +ideas of authorship were wrong, for here was the proof of it. + +The _Transcontinental_ sold for twenty-five cents, and its dignified +and artistic cover proclaimed it as among the first-class magazines. It +was a staid, respectable magazine, and it had been published +continuously since long before he was born. Why, on the outside cover +were printed every month the words of one of the world’s great writers, +words proclaiming the inspired mission of the _Transcontinental_ by a +star of literature whose first coruscations had appeared inside those +self-same covers. And the high and lofty, heaven-inspired +_Transcontinental_ paid five dollars for five thousand words! The great +writer had recently died in a foreign land—in dire poverty, Martin +remembered, which was not to be wondered at, considering the +magnificent pay authors receive. + +Well, he had taken the bait, the newspaper lies about writers and their +pay, and he had wasted two years over it. But he would disgorge the +bait now. Not another line would he ever write. He would do what Ruth +wanted him to do, what everybody wanted him to do—get a job. The +thought of going to work reminded him of Joe—Joe, tramping through the +land of nothing-to-do. Martin heaved a great sigh of envy. The reaction +of nineteen hours a day for many days was strong upon him. But then, +Joe was not in love, had none of the responsibilities of love, and he +could afford to loaf through the land of nothing-to-do. He, Martin, had +something to work for, and go to work he would. He would start out +early next morning to hunt a job. And he would let Ruth know, too, that +he had mended his ways and was willing to go into her father’s office. + +Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, the market +price for art. The disappointment of it, the lie of it, the infamy of +it, were uppermost in his thoughts; and under his closed eyelids, in +fiery figures, burned the “$3.85” he owed the grocer. He shivered, and +was aware of an aching in his bones. The small of his back ached +especially. His head ached, the top of it ached, the back of it ached, +the brains inside of it ached and seemed to be swelling, while the ache +over his brows was intolerable. And beneath the brows, planted under +his lids, was the merciless “$3.85.” He opened his eyes to escape it, +but the white light of the room seemed to sear the balls and forced him +to close his eyes, when the “$3.85” confronted him again. + +Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent—that +particular thought took up its residence in his brain, and he could no +more escape it than he could the “$3.85” under his eyelids. A change +seemed to come over the latter, and he watched curiously, till “$2.00” +burned in its stead. Ah, he thought, that was the baker. The next sum +that appeared was “$2.50.” It puzzled him, and he pondered it as if +life and death hung on the solution. He owed somebody two dollars and a +half, that was certain, but who was it? To find it was the task set him +by an imperious and malignant universe, and he wandered through the +endless corridors of his mind, opening all manner of lumber rooms and +chambers stored with odds and ends of memories and knowledge as he +vainly sought the answer. After several centuries it came to him, +easily, without effort, that it was Maria. With a great relief he +turned his soul to the screen of torment under his lids. He had solved +the problem; now he could rest. But no, the “$2.50” faded away, and in +its place burned “$8.00.” Who was that? He must go the dreary round of +his mind again and find out. + +How long he was gone on this quest he did not know, but after what +seemed an enormous lapse of time, he was called back to himself by a +knock at the door, and by Maria’s asking if he was sick. He replied in +a muffled voice he did not recognize, saying that he was merely taking +a nap. He was surprised when he noted the darkness of night in the +room. He had received the letter at two in the afternoon, and he +realized that he was sick. + +Then the “$8.00” began to smoulder under his lids again, and he +returned himself to servitude. But he grew cunning. There was no need +for him to wander through his mind. He had been a fool. He pulled a +lever and made his mind revolve about him, a monstrous wheel of +fortune, a merry-go-round of memory, a revolving sphere of wisdom. +Faster and faster it revolved, until its vortex sucked him in and he +was flung whirling through black chaos. + +Quite naturally he found himself at a mangle, feeding starched cuffs. +But as he fed he noticed figures printed in the cuffs. It was a new way +of marking linen, he thought, until, looking closer, he saw “$3.85” on +one of the cuffs. Then it came to him that it was the grocer’s bill, +and that these were his bills flying around on the drum of the mangle. +A crafty idea came to him. He would throw the bills on the floor and so +escape paying them. No sooner thought than done, and he crumpled the +cuffs spitefully as he flung them upon an unusually dirty floor. Ever +the heap grew, and though each bill was duplicated a thousand times, he +found only one for two dollars and a half, which was what he owed +Maria. That meant that Maria would not press for payment, and he +resolved generously that it would be the only one he would pay; so he +began searching through the cast-out heap for hers. He sought it +desperately, for ages, and was still searching when the manager of the +hotel entered, the fat Dutchman. His face blazed with wrath, and he +shouted in stentorian tones that echoed down the universe, “I shall +deduct the cost of those cuffs from your wages!” The pile of cuffs grew +into a mountain, and Martin knew that he was doomed to toil for a +thousand years to pay for them. Well, there was nothing left to do but +kill the manager and burn down the laundry. But the big Dutchman +frustrated him, seizing him by the nape of the neck and dancing him up +and down. He danced him over the ironing tables, the stove, and the +mangles, and out into the wash-room and over the wringer and washer. +Martin was danced until his teeth rattled and his head ached, and he +marvelled that the Dutchman was so strong. + +And then he found himself before the mangle, this time receiving the +cuffs an editor of a magazine was feeding from the other side. Each +cuff was a check, and Martin went over them anxiously, in a fever of +expectation, but they were all blanks. He stood there and received the +blanks for a million years or so, never letting one go by for fear it +might be filled out. At last he found it. With trembling fingers he +held it to the light. It was for five dollars. “Ha! Ha!” laughed the +editor across the mangle. “Well, then, I shall kill you,” Martin said. +He went out into the wash-room to get the axe, and found Joe starching +manuscripts. He tried to make him desist, then swung the axe for him. +But the weapon remained poised in mid-air, for Martin found himself +back in the ironing room in the midst of a snow-storm. No, it was not +snow that was falling, but checks of large denomination, the smallest +not less than a thousand dollars. He began to collect them and sort +them out, in packages of a hundred, tying each package securely with +twine. + +He looked up from his task and saw Joe standing before him juggling +flat-irons, starched shirts, and manuscripts. Now and again he reached +out and added a bundle of checks to the flying miscellany that soared +through the roof and out of sight in a tremendous circle. Martin struck +at him, but he seized the axe and added it to the flying circle. Then +he plucked Martin and added him. Martin went up through the roof, +clutching at manuscripts, so that by the time he came down he had a +large armful. But no sooner down than up again, and a second and a +third time and countless times he flew around the circle. From far off +he could hear a childish treble singing: “Waltz me around again, +Willie, around, around, around.” + +He recovered the axe in the midst of the Milky Way of checks, starched +shirts, and manuscripts, and prepared, when he came down, to kill Joe. +But he did not come down. Instead, at two in the morning, Maria, having +heard his groans through the thin partition, came into his room, to put +hot flat-irons against his body and damp cloths upon his aching eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning. It was +late afternoon before he came out of his delirium and gazed with aching +eyes about the room. Mary, one of the tribe of Silva, eight years old, +keeping watch, raised a screech at sight of his returning +consciousness. Maria hurried into the room from the kitchen. She put +her work-calloused hand upon his hot forehead and felt his pulse. + +“You lika da eat?” she asked. + +He shook his head. Eating was farthest from his desire, and he wondered +that he should ever have been hungry in his life. + +“I’m sick, Maria,” he said weakly. “What is it? Do you know?” + +“Grip,” she answered. “Two or three days you alla da right. Better you +no eat now. Bimeby plenty can eat, to-morrow can eat maybe.” + +Martin was not used to sickness, and when Maria and her little girl +left him, he essayed to get up and dress. By a supreme exertion of +will, with rearing brain and eyes that ached so that he could not keep +them open, he managed to get out of bed, only to be left stranded by +his senses upon the table. Half an hour later he managed to regain the +bed, where he was content to lie with closed eyes and analyze his +various pains and weaknesses. Maria came in several times to change the +cold cloths on his forehead. Otherwise she left him in peace, too wise +to vex him with chatter. This moved him to gratitude, and he murmured +to himself, “Maria, you getta da milka ranch, all righta, all right.” + +Then he remembered his long-buried past of yesterday. + +It seemed a life-time since he had received that letter from the +_Transcontinental_, a life-time since it was all over and done with and +a new page turned. He had shot his bolt, and shot it hard, and now he +was down on his back. If he hadn’t starved himself, he wouldn’t have +been caught by La Grippe. He had been run down, and he had not had the +strength to throw off the germ of disease which had invaded his system. +This was what resulted. + +“What does it profit a man to write a whole library and lose his own +life?” he demanded aloud. “This is no place for me. No more literature +in mine. Me for the counting-house and ledger, the monthly salary, and +the little home with Ruth.” + +Two days later, having eaten an egg and two slices of toast and drunk a +cup of tea, he asked for his mail, but found his eyes still hurt too +much to permit him to read. + +“You read for me, Maria,” he said. “Never mind the big, long letters. +Throw them under the table. Read me the small letters.” + +“No can,” was the answer. “Teresa, she go to school, she can.” + +So Teresa Silva, aged nine, opened his letters and read them to him. He +listened absently to a long dun from the type-writer people, his mind +busy with ways and means of finding a job. Suddenly he was shocked back +to himself. + +“‘We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in your story,’” +Teresa slowly spelled out, “‘provided you allow us to make the +alterations suggested.’” + +“What magazine is that?” Martin shouted. “Here, give it to me!” + +He could see to read, now, and he was unaware of the pain of the +action. It was the _White Mouse_ that was offering him forty dollars, +and the story was “The Whirlpool,” another of his early horror stories. +He read the letter through again and again. The editor told him plainly +that he had not handled the idea properly, but that it was the idea +they were buying because it was original. If they could cut the story +down one-third, they would take it and send him forty dollars on +receipt of his answer. + +He called for pen and ink, and told the editor he could cut the story +down three-thirds if he wanted to, and to send the forty dollars right +along. + +The letter despatched to the letter-box by Teresa, Martin lay back and +thought. It wasn’t a lie, after all. The _White Mouse_ paid on +acceptance. There were three thousand words in “The Whirlpool.” Cut +down a third, there would be two thousand. At forty dollars that would +be two cents a word. Pay on acceptance and two cents a word—the +newspapers had told the truth. And he had thought the _White Mouse_ a +third-rater! It was evident that he did not know the magazines. He had +deemed the _Transcontinental_ a first-rater, and it paid a cent for ten +words. He had classed the _White Mouse_ as of no account, and it paid +twenty times as much as the_ Transcontinental_ and also had paid on +acceptance. + +Well, there was one thing certain: when he got well, he would not go +out looking for a job. There were more stories in his head as good as +“The Whirlpool,” and at forty dollars apiece he could earn far more +than in any job or position. Just when he thought the battle lost, it +was won. He had proved for his career. The way was clear. Beginning +with the _White Mouse_ he would add magazine after magazine to his +growing list of patrons. Hack-work could be put aside. For that matter, +it had been wasted time, for it had not brought him a dollar. He would +devote himself to work, good work, and he would pour out the best that +was in him. He wished Ruth was there to share in his joy, and when he +went over the letters left lying on his bed, he found one from her. It +was sweetly reproachful, wondering what had kept him away for so +dreadful a length of time. He reread the letter adoringly, dwelling +over her handwriting, loving each stroke of her pen, and in the end +kissing her signature. + +And when he answered, he told her recklessly that he had not been to +see her because his best clothes were in pawn. He told her that he had +been sick, but was once more nearly well, and that inside ten days or +two weeks (as soon as a letter could travel to New York City and +return) he would redeem his clothes and be with her. + +But Ruth did not care to wait ten days or two weeks. Besides, her lover +was sick. The next afternoon, accompanied by Arthur, she arrived in the +Morse carriage, to the unqualified delight of the Silva tribe and of +all the urchins on the street, and to the consternation of Maria. She +boxed the ears of the Silvas who crowded about the visitors on the tiny +front porch, and in more than usual atrocious English tried to +apologize for her appearance. Sleeves rolled up from soap-flecked arms +and a wet gunny-sack around her waist told of the task at which she had +been caught. So flustered was she by two such grand young people asking +for her lodger, that she forgot to invite them to sit down in the +little parlor. To enter Martin’s room, they passed through the kitchen, +warm and moist and steamy from the big washing in progress. Maria, in +her excitement, jammed the bedroom and bedroom-closet doors together, +and for five minutes, through the partly open door, clouds of steam, +smelling of soap-suds and dirt, poured into the sick chamber. + +Ruth succeeded in veering right and left and right again, and in +running the narrow passage between table and bed to Martin’s side; but +Arthur veered too wide and fetched up with clatter and bang of pots and +pans in the corner where Martin did his cooking. Arthur did not linger +long. Ruth occupied the only chair, and having done his duty, he went +outside and stood by the gate, the centre of seven marvelling Silvas, +who watched him as they would have watched a curiosity in a side-show. +All about the carriage were gathered the children from a dozen blocks, +waiting and eager for some tragic and terrible dénouement. Carriages +were seen on their street only for weddings and funerals. Here was +neither marriage nor death: therefore, it was something transcending +experience and well worth waiting for. + +Martin had been wild to see Ruth. His was essentially a love-nature, +and he possessed more than the average man’s need for sympathy. He was +starving for sympathy, which, with him, meant intelligent +understanding; and he had yet to learn that Ruth’s sympathy was largely +sentimental and tactful, and that it proceeded from gentleness of +nature rather than from understanding of the objects of her sympathy. +So it was while Martin held her hand and gladly talked, that her love +for him prompted her to press his hand in return, and that her eyes +were moist and luminous at sight of his helplessness and of the marks +suffering had stamped upon his face. + +But while he told her of his two acceptances, of his despair when he +received the one from the _Transcontinental_, and of the corresponding +delight with which he received the one from the _White Mouse_, she did +not follow him. She heard the words he uttered and understood their +literal import, but she was not with him in his despair and his +delight. She could not get out of herself. She was not interested in +selling stories to magazines. What was important to her was matrimony. +She was not aware of it, however, any more than she was aware that her +desire that Martin take a position was the instinctive and preparative +impulse of motherhood. She would have blushed had she been told as much +in plain, set terms, and next, she might have grown indignant and +asserted that her sole interest lay in the man she loved and her desire +for him to make the best of himself. So, while Martin poured out his +heart to her, elated with the first success his chosen work in the +world had received, she paid heed to his bare words only, gazing now +and again about the room, shocked by what she saw. + +For the first time Ruth gazed upon the sordid face of poverty. Starving +lovers had always seemed romantic to her,—but she had had no idea how +starving lovers lived. She had never dreamed it could be like this. +Ever her gaze shifted from the room to him and back again. The steamy +smell of dirty clothes, which had entered with her from the kitchen, +was sickening. Martin must be soaked with it, Ruth concluded, if that +awful woman washed frequently. Such was the contagiousness of +degradation. When she looked at Martin, she seemed to see the smirch +left upon him by his surroundings. She had never seen him unshaven, and +the three days’ growth of beard on his face was repulsive to her. Not +alone did it give him the same dark and murky aspect of the Silva +house, inside and out, but it seemed to emphasize that animal-like +strength of his which she detested. And here he was, being confirmed in +his madness by the two acceptances he took such pride in telling her +about. A little longer and he would have surrendered and gone to work. +Now he would continue on in this horrible house, writing and starving +for a few more months. + +“What is that smell?” she asked suddenly. + +“Some of Maria’s washing smells, I imagine,” was the answer. “I am +growing quite accustomed to them.” + +“No, no; not that. It is something else. A stale, sickish smell.” + +Martin sampled the air before replying. + +“I can’t smell anything else, except stale tobacco smoke,” he +announced. + +“That’s it. It is terrible. Why do you smoke so much, Martin?” + +“I don’t know, except that I smoke more than usual when I am lonely. +And then, too, it’s such a long-standing habit. I learned when I was +only a youngster.” + +“It is not a nice habit, you know,” she reproved. “It smells to +heaven.” + +“That’s the fault of the tobacco. I can afford only the cheapest. But +wait until I get that forty-dollar check. I’ll use a brand that is not +offensive even to the angels. But that wasn’t so bad, was it, two +acceptances in three days? That forty-five dollars will pay about all +my debts.” + +“For two years’ work?” she queried. + +“No, for less than a week’s work. Please pass me that book over on the +far corner of the table, the account book with the gray cover.” He +opened it and began turning over the pages rapidly. “Yes, I was right. +Four days for ‘The Ring of Bells,’ two days for ‘The Whirlpool.’ That’s +forty-five dollars for a week’s work, one hundred and eighty dollars a +month. That beats any salary I can command. And, besides, I’m just +beginning. A thousand dollars a month is not too much to buy for you +all I want you to have. A salary of five hundred a month would be too +small. That forty-five dollars is just a starter. Wait till I get my +stride. Then watch my smoke.” + +Ruth misunderstood his slang, and reverted to cigarettes. + +“You smoke more than enough as it is, and the brand of tobacco will +make no difference. It is the smoking itself that is not nice, no +matter what the brand may be. You are a chimney, a living volcano, a +perambulating smoke-stack, and you are a perfect disgrace, Martin dear, +you know you are.” + +She leaned toward him, entreaty in her eyes, and as he looked at her +delicate face and into her pure, limpid eyes, as of old he was struck +with his own unworthiness. + +“I wish you wouldn’t smoke any more,” she whispered. “Please, for—my +sake.” + +“All right, I won’t,” he cried. “I’ll do anything you ask, dear love, +anything; you know that.” + +A great temptation assailed her. In an insistent way she had caught +glimpses of the large, easy-going side of his nature, and she felt +sure, if she asked him to cease attempting to write, that he would +grant her wish. In the swift instant that elapsed, the words trembled +on her lips. But she did not utter them. She was not quite brave +enough; she did not quite dare. Instead, she leaned toward him to meet +him, and in his arms murmured:- + +“You know, it is really not for my sake, Martin, but for your own. I am +sure smoking hurts you; and besides, it is not good to be a slave to +anything, to a drug least of all.” + +“I shall always be your slave,” he smiled. + +“In which case, I shall begin issuing my commands.” + +She looked at him mischievously, though deep down she was already +regretting that she had not preferred her largest request. + +“I live but to obey, your majesty.” + +“Well, then, my first commandment is, Thou shalt not omit to shave +every day. Look how you have scratched my cheek.” + +And so it ended in caresses and love-laughter. But she had made one +point, and she could not expect to make more than one at a time. She +felt a woman’s pride in that she had made him stop smoking. Another +time she would persuade him to take a position, for had he not said he +would do anything she asked? + +She left his side to explore the room, examining the clothes-lines of +notes overhead, learning the mystery of the tackle used for suspending +his wheel under the ceiling, and being saddened by the heap of +manuscripts under the table which represented to her just so much +wasted time. The oil-stove won her admiration, but on investigating the +food shelves she found them empty. + +“Why, you haven’t anything to eat, you poor dear,” she said with tender +compassion. “You must be starving.” + +“I store my food in Maria’s safe and in her pantry,” he lied. “It keeps +better there. No danger of my starving. Look at that.” + +She had come back to his side, and she saw him double his arm at the +elbow, the biceps crawling under his shirt-sleeve and swelling into a +knot of muscle, heavy and hard. The sight repelled her. Sentimentally, +she disliked it. But her pulse, her blood, every fibre of her, loved it +and yearned for it, and, in the old, inexplicable way, she leaned +toward him, not away from him. And in the moment that followed, when he +crushed her in his arms, the brain of her, concerned with the +superficial aspects of life, was in revolt; while the heart of her, the +woman of her, concerned with life itself, exulted triumphantly. It was +in moments like this that she felt to the uttermost the greatness of +her love for Martin, for it was almost a swoon of delight to her to +feel his strong arms about her, holding her tightly, hurting her with +the grip of their fervor. At such moments she found justification for +her treason to her standards, for her violation of her own high ideals, +and, most of all, for her tacit disobedience to her mother and father. +They did not want her to marry this man. It shocked them that she +should love him. It shocked her, too, sometimes, when she was apart +from him, a cool and reasoning creature. With him, she loved him—in +truth, at times a vexed and worried love; but love it was, a love that +was stronger than she. + +“This La Grippe is nothing,” he was saying. “It hurts a bit, and gives +one a nasty headache, but it doesn’t compare with break-bone fever.” + +“Have you had that, too?” she queried absently, intent on the +heaven-sent justification she was finding in his arms. + +And so, with absent queries, she led him on, till suddenly his words +startled her. + +He had had the fever in a secret colony of thirty lepers on one of the +Hawaiian Islands. + +“But why did you go there?” she demanded. + +Such royal carelessness of body seemed criminal. + +“Because I didn’t know,” he answered. “I never dreamed of lepers. When +I deserted the schooner and landed on the beach, I headed inland for +some place of hiding. For three days I lived off guavas, _ohia_-apples, +and bananas, all of which grew wild in the jungle. On the fourth day I +found the trail—a mere foot-trail. It led inland, and it led up. It was +the way I wanted to go, and it showed signs of recent travel. At one +place it ran along the crest of a ridge that was no more than a +knife-edge. The trail wasn’t three feet wide on the crest, and on +either side the ridge fell away in precipices hundreds of feet deep. +One man, with plenty of ammunition, could have held it against a +hundred thousand. + +“It was the only way in to the hiding-place. Three hours after I found +the trail I was there, in a little mountain valley, a pocket in the +midst of lava peaks. The whole place was terraced for taro-patches, +fruit trees grew there, and there were eight or ten grass huts. But as +soon as I saw the inhabitants I knew what I’d struck. One sight of them +was enough.” + +“What did you do?” Ruth demanded breathlessly, listening, like any +Desdemona, appalled and fascinated. + +“Nothing for me to do. Their leader was a kind old fellow, pretty far +gone, but he ruled like a king. He had discovered the little valley and +founded the settlement—all of which was against the law. But he had +guns, plenty of ammunition, and those Kanakas, trained to the shooting +of wild cattle and wild pig, were dead shots. No, there wasn’t any +running away for Martin Eden. He stayed—for three months.” + +“But how did you escape?” + +“I’d have been there yet, if it hadn’t been for a girl there, a +half-Chinese, quarter-white, and quarter-Hawaiian. She was a beauty, +poor thing, and well educated. Her mother, in Honolulu, was worth a +million or so. Well, this girl got me away at last. Her mother financed +the settlement, you see, so the girl wasn’t afraid of being punished +for letting me go. But she made me swear, first, never to reveal the +hiding-place; and I never have. This is the first time I have even +mentioned it. The girl had just the first signs of leprosy. The fingers +of her right hand were slightly twisted, and there was a small spot on +her arm. That was all. I guess she is dead, now.” + +“But weren’t you frightened? And weren’t you glad to get away without +catching that dreadful disease?” + +“Well,” he confessed, “I was a bit shivery at first; but I got used to +it. I used to feel sorry for that poor girl, though. That made me +forget to be afraid. She was such a beauty, in spirit as well as in +appearance, and she was only slightly touched; yet she was doomed to +lie there, living the life of a primitive savage and rotting slowly +away. Leprosy is far more terrible than you can imagine it.” + +“Poor thing,” Ruth murmured softly. “It’s a wonder she let you get +away.” + +“How do you mean?” Martin asked unwittingly. + +“Because she must have loved you,” Ruth said, still softly. “Candidly, +now, didn’t she?” + +Martin’s sunburn had been bleached by his work in the laundry and by +the indoor life he was living, while the hunger and the sickness had +made his face even pale; and across this pallor flowed the slow wave of +a blush. He was opening his mouth to speak, but Ruth shut him off. + +“Never mind, don’t answer; it’s not necessary,” she laughed. + +But it seemed to him there was something metallic in her laughter, and +that the light in her eyes was cold. On the spur of the moment it +reminded him of a gale he had once experienced in the North Pacific. +And for the moment the apparition of the gale rose before his eyes—a +gale at night, with a clear sky and under a full moon, the huge seas +glinting coldly in the moonlight. Next, he saw the girl in the leper +refuge and remembered it was for love of him that she had let him go. + +“She was noble,” he said simply. “She gave me life.” + +That was all of the incident, but he heard Ruth muffle a dry sob in her +throat, and noticed that she turned her face away to gaze out of the +window. When she turned it back to him, it was composed, and there was +no hint of the gale in her eyes. + +“I’m such a silly,” she said plaintively. “But I can’t help it. I do so +love you, Martin, I do, I do. I shall grow more catholic in time, but +at present I can’t help being jealous of those ghosts of the past, and +you know your past is full of ghosts.” + +“It must be,” she silenced his protest. “It could not be otherwise. And +there’s poor Arthur motioning me to come. He’s tired waiting. And now +good-by, dear.” + +“There’s some kind of a mixture, put up by the druggists, that helps +men to stop the use of tobacco,” she called back from the door, “and I +am going to send you some.” + +The door closed, but opened again. + +“I do, I do,” she whispered to him; and this time she was really gone. + +Maria, with worshipful eyes that none the less were keen to note the +texture of Ruth’s garments and the cut of them (a cut unknown that +produced an effect mysteriously beautiful), saw her to the carriage. +The crowd of disappointed urchins stared till the carriage disappeared +from view, then transferred their stare to Maria, who had abruptly +become the most important person on the street. But it was one of her +progeny who blasted Maria’s reputation by announcing that the grand +visitors had been for her lodger. After that Maria dropped back into +her old obscurity and Martin began to notice the respectful manner in +which he was regarded by the small fry of the neighborhood. As for +Maria, Martin rose in her estimation a full hundred per cent, and had +the Portuguese grocer witnessed that afternoon carriage-call he would +have allowed Martin an additional three-dollars-and-eighty-five-cents’ +worth of credit. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + +The sun of Martin’s good fortune rose. The day after Ruth’s visit, he +received a check for three dollars from a New York scandal weekly in +payment for three of his triolets. Two days later a newspaper published +in Chicago accepted his “Treasure Hunters,” promising to pay ten +dollars for it on publication. The price was small, but it was the +first article he had written, his very first attempt to express his +thought on the printed page. To cap everything, the adventure serial +for boys, his second attempt, was accepted before the end of the week +by a juvenile monthly calling itself _Youth and Age_. It was true the +serial was twenty-one thousand words, and they offered to pay him +sixteen dollars on publication, which was something like seventy-five +cents a thousand words; but it was equally true that it was the second +thing he had attempted to write and that he was himself thoroughly +aware of its clumsy worthlessness. + +But even his earliest efforts were not marked with the clumsiness of +mediocrity. What characterized them was the clumsiness of too great +strength—the clumsiness which the tyro betrays when he crushes +butterflies with battering rams and hammers out vignettes with a +war-club. So it was that Martin was glad to sell his early efforts for +songs. He knew them for what they were, and it had not taken him long +to acquire this knowledge. What he pinned his faith to was his later +work. He had striven to be something more than a mere writer of +magazine fiction. He had sought to equip himself with the tools of +artistry. On the other hand, he had not sacrificed strength. His +conscious aim had been to increase his strength by avoiding excess of +strength. Nor had he departed from his love of reality. His work was +realism, though he had endeavored to fuse with it the fancies and +beauties of imagination. What he sought was an impassioned realism, +shot through with human aspiration and faith. What he wanted was life +as it was, with all its spirit-groping and soul-reaching left in. + +He had discovered, in the course of his reading, two schools of +fiction. One treated of man as a god, ignoring his earthly origin; the +other treated of man as a clod, ignoring his heaven-sent dreams and +divine possibilities. Both the god and the clod schools erred, in +Martin’s estimation, and erred through too great singleness of sight +and purpose. There was a compromise that approximated the truth, though +it flattered not the school of god, while it challenged the +brute-savageness of the school of clod. It was his story, “Adventure,” +which had dragged with Ruth, that Martin believed had achieved his +ideal of the true in fiction; and it was in an essay, “God and Clod,” +that he had expressed his views on the whole general subject. + +But “Adventure,” and all that he deemed his best work, still went +begging among the editors. His early work counted for nothing in his +eyes except for the money it brought, and his horror stories, two of +which he had sold, he did not consider high work nor his best work. To +him they were frankly imaginative and fantastic, though invested with +all the glamour of the real, wherein lay their power. This investiture +of the grotesque and impossible with reality, he looked upon as a +trick—a skilful trick at best. Great literature could not reside in +such a field. Their artistry was high, but he denied the worthwhileness +of artistry when divorced from humanness. The trick had been to fling +over the face of his artistry a mask of humanness, and this he had done +in the half-dozen or so stories of the horror brand he had written +before he emerged upon the high peaks of “Adventure,” “Joy,” “The Pot,” +and “The Wine of Life.” + +The three dollars he received for the triolets he used to eke out a +precarious existence against the arrival of the _White Mouse_ check. He +cashed the first check with the suspicious Portuguese grocer, paying a +dollar on account and dividing the remaining two dollars between the +baker and the fruit store. Martin was not yet rich enough to afford +meat, and he was on slim allowance when the _White Mouse_ check +arrived. He was divided on the cashing of it. He had never been in a +bank in his life, much less been in one on business, and he had a naive +and childlike desire to walk into one of the big banks down in Oakland +and fling down his indorsed check for forty dollars. On the other hand, +practical common sense ruled that he should cash it with his grocer and +thereby make an impression that would later result in an increase of +credit. Reluctantly Martin yielded to the claims of the grocer, paying +his bill with him in full, and receiving in change a pocketful of +jingling coin. Also, he paid the other tradesmen in full, redeemed his +suit and his bicycle, paid one month’s rent on the type-writer, and +paid Maria the overdue month for his room and a month in advance. This +left him in his pocket, for emergencies, a balance of nearly three +dollars. + +In itself, this small sum seemed a fortune. Immediately on recovering +his clothes he had gone to see Ruth, and on the way he could not +refrain from jingling the little handful of silver in his pocket. He +had been so long without money that, like a rescued starving man who +cannot let the unconsumed food out of his sight, Martin could not keep +his hand off the silver. He was not mean, nor avaricious, but the money +meant more than so many dollars and cents. It stood for success, and +the eagles stamped upon the coins were to him so many winged victories. + +It came to him insensibly that it was a very good world. It certainly +appeared more beautiful to him. For weeks it had been a very dull and +sombre world; but now, with nearly all debts paid, three dollars +jingling in his pocket, and in his mind the consciousness of success, +the sun shone bright and warm, and even a rain-squall that soaked +unprepared pedestrians seemed a merry happening to him. When he +starved, his thoughts had dwelt often upon the thousands he knew were +starving the world over; but now that he was feasted full, the fact of +the thousands starving was no longer pregnant in his brain. He forgot +about them, and, being in love, remembered the countless lovers in the +world. Without deliberately thinking about it, _motifs_ for love-lyrics +began to agitate his brain. Swept away by the creative impulse, he got +off the electric car, without vexation, two blocks beyond his crossing. + +He found a number of persons in the Morse home. Ruth’s two girl-cousins +were visiting her from San Rafael, and Mrs. Morse, under pretext of +entertaining them, was pursuing her plan of surrounding Ruth with young +people. The campaign had begun during Martin’s enforced absence, and +was already in full swing. She was making a point of having at the +house men who were doing things. Thus, in addition to the cousins +Dorothy and Florence, Martin encountered two university professors, one +of Latin, the other of English; a young army officer just back from the +Philippines, one-time school-mate of Ruth’s; a young fellow named +Melville, private secretary to Joseph Perkins, head of the San +Francisco Trust Company; and finally of the men, a live bank cashier, +Charles Hapgood, a youngish man of thirty-five, graduate of Stanford +University, member of the Nile Club and the Unity Club, and a +conservative speaker for the Republican Party during campaigns—in +short, a rising young man in every way. Among the women was one who +painted portraits, another who was a professional musician, and still +another who possessed the degree of Doctor of Sociology and who was +locally famous for her social settlement work in the slums of San +Francisco. But the women did not count for much in Mrs. Morse’s plan. +At the best, they were necessary accessories. The men who did things +must be drawn to the house somehow. + +“Don’t get excited when you talk,” Ruth admonished Martin, before the +ordeal of introduction began. + +He bore himself a bit stiffly at first, oppressed by a sense of his own +awkwardness, especially of his shoulders, which were up to their old +trick of threatening destruction to furniture and ornaments. Also, he +was rendered self-conscious by the company. He had never before been in +contact with such exalted beings nor with so many of them. Melville, +the bank cashier, fascinated him, and he resolved to investigate him at +the first opportunity. For underneath Martin’s awe lurked his assertive +ego, and he felt the urge to measure himself with these men and women +and to find out what they had learned from the books and life which he +had not learned. + +Ruth’s eyes roved to him frequently to see how he was getting on, and +she was surprised and gladdened by the ease with which he got +acquainted with her cousins. He certainly did not grow excited, while +being seated removed from him the worry of his shoulders. Ruth knew +them for clever girls, superficially brilliant, and she could scarcely +understand their praise of Martin later that night at going to bed. But +he, on the other hand, a wit in his own class, a gay quizzer and +laughter-maker at dances and Sunday picnics, had found the making of +fun and the breaking of good-natured lances simple enough in this +environment. And on this evening success stood at his back, patting him +on the shoulder and telling him that he was making good, so that he +could afford to laugh and make laughter and remain unabashed. + +Later, Ruth’s anxiety found justification. Martin and Professor +Caldwell had got together in a conspicuous corner, and though Martin no +longer wove the air with his hands, to Ruth’s critical eye he permitted +his own eyes to flash and glitter too frequently, talked too rapidly +and warmly, grew too intense, and allowed his aroused blood to redden +his cheeks too much. He lacked decorum and control, and was in decided +contrast to the young professor of English with whom he talked. + +But Martin was not concerned with appearances! He had been swift to +note the other’s trained mind and to appreciate his command of +knowledge. Furthermore, Professor Caldwell did not realize Martin’s +concept of the average English professor. Martin wanted him to talk +shop, and, though he seemed averse at first, succeeded in making him do +it. For Martin did not see why a man should not talk shop. + +“It’s absurd and unfair,” he had told Ruth weeks before, “this +objection to talking shop. For what reason under the sun do men and +women come together if not for the exchange of the best that is in +them? And the best that is in them is what they are interested in, the +thing by which they make their living, the thing they’ve specialized on +and sat up days and nights over, and even dreamed about. Imagine Mr. +Butler living up to social etiquette and enunciating his views on Paul +Verlaine or the German drama or the novels of D’Annunzio. We’d be bored +to death. I, for one, if I must listen to Mr. Butler, prefer to hear +him talk about his law. It’s the best that is in him, and life is so +short that I want the best of every man and woman I meet.” + +“But,” Ruth had objected, “there are the topics of general interest to +all.” + +“There, you mistake,” he had rushed on. “All persons in society, all +cliques in society—or, rather, nearly all persons and cliques—ape their +betters. Now, who are the best betters? The idlers, the wealthy idlers. +They do not know, as a rule, the things known by the persons who are +doing something in the world. To listen to conversation about such +things would mean to be bored, wherefore the idlers decree that such +things are shop and must not be talked about. Likewise they decree the +things that are not shop and which may be talked about, and those +things are the latest operas, latest novels, cards, billiards, +cocktails, automobiles, horse shows, trout fishing, tuna-fishing, +big-game shooting, yacht sailing, and so forth—and mark you, these are +the things the idlers know. In all truth, they constitute the shop-talk +of the idlers. And the funniest part of it is that many of the clever +people, and all the would-be clever people, allow the idlers so to +impose upon them. As for me, I want the best a man’s got in him, call +it shop vulgarity or anything you please.” + +And Ruth had not understood. This attack of his on the established had +seemed to her just so much wilfulness of opinion. + +So Martin contaminated Professor Caldwell with his own earnestness, +challenging him to speak his mind. As Ruth paused beside them she heard +Martin saying:- + +“You surely don’t pronounce such heresies in the University of +California?” + +Professor Caldwell shrugged his shoulders. “The honest taxpayer and the +politician, you know. Sacramento gives us our appropriations and +therefore we kowtow to Sacramento, and to the Board of Regents, and to +the party press, or to the press of both parties.” + +“Yes, that’s clear; but how about you?” Martin urged. “You must be a +fish out of the water.” + +“Few like me, I imagine, in the university pond. Sometimes I am fairly +sure I am out of water, and that I should belong in Paris, in Grub +Street, in a hermit’s cave, or in some sadly wild Bohemian crowd, +drinking claret,—dago-red they call it in San Francisco,—dining in +cheap restaurants in the Latin Quarter, and expressing vociferously +radical views upon all creation. Really, I am frequently almost sure +that I was cut out to be a radical. But then, there are so many +questions on which I am not sure. I grow timid when I am face to face +with my human frailty, which ever prevents me from grasping all the +factors in any problem—human, vital problems, you know.” + +And as he talked on, Martin became aware that to his own lips had come +the “Song of the Trade Wind”:- + +“I am strongest at noon, +But under the moon + I stiffen the bunt of the sail.” + + +He was almost humming the words, and it dawned upon him that the other +reminded him of the trade wind, of the Northeast Trade, steady, and +cool, and strong. He was equable, he was to be relied upon, and withal +there was a certain bafflement about him. Martin had the feeling that +he never spoke his full mind, just as he had often had the feeling that +the trades never blew their strongest but always held reserves of +strength that were never used. Martin’s trick of visioning was active +as ever. His brain was a most accessible storehouse of remembered fact +and fancy, and its contents seemed ever ordered and spread for his +inspection. Whatever occurred in the instant present, Martin’s mind +immediately presented associated antithesis or similitude which +ordinarily expressed themselves to him in vision. It was sheerly +automatic, and his visioning was an unfailing accompaniment to the +living present. Just as Ruth’s face, in a momentary jealousy had called +before his eyes a forgotten moonlight gale, and as Professor Caldwell +made him see again the Northeast Trade herding the white billows across +the purple sea, so, from moment to moment, not disconcerting but rather +identifying and classifying, new memory-visions rose before him, or +spread under his eyelids, or were thrown upon the screen of his +consciousness. These visions came out of the actions and sensations of +the past, out of things and events and books of yesterday and last +week—a countless host of apparitions that, waking or sleeping, forever +thronged his mind. + +So it was, as he listened to Professor Caldwell’s easy flow of +speech—the conversation of a clever, cultured man—that Martin kept +seeing himself down all his past. He saw himself when he had been quite +the hoodlum, wearing a “stiff-rim” Stetson hat and a square-cut, +double-breasted coat, with a certain swagger to the shoulders and +possessing the ideal of being as tough as the police permitted. He did +not disguise it to himself, nor attempt to palliate it. At one time in +his life he had been just a common hoodlum, the leader of a gang that +worried the police and terrorized honest, working-class householders. +But his ideals had changed. He glanced about him at the well-bred, +well-dressed men and women, and breathed into his lungs the atmosphere +of culture and refinement, and at the same moment the ghost of his +early youth, in stiff-rim and square-cut, with swagger and toughness, +stalked across the room. This figure, of the corner hoodlum, he saw +merge into himself, sitting and talking with an actual university +professor. + +For, after all, he had never found his permanent abiding place. He had +fitted in wherever he found himself, been a favorite always and +everywhere by virtue of holding his own at work and at play and by his +willingness and ability to fight for his rights and command respect. +But he had never taken root. He had fitted in sufficiently to satisfy +his fellows but not to satisfy himself. He had been perturbed always by +a feeling of unrest, had heard always the call of something from +beyond, and had wandered on through life seeking it until he found +books and art and love. And here he was, in the midst of all this, the +only one of all the comrades he had adventured with who could have made +themselves eligible for the inside of the Morse home. + +But such thoughts and visions did not prevent him from following +Professor Caldwell closely. And as he followed, comprehendingly and +critically, he noted the unbroken field of the other’s knowledge. As +for himself, from moment to moment the conversation showed him gaps and +open stretches, whole subjects with which he was unfamiliar. +Nevertheless, thanks to his Spencer, he saw that he possessed the +outlines of the field of knowledge. It was a matter only of time, when +he would fill in the outline. Then watch out, he thought—’ware shoal, +everybody! He felt like sitting at the feet of the professor, +worshipful and absorbent; but, as he listened, he began to discern a +weakness in the other’s judgments—a weakness so stray and elusive that +he might not have caught it had it not been ever present. And when he +did catch it, he leapt to equality at once. + +Ruth came up to them a second time, just as Martin began to speak. + +“I’ll tell you where you are wrong, or, rather, what weakens your +judgments,” he said. “You lack biology. It has no place in your scheme +of things.—Oh, I mean the real interpretative biology, from the ground +up, from the laboratory and the test-tube and the vitalized inorganic +right on up to the widest aesthetic and sociological generalizations.” + +Ruth was appalled. She had sat two lecture courses under Professor +Caldwell and looked up to him as the living repository of all +knowledge. + +“I scarcely follow you,” he said dubiously. + +Martin was not so sure but what he had followed him. + +“Then I’ll try to explain,” he said. “I remember reading in Egyptian +history something to the effect that understanding could not be had of +Egyptian art without first studying the land question.” + +“Quite right,” the professor nodded. + +“And it seems to me,” Martin continued, “that knowledge of the land +question, in turn, of all questions, for that matter, cannot be had +without previous knowledge of the stuff and the constitution of life. +How can we understand laws and institutions, religions and customs, +without understanding, not merely the nature of the creatures that made +them, but the nature of the stuff out of which the creatures are made? +Is literature less human than the architecture and sculpture of Egypt? +Is there one thing in the known universe that is not subject to the law +of evolution?—Oh, I know there is an elaborate evolution of the various +arts laid down, but it seems to me to be too mechanical. The human +himself is left out. The evolution of the tool, of the harp, of music +and song and dance, are all beautifully elaborated; but how about the +evolution of the human himself, the development of the basic and +intrinsic parts that were in him before he made his first tool or +gibbered his first chant? It is that which you do not consider, and +which I call biology. It is biology in its largest aspects. + +“I know I express myself incoherently, but I’ve tried to hammer out the +idea. It came to me as you were talking, so I was not primed and ready +to deliver it. You spoke yourself of the human frailty that prevented +one from taking all the factors into consideration. And you, in +turn,—or so it seems to me,—leave out the biological factor, the very +stuff out of which has been spun the fabric of all the arts, the warp +and the woof of all human actions and achievements.” + +To Ruth’s amazement, Martin was not immediately crushed, and that the +professor replied in the way he did struck her as forbearance for +Martin’s youth. Professor Caldwell sat for a full minute, silent and +fingering his watch chain. + +“Do you know,” he said at last, “I’ve had that same criticism passed on +me once before—by a very great man, a scientist and evolutionist, +Joseph Le Conte. But he is dead, and I thought to remain undetected; +and now you come along and expose me. Seriously, though—and this is +confession—I think there is something in your contention—a great deal, +in fact. I am too classical, not enough up-to-date in the +interpretative branches of science, and I can only plead the +disadvantages of my education and a temperamental slothfulness that +prevents me from doing the work. I wonder if you’ll believe that I’ve +never been inside a physics or chemistry laboratory? It is true, +nevertheless. Le Conte was right, and so are you, Mr. Eden, at least to +an extent—how much I do not know.” + +Ruth drew Martin away with her on a pretext; when she had got him +aside, whispering:- + +“You shouldn’t have monopolized Professor Caldwell that way. There may +be others who want to talk with him.” + +“My mistake,” Martin admitted contritely. “But I’d got him stirred up, +and he was so interesting that I did not think. Do you know, he is the +brightest, the most intellectual, man I have ever talked with. And I’ll +tell you something else. I once thought that everybody who went to +universities, or who sat in the high places in society, was just as +brilliant and intelligent as he.” + +“He’s an exception,” she answered. + +“I should say so. Whom do you want me to talk to now?—Oh, say, bring me +up against that cashier-fellow.” + +Martin talked for fifteen minutes with him, nor could Ruth have wished +better behavior on her lover’s part. Not once did his eyes flash nor +his cheeks flush, while the calmness and poise with which he talked +surprised her. But in Martin’s estimation the whole tribe of bank +cashiers fell a few hundred per cent, and for the rest of the evening +he labored under the impression that bank cashiers and talkers of +platitudes were synonymous phrases. The army officer he found +good-natured and simple, a healthy, wholesome young fellow, content to +occupy the place in life into which birth and luck had flung him. On +learning that he had completed two years in the university, Martin was +puzzled to know where he had stored it away. Nevertheless Martin liked +him better than the platitudinous bank cashier. + +“I really don’t object to platitudes,” he told Ruth later; “but what +worries me into nervousness is the pompous, smugly complacent, superior +certitude with which they are uttered and the time taken to do it. Why, +I could give that man the whole history of the Reformation in the time +he took to tell me that the Union-Labor Party had fused with the +Democrats. Do you know, he skins his words as a professional +poker-player skins the cards that are dealt out to him. Some day I’ll +show you what I mean.” + +“I’m sorry you don’t like him,” was her reply. “He’s a favorite of Mr. +Butler’s. Mr. Butler says he is safe and honest—calls him the Rock, +Peter, and says that upon him any banking institution can well be +built.” + +“I don’t doubt it—from the little I saw of him and the less I heard +from him; but I don’t think so much of banks as I did. You don’t mind +my speaking my mind this way, dear?” + +“No, no; it is most interesting.” + +“Yes,” Martin went on heartily, “I’m no more than a barbarian getting +my first impressions of civilization. Such impressions must be +entertainingly novel to the civilized person.” + +“What did you think of my cousins?” Ruth queried. + +“I liked them better than the other women. There’s plenty of fun in +them along with paucity of pretence.” + +“Then you did like the other women?” + +He shook his head. + +“That social-settlement woman is no more than a sociological +poll-parrot. I swear, if you winnowed her out between the stars, like +Tomlinson, there would be found in her not one original thought. As for +the portrait-painter, she was a positive bore. She’d make a good wife +for the cashier. And the musician woman! I don’t care how nimble her +fingers are, how perfect her technique, how wonderful her +expression—the fact is, she knows nothing about music.” + +“She plays beautifully,” Ruth protested. + +“Yes, she’s undoubtedly gymnastic in the externals of music, but the +intrinsic spirit of music is unguessed by her. I asked her what music +meant to her—you know I’m always curious to know that particular thing; +and she did not know what it meant to her, except that she adored it, +that it was the greatest of the arts, and that it meant more than life +to her.” + +“You were making them talk shop,” Ruth charged him. + +“I confess it. And if they were failures on shop, imagine my sufferings +if they had discoursed on other subjects. Why, I used to think that up +here, where all the advantages of culture were enjoyed—” He paused for +a moment, and watched the youthful shade of himself, in stiff-rim and +square-cut, enter the door and swagger across the room. “As I was +saying, up here I thought all men and women were brilliant and radiant. +But now, from what little I’ve seen of them, they strike me as a pack +of ninnies, most of them, and ninety percent of the remainder as bores. +Now there’s Professor Caldwell—he’s different. He’s a man, every inch +of him and every atom of his gray matter.” + +Ruth’s face brightened. + +“Tell me about him,” she urged. “Not what is large and brilliant—I know +those qualities; but whatever you feel is adverse. I am most curious to +know.” + +“Perhaps I’ll get myself in a pickle.” Martin debated humorously for a +moment. “Suppose you tell me first. Or maybe you find in him nothing +less than the best.” + +“I attended two lecture courses under him, and I have known him for two +years; that is why I am anxious for your first impression.” + +“Bad impression, you mean? Well, here goes. He is all the fine things +you think about him, I guess. At least, he is the finest specimen of +intellectual man I have met; but he is a man with a secret shame.” + +“Oh, no, no!” he hastened to cry. “Nothing paltry nor vulgar. What I +mean is that he strikes me as a man who has gone to the bottom of +things, and is so afraid of what he saw that he makes believe to +himself that he never saw it. Perhaps that’s not the clearest way to +express it. Here’s another way. A man who has found the path to the +hidden temple but has not followed it; who has, perhaps, caught +glimpses of the temple and striven afterward to convince himself that +it was only a mirage of foliage. Yet another way. A man who could have +done things but who placed no value on the doing, and who, all the +time, in his innermost heart, is regretting that he has not done them; +who has secretly laughed at the rewards for doing, and yet, still more +secretly, has yearned for the rewards and for the joy of doing.” + +“I don’t read him that way,” she said. “And for that matter, I don’t +see just what you mean.” + +“It is only a vague feeling on my part,” Martin temporized. “I have no +reason for it. It is only a feeling, and most likely it is wrong. You +certainly should know him better than I.” + +From the evening at Ruth’s Martin brought away with him strange +confusions and conflicting feelings. He was disappointed in his goal, +in the persons he had climbed to be with. On the other hand, he was +encouraged with his success. The climb had been easier than he +expected. He was superior to the climb, and (he did not, with false +modesty, hide it from himself) he was superior to the beings among whom +he had climbed—with the exception, of course, of Professor Caldwell. +About life and the books he knew more than they, and he wondered into +what nooks and crannies they had cast aside their educations. He did +not know that he was himself possessed of unusual brain vigor; nor did +he know that the persons who were given to probing the depths and to +thinking ultimate thoughts were not to be found in the drawing rooms of +the world’s Morses; nor did he dream that such persons were as lonely +eagles sailing solitary in the azure sky far above the earth and its +swarming freight of gregarious life. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + +But success had lost Martin’s address, and her messengers no longer +came to his door. For twenty-five days, working Sundays and holidays, +he toiled on “The Shame of the Sun,” a long essay of some thirty +thousand words. It was a deliberate attack on the mysticism of the +Maeterlinck school—an attack from the citadel of positive science upon +the wonder-dreamers, but an attack nevertheless that retained much of +beauty and wonder of the sort compatible with ascertained fact. It was +a little later that he followed up the attack with two short essays, +“The Wonder-Dreamers” and “The Yardstick of the Ego.” And on essays, +long and short, he began to pay the travelling expenses from magazine +to magazine. + +During the twenty-five days spent on “The Shame of the Sun,” he sold +hack-work to the extent of six dollars and fifty cents. A joke had +brought in fifty cents, and a second one, sold to a high-grade comic +weekly, had fetched a dollar. Then two humorous poems had earned two +dollars and three dollars respectively. As a result, having exhausted +his credit with the tradesmen (though he had increased his credit with +the grocer to five dollars), his wheel and suit of clothes went back to +the pawnbroker. The type-writer people were again clamoring for money, +insistently pointing out that according to the agreement rent was to be +paid strictly in advance. + +Encouraged by his several small sales, Martin went back to hack-work. +Perhaps there was a living in it, after all. Stored away under his +table were the twenty storiettes which had been rejected by the +newspaper short-story syndicate. He read them over in order to find out +how not to write newspaper storiettes, and so doing, reasoned out the +perfect formula. He found that the newspaper storiette should never be +tragic, should never end unhappily, and should never contain beauty of +language, subtlety of thought, nor real delicacy of sentiment. +Sentiment it must contain, plenty of it, pure and noble, of the sort +that in his own early youth had brought his applause from “nigger +heaven”—the “For-God-my-country-and-the-Czar” and +“I-may-be-poor-but-I-am-honest” brand of sentiment. + +Having learned such precautions, Martin consulted “The Duchess” for +tone, and proceeded to mix according to formula. The formula consists +of three parts: (1) a pair of lovers are jarred apart; (2) by some deed +or event they are reunited; (3) marriage bells. The third part was an +unvarying quantity, but the first and second parts could be varied an +infinite number of times. Thus, the pair of lovers could be jarred +apart by misunderstood motives, by accident of fate, by jealous rivals, +by irate parents, by crafty guardians, by scheming relatives, and so +forth and so forth; they could be reunited by a brave deed of the man +lover, by a similar deed of the woman lover, by change of heart in one +lover or the other, by forced confession of crafty guardian, scheming +relative, or jealous rival, by voluntary confession of same, by +discovery of some unguessed secret, by lover storming girl’s heart, by +lover making long and noble self-sacrifice, and so on, endlessly. It +was very fetching to make the girl propose in the course of being +reunited, and Martin discovered, bit by bit, other decidedly piquant +and fetching ruses. But marriage bells at the end was the one thing he +could take no liberties with; though the heavens rolled up as a scroll +and the stars fell, the wedding bells must go on ringing just the same. +In quantity, the formula prescribed twelve hundred words minimum dose, +fifteen hundred words maximum dose. + +Before he got very far along in the art of the storiette, Martin worked +out half a dozen stock forms, which he always consulted when +constructing storiettes. These forms were like the cunning tables used +by mathematicians, which may be entered from top, bottom, right, and +left, which entrances consist of scores of lines and dozens of columns, +and from which may be drawn, without reasoning or thinking, thousands +of different conclusions, all unchallengably precise and true. Thus, in +the course of half an hour with his forms, Martin could frame up a +dozen or so storiettes, which he put aside and filled in at his +convenience. He found that he could fill one in, after a day of serious +work, in the hour before going to bed. As he later confessed to Ruth, +he could almost do it in his sleep. The real work was in constructing +the frames, and that was merely mechanical. + +He had no doubt whatever of the efficacy of his formula, and for once +he knew the editorial mind when he said positively to himself that the +first two he sent off would bring checks. And checks they brought, for +four dollars each, at the end of twelve days. + +In the meantime he was making fresh and alarming discoveries concerning +the magazines. Though the _Transcontinental_ had published “The Ring of +Bells,” no check was forthcoming. Martin needed it, and he wrote for +it. An evasive answer and a request for more of his work was all he +received. He had gone hungry two days waiting for the reply, and it was +then that he put his wheel back in pawn. He wrote regularly, twice a +week, to the _Transcontinental_ for his five dollars, though it was +only semi-occasionally that he elicited a reply. He did not know that +the _Transcontinental_ had been staggering along precariously for +years, that it was a fourth-rater, or tenth-rater, without standing, +with a crazy circulation that partly rested on petty bullying and +partly on patriotic appealing, and with advertisements that were +scarcely more than charitable donations. Nor did he know that the +_Transcontinental_ was the sole livelihood of the editor and the +business manager, and that they could wring their livelihood out of it +only by moving to escape paying rent and by never paying any bill they +could evade. Nor could he have guessed that the particular five dollars +that belonged to him had been appropriated by the business manager for +the painting of his house in Alameda, which painting he performed +himself, on week-day afternoons, because he could not afford to pay +union wages and because the first scab he had employed had had a ladder +jerked out from under him and been sent to the hospital with a broken +collar-bone. + +The ten dollars for which Martin had sold “Treasure Hunters” to the +Chicago newspaper did not come to hand. The article had been published, +as he had ascertained at the file in the Central Reading-room, but no +word could he get from the editor. His letters were ignored. To satisfy +himself that they had been received, he registered several of them. It +was nothing less than robbery, he concluded—a cold-blooded steal; while +he starved, he was pilfered of his merchandise, of his goods, the sale +of which was the sole way of getting bread to eat. + +_Youth and Age_ was a weekly, and it had published two-thirds of his +twenty-one-thousand-word serial when it went out of business. With it +went all hopes of getting his sixteen dollars. + +To cap the situation, “The Pot,” which he looked upon as one of the +best things he had written, was lost to him. In despair, casting about +frantically among the magazines, he had sent it to _The Billow_, a +society weekly in San Francisco. His chief reason for submitting it to +that publication was that, having only to travel across the bay from +Oakland, a quick decision could be reached. Two weeks later he was +overjoyed to see, in the latest number on the news-stand, his story +printed in full, illustrated, and in the place of honor. He went home +with leaping pulse, wondering how much they would pay him for one of +the best things he had done. Also, the celerity with which it had been +accepted and published was a pleasant thought to him. That the editor +had not informed him of the acceptance made the surprise more complete. +After waiting a week, two weeks, and half a week longer, desperation +conquered diffidence, and he wrote to the editor of _The Billow_, +suggesting that possibly through some negligence of the business +manager his little account had been overlooked. + +Even if it isn’t more than five dollars, Martin thought to himself, it +will buy enough beans and pea-soup to enable me to write half a dozen +like it, and possibly as good. + +Back came a cool letter from the editor that at least elicited Martin’s +admiration. + +“We thank you,” it ran, “for your excellent contribution. All of us in +the office enjoyed it immensely, and, as you see, it was given the +place of honor and immediate publication. We earnestly hope that you +liked the illustrations. + +“On rereading your letter it seems to us that you are laboring under +the misapprehension that we pay for unsolicited manuscripts. This is +not our custom, and of course yours was unsolicited. We assumed, +naturally, when we received your story, that you understood the +situation. We can only deeply regret this unfortunate misunderstanding, +and assure you of our unfailing regard. Again, thanking you for your +kind contribution, and hoping to receive more from you in the near +future, we remain, etc.” + +There was also a postscript to the effect that though _The Billow_ +carried no free-list, it took great pleasure in sending him a +complimentary subscription for the ensuing year. + +After that experience, Martin typed at the top of the first sheet of +all his manuscripts: “Submitted at your usual rate.” + +Some day, he consoled himself, they will be submitted at _my_ usual +rate. + +He discovered in himself, at this period, a passion for perfection, +under the sway of which he rewrote and polished “The Jostling Street,” +“The Wine of Life,” “Joy,” the “Sea Lyrics,” and others of his earlier +work. As of old, nineteen hours of labor a day was all too little to +suit him. He wrote prodigiously, and he read prodigiously, forgetting +in his toil the pangs caused by giving up his tobacco. Ruth’s promised +cure for the habit, flamboyantly labelled, he stowed away in the most +inaccessible corner of his bureau. Especially during his stretches of +famine he suffered from lack of the weed; but no matter how often he +mastered the craving, it remained with him as strong as ever. He +regarded it as the biggest thing he had ever achieved. Ruth’s point of +view was that he was doing no more than was right. She brought him the +anti-tobacco remedy, purchased out of her glove money, and in a few +days forgot all about it. + +His machine-made storiettes, though he hated them and derided them, +were successful. By means of them he redeemed all his pledges, paid +most of his bills, and bought a new set of tires for his wheel. The +storiettes at least kept the pot a-boiling and gave him time for +ambitious work; while the one thing that upheld him was the forty +dollars he had received from _The White Mouse_. He anchored his faith +to that, and was confident that the really first-class magazines would +pay an unknown writer at least an equal rate, if not a better one. But +the thing was, how to get into the first-class magazines. His best +stories, essays, and poems went begging among them, and yet, each +month, he read reams of dull, prosy, inartistic stuff between all their +various covers. If only one editor, he sometimes thought, would descend +from his high seat of pride to write me one cheering line! No matter if +my work is unusual, no matter if it is unfit, for prudential reasons, +for their pages, surely there must be some sparks in it, somewhere, a +few, to warm them to some sort of appreciation. And thereupon he would +get out one or another of his manuscripts, such as “Adventure,” and +read it over and over in a vain attempt to vindicate the editorial +silence. + +As the sweet California spring came on, his period of plenty came to an +end. For several weeks he had been worried by a strange silence on the +part of the newspaper storiette syndicate. Then, one day, came back to +him through the mail ten of his immaculate machine-made storiettes. +They were accompanied by a brief letter to the effect that the +syndicate was overstocked, and that some months would elapse before it +would be in the market again for manuscripts. Martin had even been +extravagant on the strength of those ten storiettes. Toward the last +the syndicate had been paying him five dollars each for them and +accepting every one he sent. So he had looked upon the ten as good as +sold, and he had lived accordingly, on a basis of fifty dollars in the +bank. So it was that he entered abruptly upon a lean period, wherein he +continued selling his earlier efforts to publications that would not +pay and submitting his later work to magazines that would not buy. +Also, he resumed his trips to the pawn-broker down in Oakland. A few +jokes and snatches of humorous verse, sold to the New York weeklies, +made existence barely possible for him. It was at this time that he +wrote letters of inquiry to the several great monthly and quarterly +reviews, and learned in reply that they rarely considered unsolicited +articles, and that most of their contents were written upon order by +well-known specialists who were authorities in their various fields. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + +It was a hard summer for Martin. Manuscript readers and editors were +away on vacation, and publications that ordinarily returned a decision +in three weeks now retained his manuscript for three months or more. +The consolation he drew from it was that a saving in postage was +effected by the deadlock. Only the robber-publications seemed to remain +actively in business, and to them Martin disposed of all his early +efforts, such as “Pearl-diving,” “The Sea as a Career,” +“Turtle-catching,” and “The Northeast Trades.” For these manuscripts he +never received a penny. It is true, after six months’ correspondence, +he effected a compromise, whereby he received a safety razor for +“Turtle-catching,” and that _The Acropolis_, having agreed to give him +five dollars cash and five yearly subscriptions: for “The Northeast +Trades,” fulfilled the second part of the agreement. + +For a sonnet on Stevenson he managed to wring two dollars out of a +Boston editor who was running a magazine with a Matthew Arnold taste +and a penny-dreadful purse. “The Peri and the Pearl,” a clever skit of +a poem of two hundred lines, just finished, white hot from his brain, +won the heart of the editor of a San Francisco magazine published in +the interest of a great railroad. When the editor wrote, offering him +payment in transportation, Martin wrote back to inquire if the +transportation was transferable. It was not, and so, being prevented +from peddling it, he asked for the return of the poem. Back it came, +with the editor’s regrets, and Martin sent it to San Francisco again, +this time to _The Hornet_, a pretentious monthly that had been fanned +into a constellation of the first magnitude by the brilliant journalist +who founded it. But _The Hornet’s_ light had begun to dim long before +Martin was born. The editor promised Martin fifteen dollars for the +poem, but, when it was published, seemed to forget about it. Several of +his letters being ignored, Martin indicted an angry one which drew a +reply. It was written by a new editor, who coolly informed Martin that +he declined to be held responsible for the old editor’s mistakes, and +that he did not think much of “The Peri and the Pearl” anyway. + +But _The Globe_, a Chicago magazine, gave Martin the most cruel +treatment of all. He had refrained from offering his “Sea Lyrics” for +publication, until driven to it by starvation. After having been +rejected by a dozen magazines, they had come to rest in _The Globe_ +office. There were thirty poems in the collection, and he was to +receive a dollar apiece for them. The first month four were published, +and he promptly received a check for four dollars; but when he looked +over the magazine, he was appalled at the slaughter. In some cases the +titles had been altered: “Finis,” for instance, being changed to “The +Finish,” and “The Song of the Outer Reef” to “The Song of the Coral +Reef.” In one case, an absolutely different title, a misappropriate +title, was substituted. In place of his own, “Medusa Lights,” the +editor had printed, “The Backward Track.” But the slaughter in the body +of the poems was terrifying. Martin groaned and sweated and thrust his +hands through his hair. Phrases, lines, and stanzas were cut out, +interchanged, or juggled about in the most incomprehensible manner. +Sometimes lines and stanzas not his own were substituted for his. He +could not believe that a sane editor could be guilty of such +maltreatment, and his favorite hypothesis was that his poems must have +been doctored by the office boy or the stenographer. Martin wrote +immediately, begging the editor to cease publishing the lyrics and to +return them to him. + +He wrote again and again, begging, entreating, threatening, but his +letters were ignored. Month by month the slaughter went on till the +thirty poems were published, and month by month he received a check for +those which had appeared in the current number. + +Despite these various misadventures, the memory of the _White Mouse_ +forty-dollar check sustained him, though he was driven more and more to +hack-work. He discovered a bread-and-butter field in the agricultural +weeklies and trade journals, though among the religious weeklies he +found he could easily starve. At his lowest ebb, when his black suit +was in pawn, he made a ten-strike—or so it seemed to him—in a prize +contest arranged by the County Committee of the Republican Party. There +were three branches of the contest, and he entered them all, laughing +at himself bitterly the while in that he was driven to such straits to +live. His poem won the first prize of ten dollars, his campaign song +the second prize of five dollars, his essay on the principles of the +Republican Party the first prize of twenty-five dollars. Which was very +gratifying to him until he tried to collect. Something had gone wrong +in the County Committee, and, though a rich banker and a state senator +were members of it, the money was not forthcoming. While this affair +was hanging fire, he proved that he understood the principles of the +Democratic Party by winning the first prize for his essay in a similar +contest. And, moreover, he received the money, twenty-five dollars. But +the forty dollars won in the first contest he never received. + +Driven to shifts in order to see Ruth, and deciding that the long walk +from north Oakland to her house and back again consumed too much time, +he kept his black suit in pawn in place of his bicycle. The latter gave +him exercise, saved him hours of time for work, and enabled him to see +Ruth just the same. A pair of knee duck trousers and an old sweater +made him a presentable wheel costume, so that he could go with Ruth on +afternoon rides. Besides, he no longer had opportunity to see much of +her in her own home, where Mrs. Morse was thoroughly prosecuting her +campaign of entertainment. The exalted beings he met there, and to whom +he had looked up but a short time before, now bored him. They were no +longer exalted. He was nervous and irritable, what of his hard times, +disappointments, and close application to work, and the conversation of +such people was maddening. He was not unduly egotistic. He measured the +narrowness of their minds by the minds of the thinkers in the books he +read. At Ruth’s home he never met a large mind, with the exception of +Professor Caldwell, and Caldwell he had met there only once. As for the +rest, they were numskulls, ninnies, superficial, dogmatic, and +ignorant. It was their ignorance that astounded him. What was the +matter with them? What had they done with their educations? They had +had access to the same books he had. How did it happen that they had +drawn nothing from them? + +He knew that the great minds, the deep and rational thinkers, existed. +He had his proofs from the books, the books that had educated him +beyond the Morse standard. And he knew that higher intellects than +those of the Morse circle were to be found in the world. He read +English society novels, wherein he caught glimpses of men and women +talking politics and philosophy. And he read of salons in great cities, +even in the United States, where art and intellect congregated. +Foolishly, in the past, he had conceived that all well-groomed persons +above the working class were persons with power of intellect and vigor +of beauty. Culture and collars had gone together, to him, and he had +been deceived into believing that college educations and mastery were +the same things. + +Well, he would fight his way on and up higher. And he would take Ruth +with him. Her he dearly loved, and he was confident that she would +shine anywhere. As it was clear to him that he had been handicapped by +his early environment, so now he perceived that she was similarly +handicapped. She had not had a chance to expand. The books on her +father’s shelves, the paintings on the walls, the music on the +piano—all was just so much meretricious display. To real literature, +real painting, real music, the Morses and their kind, were dead. And +bigger than such things was life, of which they were densely, +hopelessly ignorant. In spite of their Unitarian proclivities and their +masks of conservative broadmindedness, they were two generations behind +interpretative science: their mental processes were mediaeval, while +their thinking on the ultimate data of existence and of the universe +struck him as the same metaphysical method that was as young as the +youngest race, as old as the cave-man, and older—the same that moved +the first Pleistocene ape-man to fear the dark; that moved the first +hasty Hebrew savage to incarnate Eve from Adam’s rib; that moved +Descartes to build an idealistic system of the universe out of the +projections of his own puny ego; and that moved the famous British +ecclesiastic to denounce evolution in satire so scathing as to win +immediate applause and leave his name a notorious scrawl on the page of +history. + +So Martin thought, and he thought further, till it dawned upon him that +the difference between these lawyers, officers, business men, and bank +cashiers he had met and the members of the working class he had known +was on a par with the difference in the food they ate, clothes they +wore, neighborhoods in which they lived. Certainly, in all of them was +lacking the something more which he found in himself and in the books. +The Morses had shown him the best their social position could produce, +and he was not impressed by it. A pauper himself, a slave to the +money-lender, he knew himself the superior of those he met at the +Morses’; and, when his one decent suit of clothes was out of pawn, he +moved among them a lord of life, quivering with a sense of outrage akin +to what a prince would suffer if condemned to live with goat-herds. + +“You hate and fear the socialists,” he remarked to Mr. Morse, one +evening at dinner; “but why? You know neither them nor their +doctrines.” + +The conversation had been swung in that direction by Mrs. Morse, who +had been invidiously singing the praises of Mr. Hapgood. The cashier +was Martin’s black beast, and his temper was a trifle short where the +talker of platitudes was concerned. + +“Yes,” he had said, “Charley Hapgood is what they call a rising young +man—somebody told me as much. And it is true. He’ll make the Governor’s +Chair before he dies, and, who knows? maybe the United States Senate.” + +“What makes you think so?” Mrs. Morse had inquired. + +“I’ve heard him make a campaign speech. It was so cleverly stupid and +unoriginal, and also so convincing, that the leaders cannot help but +regard him as safe and sure, while his platitudes are so much like the +platitudes of the average voter that—oh, well, you know you flatter any +man by dressing up his own thoughts for him and presenting them to +him.” + +“I actually think you are jealous of Mr. Hapgood,” Ruth had chimed in. + +“Heaven forbid!” + +The look of horror on Martin’s face stirred Mrs. Morse to belligerence. + +“You surely don’t mean to say that Mr. Hapgood is stupid?” she demanded +icily. + +“No more than the average Republican,” was the retort, “or average +Democrat, either. They are all stupid when they are not crafty, and +very few of them are crafty. The only wise Republicans are the +millionnaires and their conscious henchmen. They know which side their +bread is buttered on, and they know why.” + +“I am a Republican,” Mr. Morse put in lightly. “Pray, how do you +classify me?” + +“Oh, you are an unconscious henchman.” + +“Henchman?” + +“Why, yes. You do corporation work. You have no working-class nor +criminal practice. You don’t depend upon wife-beaters and pickpockets +for your income. You get your livelihood from the masters of society, +and whoever feeds a man is that man’s master. Yes, you are a henchman. +You are interested in advancing the interests of the aggregations of +capital you serve.” + +Mr. Morse’s face was a trifle red. + +“I confess, sir,” he said, “that you talk like a scoundrelly +socialist.” + +Then it was that Martin made his remark: + +“You hate and fear the socialists; but why? You know neither them nor +their doctrines.” + +“Your doctrine certainly sounds like socialism,” Mr. Morse replied, +while Ruth gazed anxiously from one to the other, and Mrs. Morse beamed +happily at the opportunity afforded of rousing her liege lord’s +antagonism. + +“Because I say Republicans are stupid, and hold that liberty, equality, +and fraternity are exploded bubbles, does not make me a socialist,” +Martin said with a smile. “Because I question Jefferson and the +unscientific Frenchmen who informed his mind, does not make me a +socialist. Believe me, Mr. Morse, you are far nearer socialism than I +who am its avowed enemy.” + +“Now you please to be facetious,” was all the other could say. + +“Not at all. I speak in all seriousness. You still believe in equality, +and yet you do the work of the corporations, and the corporations, from +day to day, are busily engaged in burying equality. And you call me a +socialist because I deny equality, because I affirm just what you live +up to. The Republicans are foes to equality, though most of them fight +the battle against equality with the very word itself the slogan on +their lips. In the name of equality they destroy equality. That was why +I called them stupid. As for myself, I am an individualist. I believe +the race is to the swift, the battle to the strong. Such is the lesson +I have learned from biology, or at least think I have learned. As I +said, I am an individualist, and individualism is the hereditary and +eternal foe of socialism.” + +“But you frequent socialist meetings,” Mr. Morse challenged. + +“Certainly, just as spies frequent hostile camps. How else are you to +learn about the enemy? Besides, I enjoy myself at their meetings. They +are good fighters, and, right or wrong, they have read the books. Any +one of them knows far more about sociology and all the other ologies +than the average captain of industry. Yes, I have been to half a dozen +of their meetings, but that doesn’t make me a socialist any more than +hearing Charley Hapgood orate made me a Republican.” + +“I can’t help it,” Mr. Morse said feebly, “but I still believe you +incline that way.” + +Bless me, Martin thought to himself, he doesn’t know what I was talking +about. He hasn’t understood a word of it. What did he do with his +education, anyway? + +Thus, in his development, Martin found himself face to face with +economic morality, or the morality of class; and soon it became to him +a grisly monster. Personally, he was an intellectual moralist, and more +offending to him than platitudinous pomposity was the morality of those +about him, which was a curious hotchpotch of the economic, the +metaphysical, the sentimental, and the imitative. + +A sample of this curious messy mixture he encountered nearer home. His +sister Marian had been keeping company with an industrious young +mechanic, of German extraction, who, after thoroughly learning the +trade, had set up for himself in a bicycle-repair shop. Also, having +got the agency for a low-grade make of wheel, he was prosperous. Marian +had called on Martin in his room a short time before to announce her +engagement, during which visit she had playfully inspected Martin’s +palm and told his fortune. On her next visit she brought Hermann von +Schmidt along with her. Martin did the honors and congratulated both of +them in language so easy and graceful as to affect disagreeably the +peasant-mind of his sister’s lover. This bad impression was further +heightened by Martin’s reading aloud the half-dozen stanzas of verse +with which he had commemorated Marian’s previous visit. It was a bit of +society verse, airy and delicate, which he had named “The Palmist.” He +was surprised, when he finished reading it, to note no enjoyment in his +sister’s face. Instead, her eyes were fixed anxiously upon her +betrothed, and Martin, following her gaze, saw spread on that worthy’s +asymmetrical features nothing but black and sullen disapproval. The +incident passed over, they made an early departure, and Martin forgot +all about it, though for the moment he had been puzzled that any woman, +even of the working class, should not have been flattered and delighted +by having poetry written about her. + +Several evenings later Marian again visited him, this time alone. Nor +did she waste time in coming to the point, upbraiding him sorrowfully +for what he had done. + +“Why, Marian,” he chided, “you talk as though you were ashamed of your +relatives, or of your brother at any rate.” + +“And I am, too,” she blurted out. + +Martin was bewildered by the tears of mortification he saw in her eyes. +The mood, whatever it was, was genuine. + +“But, Marian, why should your Hermann be jealous of my writing poetry +about my own sister?” + +“He ain’t jealous,” she sobbed. “He says it was indecent, ob—obscene.” + +Martin emitted a long, low whistle of incredulity, then proceeded to +resurrect and read a carbon copy of “The Palmist.” + +“I can’t see it,” he said finally, proffering the manuscript to her. +“Read it yourself and show me whatever strikes you as obscene—that was +the word, wasn’t it?” + +“He says so, and he ought to know,” was the answer, with a wave aside +of the manuscript, accompanied by a look of loathing. “And he says +you’ve got to tear it up. He says he won’t have no wife of his with +such things written about her which anybody can read. He says it’s a +disgrace, an’ he won’t stand for it.” + +“Now, look here, Marian, this is nothing but nonsense,” Martin began; +then abruptly changed his mind. + +He saw before him an unhappy girl, knew the futility of attempting to +convince her husband or her, and, though the whole situation was absurd +and preposterous, he resolved to surrender. + +“All right,” he announced, tearing the manuscript into half a dozen +pieces and throwing it into the waste-basket. + +He contented himself with the knowledge that even then the original +type-written manuscript was reposing in the office of a New York +magazine. Marian and her husband would never know, and neither himself +nor they nor the world would lose if the pretty, harmless poem ever +were published. + +Marian, starting to reach into the waste-basket, refrained. + +“Can I?” she pleaded. + +He nodded his head, regarding her thoughtfully as she gathered the torn +pieces of manuscript and tucked them into the pocket of her +jacket—ocular evidence of the success of her mission. She reminded him +of Lizzie Connolly, though there was less of fire and gorgeous +flaunting life in her than in that other girl of the working class whom +he had seen twice. But they were on a par, the pair of them, in dress +and carriage, and he smiled with inward amusement at the caprice of his +fancy which suggested the appearance of either of them in Mrs. Morse’s +drawing-room. The amusement faded, and he was aware of a great +loneliness. This sister of his and the Morse drawing-room were +milestones of the road he had travelled. And he had left them behind. +He glanced affectionately about him at his few books. They were all the +comrades left to him. + +“Hello, what’s that?” he demanded in startled surprise. + +Marian repeated her question. + +“Why don’t I go to work?” He broke into a laugh that was only +half-hearted. “That Hermann of yours has been talking to you.” + +She shook her head. + +“Don’t lie,” he commanded, and the nod of her head affirmed his charge. + +“Well, you tell that Hermann of yours to mind his own business; that +when I write poetry about the girl he’s keeping company with it’s his +business, but that outside of that he’s got no say so. Understand? + +“So you don’t think I’ll succeed as a writer, eh?” he went on. “You +think I’m no good?—that I’ve fallen down and am a disgrace to the +family?” + +“I think it would be much better if you got a job,” she said firmly, +and he saw she was sincere. “Hermann says—” + +“Damn Hermann!” he broke out good-naturedly. “What I want to know is +when you’re going to get married. Also, you find out from your Hermann +if he will deign to permit you to accept a wedding present from me.” + +He mused over the incident after she had gone, and once or twice broke +out into laughter that was bitter as he saw his sister and her +betrothed, all the members of his own class and the members of Ruth’s +class, directing their narrow little lives by narrow little +formulas—herd-creatures, flocking together and patterning their lives +by one another’s opinions, failing of being individuals and of really +living life because of the childlike formulas by which they were +enslaved. He summoned them before him in apparitional procession: +Bernard Higginbotham arm in arm with Mr. Butler, Hermann von Schmidt +cheek by jowl with Charley Hapgood, and one by one and in pairs he +judged them and dismissed them—judged them by the standards of +intellect and morality he had learned from the books. Vainly he asked: +Where are the great souls, the great men and women? He found them not +among the careless, gross, and stupid intelligences that answered the +call of vision to his narrow room. He felt a loathing for them such as +Circe must have felt for her swine. When he had dismissed the last one +and thought himself alone, a late-comer entered, unexpected and +unsummoned. Martin watched him and saw the stiff-rim, the square-cut, +double-breasted coat and the swaggering shoulders, of the youthful +hoodlum who had once been he. + +“You were like all the rest, young fellow,” Martin sneered. “Your +morality and your knowledge were just the same as theirs. You did not +think and act for yourself. Your opinions, like your clothes, were +ready made; your acts were shaped by popular approval. You were cock of +your gang because others acclaimed you the real thing. You fought and +ruled the gang, not because you liked to,—you know you really despised +it,—but because the other fellows patted you on the shoulder. You +licked Cheese-Face because you wouldn’t give in, and you wouldn’t give +in partly because you were an abysmal brute and for the rest because +you believed what every one about you believed, that the measure of +manhood was the carnivorous ferocity displayed in injuring and marring +fellow-creatures’ anatomies. Why, you whelp, you even won other +fellows’ girls away from them, not because you wanted the girls, but +because in the marrow of those about you, those who set your moral +pace, was the instinct of the wild stallion and the bull-seal. Well, +the years have passed, and what do you think about it now?” + +As if in reply, the vision underwent a swift metamorphosis. The +stiff-rim and the square-cut vanished, being replaced by milder +garments; the toughness went out of the face, the hardness out of the +eyes; and, the face, chastened and refined, was irradiated from an +inner life of communion with beauty and knowledge. The apparition was +very like his present self, and, as he regarded it, he noted the +student-lamp by which it was illuminated, and the book over which it +pored. He glanced at the title and read, “The Science of Æsthetics.” +Next, he entered into the apparition, trimmed the student-lamp, and +himself went on reading “The Science of Æsthetics.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + +On a beautiful fall day, a day of similar Indian summer to that which +had seen their love declared the year before, Martin read his +“Love-cycle” to Ruth. It was in the afternoon, and, as before, they had +ridden out to their favorite knoll in the hills. Now and again she had +interrupted his reading with exclamations of pleasure, and now, as he +laid the last sheet of manuscript with its fellows, he waited her +judgment. + +She delayed to speak, and at last she spoke haltingly, hesitating to +frame in words the harshness of her thought. + +“I think they are beautiful, very beautiful,” she said; “but you can’t +sell them, can you? You see what I mean,” she said, almost pleaded. +“This writing of yours is not practical. Something is the matter—maybe +it is with the market—that prevents you from earning a living by it. +And please, dear, don’t misunderstand me. I am flattered, and made +proud, and all that—I could not be a true woman were it otherwise—that +you should write these poems to me. But they do not make our marriage +possible. Don’t you see, Martin? Don’t think me mercenary. It is love, +the thought of our future, with which I am burdened. A whole year has +gone by since we learned we loved each other, and our wedding day is no +nearer. Don’t think me immodest in thus talking about our wedding, for +really I have my heart, all that I am, at stake. Why don’t you try to +get work on a newspaper, if you are so bound up in your writing? Why +not become a reporter?—for a while, at least?” + +“It would spoil my style,” was his answer, in a low, monotonous voice. +“You have no idea how I’ve worked for style.” + +“But those storiettes,” she argued. “You called them hack-work. You +wrote many of them. Didn’t they spoil your style?” + +“No, the cases are different. The storiettes were ground out, jaded, at +the end of a long day of application to style. But a reporter’s work is +all hack from morning till night, is the one paramount thing of life. +And it is a whirlwind life, the life of the moment, with neither past +nor future, and certainly without thought of any style but reportorial +style, and that certainly is not literature. To become a reporter now, +just as my style is taking form, crystallizing, would be to commit +literary suicide. As it is, every storiette, every word of every +storiette, was a violation of myself, of my self-respect, of my respect +for beauty. I tell you it was sickening. I was guilty of sin. And I was +secretly glad when the markets failed, even if my clothes did go into +pawn. But the joy of writing the ‘Love-cycle’! The creative joy in its +noblest form! That was compensation for everything.” + +Martin did not know that Ruth was unsympathetic concerning the creative +joy. She used the phrase—it was on her lips he had first heard it. She +had read about it, studied about it, in the university in the course of +earning her Bachelorship of Arts; but she was not original, not +creative, and all manifestations of culture on her part were but +harpings of the harpings of others. + +“May not the editor have been right in his revision of your ‘Sea +Lyrics’?” she questioned. “Remember, an editor must have proved +qualifications or else he would not be an editor.” + +“That’s in line with the persistence of the established,” he rejoined, +his heat against the editor-folk getting the better of him. “What is, +is not only right, but is the best possible. The existence of anything +is sufficient vindication of its fitness to exist—to exist, mark you, +as the average person unconsciously believes, not merely in present +conditions, but in all conditions. It is their ignorance, of course, +that makes them believe such rot—their ignorance, which is nothing more +nor less than the henidical mental process described by Weininger. They +think they think, and such thinkless creatures are the arbiters of the +lives of the few who really think.” + +He paused, overcome by the consciousness that he had been talking over +Ruth’s head. + +“I’m sure I don’t know who this Weininger is,” she retorted. “And you +are so dreadfully general that I fail to follow you. What I was +speaking of was the qualification of editors—” + +“And I’ll tell you,” he interrupted. “The chief qualification of +ninety-nine per cent of all editors is failure. They have failed as +writers. Don’t think they prefer the drudgery of the desk and the +slavery to their circulation and to the business manager to the joy of +writing. They have tried to write, and they have failed. And right +there is the cursed paradox of it. Every portal to success in +literature is guarded by those watch-dogs, the failures in literature. +The editors, sub-editors, associate editors, most of them, and the +manuscript-readers for the magazines and book-publishers, most of them, +nearly all of them, are men who wanted to write and who have failed. +And yet they, of all creatures under the sun the most unfit, are the +very creatures who decide what shall and what shall not find its way +into print—they, who have proved themselves not original, who have +demonstrated that they lack the divine fire, sit in judgment upon +originality and genius. And after them come the reviewers, just so many +more failures. Don’t tell me that they have not dreamed the dream and +attempted to write poetry or fiction; for they have, and they have +failed. Why, the average review is more nauseating than cod-liver oil. +But you know my opinion on the reviewers and the alleged critics. There +are great critics, but they are as rare as comets. If I fail as a +writer, I shall have proved for the career of editorship. There’s bread +and butter and jam, at any rate.” + +Ruth’s mind was quick, and her disapproval of her lover’s views was +buttressed by the contradiction she found in his contention. + +“But, Martin, if that be so, if all the doors are closed as you have +shown so conclusively, how is it possible that any of the great writers +ever arrived?” + +“They arrived by achieving the impossible,” he answered. “They did such +blazing, glorious work as to burn to ashes those that opposed them. +They arrived by course of miracle, by winning a thousand-to-one wager +against them. They arrived because they were Carlyle’s battle-scarred +giants who will not be kept down. And that is what I must do; I must +achieve the impossible.” + +“But if you fail? You must consider me as well, Martin.” + +“If I fail?” He regarded her for a moment as though the thought she had +uttered was unthinkable. Then intelligence illumined his eyes. “If I +fail, I shall become an editor, and you will be an editor’s wife.” + +She frowned at his facetiousness—a pretty, adorable frown that made him +put his arm around her and kiss it away. + +“There, that’s enough,” she urged, by an effort of will withdrawing +herself from the fascination of his strength. “I have talked with +father and mother. I never before asserted myself so against them. I +demanded to be heard. I was very undutiful. They are against you, you +know; but I assured them over and over of my abiding love for you, and +at last father agreed that if you wanted to, you could begin right away +in his office. And then, of his own accord, he said he would pay you +enough at the start so that we could get married and have a little +cottage somewhere. Which I think was very fine of him—don’t you?” + +Martin, with the dull pain of despair at his heart, mechanically +reaching for the tobacco and paper (which he no longer carried) to roll +a cigarette, muttered something inarticulate, and Ruth went on. + +“Frankly, though, and don’t let it hurt you—I tell you, to show you +precisely how you stand with him—he doesn’t like your radical views, +and he thinks you are lazy. Of course I know you are not. I know you +work hard.” + +How hard, even she did not know, was the thought in Martin’s mind. + +“Well, then,” he said, “how about my views? Do you think they are so +radical?” + +He held her eyes and waited the answer. + +“I think them, well, very disconcerting,” she replied. + +The question was answered for him, and so oppressed was he by the +grayness of life that he forgot the tentative proposition she had made +for him to go to work. And she, having gone as far as she dared, was +willing to wait the answer till she should bring the question up again. + +She had not long to wait. Martin had a question of his own to propound +to her. He wanted to ascertain the measure of her faith in him, and +within the week each was answered. Martin precipitated it by reading to +her his “The Shame of the Sun.” + +“Why don’t you become a reporter?” she asked when he had finished. “You +love writing so, and I am sure you would succeed. You could rise in +journalism and make a name for yourself. There are a number of great +special correspondents. Their salaries are large, and their field is +the world. They are sent everywhere, to the heart of Africa, like +Stanley, or to interview the Pope, or to explore unknown Thibet.” + +“Then you don’t like my essay?” he rejoined. “You believe that I have +some show in journalism but none in literature?” + +“No, no; I do like it. It reads well. But I am afraid it’s over the +heads of your readers. At least it is over mine. It sounds beautiful, +but I don’t understand it. Your scientific slang is beyond me. You are +an extremist, you know, dear, and what may be intelligible to you may +not be intelligible to the rest of us.” + +“I imagine it’s the philosophic slang that bothers you,” was all he +could say. + +He was flaming from the fresh reading of the ripest thought he had +expressed, and her verdict stunned him. + +“No matter how poorly it is done,” he persisted, “don’t you see +anything in it?—in the thought of it, I mean?” + +She shook her head. + +“No, it is so different from anything I have read. I read Maeterlinck +and understand him—” + +“His mysticism, you understand that?” Martin flashed out. + +“Yes, but this of yours, which is supposed to be an attack upon him, I +don’t understand. Of course, if originality counts—” + +He stopped her with an impatient gesture that was not followed by +speech. He became suddenly aware that she was speaking and that she had +been speaking for some time. + +“After all, your writing has been a toy to you,” she was saying. +“Surely you have played with it long enough. It is time to take up life +seriously—_our_ life, Martin. Hitherto you have lived solely your own.” + +“You want me to go to work?” he asked. + +“Yes. Father has offered—” + +“I understand all that,” he broke in; “but what I want to know is +whether or not you have lost faith in me?” + +She pressed his hand mutely, her eyes dim. + +“In your writing, dear,” she admitted in a half-whisper. + +“You’ve read lots of my stuff,” he went on brutally. “What do you think +of it? Is it utterly hopeless? How does it compare with other men’s +work?” + +“But they sell theirs, and you—don’t.” + +“That doesn’t answer my question. Do you think that literature is not +at all my vocation?” + +“Then I will answer.” She steeled herself to do it. “I don’t think you +were made to write. Forgive me, dear. You compel me to say it; and you +know I know more about literature than you do.” + +“Yes, you are a Bachelor of Arts,” he said meditatively; “and you ought +to know.” + +“But there is more to be said,” he continued, after a pause painful to +both. “I know what I have in me. No one knows that so well as I. I know +I shall succeed. I will not be kept down. I am afire with what I have +to say in verse, and fiction, and essay. I do not ask you to have faith +in that, though. I do not ask you to have faith in me, nor in my +writing. What I do ask of you is to love me and have faith in love. + +“A year ago I begged for two years. One of those years is yet to run. +And I do believe, upon my honor and my soul, that before that year is +run I shall have succeeded. You remember what you told me long ago, +that I must serve my apprenticeship to writing. Well, I have served it. +I have crammed it and telescoped it. With you at the end awaiting me, I +have never shirked. Do you know, I have forgotten what it is to fall +peacefully asleep. A few million years ago I knew what it was to sleep +my fill and to awake naturally from very glut of sleep. I am awakened +always now by an alarm clock. If I fall asleep early or late, I set the +alarm accordingly; and this, and the putting out of the lamp, are my +last conscious actions. + +“When I begin to feel drowsy, I change the heavy book I am reading for +a lighter one. And when I doze over that, I beat my head with my +knuckles in order to drive sleep away. Somewhere I read of a man who +was afraid to sleep. Kipling wrote the story. This man arranged a spur +so that when unconsciousness came, his naked body pressed against the +iron teeth. Well, I’ve done the same. I look at the time, and I resolve +that not until midnight, or not until one o’clock, or two o’clock, or +three o’clock, shall the spur be removed. And so it rowels me awake +until the appointed time. That spur has been my bed-mate for months. I +have grown so desperate that five and a half hours of sleep is an +extravagance. I sleep four hours now. I am starved for sleep. There are +times when I am light-headed from want of sleep, times when death, with +its rest and sleep, is a positive lure to me, times when I am haunted +by Longfellow’s lines: + +“‘The sea is still and deep; +All things within its bosom sleep; +A single step and all is o’er, +A plunge, a bubble, and no more.’ + + +“Of course, this is sheer nonsense. It comes from nervousness, from an +overwrought mind. But the point is: Why have I done this? For you. To +shorten my apprenticeship. To compel Success to hasten. And my +apprenticeship is now served. I know my equipment. I swear that I learn +more each month than the average college man learns in a year. I know +it, I tell you. But were my need for you to understand not so desperate +I should not tell you. It is not boasting. I measure the results by the +books. Your brothers, to-day, are ignorant barbarians compared with me +and the knowledge I have wrung from the books in the hours they were +sleeping. Long ago I wanted to be famous. I care very little for fame +now. What I want is you; I am more hungry for you than for food, or +clothing, or recognition. I have a dream of laying my head on your +breast and sleeping an aeon or so, and the dream will come true ere +another year is gone.” + +His power beat against her, wave upon wave; and in the moment his will +opposed hers most she felt herself most strongly drawn toward him. The +strength that had always poured out from him to her was now flowering +in his impassioned voice, his flashing eyes, and the vigor of life and +intellect surging in him. And in that moment, and for the moment, she +was aware of a rift that showed in her certitude—a rift through which +she caught sight of the real Martin Eden, splendid and invincible; and +as animal-trainers have their moments of doubt, so she, for the +instant, seemed to doubt her power to tame this wild spirit of a man. + +“And another thing,” he swept on. “You love me. But why do you love me? +The thing in me that compels me to write is the very thing that draws +your love. You love me because I am somehow different from the men you +have known and might have loved. I was not made for the desk and +counting-house, for petty business squabbling, and legal jangling. Make +me do such things, make me like those other men, doing the work they +do, breathing the air they breathe, developing the point of view they +have developed, and you have destroyed the difference, destroyed me, +destroyed the thing you love. My desire to write is the most vital +thing in me. Had I been a mere clod, neither would I have desired to +write, nor would you have desired me for a husband.” + +“But you forget,” she interrupted, the quick surface of her mind +glimpsing a parallel. “There have been eccentric inventors, starving +their families while they sought such chimeras as perpetual motion. +Doubtless their wives loved them, and suffered with them and for them, +not because of but in spite of their infatuation for perpetual motion.” + +“True,” was the reply. “But there have been inventors who were not +eccentric and who starved while they sought to invent practical things; +and sometimes, it is recorded, they succeeded. Certainly I do not seek +any impossibilities—” + +“You have called it ‘achieving the impossible,’” she interpolated. + +“I spoke figuratively. I seek to do what men have done before me—to +write and to live by my writing.” + +Her silence spurred him on. + +“To you, then, my goal is as much a chimera as perpetual motion?” he +demanded. + +He read her answer in the pressure of her hand on his—the pitying +mother-hand for the hurt child. And to her, just then, he was the hurt +child, the infatuated man striving to achieve the impossible. + +Toward the close of their talk she warned him again of the antagonism +of her father and mother. + +“But you love me?” he asked. + +“I do! I do!” she cried. + +“And I love you, not them, and nothing they do can hurt me.” Triumph +sounded in his voice. “For I have faith in your love, not fear of their +enmity. All things may go astray in this world, but not love. Love +cannot go wrong unless it be a weakling that faints and stumbles by the +way.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + +Martin had encountered his sister Gertrude by chance on Broadway—as it +proved, a most propitious yet disconcerting chance. Waiting on the +corner for a car, she had seen him first, and noted the eager, hungry +lines of his face and the desperate, worried look of his eyes. In +truth, he was desperate and worried. He had just come from a fruitless +interview with the pawnbroker, from whom he had tried to wring an +additional loan on his wheel. The muddy fall weather having come on, +Martin had pledged his wheel some time since and retained his black +suit. + +“There’s the black suit,” the pawnbroker, who knew his every asset, had +answered. “You needn’t tell me you’ve gone and pledged it with that +Jew, Lipka. Because if you have—” + +The man had looked the threat, and Martin hastened to cry:- + +“No, no; I’ve got it. But I want to wear it on a matter of business.” + +“All right,” the mollified usurer had replied. “And I want it on a +matter of business before I can let you have any more money. You don’t +think I’m in it for my health?” + +“But it’s a forty-dollar wheel, in good condition,” Martin had argued. +“And you’ve only let me have seven dollars on it. No, not even seven. +Six and a quarter; you took the interest in advance.” + +“If you want some more, bring the suit,” had been the reply that sent +Martin out of the stuffy little den, so desperate at heart as to +reflect it in his face and touch his sister to pity. + +Scarcely had they met when the Telegraph Avenue car came along and +stopped to take on a crowd of afternoon shoppers. Mrs. Higginbotham +divined from the grip on her arm as he helped her on, that he was not +going to follow her. She turned on the step and looked down upon him. +His haggard face smote her to the heart again. + +“Ain’t you comin’?” she asked + +The next moment she had descended to his side. + +“I’m walking—exercise, you know,” he explained. + +“Then I’ll go along for a few blocks,” she announced. “Mebbe it’ll do +me good. I ain’t ben feelin’ any too spry these last few days.” + +Martin glanced at her and verified her statement in her general +slovenly appearance, in the unhealthy fat, in the drooping shoulders, +the tired face with the sagging lines, and in the heavy fall of her +feet, without elasticity—a very caricature of the walk that belongs to +a free and happy body. + +“You’d better stop here,” he said, though she had already come to a +halt at the first corner, “and take the next car.” + +“My goodness!—if I ain’t all tired a’ready!” she panted. “But I’m just +as able to walk as you in them soles. They’re that thin they’ll bu’st +long before you git out to North Oakland.” + +“I’ve a better pair at home,” was the answer. + +“Come out to dinner to-morrow,” she invited irrelevantly. “Mr. +Higginbotham won’t be there. He’s goin’ to San Leandro on business.” + +Martin shook his head, but he had failed to keep back the wolfish, +hungry look that leapt into his eyes at the suggestion of dinner. + +“You haven’t a penny, Mart, and that’s why you’re walkin’. Exercise!” +She tried to sniff contemptuously, but succeeded in producing only a +sniffle. “Here, lemme see.” + +And, fumbling in her satchel, she pressed a five-dollar piece into his +hand. “I guess I forgot your last birthday, Mart,” she mumbled lamely. + +Martin’s hand instinctively closed on the piece of gold. In the same +instant he knew he ought not to accept, and found himself struggling in +the throes of indecision. That bit of gold meant food, life, and light +in his body and brain, power to go on writing, and—who was to +say?—maybe to write something that would bring in many pieces of gold. +Clear on his vision burned the manuscripts of two essays he had just +completed. He saw them under the table on top of the heap of returned +manuscripts for which he had no stamps, and he saw their titles, just +as he had typed them—“The High Priests of Mystery,” and “The Cradle of +Beauty.” He had never submitted them anywhere. They were as good as +anything he had done in that line. If only he had stamps for them! Then +the certitude of his ultimate success rose up in him, an able ally of +hunger, and with a quick movement he slipped the coin into his pocket. + +“I’ll pay you back, Gertrude, a hundred times over,” he gulped out, his +throat painfully contracted and in his eyes a swift hint of moisture. + +“Mark my words!” he cried with abrupt positiveness. “Before the year is +out I’ll put an even hundred of those little yellow-boys into your +hand. I don’t ask you to believe me. All you have to do is wait and +see.” + +Nor did she believe. Her incredulity made her uncomfortable, and +failing of other expedient, she said:- + +“I know you’re hungry, Mart. It’s sticking out all over you. Come in to +meals any time. I’ll send one of the children to tell you when Mr. +Higginbotham ain’t to be there. An’ Mart—” + +He waited, though he knew in his secret heart what she was about to +say, so visible was her thought process to him. + +“Don’t you think it’s about time you got a job?” + +“You don’t think I’ll win out?” he asked. + +She shook her head. + +“Nobody has faith in me, Gertrude, except myself.” His voice was +passionately rebellious. “I’ve done good work already, plenty of it, +and sooner or later it will sell.” + +“How do you know it is good?” + +“Because—” He faltered as the whole vast field of literature and the +history of literature stirred in his brain and pointed the futility of +his attempting to convey to her the reasons for his faith. “Well, +because it’s better than ninety-nine per cent of what is published in +the magazines.” + +“I wish’t you’d listen to reason,” she answered feebly, but with +unwavering belief in the correctness of her diagnosis of what was +ailing him. “I wish’t you’d listen to reason,” she repeated, “an’ come +to dinner to-morrow.” + +After Martin had helped her on the car, he hurried to the post-office +and invested three of the five dollars in stamps; and when, later in +the day, on the way to the Morse home, he stopped in at the post-office +to weigh a large number of long, bulky envelopes, he affixed to them +all the stamps save three of the two-cent denomination. + +It proved a momentous night for Martin, for after dinner he met Russ +Brissenden. How he chanced to come there, whose friend he was or what +acquaintance brought him, Martin did not know. Nor had he the curiosity +to inquire about him of Ruth. In short, Brissenden struck Martin as +anaemic and feather-brained, and was promptly dismissed from his mind. +An hour later he decided that Brissenden was a boor as well, what of +the way he prowled about from one room to another, staring at the +pictures or poking his nose into books and magazines he picked up from +the table or drew from the shelves. Though a stranger in the house he +finally isolated himself in the midst of the company, huddling into a +capacious Morris chair and reading steadily from a thin volume he had +drawn from his pocket. As he read, he abstractedly ran his fingers, +with a caressing movement, through his hair. Martin noticed him no more +that evening, except once when he observed him chaffing with great +apparent success with several of the young women. + +It chanced that when Martin was leaving, he overtook Brissenden already +half down the walk to the street. + +“Hello, is that you?” Martin said. + +The other replied with an ungracious grunt, but swung alongside. Martin +made no further attempt at conversation, and for several blocks +unbroken silence lay upon them. + +“Pompous old ass!” + +The suddenness and the virulence of the exclamation startled Martin. He +felt amused, and at the same time was aware of a growing dislike for +the other. + +“What do you go to such a place for?” was abruptly flung at him after +another block of silence. + +“Why do you?” Martin countered. + +“Bless me, I don’t know,” came back. “At least this is my first +indiscretion. There are twenty-four hours in each day, and I must spend +them somehow. Come and have a drink.” + +“All right,” Martin answered. + +The next moment he was nonplussed by the readiness of his acceptance. +At home was several hours’ hack-work waiting for him before he went to +bed, and after he went to bed there was a volume of Weismann waiting +for him, to say nothing of Herbert Spencer’s Autobiography, which was +as replete for him with romance as any thrilling novel. Why should he +waste any time with this man he did not like? was his thought. And yet, +it was not so much the man nor the drink as was it what was associated +with the drink—the bright lights, the mirrors and dazzling array of +glasses, the warm and glowing faces and the resonant hum of the voices +of men. That was it, it was the voices of men, optimistic men, men who +breathed success and spent their money for drinks like men. He was +lonely, that was what was the matter with him; that was why he had +snapped at the invitation as a bonita strikes at a white rag on a hook. +Not since with Joe, at Shelly Hot Springs, with the one exception of +the wine he took with the Portuguese grocer, had Martin had a drink at +a public bar. Mental exhaustion did not produce a craving for liquor +such as physical exhaustion did, and he had felt no need for it. But +just now he felt desire for the drink, or, rather, for the atmosphere +wherein drinks were dispensed and disposed of. Such a place was the +Grotto, where Brissenden and he lounged in capacious leather chairs and +drank Scotch and soda. + +They talked. They talked about many things, and now Brissenden and now +Martin took turn in ordering Scotch and soda. Martin, who was extremely +strong-headed, marvelled at the other’s capacity for liquor, and ever +and anon broke off to marvel at the other’s conversation. He was not +long in assuming that Brissenden knew everything, and in deciding that +here was the second intellectual man he had met. But he noted that +Brissenden had what Professor Caldwell lacked—namely, fire, the +flashing insight and perception, the flaming uncontrol of genius. +Living language flowed from him. His thin lips, like the dies of a +machine, stamped out phrases that cut and stung; or again, pursing +caressingly about the inchoate sound they articulated, the thin lips +shaped soft and velvety things, mellow phrases of glow and glory, of +haunting beauty, reverberant of the mystery and inscrutableness of +life; and yet again the thin lips were like a bugle, from which rang +the crash and tumult of cosmic strife, phrases that sounded clear as +silver, that were luminous as starry spaces, that epitomized the final +word of science and yet said something more—the poet’s word, the +transcendental truth, elusive and without words which could express, +and which none the less found expression in the subtle and all but +ungraspable connotations of common words. He, by some wonder of vision, +saw beyond the farthest outpost of empiricism, where was no language +for narration, and yet, by some golden miracle of speech, investing +known words with unknown significances, he conveyed to Martin’s +consciousness messages that were incommunicable to ordinary souls. + +Martin forgot his first impression of dislike. Here was the best the +books had to offer coming true. Here was an intelligence, a living man +for him to look up to. “I am down in the dirt at your feet,” Martin +repeated to himself again and again. + +“You’ve studied biology,” he said aloud, in significant allusion. + +To his surprise Brissenden shook his head. + +“But you are stating truths that are substantiated only by biology,” +Martin insisted, and was rewarded by a blank stare. “Your conclusions +are in line with the books which you must have read.” + +“I am glad to hear it,” was the answer. “That my smattering of +knowledge should enable me to short-cut my way to truth is most +reassuring. As for myself, I never bother to find out if I am right or +not. It is all valueless anyway. Man can never know the ultimate +verities.” + +“You are a disciple of Spencer!” Martin cried triumphantly. + +“I haven’t read him since adolescence, and all I read then was his +‘Education.’” + +“I wish I could gather knowledge as carelessly,” Martin broke out half +an hour later. He had been closely analyzing Brissenden’s mental +equipment. “You are a sheer dogmatist, and that’s what makes it so +marvellous. You state dogmatically the latest facts which science has +been able to establish only by _à posteriori_ reasoning. You jump at +correct conclusions. You certainly short-cut with a vengeance. You feel +your way with the speed of light, by some hyperrational process, to +truth.” + +“Yes, that was what used to bother Father Joseph, and Brother Dutton,” +Brissenden replied. “Oh, no,” he added; “I am not anything. It was a +lucky trick of fate that sent me to a Catholic college for my +education. Where did you pick up what you know?” + +And while Martin told him, he was busy studying Brissenden, ranging +from a long, lean, aristocratic face and drooping shoulders to the +overcoat on a neighboring chair, its pockets sagged and bulged by the +freightage of many books. Brissenden’s face and long, slender hands +were browned by the sun—excessively browned, Martin thought. This +sunburn bothered Martin. It was patent that Brissenden was no outdoor +man. Then how had he been ravaged by the sun? Something morbid and +significant attached to that sunburn, was Martin’s thought as he +returned to a study of the face, narrow, with high cheek-bones and +cavernous hollows, and graced with as delicate and fine an aquiline +nose as Martin had ever seen. There was nothing remarkable about the +size of the eyes. They were neither large nor small, while their color +was a nondescript brown; but in them smouldered a fire, or, rather, +lurked an expression dual and strangely contradictory. Defiant, +indomitable, even harsh to excess, they at the same time aroused pity. +Martin found himself pitying him he knew not why, though he was soon to +learn. + +“Oh, I’m a lunger,” Brissenden announced, offhand, a little later, +having already stated that he came from Arizona. “I’ve been down there +a couple of years living on the climate.” + +“Aren’t you afraid to venture it up in this climate?” + +“Afraid?” + +There was no special emphasis of his repetition of Martin’s word. But +Martin saw in that ascetic face the advertisement that there was +nothing of which it was afraid. The eyes had narrowed till they were +eagle-like, and Martin almost caught his breath as he noted the eagle +beak with its dilated nostrils, defiant, assertive, aggressive. +Magnificent, was what he commented to himself, his blood thrilling at +the sight. Aloud, he quoted:- + +“‘Under the bludgeoning of Chance + My head is bloody but unbowed.’” + + +“You like Henley,” Brissenden said, his expression changing swiftly to +large graciousness and tenderness. “Of course, I couldn’t have expected +anything else of you. Ah, Henley! A brave soul. He stands out among +contemporary rhymesters—magazine rhymesters—as a gladiator stands out +in the midst of a band of eunuchs.” + +“You don’t like the magazines,” Martin softly impeached. + +“Do you?” was snarled back at him so savagely as to startle him. + +“I—I write, or, rather, try to write, for the magazines,” Martin +faltered. + +“That’s better,” was the mollified rejoinder. “You try to write, but +you don’t succeed. I respect and admire your failure. I know what you +write. I can see it with half an eye, and there’s one ingredient in it +that shuts it out of the magazines. It’s guts, and magazines have no +use for that particular commodity. What they want is wish-wash and +slush, and God knows they get it, but not from you.” + +“I’m not above hack-work,” Martin contended. + +“On the contrary—” Brissenden paused and ran an insolent eye over +Martin’s objective poverty, passing from the well-worn tie and the +saw-edged collar to the shiny sleeves of the coat and on to the slight +fray of one cuff, winding up and dwelling upon Martin’s sunken cheeks. +“On the contrary, hack-work is above you, so far above you that you can +never hope to rise to it. Why, man, I could insult you by asking you to +have something to eat.” + +Martin felt the heat in his face of the involuntary blood, and +Brissenden laughed triumphantly. + +“A full man is not insulted by such an invitation,” he concluded. + +“You are a devil,” Martin cried irritably. + +“Anyway, I didn’t ask you.” + +“You didn’t dare.” + +“Oh, I don’t know about that. I invite you now.” + +Brissenden half rose from his chair as he spoke, as if with the +intention of departing to the restaurant forthwith. + +Martin’s fists were tight-clenched, and his blood was drumming in his +temples. + +“Bosco! He eats ’em alive! Eats ’em alive!” Brissenden exclaimed, +imitating the _spieler_ of a locally famous snake-eater. + +“I could certainly eat you alive,” Martin said, in turn running +insolent eyes over the other’s disease-ravaged frame. + +“Only I’m not worthy of it?” + +“On the contrary,” Martin considered, “because the incident is not +worthy.” He broke into a laugh, hearty and wholesome. “I confess you +made a fool of me, Brissenden. That I am hungry and you are aware of it +are only ordinary phenomena, and there’s no disgrace. You see, I laugh +at the conventional little moralities of the herd; then you drift by, +say a sharp, true word, and immediately I am the slave of the same +little moralities.” + +“You were insulted,” Brissenden affirmed. + +“I certainly was, a moment ago. The prejudice of early youth, you know. +I learned such things then, and they cheapen what I have since learned. +They are the skeletons in my particular closet.” + +“But you’ve got the door shut on them now?” + +“I certainly have.” + +“Sure?” + +“Sure.” + +“Then let’s go and get something to eat.” + +“I’ll go you,” Martin answered, attempting to pay for the current +Scotch and soda with the last change from his two dollars and seeing +the waiter bullied by Brissenden into putting that change back on the +table. + +Martin pocketed it with a grimace, and felt for a moment the kindly +weight of Brissenden’s hand upon his shoulder. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + +Promptly, the next afternoon, Maria was excited by Martin’s second +visitor. But she did not lose her head this time, for she seated +Brissenden in her parlor’s grandeur of respectability. + +“Hope you don’t mind my coming?” Brissenden began. + +“No, no, not at all,” Martin answered, shaking hands and waving him to +the solitary chair, himself taking to the bed. “But how did you know +where I lived?” + +“Called up the Morses. Miss Morse answered the ’phone. And here I am.” +He tugged at his coat pocket and flung a thin volume on the table. +“There’s a book, by a poet. Read it and keep it.” And then, in reply to +Martin’s protest: “What have I to do with books? I had another +hemorrhage this morning. Got any whiskey? No, of course not. Wait a +minute.” + +He was off and away. Martin watched his long figure go down the outside +steps, and, on turning to close the gate, noted with a pang the +shoulders, which had once been broad, drawn in now over the collapsed +ruin of the chest. Martin got two tumblers, and fell to reading the +book of verse, Henry Vaughn Marlow’s latest collection. + +“No Scotch,” Brissenden announced on his return. “The beggar sells +nothing but American whiskey. But here’s a quart of it.” + +“I’ll send one of the youngsters for lemons, and we’ll make a toddy,” +Martin offered. + +“I wonder what a book like that will earn Marlow?” he went on, holding +up the volume in question. + +“Possibly fifty dollars,” came the answer. “Though he’s lucky if he +pulls even on it, or if he can inveigle a publisher to risk bringing it +out.” + +“Then one can’t make a living out of poetry?” + +Martin’s tone and face alike showed his dejection. + +“Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes. There’s +Bruce, and Virginia Spring, and Sedgwick. They do very nicely. But +poetry—do you know how Vaughn Marlow makes his living?—teaching in a +boys’ cramming-joint down in Pennsylvania, and of all private little +hells such a billet is the limit. I wouldn’t trade places with him if +he had fifty years of life before him. And yet his work stands out from +the ruck of the contemporary versifiers as a balas ruby among carrots. +And the reviews he gets! Damn them, all of them, the crass manikins!” + +“Too much is written by the men who can’t write about the men who do +write,” Martin concurred. “Why, I was appalled at the quantities of +rubbish written about Stevenson and his work.” + +“Ghouls and harpies!” Brissenden snapped out with clicking teeth. “Yes, +I know the spawn—complacently pecking at him for his Father Damien +letter, analyzing him, weighing him—” + +“Measuring him by the yardstick of their own miserable egos,” Martin +broke in. + +“Yes, that’s it, a good phrase,—mouthing and besliming the True, and +Beautiful, and Good, and finally patting him on the back and saying, +‘Good dog, Fido.’ Faugh! ‘The little chattering daws of men,’ Richard +Realf called them the night he died.” + +“Pecking at star-dust,” Martin took up the strain warmly; “at the +meteoric flight of the master-men. I once wrote a squib on them—the +critics, or the reviewers, rather.” + +“Let’s see it,” Brissenden begged eagerly. + +So Martin unearthed a carbon copy of “Star-dust,” and during the +reading of it Brissenden chuckled, rubbed his hands, and forgot to sip +his toddy. + +“Strikes me you’re a bit of star-dust yourself, flung into a world of +cowled gnomes who cannot see,” was his comment at the end of it. “Of +course it was snapped up by the first magazine?” + +Martin ran over the pages of his manuscript book. “It has been refused +by twenty-seven of them.” + +Brissenden essayed a long and hearty laugh, but broke down in a fit of +coughing. + +“Say, you needn’t tell me you haven’t tackled poetry,” he gasped. “Let +me see some of it.” + +“Don’t read it now,” Martin pleaded. “I want to talk with you. I’ll +make up a bundle and you can take it home.” + +Brissenden departed with the “Love-cycle,” and “The Peri and the +Pearl,” returning next day to greet Martin with:- + +“I want more.” + +Not only did he assure Martin that he was a poet, but Martin learned +that Brissenden also was one. He was swept off his feet by the other’s +work, and astounded that no attempt had been made to publish it. + +“A plague on all their houses!” was Brissenden’s answer to Martin’s +volunteering to market his work for him. “Love Beauty for its own +sake,” was his counsel, “and leave the magazines alone. Back to your +ships and your sea—that’s my advice to you, Martin Eden. What do you +want in these sick and rotten cities of men? You are cutting your +throat every day you waste in them trying to prostitute beauty to the +needs of magazinedom. What was it you quoted me the other day?—Oh, yes, +‘Man, the latest of the ephemera.’ Well, what do you, the latest of the +ephemera, want with fame? If you got it, it would be poison to you. You +are too simple, too elemental, and too rational, by my faith, to +prosper on such pap. I hope you never do sell a line to the magazines. +Beauty is the only master to serve. Serve her and damn the multitude! +Success! What in hell’s success if it isn’t right there in your +Stevenson sonnet, which outranks Henley’s ‘Apparition,’ in that +‘Love-cycle,’ in those sea-poems? + +“It is not in what you succeed in doing that you get your joy, but in +the doing of it. You can’t tell me. I know it. You know it. Beauty +hurts you. It is an everlasting pain in you, a wound that does not +heal, a knife of flame. Why should you palter with magazines? Let +beauty be your end. Why should you mint beauty into gold? Anyway, you +can’t; so there’s no use in my getting excited over it. You can read +the magazines for a thousand years and you won’t find the value of one +line of Keats. Leave fame and coin alone, sign away on a ship +to-morrow, and go back to your sea.” + +“Not for fame, but for love,” Martin laughed. “Love seems to have no +place in your Cosmos; in mine, Beauty is the handmaiden of Love.” + +Brissenden looked at him pityingly and admiringly. “You are so young, +Martin boy, so young. You will flutter high, but your wings are of the +finest gauze, dusted with the fairest pigments. Do not scorch them. But +of course you have scorched them already. It required some glorified +petticoat to account for that ‘Love-cycle,’ and that’s the shame of +it.” + +“It glorifies love as well as the petticoat,” Martin laughed. + +“The philosophy of madness,” was the retort. “So have I assured myself +when wandering in hasheesh dreams. But beware. These bourgeois cities +will kill you. Look at that den of traitors where I met you. Dry rot is +no name for it. One can’t keep his sanity in such an atmosphere. It’s +degrading. There’s not one of them who is not degrading, man and woman, +all of them animated stomachs guided by the high intellectual and +artistic impulses of clams—” + +He broke off suddenly and regarded Martin. Then, with a flash of +divination, he saw the situation. The expression on his face turned to +wondering horror. + +“And you wrote that tremendous ‘Love-cycle’ to her—that pale, +shrivelled, female thing!” + +The next instant Martin’s right hand had shot to a throttling clutch on +his throat, and he was being shaken till his teeth rattled. But Martin, +looking into his eyes, saw no fear there,—naught but a curious and +mocking devil. Martin remembered himself, and flung Brissenden, by the +neck, sidelong upon the bed, at the same moment releasing his hold. + +Brissenden panted and gasped painfully for a moment, then began to +chuckle. + +“You had made me eternally your debtor had you shaken out the flame,” +he said. + +“My nerves are on a hair-trigger these days,” Martin apologized. “Hope +I didn’t hurt you. Here, let me mix a fresh toddy.” + +“Ah, you young Greek!” Brissenden went on. “I wonder if you take just +pride in that body of yours. You are devilish strong. You are a young +panther, a lion cub. Well, well, it is you who must pay for that +strength.” + +“What do you mean?” Martin asked curiously, passing him a glass. “Here, +down this and be good.” + +“Because—” Brissenden sipped his toddy and smiled appreciation of it. +“Because of the women. They will worry you until you die, as they have +already worried you, or else I was born yesterday. Now there’s no use +in your choking me; I’m going to have my say. This is undoubtedly your +calf love; but for Beauty’s sake show better taste next time. What +under heaven do you want with a daughter of the bourgeoisie? Leave them +alone. Pick out some great, wanton flame of a woman, who laughs at life +and jeers at death and loves one while she may. There are such women, +and they will love you just as readily as any pusillanimous product of +bourgeois sheltered life.” + +“Pusillanimous?” Martin protested. + +“Just so, pusillanimous; prattling out little moralities that have been +prattled into them, and afraid to live life. They will love you, +Martin, but they will love their little moralities more. What you want +is the magnificent abandon of life, the great free souls, the blazing +butterflies and not the little gray moths. Oh, you will grow tired of +them, too, of all the female things, if you are unlucky enough to live. +But you won’t live. You won’t go back to your ships and sea; therefore, +you’ll hang around these pest-holes of cities until your bones are +rotten, and then you’ll die.” + +“You can lecture me, but you can’t make me talk back,” Martin said. +“After all, you have but the wisdom of your temperament, and the wisdom +of my temperament is just as unimpeachable as yours.” + +They disagreed about love, and the magazines, and many things, but they +liked each other, and on Martin’s part it was no less than a profound +liking. Day after day they were together, if for no more than the hour +Brissenden spent in Martin’s stuffy room. Brissenden never arrived +without his quart of whiskey, and when they dined together down-town, +he drank Scotch and soda throughout the meal. He invariably paid the +way for both, and it was through him that Martin learned the +refinements of food, drank his first champagne, and made acquaintance +with Rhenish wines. + +But Brissenden was always an enigma. With the face of an ascetic, he +was, in all the failing blood of him, a frank voluptuary. He was +unafraid to die, bitter and cynical of all the ways of living; and yet, +dying, he loved life, to the last atom of it. He was possessed by a +madness to live, to thrill, “to squirm my little space in the cosmic +dust whence I came,” as he phrased it once himself. He had tampered +with drugs and done many strange things in quest of new thrills, new +sensations. As he told Martin, he had once gone three days without +water, had done so voluntarily, in order to experience the exquisite +delight of such a thirst assuaged. Who or what he was, Martin never +learned. He was a man without a past, whose future was the imminent +grave and whose present was a bitter fever of living. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + +Martin was steadily losing his battle. Economize as he would, the +earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses. Thanksgiving found +him with his black suit in pawn and unable to accept the Morses’ +invitation to dinner. Ruth was not made happy by his reason for not +coming, and the corresponding effect on him was one of desperation. He +told her that he would come, after all; that he would go over to San +Francisco, to the _Transcontinental_ office, collect the five dollars +due him, and with it redeem his suit of clothes. + +In the morning he borrowed ten cents from Maria. He would have borrowed +it, by preference, from Brissenden, but that erratic individual had +disappeared. Two weeks had passed since Martin had seen him, and he +vainly cudgelled his brains for some cause of offence. The ten cents +carried Martin across the ferry to San Francisco, and as he walked up +Market Street he speculated upon his predicament in case he failed to +collect the money. There would then be no way for him to return to +Oakland, and he knew no one in San Francisco from whom to borrow +another ten cents. + +The door to the _Transcontinental_ office was ajar, and Martin, in the +act of opening it, was brought to a sudden pause by a loud voice from +within, which exclaimed:- “But that is not the question, Mr. Ford.” +(Ford, Martin knew, from his correspondence, to be the editor’s name.) +“The question is, are you prepared to pay?—cash, and cash down, I mean? +I am not interested in the prospects of the _Transcontinental_ and what +you expect to make it next year. What I want is to be paid for what I +do. And I tell you, right now, the Christmas _Transcontinental_ don’t +go to press till I have the money in my hand. Good day. When you get +the money, come and see me.” + +The door jerked open, and the man flung past Martin, with an angry +countenance and went down the corridor, muttering curses and clenching +his fists. Martin decided not to enter immediately, and lingered in the +hallways for a quarter of an hour. Then he shoved the door open and +walked in. It was a new experience, the first time he had been inside +an editorial office. Cards evidently were not necessary in that office, +for the boy carried word to an inner room that there was a man who +wanted to see Mr. Ford. Returning, the boy beckoned him from halfway +across the room and led him to the private office, the editorial +sanctum. Martin’s first impression was of the disorder and cluttered +confusion of the room. Next he noticed a bewhiskered, youthful-looking +man, sitting at a roll-top desk, who regarded him curiously. Martin +marvelled at the calm repose of his face. It was evident that the +squabble with the printer had not affected his equanimity. + +“I—I am Martin Eden,” Martin began the conversation. (“And I want my +five dollars,” was what he would have liked to say.) + +But this was his first editor, and under the circumstances he did not +desire to scare him too abruptly. To his surprise, Mr. Ford leaped into +the air with a “You don’t say so!” and the next moment, with both +hands, was shaking Martin’s hand effusively. + +“Can’t say how glad I am to see you, Mr. Eden. Often wondered what you +were like.” + +Here he held Martin off at arm’s length and ran his beaming eyes over +Martin’s second-best suit, which was also his worst suit, and which was +ragged and past repair, though the trousers showed the careful crease +he had put in with Maria’s flat-irons. + +“I confess, though, I conceived you to be a much older man than you +are. Your story, you know, showed such breadth, and vigor, such +maturity and depth of thought. A masterpiece, that story—I knew it when +I had read the first half-dozen lines. Let me tell you how I first read +it. But no; first let me introduce you to the staff.” + +Still talking, Mr. Ford led him into the general office, where he +introduced him to the associate editor, Mr. White, a slender, frail +little man whose hand seemed strangely cold, as if he were suffering +from a chill, and whose whiskers were sparse and silky. + +“And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden. Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know.” + +Martin found himself shaking hands with a cranky-eyed, bald-headed man, +whose face looked youthful enough from what little could be seen of it, +for most of it was covered by a snow-white beard, carefully trimmed—by +his wife, who did it on Sundays, at which times she also shaved the +back of his neck. + +The three men surrounded Martin, all talking admiringly and at once, +until it seemed to him that they were talking against time for a wager. + +“We often wondered why you didn’t call,” Mr. White was saying. + +“I didn’t have the carfare, and I live across the Bay,” Martin answered +bluntly, with the idea of showing them his imperative need for the +money. + +Surely, he thought to himself, my glad rags in themselves are eloquent +advertisement of my need. Time and again, whenever opportunity offered, +he hinted about the purpose of his business. But his admirers’ ears +were deaf. They sang his praises, told him what they had thought of his +story at first sight, what they subsequently thought, what their wives +and families thought; but not one hint did they breathe of intention to +pay him for it. + +“Did I tell you how I first read your story?” Mr. Ford said. “Of course +I didn’t. I was coming west from New York, and when the train stopped +at Ogden, the train-boy on the new run brought aboard the current +number of the _Transcontinental_.” + +My God! Martin thought; you can travel in a Pullman while I starve for +the paltry five dollars you owe me. A wave of anger rushed over him. +The wrong done him by the _Transcontinental_ loomed colossal, for +strong upon him were all the dreary months of vain yearning, of hunger +and privation, and his present hunger awoke and gnawed at him, +reminding him that he had eaten nothing since the day before, and +little enough then. For the moment he saw red. These creatures were not +even robbers. They were sneak-thieves. By lies and broken promises they +had tricked him out of his story. Well, he would show them. And a great +resolve surged into his will to the effect that he would not leave the +office until he got his money. He remembered, if he did not get it, +that there was no way for him to go back to Oakland. He controlled +himself with an effort, but not before the wolfish expression of his +face had awed and perturbed them. + +They became more voluble than ever. Mr. Ford started anew to tell how +he had first read “The Ring of Bells,” and Mr. Ends at the same time +was striving to repeat his niece’s appreciation of “The Ring of Bells,” +said niece being a school-teacher in Alameda. + +“I’ll tell you what I came for,” Martin said finally. “To be paid for +that story all of you like so well. Five dollars, I believe, is what +you promised me would be paid on publication.” + +Mr. Ford, with an expression on his mobile features of mediate and +happy acquiescence, started to reach for his pocket, then turned +suddenly to Mr. Ends, and said that he had left his money home. That +Mr. Ends resented this, was patent; and Martin saw the twitch of his +arm as if to protect his trousers pocket. Martin knew that the money +was there. + +“I am sorry,” said Mr. Ends, “but I paid the printer not an hour ago, +and he took my ready change. It was careless of me to be so short; but +the bill was not yet due, and the printer’s request, as a favor, to +make an immediate advance, was quite unexpected.” + +Both men looked expectantly at Mr. White, but that gentleman laughed +and shrugged his shoulders. His conscience was clean at any rate. He +had come into the _Transcontinental_ to learn magazine-literature, +instead of which he had principally learned finance. The +_Transcontinental_ owed him four months’ salary, and he knew that the +printer must be appeased before the associate editor. + +“It’s rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape,” Mr. +Ford preambled airily. “All carelessness, I assure you. But I’ll tell +you what we’ll do. We’ll mail you a check the first thing in the +morning. You have Mr. Eden’s address, haven’t you, Mr. Ends?” + +Yes, Mr. Ends had the address, and the check would be mailed the first +thing in the morning. Martin’s knowledge of banks and checks was hazy, +but he could see no reason why they should not give him the check on +this day just as well as on the next. + +“Then it is understood, Mr. Eden, that we’ll mail you the check +to-morrow?” Mr. Ford said. + +“I need the money to-day,” Martin answered stolidly. + +“The unfortunate circumstances—if you had chanced here any other day,” +Mr. Ford began suavely, only to be interrupted by Mr. Ends, whose +cranky eyes justified themselves in his shortness of temper. + +“Mr. Ford has already explained the situation,” he said with asperity. +“And so have I. The check will be mailed—” + +“I also have explained,” Martin broke in, “and I have explained that I +want the money to-day.” + +He had felt his pulse quicken a trifle at the business manager’s +brusqueness, and upon him he kept an alert eye, for it was in that +gentleman’s trousers pocket that he divined the _Transcontinental’s_ +ready cash was reposing. + +“It is too bad—” Mr. Ford began. + +But at that moment, with an impatient movement, Mr. Ends turned as if +about to leave the room. At the same instant Martin sprang for him, +clutching him by the throat with one hand in such fashion that Mr. +Ends’ snow-white beard, still maintaining its immaculate trimness, +pointed ceilingward at an angle of forty-five degrees. To the horror of +Mr. White and Mr. Ford, they saw their business manager shaken like an +Astrakhan rug. + +“Dig up, you venerable discourager of rising young talent!” Martin +exhorted. “Dig up, or I’ll shake it out of you, even if it’s all in +nickels.” Then, to the two affrighted onlookers: “Keep away! If you +interfere, somebody’s liable to get hurt.” + +Mr. Ends was choking, and it was not until the grip on his throat was +eased that he was able to signify his acquiescence in the digging-up +programme. All together, after repeated digs, its trousers pocket +yielded four dollars and fifteen cents. + +“Inside out with it,” Martin commanded. + +An additional ten cents fell out. Martin counted the result of his raid +a second time to make sure. + +“You next!” he shouted at Mr. Ford. “I want seventy-five cents more.” + +Mr. Ford did not wait, but ransacked his pockets, with the result of +sixty cents. + +“Sure that is all?” Martin demanded menacingly, possessing himself of +it. “What have you got in your vest pockets?” + +In token of his good faith, Mr. Ford turned two of his pockets inside +out. A strip of cardboard fell to the floor from one of them. He +recovered it and was in the act of returning it, when Martin cried:- + +“What’s that?—A ferry ticket? Here, give it to me. It’s worth ten +cents. I’ll credit you with it. I’ve now got four dollars and +ninety-five cents, including the ticket. Five cents is still due me.” + +He looked fiercely at Mr. White, and found that fragile creature in the +act of handing him a nickel. + +“Thank you,” Martin said, addressing them collectively. “I wish you a +good day.” + +“Robber!” Mr. Ends snarled after him. + +“Sneak-thief!” Martin retorted, slamming the door as he passed out. + +Martin was elated—so elated that when he recollected that _The Hornet_ +owed him fifteen dollars for “The Peri and the Pearl,” he decided +forthwith to go and collect it. But _The Hornet_ was run by a set of +clean-shaven, strapping young men, frank buccaneers who robbed +everything and everybody, not excepting one another. After some +breakage of the office furniture, the editor (an ex-college athlete), +ably assisted by the business manager, an advertising agent, and the +porter, succeeded in removing Martin from the office and in +accelerating, by initial impulse, his descent of the first flight of +stairs. + +“Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time,” they laughed down at +him from the landing above. + +Martin grinned as he picked himself up. + +“Phew!” he murmured back. “The _Transcontinental_ crowd were +nanny-goats, but you fellows are a lot of prize-fighters.” + +More laughter greeted this. + +“I must say, Mr. Eden,” the editor of _The Hornet_ called down, “that +for a poet you can go some yourself. Where did you learn that right +cross—if I may ask?” + +“Where you learned that half-Nelson,” Martin answered. “Anyway, you’re +going to have a black eye.” + +“I hope your neck doesn’t stiffen up,” the editor wished solicitously: +“What do you say we all go out and have a drink on it—not the neck, of +course, but the little rough-house?” + +“I’ll go you if I lose,” Martin accepted. + +And robbers and robbed drank together, amicably agreeing that the +battle was to the strong, and that the fifteen dollars for “The Peri +and the Pearl” belonged by right to _The Hornet’s_ editorial staff. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + +Arthur remained at the gate while Ruth climbed Maria’s front steps. She +heard the rapid click of the type-writer, and when Martin let her in, +found him on the last page of a manuscript. She had come to make +certain whether or not he would be at their table for Thanksgiving +dinner; but before she could broach the subject Martin plunged into the +one with which he was full. + +“Here, let me read you this,” he cried, separating the carbon copies +and running the pages of manuscript into shape. “It’s my latest, and +different from anything I’ve done. It is so altogether different that I +am almost afraid of it, and yet I’ve a sneaking idea it is good. You be +judge. It’s an Hawaiian story. I’ve called it ‘Wiki-wiki.’” + +His face was bright with the creative glow, though she shivered in the +cold room and had been struck by the coldness of his hands at greeting. +She listened closely while he read, and though he from time to time had +seen only disapprobation in her face, at the close he asked:- + +“Frankly, what do you think of it?” + +“I—I don’t know,” she, answered. “Will it—do you think it will sell?” + +“I’m afraid not,” was the confession. “It’s too strong for the +magazines. But it’s true, on my word it’s true.” + +“But why do you persist in writing such things when you know they won’t +sell?” she went on inexorably. “The reason for your writing is to make +a living, isn’t it?” + +“Yes, that’s right; but the miserable story got away with me. I +couldn’t help writing it. It demanded to be written.” + +“But that character, that Wiki-Wiki, why do you make him talk so +roughly? Surely it will offend your readers, and surely that is why the +editors are justified in refusing your work.” + +“Because the real Wiki-Wiki would have talked that way.” + +“But it is not good taste.” + +“It is life,” he replied bluntly. “It is real. It is true. And I must +write life as I see it.” + +She made no answer, and for an awkward moment they sat silent. It was +because he loved her that he did not quite understand her, and she +could not understand him because he was so large that he bulked beyond +her horizon. + +“Well, I’ve collected from the _Transcontinental_,” he said in an +effort to shift the conversation to a more comfortable subject. The +picture of the bewhiskered trio, as he had last seen them, mulcted of +four dollars and ninety cents and a ferry ticket, made him chuckle. + +“Then you’ll come!” she cried joyously. “That was what I came to find +out.” + +“Come?” he muttered absently. “Where?” + +“Why, to dinner to-morrow. You know you said you’d recover your suit if +you got that money.” + +“I forgot all about it,” he said humbly. “You see, this morning the +poundman got Maria’s two cows and the baby calf, and—well, it happened +that Maria didn’t have any money, and so I had to recover her cows for +her. That’s where the _Transcontinental_ fiver went—‘The Ring of Bells’ +went into the poundman’s pocket.” + +“Then you won’t come?” + +He looked down at his clothing. + +“I can’t.” + +Tears of disappointment and reproach glistened in her blue eyes, but +she said nothing. + +“Next Thanksgiving you’ll have dinner with me in Delmonico’s,” he said +cheerily; “or in London, or Paris, or anywhere you wish. I know it.” + +“I saw in the paper a few days ago,” she announced abruptly, “that +there had been several local appointments to the Railway Mail. You +passed first, didn’t you?” + +He was compelled to admit that the call had come for him, but that he +had declined it. “I was so sure—I am so sure—of myself,” he concluded. +“A year from now I’ll be earning more than a dozen men in the Railway +Mail. You wait and see.” + +“Oh,” was all she said, when he finished. She stood up, pulling at her +gloves. “I must go, Martin. Arthur is waiting for me.” + +He took her in his arms and kissed her, but she proved a passive +sweetheart. There was no tenseness in her body, her arms did not go +around him, and her lips met his without their wonted pressure. + +She was angry with him, he concluded, as he returned from the gate. But +why? It was unfortunate that the poundman had gobbled Maria’s cows. But +it was only a stroke of fate. Nobody could be blamed for it. Nor did it +enter his head that he could have done aught otherwise than what he had +done. Well, yes, he was to blame a little, was his next thought, for +having refused the call to the Railway Mail. And she had not liked +“Wiki-Wiki.” + +He turned at the head of the steps to meet the letter-carrier on his +afternoon round. The ever recurrent fever of expectancy assailed Martin +as he took the bundle of long envelopes. One was not long. It was short +and thin, and outside was printed the address of _The New York +Outview_. He paused in the act of tearing the envelope open. It could +not be an acceptance. He had no manuscripts with that publication. +Perhaps—his heart almost stood still at the—wild thought—perhaps they +were ordering an article from him; but the next instant he dismissed +the surmise as hopelessly impossible. + +It was a short, formal letter, signed by the office editor, merely +informing him that an anonymous letter which they had received was +enclosed, and that he could rest assured the _Outview’s_ staff never +under any circumstances gave consideration to anonymous correspondence. + +The enclosed letter Martin found to be crudely printed by hand. It was +a hotchpotch of illiterate abuse of Martin, and of assertion that the +“so-called Martin Eden” who was selling stories to magazines was no +writer at all, and that in reality he was stealing stories from old +magazines, typing them, and sending them out as his own. The envelope +was postmarked “San Leandro.” Martin did not require a second thought +to discover the author. Higginbotham’s grammar, Higginbotham’s +colloquialisms, Higginbotham’s mental quirks and processes, were +apparent throughout. Martin saw in every line, not the fine Italian +hand, but the coarse grocer’s fist, of his brother-in-law. + +But why? he vainly questioned. What injury had he done Bernard +Higginbotham? The thing was so unreasonable, so wanton. There was no +explaining it. In the course of the week a dozen similar letters were +forwarded to Martin by the editors of various Eastern magazines. The +editors were behaving handsomely, Martin concluded. He was wholly +unknown to them, yet some of them had even been sympathetic. It was +evident that they detested anonymity. He saw that the malicious attempt +to hurt him had failed. In fact, if anything came of it, it was bound +to be good, for at least his name had been called to the attention of a +number of editors. Sometime, perhaps, reading a submitted manuscript of +his, they might remember him as the fellow about whom they had received +an anonymous letter. And who was to say that such a remembrance might +not sway the balance of their judgment just a trifle in his favor? + +It was about this time that Martin took a great slump in Maria’s +estimation. He found her in the kitchen one morning groaning with pain, +tears of weakness running down her cheeks, vainly endeavoring to put +through a large ironing. He promptly diagnosed her affliction as La +Grippe, dosed her with hot whiskey (the remnants in the bottles for +which Brissenden was responsible), and ordered her to bed. But Maria +was refractory. The ironing had to be done, she protested, and +delivered that night, or else there would be no food on the morrow for +the seven small and hungry Silvas. + +To her astonishment (and it was something that she never ceased from +relating to her dying day), she saw Martin Eden seize an iron from the +stove and throw a fancy shirt-waist on the ironing-board. It was Kate +Flanagan’s best Sunday waist, than whom there was no more exacting and +fastidiously dressed woman in Maria’s world. Also, Miss Flanagan had +sent special instruction that said waist must be delivered by that +night. As every one knew, she was keeping company with John Collins, +the blacksmith, and, as Maria knew privily, Miss Flanagan and Mr. +Collins were going next day to Golden Gate Park. Vain was Maria’s +attempt to rescue the garment. Martin guided her tottering footsteps to +a chair, from where she watched him with bulging eyes. In a quarter of +the time it would have taken her she saw the shirt-waist safely ironed, +and ironed as well as she could have done it, as Martin made her grant. + +“I could work faster,” he explained, “if your irons were only hotter.” + +To her, the irons he swung were much hotter than she ever dared to use. + +“Your sprinkling is all wrong,” he complained next. “Here, let me teach +you how to sprinkle. Pressure is what’s wanted. Sprinkle under pressure +if you want to iron fast.” + +He procured a packing-case from the woodpile in the cellar, fitted a +cover to it, and raided the scrap-iron the Silva tribe was collecting +for the junkman. With fresh-sprinkled garments in the box, covered with +the board and pressed by the iron, the device was complete and in +operation. + +“Now you watch me, Maria,” he said, stripping off to his undershirt and +gripping an iron that was what he called “really hot.” + +“An’ when he feenish da iron’ he washa da wools,” as she described it +afterward. “He say, ‘Maria, you are da greata fool. I showa you how to +washa da wools,’ an’ he shows me, too. Ten minutes he maka da +machine—one barrel, one wheel-hub, two poles, justa like dat.” + +Martin had learned the contrivance from Joe at the Shelly Hot Springs. +The old wheel-hub, fixed on the end of the upright pole, constituted +the plunger. Making this, in turn, fast to the spring-pole attached to +the kitchen rafters, so that the hub played upon the woollens in the +barrel, he was able, with one hand, thoroughly to pound them. + +“No more Maria washa da wools,” her story always ended. “I maka da kids +worka da pole an’ da hub an’ da barrel. Him da smarta man, Mister +Eden.” + +Nevertheless, by his masterly operation and improvement of her +kitchen-laundry he fell an immense distance in her regard. The glamour +of romance with which her imagination had invested him faded away in +the cold light of fact that he was an ex-laundryman. All his books, and +his grand friends who visited him in carriages or with countless +bottles of whiskey, went for naught. He was, after all, a mere +workingman, a member of her own class and caste. He was more human and +approachable, but, he was no longer mystery. + +Martin’s alienation from his family continued. Following upon Mr. +Higginbotham’s unprovoked attack, Mr. Hermann von Schmidt showed his +hand. The fortunate sale of several storiettes, some humorous verse, +and a few jokes gave Martin a temporary splurge of prosperity. Not only +did he partially pay up his bills, but he had sufficient balance left +to redeem his black suit and wheel. The latter, by virtue of a twisted +crank-hanger, required repairing, and, as a matter of friendliness with +his future brother-in-law, he sent it to Von Schmidt’s shop. + +The afternoon of the same day Martin was pleased by the wheel being +delivered by a small boy. Von Schmidt was also inclined to be friendly, +was Martin’s conclusion from this unusual favor. Repaired wheels +usually had to be called for. But when he examined the wheel, he +discovered no repairs had been made. A little later in the day he +telephoned his sister’s betrothed, and learned that that person didn’t +want anything to do with him in “any shape, manner, or form.” + +“Hermann von Schmidt,” Martin answered cheerfully, “I’ve a good mind to +come over and punch that Dutch nose of yours.” + +“You come to my shop,” came the reply, “an’ I’ll send for the police. +An’ I’ll put you through, too. Oh, I know you, but you can’t make no +rough-house with me. I don’t want nothin’ to do with the likes of you. +You’re a loafer, that’s what, an’ I ain’t asleep. You ain’t goin’ to do +no spongin’ off me just because I’m marryin’ your sister. Why don’t you +go to work an’ earn an honest livin’, eh? Answer me that.” + +Martin’s philosophy asserted itself, dissipating his anger, and he hung +up the receiver with a long whistle of incredulous amusement. But after +the amusement came the reaction, and he was oppressed by his +loneliness. Nobody understood him, nobody seemed to have any use for +him, except Brissenden, and Brissenden had disappeared, God alone knew +where. + +Twilight was falling as Martin left the fruit store and turned +homeward, his marketing on his arm. At the corner an electric car had +stopped, and at sight of a lean, familiar figure alighting, his heart +leapt with joy. It was Brissenden, and in the fleeting glimpse, ere the +car started up, Martin noted the overcoat pockets, one bulging with +books, the other bulging with a quart bottle of whiskey. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + +Brissenden gave no explanation of his long absence, nor did Martin pry +into it. He was content to see his friend’s cadaverous face opposite +him through the steam rising from a tumbler of toddy. + +“I, too, have not been idle,” Brissenden proclaimed, after hearing +Martin’s account of the work he had accomplished. + +He pulled a manuscript from his inside coat pocket and passed it to +Martin, who looked at the title and glanced up curiously. + +“Yes, that’s it,” Brissenden laughed. “Pretty good title, eh? +‘Ephemera’—it is the one word. And you’re responsible for it, what of +your _man_, who is always the erected, the vitalized inorganic, the +latest of the ephemera, the creature of temperature strutting his +little space on the thermometer. It got into my head and I had to write +it to get rid of it. Tell me what you think of it.” + +Martin’s face, flushed at first, paled as he read on. It was perfect +art. Form triumphed over substance, if triumph it could be called where +the last conceivable atom of substance had found expression in so +perfect construction as to make Martin’s head swim with delight, to put +passionate tears into his eyes, and to send chills creeping up and down +his back. It was a long poem of six or seven hundred lines, and it was +a fantastic, amazing, unearthly thing. It was terrific, impossible; and +yet there it was, scrawled in black ink across the sheets of paper. It +dealt with man and his soul-gropings in their ultimate terms, plumbing +the abysses of space for the testimony of remotest suns and rainbow +spectrums. It was a mad orgy of imagination, wassailing in the skull of +a dying man who half sobbed under his breath and was quick with the +wild flutter of fading heart-beats. The poem swung in majestic rhythm +to the cool tumult of interstellar conflict, to the onset of starry +hosts, to the impact of cold suns and the flaming up of nebulae in the +darkened void; and through it all, unceasing and faint, like a silver +shuttle, ran the frail, piping voice of man, a querulous chirp amid the +screaming of planets and the crash of systems. + +“There is nothing like it in literature,” Martin said, when at last he +was able to speak. “It’s wonderful!—wonderful! It has gone to my head. +I am drunken with it. That great, infinitesimal question—I can’t shake +it out of my thoughts. That questing, eternal, ever recurring, thin +little wailing voice of man is still ringing in my ears. It is like the +dead-march of a gnat amid the trumpeting of elephants and the roaring +of lions. It is insatiable with microscopic desire. I now I’m making a +fool of myself, but the thing has obsessed me. You are—I don’t know +what you are—you are wonderful, that’s all. But how do you do it? How +do you do it?” + +Martin paused from his rhapsody, only to break out afresh. + +“I shall never write again. I am a dauber in clay. You have shown me +the work of the real artificer-artisan. Genius! This is something more +than genius. It transcends genius. It is truth gone mad. It is true, +man, every line of it. I wonder if you realize that, you dogmatist. +Science cannot give you the lie. It is the truth of the sneer, stamped +out from the black iron of the Cosmos and interwoven with mighty +rhythms of sound into a fabric of splendor and beauty. And now I won’t +say another word. I am overwhelmed, crushed. Yes, I will, too. Let me +market it for you.” + +Brissenden grinned. “There’s not a magazine in Christendom that would +dare to publish it—you know that.” + +“I know nothing of the sort. I know there’s not a magazine in +Christendom that wouldn’t jump at it. They don’t get things like that +every day. That’s no mere poem of the year. It’s the poem of the +century.” + +“I’d like to take you up on the proposition.” + +“Now don’t get cynical,” Martin exhorted. “The magazine editors are not +wholly fatuous. I know that. And I’ll close with you on the bet. I’ll +wager anything you want that ‘Ephemera’ is accepted either on the first +or second offering.” + +“There’s just one thing that prevents me from taking you.” Brissenden +waited a moment. “The thing is big—the biggest I’ve ever done. I know +that. It’s my swan song. I am almighty proud of it. I worship it. It’s +better than whiskey. It is what I dreamed of—the great and perfect +thing—when I was a simple young man, with sweet illusions and clean +ideals. And I’ve got it, now, in my last grasp, and I’ll not have it +pawed over and soiled by a lot of swine. No, I won’t take the bet. It’s +mine. I made it, and I’ve shared it with you.” + +“But think of the rest of the world,” Martin protested. “The function +of beauty is joy-making.” + +“It’s my beauty.” + +“Don’t be selfish.” + +“I’m not selfish.” Brissenden grinned soberly in the way he had when +pleased by the thing his thin lips were about to shape. “I’m as +unselfish as a famished hog.” + +In vain Martin strove to shake him from his decision. Martin told him +that his hatred of the magazines was rabid, fanatical, and that his +conduct was a thousand times more despicable than that of the youth who +burned the temple of Diana at Ephesus. Under the storm of denunciation +Brissenden complacently sipped his toddy and affirmed that everything +the other said was quite true, with the exception of the magazine +editors. His hatred of them knew no bounds, and he excelled Martin in +denunciation when he turned upon them. + +“I wish you’d type it for me,” he said. “You know how a thousand times +better than any stenographer. And now I want to give you some advice.” +He drew a bulky manuscript from his outside coat pocket. “Here’s your +‘Shame of the Sun.’ I’ve read it not once, but twice and three +times—the highest compliment I can pay you. After what you’ve said +about ‘Ephemera’ I must be silent. But this I will say: when ‘The Shame +of the Sun’ is published, it will make a hit. It will start a +controversy that will be worth thousands to you just in advertising.” + +Martin laughed. “I suppose your next advice will be to submit it to the +magazines.” + +“By all means no—that is, if you want to see it in print. Offer it to +the first-class houses. Some publisher’s reader may be mad enough or +drunk enough to report favorably on it. You’ve read the books. The meat +of them has been transmuted in the alembic of Martin Eden’s mind and +poured into ‘The Shame of the Sun,’ and one day Martin Eden will be +famous, and not the least of his fame will rest upon that work. So you +must get a publisher for it—the sooner the better.” + +Brissenden went home late that night; and just as he mounted the first +step of the car, he swung suddenly back on Martin and thrust into his +hand a small, tightly crumpled wad of paper. + +“Here, take this,” he said. “I was out to the races to-day, and I had +the right dope.” + +The bell clanged and the car pulled out, leaving Martin wondering as to +the nature of the crinkly, greasy wad he clutched in his hand. Back in +his room he unrolled it and found a hundred-dollar bill. + +He did not scruple to use it. He knew his friend had always plenty of +money, and he knew also, with profound certitude, that his success +would enable him to repay it. In the morning he paid every bill, gave +Maria three months’ advance on the room, and redeemed every pledge at +the pawnshop. Next he bought Marian’s wedding present, and simpler +presents, suitable to Christmas, for Ruth and Gertrude. And finally, on +the balance remaining to him, he herded the whole Silva tribe down into +Oakland. He was a winter late in redeeming his promise, but redeemed it +was, for the last, least Silva got a pair of shoes, as well as Maria +herself. Also, there were horns, and dolls, and toys of various sorts, +and parcels and bundles of candies and nuts that filled the arms of all +the Silvas to overflowing. + +It was with this extraordinary procession trooping at his and Maria’s +heels into a confectioner’s in quest of the biggest candy-cane ever +made, that he encountered Ruth and her mother. Mrs. Morse was shocked. +Even Ruth was hurt, for she had some regard for appearances, and her +lover, cheek by jowl with Maria, at the head of that army of Portuguese +ragamuffins, was not a pretty sight. But it was not that which hurt so +much as what she took to be his lack of pride and self-respect. +Further, and keenest of all, she read into the incident the +impossibility of his living down his working-class origin. There was +stigma enough in the fact of it, but shamelessly to flaunt it in the +face of the world—her world—was going too far. Though her engagement to +Martin had been kept secret, their long intimacy had not been +unproductive of gossip; and in the shop, glancing covertly at her lover +and his following, had been several of her acquaintances. She lacked +the easy largeness of Martin and could not rise superior to her +environment. She had been hurt to the quick, and her sensitive nature +was quivering with the shame of it. So it was, when Martin arrived +later in the day, that he kept her present in his breast-pocket, +deferring the giving of it to a more propitious occasion. Ruth in +tears—passionate, angry tears—was a revelation to him. The spectacle of +her suffering convinced him that he had been a brute, yet in the soul +of him he could not see how nor why. It never entered his head to be +ashamed of those he knew, and to take the Silvas out to a Christmas +treat could in no way, so it seemed to him, show lack of consideration +for Ruth. On the other hand, he did see Ruth’s point of view, after she +had explained it; and he looked upon it as a feminine weakness, such as +afflicted all women and the best of women. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + +“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 coöperative 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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + +The first thing Martin did next morning was to go counter both to +Brissenden’s advice and command. “The Shame of the Sun” he wrapped and +mailed to _The Acropolis_. He believed he could find magazine +publication for it, and he felt that recognition by the magazines would +commend him to the book-publishing houses. “Ephemera” he likewise +wrapped and mailed to a magazine. Despite Brissenden’s prejudice +against the magazines, which was a pronounced mania with him, Martin +decided that the great poem should see print. He did not intend, +however, to publish it without the other’s permission. His plan was to +get it accepted by one of the high magazines, and, thus armed, again to +wrestle with Brissenden for consent. + +Martin began, that morning, a story which he had sketched out a number +of weeks before and which ever since had been worrying him with its +insistent clamor to be created. Apparently it was to be a rattling sea +story, a tale of twentieth-century adventure and romance, handling real +characters, in a real world, under real conditions. But beneath the +swing and go of the story was to be something else—something that the +superficial reader would never discern and which, on the other hand, +would not diminish in any way the interest and enjoyment for such a +reader. It was this, and not the mere story, that impelled Martin to +write it. For that matter, it was always the great, universal motif +that suggested plots to him. After having found such a motif, he cast +about for the particular persons and particular location in time and +space wherewith and wherein to utter the universal thing. “Overdue” was +the title he had decided for it, and its length he believed would not +be more than sixty thousand words—a bagatelle for him with his splendid +vigor of production. On this first day he took hold of it with +conscious delight in the mastery of his tools. He no longer worried for +fear that the sharp, cutting edges should slip and mar his work. The +long months of intense application and study had brought their reward. +He could now devote himself with sure hand to the larger phases of the +thing he shaped; and as he worked, hour after hour, he felt, as never +before, the sure and cosmic grasp with which he held life and the +affairs of life. “Overdue” would tell a story that would be true of its +particular characters and its particular events; but it would tell, +too, he was confident, great vital things that would be true of all +time, and all sea, and all life—thanks to Herbert Spencer, he thought, +leaning back for a moment from the table. Ay, thanks to Herbert Spencer +and to the master-key of life, evolution, which Spencer had placed in +his hands. + +He was conscious that it was great stuff he was writing. “It will go! +It will go!” was the refrain that kept sounding in his ears. Of course +it would go. At last he was turning out the thing at which the +magazines would jump. The whole story worked out before him in +lightning flashes. He broke off from it long enough to write a +paragraph in his note-book. This would be the last paragraph in +“Overdue”; but so thoroughly was the whole book already composed in his +brain that he could write, weeks before he had arrived at the end, the +end itself. He compared the tale, as yet unwritten, with the tales of +the sea-writers, and he felt it to be immeasurably superior. “There’s +only one man who could touch it,” he murmured aloud, “and that’s +Conrad. And it ought to make even him sit up and shake hands with me, +and say, ‘Well done, Martin, my boy.’” + +He toiled on all day, recollecting, at the last moment, that he was to +have dinner at the Morses’. Thanks to Brissenden, his black suit was +out of pawn and he was again eligible for dinner parties. Down town he +stopped off long enough to run into the library and search for +Saleeby’s books. He drew out “The Cycle of Life,” and on the car turned +to the essay Norton had mentioned on Spencer. As Martin read, he grew +angry. His face flushed, his jaw set, and unconsciously his hand +clenched, unclenched, and clenched again as if he were taking fresh +grips upon some hateful thing out of which he was squeezing the life. +When he left the car, he strode along the sidewalk as a wrathful man +will stride, and he rang the Morse bell with such viciousness that it +roused him to consciousness of his condition, so that he entered in +good nature, smiling with amusement at himself. No sooner, however, was +he inside than a great depression descended upon him. He fell from the +height where he had been up-borne all day on the wings of inspiration. +“Bourgeois,” “trader’s den”—Brissenden’s epithets repeated themselves +in his mind. But what of that? he demanded angrily. He was marrying +Ruth, not her family. + +It seemed to him that he had never seen Ruth more beautiful, more +spiritual and ethereal and at the same time more healthy. There was +color in her cheeks, and her eyes drew him again and again—the eyes in +which he had first read immortality. He had forgotten immortality of +late, and the trend of his scientific reading had been away from it; +but here, in Ruth’s eyes, he read an argument without words that +transcended all worded arguments. He saw that in her eyes before which +all discussion fled away, for he saw love there. And in his own eyes +was love; and love was unanswerable. Such was his passionate doctrine. + +The half hour he had with her, before they went in to dinner, left him +supremely happy and supremely satisfied with life. Nevertheless, at +table, the inevitable reaction and exhaustion consequent upon the hard +day seized hold of him. He was aware that his eyes were tired and that +he was irritable. He remembered it was at this table, at which he now +sneered and was so often bored, that he had first eaten with civilized +beings in what he had imagined was an atmosphere of high culture and +refinement. He caught a glimpse of that pathetic figure of him, so long +ago, a self-conscious savage, sprouting sweat at every pore in an agony +of apprehension, puzzled by the bewildering minutiae of +eating-implements, tortured by the ogre of a servant, striving at a +leap to live at such dizzy social altitude, and deciding in the end to +be frankly himself, pretending no knowledge and no polish he did not +possess. + +He glanced at Ruth for reassurance, much in the same manner that a +passenger, with sudden panic thought of possible shipwreck, will strive +to locate the life preservers. Well, that much had come out of it—love +and Ruth. All the rest had failed to stand the test of the books. But +Ruth and love had stood the test; for them he found a biological +sanction. Love was the most exalted expression of life. Nature had been +busy designing him, as she had been busy with all normal men, for the +purpose of loving. She had spent ten thousand centuries—ay, a hundred +thousand and a million centuries—upon the task, and he was the best she +could do. She had made love the strongest thing in him, increased its +power a myriad per cent with her gift of imagination, and sent him +forth into the ephemera to thrill and melt and mate. His hand sought +Ruth’s hand beside him hidden by the table, and a warm pressure was +given and received. She looked at him a swift instant, and her eyes +were radiant and melting. So were his in the thrill that pervaded him; +nor did he realize how much that was radiant and melting in her eyes +had been aroused by what she had seen in his. + +Across the table from him, cater-cornered, at Mr. Morse’s right, sat +Judge Blount, a local superior court judge. Martin had met him a number +of times and had failed to like him. He and Ruth’s father were +discussing labor union politics, the local situation, and socialism, +and Mr. Morse was endeavoring to twit Martin on the latter topic. At +last Judge Blount looked across the table with benignant and fatherly +pity. Martin smiled to himself. + +“You’ll grow out of it, young man,” he said soothingly. “Time is the +best cure for such youthful distempers.” He turned to Mr. Morse. “I do +not believe discussion is good in such cases. It makes the patient +obstinate.” + +“That is true,” the other assented gravely. “But it is well to warn the +patient occasionally of his condition.” + +Martin laughed merrily, but it was with an effort. The day had been too +long, the day’s effort too intense, and he was deep in the throes of +the reaction. + +“Undoubtedly you are both excellent doctors,” he said; “but if you care +a whit for the opinion of the patient, let him tell you that you are +poor diagnosticians. In fact, you are both suffering from the disease +you think you find in me. As for me, I am immune. The socialist +philosophy that riots half-baked in your veins has passed me by.” + +“Clever, clever,” murmured the judge. “An excellent ruse in +controversy, to reverse positions.” + +“Out of your mouth.” Martin’s eyes were sparkling, but he kept control +of himself. “You see, Judge, I’ve heard your campaign speeches. By some +henidical process—henidical, by the way is a favorite word of mine +which nobody understands—by some henidical process you persuade +yourself that you believe in the competitive system and the survival of +the strong, and at the same time you indorse with might and main all +sorts of measures to shear the strength from the strong.” + +“My young man—” + +“Remember, I’ve heard your campaign speeches,” Martin warned. “It’s on +record, your position on interstate commerce regulation, on regulation +of the railway trust and Standard Oil, on the conservation of the +forests, on a thousand and one restrictive measures that are nothing +else than socialistic.” + +“Do you mean to tell me that you do not believe in regulating these +various outrageous exercises of power?” + +“That’s not the point. I mean to tell you that you are a poor +diagnostician. I mean to tell you that I am not suffering from the +microbe of socialism. I mean to tell you that it is you who are +suffering from the emasculating ravages of that same microbe. As for +me, I am an inveterate opponent of socialism just as I am an inveterate +opponent of your own mongrel democracy that is nothing else than +pseudo-socialism masquerading under a garb of words that will not stand +the test of the dictionary.” + +“I am a reactionary—so complete a reactionary that my position is +incomprehensible to you who live in a veiled lie of social organization +and whose sight is not keen enough to pierce the veil. You make believe +that you believe in the survival of the strong and the rule of the +strong. I believe. That is the difference. When I was a trifle +younger,—a few months younger,—I believed the same thing. You see, the +ideas of you and yours had impressed me. But merchants and traders are +cowardly rulers at best; they grunt and grub all their days in the +trough of money-getting, and I have swung back to aristocracy, if you +please. I am the only individualist in this room. I look to the state +for nothing. I look only to the strong man, the man on horseback, to +save the state from its own rotten futility.” + +“Nietzsche was right. I won’t take the time to tell you who Nietzsche +was, but he was right. The world belongs to the strong—to the strong +who are noble as well and who do not wallow in the swine-trough of +trade and exchange. The world belongs to the true nobleman, to the +great blond beasts, to the noncompromisers, to the ‘yes-sayers.’ And +they will eat you up, you socialists—who are afraid of socialism and +who think yourselves individualists. Your slave-morality of the meek +and lowly will never save you.—Oh, it’s all Greek, I know, and I won’t +bother you any more with it. But remember one thing. There aren’t half +a dozen individualists in Oakland, but Martin Eden is one of them.” + +He signified that he was done with the discussion, and turned to Ruth. + +“I’m wrought up to-day,” he said in an undertone. “All I want to do is +to love, not talk.” + +He ignored Mr. Morse, who said:- + +“I am unconvinced. All socialists are Jesuits. That is the way to tell +them.” + +“We’ll make a good Republican out of you yet,” said Judge Blount. + +“The man on horseback will arrive before that time,” Martin retorted +with good humor, and returned to Ruth. + +But Mr. Morse was not content. He did not like the laziness and the +disinclination for sober, legitimate work of this prospective +son-in-law of his, for whose ideas he had no respect and of whose +nature he had no understanding. So he turned the conversation to +Herbert Spencer. Judge Blount ably seconded him, and Martin, whose ears +had pricked at the first mention of the philosopher’s name, listened to +the judge enunciate a grave and complacent diatribe against Spencer. +From time to time Mr. Morse glanced at Martin, as much as to say, +“There, my boy, you see.” + +“Chattering daws,” Martin muttered under his breath, and went on +talking with Ruth and Arthur. + +But the long day and the “real dirt” of the night before were telling +upon him; and, besides, still in his burnt mind was what had made him +angry when he read it on the car. + +“What is the matter?” Ruth asked suddenly alarmed by the effort he was +making to contain himself. + +“There is no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is its +prophet,” Judge Blount was saying at that moment. + +Martin turned upon him. + +“A cheap judgment,” he remarked quietly. “I heard it first in the City +Hall Park, on the lips of a workingman who ought to have known better. +I have heard it often since, and each time the clap-trap of it +nauseates me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. To hear that great +and noble man’s name upon your lips is like finding a dew-drop in a +cesspool. You are disgusting.” + +It was like a thunderbolt. Judge Blount glared at him with apoplectic +countenance, and silence reigned. Mr. Morse was secretly pleased. He +could see that his daughter was shocked. It was what he wanted to do—to +bring out the innate ruffianism of this man he did not like. + +Ruth’s hand sought Martin’s beseechingly under the table, but his blood +was up. He was inflamed by the intellectual pretence and fraud of those +who sat in the high places. A Superior Court Judge! It was only several +years before that he had looked up from the mire at such glorious +entities and deemed them gods. + +Judge Blount recovered himself and attempted to go on, addressing +himself to Martin with an assumption of politeness that the latter +understood was for the benefit of the ladies. Even this added to his +anger. Was there no honesty in the world? + +“You can’t discuss Spencer with me,” he cried. “You do not know any +more about Spencer than do his own countrymen. But it is no fault of +yours, I grant. It is just a phase of the contemptible ignorance of the +times. I ran across a sample of it on my way here this evening. I was +reading an essay by Saleeby on Spencer. You should read it. It is +accessible to all men. You can buy it in any book-store or draw it from +the public library. You would feel ashamed of your paucity of abuse and +ignorance of that noble man compared with what Saleeby has collected on +the subject. It is a record of shame that would shame your shame. + +“‘The philosopher of the half-educated,’ he was called by an academic +Philosopher who was not worthy to pollute the atmosphere he breathed. I +don’t think you have read ten pages of Spencer, but there have been +critics, assumably more intelligent than you, who have read no more +than you of Spencer, who publicly challenged his followers to adduce +one single idea from all his writings—from Herbert Spencer’s writings, +the man who has impressed the stamp of his genius over the whole field +of scientific research and modern thought; the father of psychology; +the man who revolutionized pedagogy, so that to-day the child of the +French peasant is taught the three R’s according to principles laid +down by him. And the little gnats of men sting his memory when they get +their very bread and butter from the technical application of his +ideas. What little of worth resides in their brains is largely due to +him. It is certain that had he never lived, most of what is correct in +their parrot-learned knowledge would be absent. + +“And yet a man like Principal Fairbanks of Oxford—a man who sits in an +even higher place than you, Judge Blount—has said that Spencer will be +dismissed by posterity as a poet and dreamer rather than a thinker. +Yappers and blatherskites, the whole brood of them! ‘“First Principles” +is not wholly destitute of a certain literary power,’ said one of them. +And others of them have said that he was an industrious plodder rather +than an original thinker. Yappers and blatherskites! Yappers and +blatherskites!” + +Martin ceased abruptly, in a dead silence. Everybody in Ruth’s family +looked up to Judge Blount as a man of power and achievement, and they +were horrified at Martin’s outbreak. The remainder of the dinner passed +like a funeral, the judge and Mr. Morse confining their talk to each +other, and the rest of the conversation being extremely desultory. Then +afterward, when Ruth and Martin were alone, there was a scene. + +“You are unbearable,” she wept. + +But his anger still smouldered, and he kept muttering, “The beasts! The +beasts!” + +When she averred he had insulted the judge, he retorted:- + +“By telling the truth about him?” + +“I don’t care whether it was true or not,” she insisted. “There are +certain bounds of decency, and you had no license to insult anybody.” + +“Then where did Judge Blount get the license to assault truth?” Martin +demanded. “Surely to assault truth is a more serious misdemeanor than +to insult a pygmy personality such as the judge’s. He did worse than +that. He blackened the name of a great, noble man who is dead. Oh, the +beasts! The beasts!” + +His complex anger flamed afresh, and Ruth was in terror of him. Never +had she seen him so angry, and it was all mystified and unreasonable to +her comprehension. And yet, through her very terror ran the fibres of +fascination that had drawn and that still drew her to him—that had +compelled her to lean towards him, and, in that mad, culminating +moment, lay her hands upon his neck. She was hurt and outraged by what +had taken place, and yet she lay in his arms and quivered while he went +on muttering, “The beasts! The beasts!” And she still lay there when he +said: “I’ll not bother your table again, dear. They do not like me, and +it is wrong of me to thrust my objectionable presence upon them. +Besides, they are just as objectionable to me. Faugh! They are +sickening. And to think of it, I dreamed in my innocence that the +persons who sat in the high places, who lived in fine houses and had +educations and bank accounts, were worth while!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + +“Come on, let’s go down to the local.” + +So spoke Brissenden, faint from a hemorrhage of half an hour before—the +second hemorrhage in three days. The perennial whiskey glass was in his +hands, and he drained it with shaking fingers. + +“What do I want with socialism?” Martin demanded. + +“Outsiders are allowed five-minute speeches,” the sick man urged. “Get +up and spout. Tell them why you don’t want socialism. Tell them what +you think about them and their ghetto ethics. Slam Nietzsche into them +and get walloped for your pains. Make a scrap of it. It will do them +good. Discussion is what they want, and what you want, too. You see, +I’d like to see you a socialist before I’m gone. It will give you a +sanction for your existence. It is the one thing that will save you in +the time of disappointment that is coming to you.” + +“I never can puzzle out why you, of all men, are a socialist,” Martin +pondered. “You detest the crowd so. Surely there is nothing in the +canaille to recommend it to your aesthetic soul.” He pointed an +accusing finger at the whiskey glass which the other was refilling. +“Socialism doesn’t seem to save you.” + +“I’m very sick,” was the answer. “With you it is different. You have +health and much to live for, and you must be handcuffed to life +somehow. As for me, you wonder why I am a socialist. I’ll tell you. It +is because Socialism is inevitable; because the present rotten and +irrational system cannot endure; because the day is past for your man +on horseback. The slaves won’t stand for it. They are too many, and +willy-nilly they’ll drag down the would-be equestrian before ever he +gets astride. You can’t get away from them, and you’ll have to swallow +the whole slave-morality. It’s not a nice mess, I’ll allow. But it’s +been a-brewing and swallow it you must. You are antediluvian anyway, +with your Nietzsche ideas. The past is past, and the man who says +history repeats itself is a liar. Of course I don’t like the crowd, but +what’s a poor chap to do? We can’t have the man on horseback, and +anything is preferable to the timid swine that now rule. But come on, +anyway. I’m loaded to the guards now, and if I sit here any longer, +I’ll get drunk. And you know the doctor says—damn the doctor! I’ll fool +him yet.” + +It was Sunday night, and they found the small hall packed by the +Oakland socialists, chiefly members of the working class. The speaker, +a clever Jew, won Martin’s admiration at the same time that he aroused +his antagonism. The man’s stooped and narrow shoulders and weazened +chest proclaimed him the true child of the crowded ghetto, and strong +on Martin was the age-long struggle of the feeble, wretched slaves +against the lordly handful of men who had ruled over them and would +rule over them to the end of time. To Martin this withered wisp of a +creature was a symbol. He was the figure that stood forth +representative of the whole miserable mass of weaklings and +inefficients who perished according to biological law on the ragged +confines of life. They were the unfit. In spite of their cunning +philosophy and of their antlike proclivities for coöperation, Nature +rejected them for the exceptional man. Out of the plentiful spawn of +life she flung from her prolific hand she selected only the best. It +was by the same method that men, aping her, bred race-horses and +cucumbers. Doubtless, a creator of a Cosmos could have devised a better +method; but creatures of this particular Cosmos must put up with this +particular method. Of course, they could squirm as they perished, as +the socialists squirmed, as the speaker on the platform and the +perspiring crowd were squirming even now as they counselled together +for some new device with which to minimize the penalties of living and +outwit the Cosmos. + +So Martin thought, and so he spoke when Brissenden urged him to give +them hell. He obeyed the mandate, walking up to the platform, as was +the custom, and addressing the chairman. He began in a low voice, +haltingly, forming into order the ideas which had surged in his brain +while the Jew was speaking. In such meetings five minutes was the time +allotted to each speaker; but when Martin’s five minutes were up, he +was in full stride, his attack upon their doctrines but half completed. +He had caught their interest, and the audience urged the chairman by +acclamation to extend Martin’s time. They appreciated him as a foeman +worthy of their intellect, and they listened intently, following every +word. He spoke with fire and conviction, mincing no words in his attack +upon the slaves and their morality and tactics and frankly alluding to +his hearers as the slaves in question. He quoted Spencer and Malthus, +and enunciated the biological law of development. + +“And so,” he concluded, in a swift résumé, “no state composed of the +slave-types can endure. The old law of development still holds. In the +struggle for existence, as I have shown, the strong and the progeny of +the strong tend to survive, while the weak and the progeny of the weak +are crushed and tend to perish. The result is that the strong and the +progeny of the strong survive, and, so long as the struggle obtains, +the strength of each generation increases. That is development. But you +slaves—it is too bad to be slaves, I grant—but you slaves dream of a +society where the law of development will be annulled, where no +weaklings and inefficients will perish, where every inefficient will +have as much as he wants to eat as many times a day as he desires, and +where all will marry and have progeny—the weak as well as the strong. +What will be the result? No longer will the strength and life-value of +each generation increase. On the contrary, it will diminish. There is +the Nemesis of your slave philosophy. Your society of slaves—of, by, +and for, slaves—must inevitably weaken and go to pieces as the life +which composes it weakens and goes to pieces. + +“Remember, I am enunciating biology and not sentimental ethics. No +state of slaves can stand—” + +“How about the United States?” a man yelled from the audience. + +“And how about it?” Martin retorted. “The thirteen colonies threw off +their rulers and formed the Republic so-called. The slaves were their +own masters. There were no more masters of the sword. But you couldn’t +get along without masters of some sort, and there arose a new set of +masters—not the great, virile, noble men, but the shrewd and spidery +traders and money-lenders. And they enslaved you over again—but not +frankly, as the true, noble men would do with weight of their own right +arms, but secretly, by spidery machinations and by wheedling and +cajolery and lies. They have purchased your slave judges, they have +debauched your slave legislatures, and they have forced to worse +horrors than chattel slavery your slave boys and girls. Two million of +your children are toiling to-day in this trader-oligarchy of the United +States. Ten millions of you slaves are not properly sheltered nor +properly fed. + +“But to return. I have shown that no society of slaves can endure, +because, in its very nature, such society must annul the law of +development. No sooner can a slave society be organized than +deterioration sets in. It is easy for you to talk of annulling the law +of development, but where is the new law of development that will +maintain your strength? Formulate it. Is it already formulated? Then +state it.” + +Martin took his seat amidst an uproar of voices. A score of men were on +their feet clamoring for recognition from the chair. And one by one, +encouraged by vociferous applause, speaking with fire and enthusiasm +and excited gestures, they replied to the attack. It was a wild +night—but it was wild intellectually, a battle of ideas. Some strayed +from the point, but most of the speakers replied directly to Martin. +They shook him with lines of thought that were new to him; and gave him +insights, not into new biological laws, but into new applications of +the old laws. They were too earnest to be always polite, and more than +once the chairman rapped and pounded for order. + +It chanced that a cub reporter sat in the audience, detailed there on a +day dull of news and impressed by the urgent need of journalism for +sensation. He was not a bright cub reporter. He was merely facile and +glib. He was too dense to follow the discussion. In fact, he had a +comfortable feeling that he was vastly superior to these wordy maniacs +of the working class. Also, he had a great respect for those who sat in +the high places and dictated the policies of nations and newspapers. +Further, he had an ideal, namely, of achieving that excellence of the +perfect reporter who is able to make something—even a great deal—out of +nothing. + +He did not know what all the talk was about. It was not necessary. +Words like _revolution_ gave him his cue. Like a paleontologist, able +to reconstruct an entire skeleton from one fossil bone, he was able to +reconstruct a whole speech from the one word _revolution_. He did it +that night, and he did it well; and since Martin had made the biggest +stir, he put it all into his mouth and made him the arch-anarch of the +show, transforming his reactionary individualism into the most lurid, +red-shirt socialist utterance. The cub reporter was an artist, and it +was a large brush with which he laid on the local color—wild-eyed +long-haired men, neurasthenic and degenerate types of men, voices +shaken with passion, clenched fists raised on high, and all projected +against a background of oaths, yells, and the throaty rumbling of angry +men. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + + +Over the coffee, in his little room, Martin read next morning’s paper. +It was a novel experience to find himself head-lined, on the first page +at that; and he was surprised to learn that he was the most notorious +leader of the Oakland socialists. He ran over the violent speech the +cub reporter had constructed for him, and, though at first he was +angered by the fabrication, in the end he tossed the paper aside with a +laugh. + +“Either the man was drunk or criminally malicious,” he said that +afternoon, from his perch on the bed, when Brissenden had arrived and +dropped limply into the one chair. + +“But what do you care?” Brissenden asked. “Surely you don’t desire the +approval of the bourgeois swine that read the newspapers?” + +Martin thought for a while, then said:- + +“No, I really don’t care for their approval, not a whit. On the other +hand, it’s very likely to make my relations with Ruth’s family a trifle +awkward. Her father always contended I was a socialist, and this +miserable stuff will clinch his belief. Not that I care for his +opinion—but what’s the odds? I want to read you what I’ve been doing +to-day. It’s ‘Overdue,’ of course, and I’m just about halfway through.” + +He was reading aloud when Maria thrust open the door and ushered in a +young man in a natty suit who glanced briskly about him, noting the +oil-burner and the kitchen in the corner before his gaze wandered on to +Martin. + +“Sit down,” Brissenden said. + +Martin made room for the young man on the bed and waited for him to +broach his business. + +“I heard you speak last night, Mr. Eden, and I’ve come to interview +you,” he began. + +Brissenden burst out in a hearty laugh. + +“A brother socialist?” the reporter asked, with a quick glance at +Brissenden that appraised the color-value of that cadaverous and dying +man. + +“And he wrote that report,” Martin said softly. “Why, he is only a +boy!” + +“Why don’t you poke him?” Brissenden asked. “I’d give a thousand +dollars to have my lungs back for five minutes.” + +The cub reporter was a trifle perplexed by this talking over him and +around him and at him. But he had been commended for his brilliant +description of the socialist meeting and had further been detailed to +get a personal interview with Martin Eden, the leader of the organized +menace to society. + +“You do not object to having your picture taken, Mr. Eden?” he said. +“I’ve a staff photographer outside, you see, and he says it will be +better to take you right away before the sun gets lower. Then we can +have the interview afterward.” + +“A photographer,” Brissenden said meditatively. “Poke him, Martin! Poke +him!” + +“I guess I’m getting old,” was the answer. “I know I ought, but I +really haven’t the heart. It doesn’t seem to matter.” + +“For his mother’s sake,” Brissenden urged. + +“It’s worth considering,” Martin replied; “but it doesn’t seem worth +while enough to rouse sufficient energy in me. You see, it does take +energy to give a fellow a poking. Besides, what does it matter?” + +“That’s right—that’s the way to take it,” the cub announced airily, +though he had already begun to glance anxiously at the door. + +“But it wasn’t true, not a word of what he wrote,” Martin went on, +confining his attention to Brissenden. + +“It was just in a general way a description, you understand,” the cub +ventured, “and besides, it’s good advertising. That’s what counts. It +was a favor to you.” + +“It’s good advertising, Martin, old boy,” Brissenden repeated solemnly. + +“And it was a favor to me—think of that!” was Martin’s contribution. + +“Let me see—where were you born, Mr. Eden?” the cub asked, assuming an +air of expectant attention. + +“He doesn’t take notes,” said Brissenden. “He remembers it all.” + +“That is sufficient for me.” The cub was trying not to look worried. +“No decent reporter needs to bother with notes.” + +“That was sufficient—for last night.” But Brissenden was not a disciple +of quietism, and he changed his attitude abruptly. “Martin, if you +don’t poke him, I’ll do it myself, if I fall dead on the floor the next +moment.” + +“How will a spanking do?” Martin asked. + +Brissenden considered judicially, and nodded his head. + +The next instant Martin was seated on the edge of the bed with the cub +face downward across his knees. + +“Now don’t bite,” Martin warned, “or else I’ll have to punch your face. +It would be a pity, for it is such a pretty face.” + +His uplifted hand descended, and thereafter rose and fell in a swift +and steady rhythm. The cub struggled and cursed and squirmed, but did +not offer to bite. Brissenden looked on gravely, though once he grew +excited and gripped the whiskey bottle, pleading, “Here, just let me +swat him once.” + +“Sorry my hand played out,” Martin said, when at last he desisted. “It +is quite numb.” + +He uprighted the cub and perched him on the bed. + +“I’ll have you arrested for this,” he snarled, tears of boyish +indignation running down his flushed cheeks. “I’ll make you sweat for +this. You’ll see.” + +“The pretty thing,” Martin remarked. “He doesn’t realize that he has +entered upon the downward path. It is not honest, it is not square, it +is not manly, to tell lies about one’s fellow-creatures the way he has +done, and he doesn’t know it.” + +“He has to come to us to be told,” Brissenden filled in a pause. + +“Yes, to me whom he has maligned and injured. My grocery will +undoubtedly refuse me credit now. The worst of it is that the poor boy +will keep on this way until he deteriorates into a first-class +newspaper man and also a first-class scoundrel.” + +“But there is yet time,” quoth Brissenden. “Who knows but what you may +prove the humble instrument to save him. Why didn’t you let me swat him +just once? I’d like to have had a hand in it.” + +“I’ll have you arrested, the pair of you, you b-b-big brutes,” sobbed +the erring soul. + +“No, his mouth is too pretty and too weak.” Martin shook his head +lugubriously. “I’m afraid I’ve numbed my hand in vain. The young man +cannot reform. He will become eventually a very great and successful +newspaper man. He has no conscience. That alone will make him great.” + +With that the cub passed out the door in trepidation to the last for +fear that Brissenden would hit him in the back with the bottle he still +clutched. + +In the next morning’s paper Martin learned a great deal more about +himself that was new to him. “We are the sworn enemies of society,” he +found himself quoted as saying in a column interview. “No, we are not +anarchists but socialists.” When the reporter pointed out to him that +there seemed little difference between the two schools, Martin had +shrugged his shoulders in silent affirmation. His face was described as +bilaterally asymmetrical, and various other signs of degeneration were +described. Especially notable were his thuglike hands and the fiery +gleams in his blood-shot eyes. + +He learned, also, that he spoke nightly to the workmen in the City Hall +Park, and that among the anarchists and agitators that there inflamed +the minds of the people he drew the largest audiences and made the most +revolutionary speeches. The cub painted a high-light picture of his +poor little room, its oil-stove and the one chair, and of the +death’s-head tramp who kept him company and who looked as if he had +just emerged from twenty years of solitary confinement in some fortress +dungeon. + +The cub had been industrious. He had scurried around and nosed out +Martin’s family history, and procured a photograph of Higginbotham’s +Cash Store with Bernard Higginbotham himself standing out in front. +That gentleman was depicted as an intelligent, dignified businessman +who had no patience with his brother-in-law’s socialistic views, and no +patience with the brother-in-law, either, whom he was quoted as +characterizing as a lazy good-for-nothing who wouldn’t take a job when +it was offered to him and who would go to jail yet. Hermann von +Schmidt, Marian’s husband, had likewise been interviewed. He had called +Martin the black sheep of the family and repudiated him. “He tried to +sponge off of me, but I put a stop to that good and quick,” Von Schmidt +had said to the reporter. “He knows better than to come bumming around +here. A man who won’t work is no good, take that from me.” + +This time Martin was genuinely angry. Brissenden looked upon the affair +as a good joke, but he could not console Martin, who knew that it would +be no easy task to explain to Ruth. As for her father, he knew that he +must be overjoyed with what had happened and that he would make the +most of it to break off the engagement. How much he would make of it he +was soon to realize. The afternoon mail brought a letter from Ruth. +Martin opened it with a premonition of disaster, and read it standing +at the open door when he had received it from the postman. As he read, +mechanically his hand sought his pocket for the tobacco and brown paper +of his old cigarette days. He was not aware that the pocket was empty +or that he had even reached for the materials with which to roll a +cigarette. + +It was not a passionate letter. There were no touches of anger in it. +But all the way through, from the first sentence to the last, was +sounded the note of hurt and disappointment. She had expected better of +him. She had thought he had got over his youthful wildness, that her +love for him had been sufficiently worth while to enable him to live +seriously and decently. And now her father and mother had taken a firm +stand and commanded that the engagement be broken. That they were +justified in this she could not but admit. Their relation could never +be a happy one. It had been unfortunate from the first. But one regret +she voiced in the whole letter, and it was a bitter one to Martin. “If +only you had settled down to some position and attempted to make +something of yourself,” she wrote. “But it was not to be. Your past +life had been too wild and irregular. I can understand that you are not +to be blamed. You could act only according to your nature and your +early training. So I do not blame you, Martin. Please remember that. It +was simply a mistake. As father and mother have contended, we were not +made for each other, and we should both be happy because it was +discovered not too late.” . . “There is no use trying to see me,” she +said toward the last. “It would be an unhappy meeting for both of us, +as well as for my mother. I feel, as it is, that I have caused her +great pain and worry. I shall have to do much living to atone for it.” + +He read it through to the end, carefully, a second time, then sat down +and replied. He outlined the remarks he had uttered at the socialist +meeting, pointing out that they were in all ways the converse of what +the newspaper had put in his mouth. Toward the end of the letter he was +God’s own lover pleading passionately for love. “Please answer,” he +said, “and in your answer you have to tell me but one thing. Do you +love me? That is all—the answer to that one question.” + +But no answer came the next day, nor the next. “Overdue” lay untouched +upon the table, and each day the heap of returned manuscripts under the +table grew larger. For the first time Martin’s glorious sleep was +interrupted by insomnia, and he tossed through long, restless nights. +Three times he called at the Morse home, but was turned away by the +servant who answered the bell. Brissenden lay sick in his hotel, too +feeble to stir out, and, though Martin was with him often, he did not +worry him with his troubles. + +For Martin’s troubles were many. The aftermath of the cub reporter’s +deed was even wider than Martin had anticipated. The Portuguese grocer +refused him further credit, while the greengrocer, who was an American +and proud of it, had called him a traitor to his country and refused +further dealings with him—carrying his patriotism to such a degree that +he cancelled Martin’s account and forbade him ever to attempt to pay +it. The talk in the neighborhood reflected the same feeling, and +indignation against Martin ran high. No one would have anything to do +with a socialist traitor. Poor Maria was dubious and frightened, but +she remained loyal. The children of the neighborhood recovered from the +awe of the grand carriage which once had visited Martin, and from safe +distances they called him “hobo” and “bum.” The Silva tribe, however, +stanchly defended him, fighting more than one pitched battle for his +honor, and black eyes and bloody noses became quite the order of the +day and added to Maria’s perplexities and troubles. + +Once, Martin met Gertrude on the street, down in Oakland, and learned +what he knew could not be otherwise—that Bernard Higginbotham was +furious with him for having dragged the family into public disgrace, +and that he had forbidden him the house. + +“Why don’t you go away, Martin?” Gertrude had begged. “Go away and get +a job somewhere and steady down. Afterwards, when this all blows over, +you can come back.” + +Martin shook his head, but gave no explanations. How could he explain? +He was appalled at the awful intellectual chasm that yawned between him +and his people. He could never cross it and explain to them his +position,—the Nietzschean position, in regard to socialism. There were +not words enough in the English language, nor in any language, to make +his attitude and conduct intelligible to them. Their highest concept of +right conduct, in his case, was to get a job. That was their first word +and their last. It constituted their whole lexicon of ideas. Get a job! +Go to work! Poor, stupid slaves, he thought, while his sister talked. +Small wonder the world belonged to the strong. The slaves were obsessed +by their own slavery. A job was to them a golden fetich before which +they fell down and worshipped. + +He shook his head again, when Gertrude offered him money, though he +knew that within the day he would have to make a trip to the +pawnbroker. + +“Don’t come near Bernard now,” she admonished him. “After a few months, +when he is cooled down, if you want to, you can get the job of drivin’ +delivery-wagon for him. Any time you want me, just send for me an’ I’ll +come. Don’t forget.” + +She went away weeping audibly, and he felt a pang of sorrow shoot +through him at sight of her heavy body and uncouth gait. As he watched +her go, the Nietzschean edifice seemed to shake and totter. The +slave-class in the abstract was all very well, but it was not wholly +satisfactory when it was brought home to his own family. And yet, if +there was ever a slave trampled by the strong, that slave was his +sister Gertrude. He grinned savagely at the paradox. A fine +Nietzsche-man he was, to allow his intellectual concepts to be shaken +by the first sentiment or emotion that strayed along—ay, to be shaken +by the slave-morality itself, for that was what his pity for his sister +really was. The true noble men were above pity and compassion. Pity and +compassion had been generated in the subterranean barracoons of the +slaves and were no more than the agony and sweat of the crowded +miserables and weaklings. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + + +“Overdue” still continued to lie forgotten on the table. Every +manuscript that he had had out now lay under the table. Only one +manuscript he kept going, and that was Brissenden’s “Ephemera.” His +bicycle and black suit were again in pawn, and the type-writer people +were once more worrying about the rent. But such things no longer +bothered him. He was seeking a new orientation, and until that was +found his life must stand still. + +After several weeks, what he had been waiting for happened. He met Ruth +on the street. It was true, she was accompanied by her brother, Norman, +and it was true that they tried to ignore him and that Norman attempted +to wave him aside. + +“If you interfere with my sister, I’ll call an officer,” Norman +threatened. “She does not wish to speak with you, and your insistence +is insult.” + +“If you persist, you’ll have to call that officer, and then you’ll get +your name in the papers,” Martin answered grimly. “And now, get out of +my way and get the officer if you want to. I’m going to talk with +Ruth.” + +“I want to have it from your own lips,” he said to her. + +She was pale and trembling, but she held up and looked inquiringly. + +“The question I asked in my letter,” he prompted. + +Norman made an impatient movement, but Martin checked him with a swift +look. + +She shook her head. + +“Is all this of your own free will?” he demanded. + +“It is.” She spoke in a low, firm voice and with deliberation. “It is +of my own free will. You have disgraced me so that I am ashamed to meet +my friends. They are all talking about me, I know. That is all I can +tell you. You have made me very unhappy, and I never wish to see you +again.” + +“Friends! Gossip! Newspaper misreports! Surely such things are not +stronger than love! I can only believe that you never loved me.” + +A blush drove the pallor from her face. + +“After what has passed?” she said faintly. “Martin, you do not know +what you are saying. I am not common.” + +“You see, she doesn’t want to have anything to do with you,” Norman +blurted out, starting on with her. + +Martin stood aside and let them pass, fumbling unconsciously in his +coat pocket for the tobacco and brown papers that were not there. + +It was a long walk to North Oakland, but it was not until he went up +the steps and entered his room that he knew he had walked it. He found +himself sitting on the edge of the bed and staring about him like an +awakened somnambulist. He noticed “Overdue” lying on the table and drew +up his chair and reached for his pen. There was in his nature a logical +compulsion toward completeness. Here was something undone. It had been +deferred against the completion of something else. Now that something +else had been finished, and he would apply himself to this task until +it was finished. What he would do next he did not know. All that he did +know was that a climacteric in his life had been attained. A period had +been reached, and he was rounding it off in workman-like fashion. He +was not curious about the future. He would soon enough find out what it +held in store for him. Whatever it was, it did not matter. Nothing +seemed to matter. + +For five days he toiled on at “Overdue,” going nowhere, seeing nobody, +and eating meagrely. On the morning of the sixth day the postman +brought him a thin letter from the editor of _The Parthenon_. A glance +told him that “Ephemera” was accepted. “We have submitted the poem to +Mr. Cartwright Bruce,” the editor went on to say, “and he has reported +so favorably upon it that we cannot let it go. As an earnest of our +pleasure in publishing the poem, let me tell you that we have set it +for the August number, our July number being already made up. Kindly +extend our pleasure and our thanks to Mr. Brissenden. Please send by +return mail his photograph and biographical data. If our honorarium is +unsatisfactory, kindly telegraph us at once and state what you consider +a fair price.” + +Since the honorarium they had offered was three hundred and fifty +dollars, Martin thought it not worth while to telegraph. Then, too, +there was Brissenden’s consent to be gained. Well, he had been right, +after all. Here was one magazine editor who knew real poetry when he +saw it. And the price was splendid, even though it was for the poem of +a century. As for Cartwright Bruce, Martin knew that he was the one +critic for whose opinions Brissenden had any respect. + +Martin rode down town on an electric car, and as he watched the houses +and cross-streets slipping by he was aware of a regret that he was not +more elated over his friend’s success and over his own signal victory. +The one critic in the United States had pronounced favorably on the +poem, while his own contention that good stuff could find its way into +the magazines had proved correct. But enthusiasm had lost its spring in +him, and he found that he was more anxious to see Brissenden than he +was to carry the good news. The acceptance of _The Parthenon_ had +recalled to him that during his five days’ devotion to “Overdue” he had +not heard from Brissenden nor even thought about him. For the first +time Martin realized the daze he had been in, and he felt shame for +having forgotten his friend. But even the shame did not burn very +sharply. He was numb to emotions of any sort save the artistic ones +concerned in the writing of “Overdue.” So far as other affairs were +concerned, he had been in a trance. For that matter, he was still in a +trance. All this life through which the electric car whirred seemed +remote and unreal, and he would have experienced little interest and +less shock if the great stone steeple of the church he passed had +suddenly crumbled to mortar-dust upon his head. + +At the hotel he hurried up to Brissenden’s room, and hurried down +again. The room was empty. All luggage was gone. + +“Did Mr. Brissenden leave any address?” he asked the clerk, who looked +at him curiously for a moment. + +“Haven’t you heard?” he asked. + +Martin shook his head. + +“Why, the papers were full of it. He was found dead in bed. Suicide. +Shot himself through the head.” + +“Is he buried yet?” Martin seemed to hear his voice, like some one +else’s voice, from a long way off, asking the question. + +“No. The body was shipped East after the inquest. Lawyers engaged by +his people saw to the arrangements.” + +“They were quick about it, I must say,” Martin commented. + +“Oh, I don’t know. It happened five days ago.” + +“Five days ago?” + +“Yes, five days ago.” + +“Oh,” Martin said as he turned and went out. + +At the corner he stepped into the Western Union and sent a telegram to +_The Parthenon_, advising them to proceed with the publication of the +poem. He had in his pocket but five cents with which to pay his carfare +home, so he sent the message collect. + +Once in his room, he resumed his writing. The days and nights came and +went, and he sat at his table and wrote on. He went nowhere, save to +the pawnbroker, took no exercise, and ate methodically when he was +hungry and had something to cook, and just as methodically went without +when he had nothing to cook. Composed as the story was, in advance, +chapter by chapter, he nevertheless saw and developed an opening that +increased the power of it, though it necessitated twenty thousand +additional words. It was not that there was any vital need that the +thing should be well done, but that his artistic canons compelled him +to do it well. He worked on in the daze, strangely detached from the +world around him, feeling like a familiar ghost among these literary +trappings of his former life. He remembered that some one had said that +a ghost was the spirit of a man who was dead and who did not have sense +enough to know it; and he paused for the moment to wonder if he were +really dead and unaware of it. + +Came the day when “Overdue” was finished. The agent of the type-writer +firm had come for the machine, and he sat on the bed while Martin, on +the one chair, typed the last pages of the final chapter. “Finis,” he +wrote, in capitals, at the end, and to him it was indeed finis. He +watched the type-writer carried out the door with a feeling of relief, +then went over and lay down on the bed. He was faint from hunger. Food +had not passed his lips in thirty-six hours, but he did not think about +it. He lay on his back, with closed eyes, and did not think at all, +while the daze or stupor slowly welled up, saturating his +consciousness. Half in delirium, he began muttering aloud the lines of +an anonymous poem Brissenden had been fond of quoting to him. Maria, +listening anxiously outside his door, was perturbed by his monotonous +utterance. The words in themselves were not significant to her, but the +fact that he was saying them was. “I have done,” was the burden of the +poem. + +“‘I have done— +Put by the lute. +Song and singing soon are over +As the airy shades that hover +In among the purple clover. +I have done— +Put by the lute. +Once I sang as early thrushes +Sing among the dewy bushes; +Now I’m mute. +I am like a weary linnet, +For my throat has no song in it; +I have had my singing minute. +I have done. +Put by the lute.’” + + +Maria could stand it no longer, and hurried away to the stove, where +she filled a quart-bowl with soup, putting into it the lion’s share of +chopped meat and vegetables which her ladle scraped from the bottom of +the pot. Martin roused himself and sat up and began to eat, between +spoonfuls reassuring Maria that he had not been talking in his sleep +and that he did not have any fever. + +After she left him he sat drearily, with drooping shoulders, on the +edge of the bed, gazing about him with lack-lustre eyes that saw +nothing until the torn wrapper of a magazine, which had come in the +morning’s mail and which lay unopened, shot a gleam of light into his +darkened brain. It is _The Parthenon_, he thought, the August +_Parthenon_, and it must contain “Ephemera.” If only Brissenden were +here to see! + +He was turning the pages of the magazine, when suddenly he stopped. +“Ephemera” had been featured, with gorgeous head-piece and +Beardsley-like margin decorations. On one side of the head-piece was +Brissenden’s photograph, on the other side was the photograph of Sir +John Value, the British Ambassador. A preliminary editorial note quoted +Sir John Value as saying that there were no poets in America, and the +publication of “Ephemera” was _The Parthenon’s_. “There, take that, Sir +John Value!” Cartwright Bruce was described as the greatest critic in +America, and he was quoted as saying that “Ephemera” was the greatest +poem ever written in America. And finally, the editor’s foreword ended +with: “We have not yet made up our minds entirely as to the merits of +“Ephemera”; perhaps we shall never be able to do so. But we have read +it often, wondering at the words and their arrangement, wondering where +Mr. Brissenden got them, and how he could fasten them together.” Then +followed the poem. + +“Pretty good thing you died, Briss, old man,” Martin murmured, letting +the magazine slip between his knees to the floor. + +The cheapness and vulgarity of it was nauseating, and Martin noted +apathetically that he was not nauseated very much. He wished he could +get angry, but did not have energy enough to try. He was too numb. His +blood was too congealed to accelerate to the swift tidal flow of +indignation. After all, what did it matter? It was on a par with all +the rest that Brissenden had condemned in bourgeois society. + +“Poor Briss,” Martin communed; “he would never have forgiven me.” + +Rousing himself with an effort, he possessed himself of a box which had +once contained type-writer paper. Going through its contents, he drew +forth eleven poems which his friend had written. These he tore +lengthwise and crosswise and dropped into the waste basket. He did it +languidly, and, when he had finished, sat on the edge of the bed +staring blankly before him. + +How long he sat there he did not know, until, suddenly, across his +sightless vision he saw form a long horizontal line of white. It was +curious. But as he watched it grow in definiteness he saw that it was a +coral reef smoking in the white Pacific surges. Next, in the line of +breakers he made out a small canoe, an outrigger canoe. In the stern he +saw a young bronzed god in scarlet hip-cloth dipping a flashing paddle. +He recognized him. He was Moti, the youngest son of Tati, the chief, +and this was Tahiti, and beyond that smoking reef lay the sweet land of +Papara and the chief’s grass house by the river’s mouth. It was the end +of the day, and Moti was coming home from the fishing. He was waiting +for the rush of a big breaker whereon to jump the reef. Then he saw +himself, sitting forward in the canoe as he had often sat in the past, +dipping a paddle that waited Moti’s word to dig in like mad when the +turquoise wall of the great breaker rose behind them. Next, he was no +longer an onlooker but was himself in the canoe, Moti was crying out, +they were both thrusting hard with their paddles, racing on the steep +face of the flying turquoise. Under the bow the water was hissing as +from a steam jet, the air was filled with driven spray, there was a +rush and rumble and long-echoing roar, and the canoe floated on the +placid water of the lagoon. Moti laughed and shook the salt water from +his eyes, and together they paddled in to the pounded-coral beach where +Tati’s grass walls through the cocoanut-palms showed golden in the +setting sun. + +The picture faded, and before his eyes stretched the disorder of his +squalid room. He strove in vain to see Tahiti again. He knew there was +singing among the trees and that the maidens were dancing in the +moonlight, but he could not see them. He could see only the littered +writing-table, the empty space where the type-writer had stood, and the +unwashed window-pane. He closed his eyes with a groan, and slept. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + + +He slept heavily all night, and did not stir until aroused by the +postman on his morning round. Martin felt tired and passive, and went +through his letters aimlessly. One thin envelope, from a robber +magazine, contained a check for twenty-two dollars. He had been dunning +for it for a year and a half. He noted its amount apathetically. The +old-time thrill at receiving a publisher’s check was gone. Unlike his +earlier checks, this one was not pregnant with promise of great things +to come. To him it was a check for twenty-two dollars, that was all, +and it would buy him something to eat. + +Another check was in the same mail, sent from a New York weekly in +payment for some humorous verse which had been accepted months before. +It was for ten dollars. An idea came to him, which he calmly +considered. He did not know what he was going to do, and he felt in no +hurry to do anything. In the meantime he must live. Also he owed +numerous debts. Would it not be a paying investment to put stamps on +the huge pile of manuscripts under the table and start them on their +travels again? One or two of them might be accepted. That would help +him to live. He decided on the investment, and, after he had cashed the +checks at the bank down in Oakland, he bought ten dollars’ worth of +postage stamps. The thought of going home to cook breakfast in his +stuffy little room was repulsive to him. For the first time he refused +to consider his debts. He knew that in his room he could manufacture a +substantial breakfast at a cost of from fifteen to twenty cents. But, +instead, he went into the Forum Café and ordered a breakfast that cost +two dollars. He tipped the waiter a quarter, and spent fifty cents for +a package of Egyptian cigarettes. It was the first time he had smoked +since Ruth had asked him to stop. But he could see now no reason why he +should not, and besides, he wanted to smoke. And what did the money +matter? For five cents he could have bought a package of Durham and +brown papers and rolled forty cigarettes—but what of it? Money had no +meaning to him now except what it would immediately buy. He was +chartless and rudderless, and he had no port to make, while drifting +involved the least living, and it was living that hurt. + +The days slipped along, and he slept eight hours regularly every night. +Though now, while waiting for more checks, he ate in the Japanese +restaurants where meals were served for ten cents, his wasted body +filled out, as did the hollows in his cheeks. He no longer abused +himself with short sleep, overwork, and overstudy. He wrote nothing, +and the books were closed. He walked much, out in the hills, and loafed +long hours in the quiet parks. He had no friends nor acquaintances, nor +did he make any. He had no inclination. He was waiting for some +impulse, from he knew not where, to put his stopped life into motion +again. In the meantime his life remained run down, planless, and empty +and idle. + +Once he made a trip to San Francisco to look up the “real dirt.” But at +the last moment, as he stepped into the upstairs entrance, he recoiled +and turned and fled through the swarming ghetto. He was frightened at +the thought of hearing philosophy discussed, and he fled furtively, for +fear that some one of the “real dirt” might chance along and recognize +him. + +Sometimes he glanced over the magazines and newspapers to see how +“Ephemera” was being maltreated. It had made a hit. But what a hit! +Everybody had read it, and everybody was discussing whether or not it +was really poetry. The local papers had taken it up, and daily there +appeared columns of learned criticisms, facetious editorials, and +serious letters from subscribers. Helen Della Delmar (proclaimed with a +flourish of trumpets and rolling of tomtoms to be the greatest woman +poet in the United States) denied Brissenden a seat beside her on +Pegasus and wrote voluminous letters to the public, proving that he was +no poet. + +_The Parthenon_ came out in its next number patting itself on the back +for the stir it had made, sneering at Sir John Value, and exploiting +Brissenden’s death with ruthless commercialism. A newspaper with a +sworn circulation of half a million published an original and +spontaneous poem by Helen Della Delmar, in which she gibed and sneered +at Brissenden. Also, she was guilty of a second poem, in which she +parodied him. + +Martin had many times to be glad that Brissenden was dead. He had hated +the crowd so, and here all that was finest and most sacred of him had +been thrown to the crowd. Daily the vivisection of Beauty went on. +Every nincompoop in the land rushed into free print, floating their +wizened little egos into the public eye on the surge of Brissenden’s +greatness. Quoth one paper: “We have received a letter from a gentleman +who wrote a poem just like it, only better, some time ago.” Another +paper, in deadly seriousness, reproving Helen Della Delmar for her +parody, said: “But unquestionably Miss Delmar wrote it in a moment of +badinage and not quite with the respect that one great poet should show +to another and perhaps to the greatest. However, whether Miss Delmar be +jealous or not of the man who invented ‘Ephemera,’ it is certain that +she, like thousands of others, is fascinated by his work, and that the +day may come when she will try to write lines like his.” + +Ministers began to preach sermons against “Ephemera,” and one, who too +stoutly stood for much of its content, was expelled for heresy. The +great poem contributed to the gayety of the world. The comic +verse-writers and the cartoonists took hold of it with screaming +laughter, and in the personal columns of society weeklies jokes were +perpetrated on it to the effect that Charley Frensham told Archie +Jennings, in confidence, that five lines of “Ephemera” would drive a +man to beat a cripple, and that ten lines would send him to the bottom +of the river. + +Martin did not laugh; nor did he grit his teeth in anger. The effect +produced upon him was one of great sadness. In the crash of his whole +world, with love on the pinnacle, the crash of magazinedom and the dear +public was a small crash indeed. Brissenden had been wholly right in +his judgment of the magazines, and he, Martin, had spent arduous and +futile years in order to find it out for himself. The magazines were +all Brissenden had said they were and more. Well, he was done, he +solaced himself. He had hitched his wagon to a star and been landed in +a pestiferous marsh. The visions of Tahiti—clean, sweet Tahiti—were +coming to him more frequently. And there were the low Paumotus, and the +high Marquesas; he saw himself often, now, on board trading schooners +or frail little cutters, slipping out at dawn through the reef at +Papeete and beginning the long beat through the pearl-atolls to +Nukahiva and the Bay of Taiohae, where Tamari, he knew, would kill a +pig in honor of his coming, and where Tamari’s flower-garlanded +daughters would seize his hands and with song and laughter garland him +with flowers. The South Seas were calling, and he knew that sooner or +later he would answer the call. + +In the meantime he drifted, resting and recuperating after the long +traverse he had made through the realm of knowledge. When _The +Parthenon_ check of three hundred and fifty dollars was forwarded to +him, he turned it over to the local lawyer who had attended to +Brissenden’s affairs for his family. Martin took a receipt for the +check, and at the same time gave a note for the hundred dollars +Brissenden had let him have. + +The time was not long when Martin ceased patronizing the Japanese +restaurants. At the very moment when he had abandoned the fight, the +tide turned. But it had turned too late. Without a thrill he opened a +thick envelope from _The Millennium_, scanned the face of a check that +represented three hundred dollars, and noted that it was the payment on +acceptance for “Adventure.” Every debt he owed in the world, including +the pawnshop, with its usurious interest, amounted to less than a +hundred dollars. And when he had paid everything, and lifted the +hundred-dollar note with Brissenden’s lawyer, he still had over a +hundred dollars in pocket. He ordered a suit of clothes from the tailor +and ate his meals in the best cafés in town. He still slept in his +little room at Maria’s, but the sight of his new clothes caused the +neighborhood children to cease from calling him “hobo” and “tramp” from +the roofs of woodsheds and over back fences. + +“Wiki-Wiki,” his Hawaiian short story, was bought by _Warren’s Monthly_ +for two hundred and fifty dollars. _The Northern Review_ took his +essay, “The Cradle of Beauty,” and _Mackintosh’s Magazine_ took “The +Palmist”—the poem he had written to Marian. The editors and readers +were back from their summer vacations, and manuscripts were being +handled quickly. But Martin could not puzzle out what strange whim +animated them to this general acceptance of the things they had +persistently rejected for two years. Nothing of his had been published. +He was not known anywhere outside of Oakland, and in Oakland, with the +few who thought they knew him, he was notorious as a red-shirt and a +socialist. So there was no explaining this sudden acceptability of his +wares. It was sheer jugglery of fate. + +After it had been refused by a number of magazines, he had taken +Brissenden’s rejected advice and started “The Shame of the Sun” on the +round of publishers. After several refusals, Singletree, Darnley & Co. +accepted it, promising fall publication. When Martin asked for an +advance on royalties, they wrote that such was not their custom, that +books of that nature rarely paid for themselves, and that they doubted +if his book would sell a thousand copies. Martin figured what the book +would earn him on such a sale. Retailed at a dollar, on a royalty of +fifteen per cent, it would bring him one hundred and fifty dollars. He +decided that if he had it to do over again he would confine himself to +fiction. “Adventure,” one-fourth as long, had brought him twice as much +from _The Millennium_. That newspaper paragraph he had read so long ago +had been true, after all. The first-class magazines did not pay on +acceptance, and they paid well. Not two cents a word, but four cents a +word, had _The Millennium_ paid him. And, furthermore, they bought good +stuff, too, for were they not buying his? This last thought he +accompanied with a grin. + +He wrote to Singletree, Darnley & Co., offering to sell out his rights +in “The Shame of the Sun” for a hundred dollars, but they did not care +to take the risk. In the meantime he was not in need of money, for +several of his later stories had been accepted and paid for. He +actually opened a bank account, where, without a debt in the world, he +had several hundred dollars to his credit. “Overdue,” after having been +declined by a number of magazines, came to rest at the Meredith-Lowell +Company. Martin remembered the five dollars Gertrude had given him, and +his resolve to return it to her a hundred times over; so he wrote for +an advance on royalties of five hundred dollars. To his surprise a +check for that amount, accompanied by a contract, came by return mail. +He cashed the check into five-dollar gold pieces and telephoned +Gertrude that he wanted to see her. + +She arrived at the house panting and short of breath from the haste she +had made. Apprehensive of trouble, she had stuffed the few dollars she +possessed into her hand-satchel; and so sure was she that disaster had +overtaken her brother, that she stumbled forward, sobbing, into his +arms, at the same time thrusting the satchel mutely at him. + +“I’d have come myself,” he said. “But I didn’t want a row with Mr. +Higginbotham, and that is what would have surely happened.” + +“He’ll be all right after a time,” she assured him, while she wondered +what the trouble was that Martin was in. “But you’d best get a job +first an’ steady down. Bernard does like to see a man at honest work. +That stuff in the newspapers broke ’m all up. I never saw ’m so mad +before.” + +“I’m not going to get a job,” Martin said with a smile. “And you can +tell him so from me. I don’t need a job, and there’s the proof of it.” + +He emptied the hundred gold pieces into her lap in a glinting, tinkling +stream. + +“You remember that fiver you gave me the time I didn’t have carfare? +Well, there it is, with ninety-nine brothers of different ages but all +of the same size.” + +If Gertrude had been frightened when she arrived, she was now in a +panic of fear. Her fear was such that it was certitude. She was not +suspicious. She was convinced. She looked at Martin in horror, and her +heavy limbs shrank under the golden stream as though it were burning +her. + +“It’s yours,” he laughed. + +She burst into tears, and began to moan, “My poor boy, my poor boy!” + +He was puzzled for a moment. Then he divined the cause of her agitation +and handed her the Meredith-Lowell letter which had accompanied the +check. She stumbled through it, pausing now and again to wipe her eyes, +and when she had finished, said:- + +“An’ does it mean that you come by the money honestly?” + +“More honestly than if I’d won it in a lottery. I earned it.” + +Slowly faith came back to her, and she reread the letter carefully. It +took him long to explain to her the nature of the transaction which had +put the money into his possession, and longer still to get her to +understand that the money was really hers and that he did not need it. + +“I’ll put it in the bank for you,” she said finally. + +“You’ll do nothing of the sort. It’s yours, to do with as you please, +and if you won’t take it, I’ll give it to Maria. She’ll know what to do +with it. I’d suggest, though, that you hire a servant and take a good +long rest.” + +“I’m goin’ to tell Bernard all about it,” she announced, when she was +leaving. + +Martin winced, then grinned. + +“Yes, do,” he said. “And then, maybe, he’ll invite me to dinner again.” + +“Yes, he will—I’m sure he will!” she exclaimed fervently, as she drew +him to her and kissed and hugged him. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + + +One day Martin became aware that he was lonely. He was healthy and +strong, and had nothing to do. The cessation from writing and studying, +the death of Brissenden, and the estrangement from Ruth had made a big +hole in his life; and his life refused to be pinned down to good living +in cafés and the smoking of Egyptian cigarettes. It was true the South +Seas were calling to him, but he had a feeling that the game was not +yet played out in the United States. Two books were soon to be +published, and he had more books that might find publication. Money +could be made out of them, and he would wait and take a sackful of it +into the South Seas. He knew a valley and a bay in the Marquesas that +he could buy for a thousand Chili dollars. The valley ran from the +horseshoe, land-locked bay to the tops of the dizzy, cloud-capped peaks +and contained perhaps ten thousand acres. It was filled with tropical +fruits, wild chickens, and wild pigs, with an occasional herd of wild +cattle, while high up among the peaks were herds of wild goats harried +by packs of wild dogs. The whole place was wild. Not a human lived in +it. And he could buy it and the bay for a thousand Chili dollars. + +The bay, as he remembered it, was magnificent, with water deep enough +to accommodate the largest vessel afloat, and so safe that the South +Pacific Directory recommended it as the best careening place for ships +for hundreds of miles around. He would buy a schooner—one of those +yacht-like, coppered crafts that sailed like witches—and go trading +copra and pearling among the islands. He would make the valley and the +bay his headquarters. He would build a patriarchal grass house like +Tati’s, and have it and the valley and the schooner filled with +dark-skinned servitors. He would entertain there the factor of Taiohae, +captains of wandering traders, and all the best of the South Pacific +riffraff. He would keep open house and entertain like a prince. And he +would forget the books he had opened and the world that had proved an +illusion. + +To do all this he must wait in California to fill the sack with money. +Already it was beginning to flow in. If one of the books made a strike, +it might enable him to sell the whole heap of manuscripts. Also he +could collect the stories and the poems into books, and make sure of +the valley and the bay and the schooner. He would never write again. +Upon that he was resolved. But in the meantime, awaiting the +publication of the books, he must do something more than live dazed and +stupid in the sort of uncaring trance into which he had fallen. + +He noted, one Sunday morning, that the Bricklayers’ Picnic took place +that day at Shell Mound Park, and to Shell Mound Park he went. He had +been to the working-class picnics too often in his earlier life not to +know what they were like, and as he entered the park he experienced a +recrudescence of all the old sensations. After all, they were his kind, +these working people. He had been born among them, he had lived among +them, and though he had strayed for a time, it was well to come back +among them. + +“If it ain’t Mart!” he heard some one say, and the next moment a hearty +hand was on his shoulder. “Where you ben all the time? Off to sea? Come +on an’ have a drink.” + +It was the old crowd in which he found himself—the old crowd, with here +and there a gap, and here and there a new face. The fellows were not +bricklayers, but, as in the old days, they attended all Sunday picnics +for the dancing, and the fighting, and the fun. Martin drank with them, +and began to feel really human once more. He was a fool to have ever +left them, he thought; and he was very certain that his sum of +happiness would have been greater had he remained with them and let +alone the books and the people who sat in the high places. Yet the beer +seemed not so good as of yore. It didn’t taste as it used to taste. +Brissenden had spoiled him for steam beer, he concluded, and wondered +if, after all, the books had spoiled him for companionship with these +friends of his youth. He resolved that he would not be so spoiled, and +he went on to the dancing pavilion. Jimmy, the plumber, he met there, +in the company of a tall, blond girl who promptly forsook him for +Martin. + +“Gee, it’s like old times,” Jimmy explained to the gang that gave him +the laugh as Martin and the blonde whirled away in a waltz. “An’ I +don’t give a rap. I’m too damned glad to see ’m back. Watch ’m waltz, +eh? It’s like silk. Who’d blame any girl?” + +But Martin restored the blonde to Jimmy, and the three of them, with +half a dozen friends, watched the revolving couples and laughed and +joked with one another. Everybody was glad to see Martin back. No book +of his been published; he carried no fictitious value in their eyes. +They liked him for himself. He felt like a prince returned from excile, +and his lonely heart burgeoned in the geniality in which it bathed. He +made a mad day of it, and was at his best. Also, he had money in his +pockets, and, as in the old days when he returned from sea with a +pay-day, he made the money fly. + +Once, on the dancing-floor, he saw Lizzie Connolly go by in the arms of +a young workingman; and, later, when he made the round of the pavilion, +he came upon her sitting by a refreshment table. Surprise and greetings +over, he led her away into the grounds, where they could talk without +shouting down the music. From the instant he spoke to her, she was his. +He knew it. She showed it in the proud humility of her eyes, in every +caressing movement of her proudly carried body, and in the way she hung +upon his speech. She was not the young girl as he had known her. She +was a woman, now, and Martin noted that her wild, defiant beauty had +improved, losing none of its wildness, while the defiance and the fire +seemed more in control. “A beauty, a perfect beauty,” he murmured +admiringly under his breath. And he knew she was his, that all he had +to do was to say “Come,” and she would go with him over the world +wherever he led. + +Even as the thought flashed through his brain he received a heavy blow +on the side of his head that nearly knocked him down. It was a man’s +fist, directed by a man so angry and in such haste that the fist had +missed the jaw for which it was aimed. Martin turned as he staggered, +and saw the fist coming at him in a wild swing. Quite as a matter of +course he ducked, and the fist flew harmlessly past, pivoting the man +who had driven it. Martin hooked with his left, landing on the pivoting +man with the weight of his body behind the blow. The man went to the +ground sidewise, leaped to his feet, and made a mad rush. Martin saw +his passion-distorted face and wondered what could be the cause of the +fellow’s anger. But while he wondered, he shot in a straight left, the +weight of his body behind the blow. The man went over backward and fell +in a crumpled heap. Jimmy and others of the gang were running toward +them. + +Martin was thrilling all over. This was the old days with a vengeance, +with their dancing, and their fighting, and their fun. While he kept a +wary eye on his antagonist, he glanced at Lizzie. Usually the girls +screamed when the fellows got to scrapping, but she had not screamed. +She was looking on with bated breath, leaning slightly forward, so keen +was her interest, one hand pressed to her breast, her cheek flushed, +and in her eyes a great and amazed admiration. + +The man had gained his feet and was struggling to escape the +restraining arms that were laid on him. + +“She was waitin’ for me to come back!” he was proclaiming to all and +sundry. “She was waitin’ for me to come back, an’ then that fresh guy +comes buttin’ in. Let go o’ me, I tell yeh. I’m goin’ to fix ’m.” + +“What’s eatin’ yer?” Jimmy was demanding, as he helped hold the young +fellow back. “That guy’s Mart Eden. He’s nifty with his mits, lemme +tell you that, an’ he’ll eat you alive if you monkey with ’m.” + +“He can’t steal her on me that way,” the other interjected. + +“He licked the Flyin’ Dutchman, an’ you know _him_,” Jimmy went on +expostulating. “An’ he did it in five rounds. You couldn’t last a +minute against him. See?” + +This information seemed to have a mollifying effect, and the irate +young man favored Martin with a measuring stare. + +“He don’t look it,” he sneered; but the sneer was without passion. + +“That’s what the Flyin’ Dutchman thought,” Jimmy assured him. “Come on, +now, let’s get outa this. There’s lots of other girls. Come on.” + +The young fellow allowed himself to be led away toward the pavilion, +and the gang followed after him. + +“Who is he?” Martin asked Lizzie. “And what’s it all about, anyway?” + +Already the zest of combat, which of old had been so keen and lasting, +had died down, and he discovered that he was self-analytical, too much +so to live, single heart and single hand, so primitive an existence. + +Lizzie tossed her head. + +“Oh, he’s nobody,” she said. “He’s just ben keepin’ company with me.” + +“I had to, you see,” she explained after a pause. “I was gettin’ pretty +lonesome. But I never forgot.” Her voice sank lower, and she looked +straight before her. “I’d throw ’m down for you any time.” + +Martin looking at her averted face, knowing that all he had to do was +to reach out his hand and pluck her, fell to pondering whether, after +all, there was any real worth in refined, grammatical English, and, so, +forgot to reply to her. + +“You put it all over him,” she said tentatively, with a laugh. + +“He’s a husky young fellow, though,” he admitted generously. “If they +hadn’t taken him away, he might have given me my hands full.” + +“Who was that lady friend I seen you with that night?” she asked +abruptly. + +“Oh, just a lady friend,” was his answer. + +“It was a long time ago,” she murmured contemplatively. “It seems like +a thousand years.” + +But Martin went no further into the matter. He led the conversation off +into other channels. They had lunch in the restaurant, where he ordered +wine and expensive delicacies and afterward he danced with her and with +no one but her, till she was tired. He was a good dancer, and she +whirled around and around with him in a heaven of delight, her head +against his shoulder, wishing that it could last forever. Later in the +afternoon they strayed off among the trees, where, in the good old +fashion, she sat down while he sprawled on his back, his head in her +lap. He lay and dozed, while she fondled his hair, looked down on his +closed eyes, and loved him without reserve. Looking up suddenly, he +read the tender advertisement in her face. Her eyes fluttered down, +then they opened and looked into his with soft defiance. + +“I’ve kept straight all these years,” she said, her voice so low that +it was almost a whisper. + +In his heart Martin knew that it was the miraculous truth. And at his +heart pleaded a great temptation. It was in his power to make her +happy. Denied happiness himself, why should he deny happiness to her? +He could marry her and take her down with him to dwell in the +grass-walled castle in the Marquesas. The desire to do it was strong, +but stronger still was the imperative command of his nature not to do +it. In spite of himself he was still faithful to Love. The old days of +license and easy living were gone. He could not bring them back, nor +could he go back to them. He was changed—how changed he had not +realized until now. + +“I am not a marrying man, Lizzie,” he said lightly. + +The hand caressing his hair paused perceptibly, then went on with the +same gentle stroke. He noticed her face harden, but it was with the +hardness of resolution, for still the soft color was in her cheeks and +she was all glowing and melting. + +“I did not mean that—” she began, then faltered. “Or anyway I don’t +care.” + +“I don’t care,” she repeated. “I’m proud to be your friend. I’d do +anything for you. I’m made that way, I guess.” + +Martin sat up. He took her hand in his. He did it deliberately, with +warmth but without passion; and such warmth chilled her. + +“Don’t let’s talk about it,” she said. + +“You are a great and noble woman,” he said. “And it is I who should be +proud to know you. And I am, I am. You are a ray of light to me in a +very dark world, and I’ve got to be straight with you, just as straight +as you have been.” + +“I don’t care whether you’re straight with me or not. You could do +anything with me. You could throw me in the dirt an’ walk on me. An’ +you’re the only man in the world that can,” she added with a defiant +flash. “I ain’t taken care of myself ever since I was a kid for +nothin’.” + +“And it’s just because of that that I’m not going to,” he said gently. +“You are so big and generous that you challenge me to equal +generousness. I’m not marrying, and I’m not—well, loving without +marrying, though I’ve done my share of that in the past. I’m sorry I +came here to-day and met you. But it can’t be helped now, and I never +expected it would turn out this way. + +“But look here, Lizzie. I can’t begin to tell you how much I like you. +I do more than like you. I admire and respect you. You are magnificent, +and you are magnificently good. But what’s the use of words? Yet +there’s something I’d like to do. You’ve had a hard life; let me make +it easy for you.” (A joyous light welled into her eyes, then faded out +again.) “I’m pretty sure of getting hold of some money soon—lots of +it.” + +In that moment he abandoned the idea of the valley and the bay, the +grass-walled castle and the trim, white schooner. After all, what did +it matter? He could go away, as he had done so often, before the mast, +on any ship bound anywhere. + +“I’d like to turn it over to you. There must be something you want—to +go to school or business college. You might like to study and be a +stenographer. I could fix it for you. Or maybe your father and mother +are living—I could set them up in a grocery store or something. +Anything you want, just name it, and I can fix it for you.” + +She made no reply, but sat, gazing straight before her, dry-eyed and +motionless, but with an ache in the throat which Martin divined so +strongly that it made his own throat ache. He regretted that he had +spoken. It seemed so tawdry what he had offered her—mere money—compared +with what she offered him. He offered her an extraneous thing with +which he could part without a pang, while she offered him herself, +along with disgrace and shame, and sin, and all her hopes of heaven. + +“Don’t let’s talk about it,” she said with a catch in her voice that +she changed to a cough. She stood up. “Come on, let’s go home. I’m all +tired out.” + +The day was done, and the merrymakers had nearly all departed. But as +Martin and Lizzie emerged from the trees they found the gang waiting +for them. Martin knew immediately the meaning of it. Trouble was +brewing. The gang was his body-guard. They passed out through the gates +of the park with, straggling in the rear, a second gang, the friends +that Lizzie’s young man had collected to avenge the loss of his lady. +Several constables and special police officers, anticipating trouble, +trailed along to prevent it, and herded the two gangs separately aboard +the train for San Francisco. Martin told Jimmy that he would get off at +Sixteenth Street Station and catch the electric car into Oakland. +Lizzie was very quiet and without interest in what was impending. The +train pulled in to Sixteenth Street Station, and the waiting electric +car could be seen, the conductor of which was impatiently clanging the +gong. + +“There she is,” Jimmy counselled. “Make a run for it, an’ we’ll hold +’em back. Now you go! Hit her up!” + +The hostile gang was temporarily disconcerted by the manoeuvre, then it +dashed from the train in pursuit. The staid and sober Oakland folk who +sat upon the car scarcely noted the young fellow and the girl who ran +for it and found a seat in front on the outside. They did not connect +the couple with Jimmy, who sprang on the steps, crying to the +motorman:- + +“Slam on the juice, old man, and beat it outa here!” + +The next moment Jimmy whirled about, and the passengers saw him land +his fist on the face of a running man who was trying to board the car. +But fists were landing on faces the whole length of the car. Thus, +Jimmy and his gang, strung out on the long, lower steps, met the +attacking gang. The car started with a great clanging of its gong, and, +as Jimmy’s gang drove off the last assailants, they, too, jumped off to +finish the job. The car dashed on, leaving the flurry of combat far +behind, and its dumfounded passengers never dreamed that the quiet +young man and the pretty working-girl sitting in the corner on the +outside seat had been the cause of the row. + +Martin had enjoyed the fight, with a recrudescence of the old fighting +thrills. But they quickly died away, and he was oppressed by a great +sadness. He felt very old—centuries older than those careless, +care-free young companions of his others days. He had travelled far, +too far to go back. Their mode of life, which had once been his, was +now distasteful to him. He was disappointed in it all. He had developed +into an alien. As the steam beer had tasted raw, so their companionship +seemed raw to him. He was too far removed. Too many thousands of opened +books yawned between them and him. He had exiled himself. He had +travelled in the vast realm of intellect until he could no longer +return home. On the other hand, he was human, and his gregarious need +for companionship remained unsatisfied. He had found no new home. As +the gang could not understand him, as his own family could not +understand him, as the bourgeoisie could not understand him, so this +girl beside him, whom he honored high, could not understand him nor the +honor he paid her. His sadness was not untouched with bitterness as he +thought it over. + +“Make it up with him,” he advised Lizzie, at parting, as they stood in +front of the workingman’s shack in which she lived, near Sixth and +Market. He referred to the young fellow whose place he had usurped that +day. + +“I can’t—now,” she said. + +“Oh, go on,” he said jovially. “All you have to do is whistle and he’ll +come running.” + +“I didn’t mean that,” she said simply. + +And he knew what she had meant. + +She leaned toward him as he was about to say good night. But she leaned +not imperatively, not seductively, but wistfully and humbly. He was +touched to the heart. His large tolerance rose up in him. He put his +arms around her, and kissed her, and knew that upon his own lips rested +as true a kiss as man ever received. + +“My God!” she sobbed. “I could die for you. I could die for you.” + +She tore herself from him suddenly and ran up the steps. He felt a +quick moisture in his eyes. + +“Martin Eden,” he communed. “You’re not a brute, and you’re a damn poor +Nietzscheman. You’d marry her if you could and fill her quivering heart +full with happiness. But you can’t, you can’t. And it’s a damn shame.” + +“‘A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers,’” he muttered, +remembering his Henly. “‘Life is, I think, a blunder and a shame.’ It +is—a blunder and a shame.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + + +“The Shame of the Sun” was published in October. As Martin cut the +cords of the express package and the half-dozen complimentary copies +from the publishers spilled out on the table, a heavy sadness fell upon +him. He thought of the wild delight that would have been his had this +happened a few short months before, and he contrasted that delight that +should have been with his present uncaring coldness. His book, his +first book, and his pulse had not gone up a fraction of a beat, and he +was only sad. It meant little to him now. The most it meant was that it +might bring some money, and little enough did he care for money. + +He carried a copy out into the kitchen and presented it to Maria. + +“I did it,” he explained, in order to clear up her bewilderment. “I +wrote it in the room there, and I guess some few quarts of your +vegetable soup went into the making of it. Keep it. It’s yours. Just to +remember me by, you know.” + +He was not bragging, not showing off. His sole motive was to make her +happy, to make her proud of him, to justify her long faith in him. She +put the book in the front room on top of the family Bible. A sacred +thing was this book her lodger had made, a fetich of friendship. It +softened the blow of his having been a laundryman, and though she could +not understand a line of it, she knew that every line of it was great. +She was a simple, practical, hard-working woman, but she possessed +faith in large endowment. + +Just as emotionlessly as he had received “The Shame of the Sun” did he +read the reviews of it that came in weekly from the clipping bureau. +The book was making a hit, that was evident. It meant more gold in the +money sack. He could fix up Lizzie, redeem all his promises, and still +have enough left to build his grass-walled castle. + +Singletree, Darnley & Co. had cautiously brought out an edition of +fifteen hundred copies, but the first reviews had started a second +edition of twice the size through the presses; and ere this was +delivered a third edition of five thousand had been ordered. A London +firm made arrangements by cable for an English edition, and hot-footed +upon this came the news of French, German, and Scandinavian +translations in progress. The attack upon the Maeterlinck school could +not have been made at a more opportune moment. A fierce controversy was +precipitated. Saleeby and Haeckel indorsed and defended “The Shame of +the Sun,” for once finding themselves on the same side of a question. +Crookes and Wallace ranged up on the opposing side, while Sir Oliver +Lodge attempted to formulate a compromise that would jibe with his +particular cosmic theories. Maeterlinck’s followers rallied around the +standard of mysticism. Chesterton set the whole world laughing with a +series of alleged non-partisan essays on the subject, and the whole +affair, controversy and controversialists, was well-nigh swept into the +pit by a thundering broadside from George Bernard Shaw. Needless to say +the arena was crowded with hosts of lesser lights, and the dust and +sweat and din became terrific. + +“It is a most marvellous happening,” Singletree, Darnley & Co. wrote +Martin, “a critical philosophic essay selling like a novel. You could +not have chosen your subject better, and all contributory factors have +been unwarrantedly propitious. We need scarcely to assure you that we +are making hay while the sun shines. Over forty thousand copies have +already been sold in the United States and Canada, and a new edition of +twenty thousand is on the presses. We are overworked, trying to supply +the demand. Nevertheless we have helped to create that demand. We have +already spent five thousand dollars in advertising. The book is bound +to be a record-breaker.” + +“Please find herewith a contract in duplicate for your next book which +we have taken the liberty of forwarding to you. You will please note +that we have increased your royalties to twenty per cent, which is +about as high as a conservative publishing house dares go. If our offer +is agreeable to you, please fill in the proper blank space with the +title of your book. We make no stipulations concerning its nature. Any +book on any subject. If you have one already written, so much the +better. Now is the time to strike. The iron could not be hotter.” + +“On receipt of signed contract we shall be pleased to make you an +advance on royalties of five thousand dollars. You see, we have faith +in you, and we are going in on this thing big. We should like, also, to +discuss with you the drawing up of a contract for a term of years, say +ten, during which we shall have the exclusive right of publishing in +book-form all that you produce. But more of this anon.” + +Martin laid down the letter and worked a problem in mental arithmetic, +finding the product of fifteen cents times sixty thousand to be nine +thousand dollars. He signed the new contract, inserting “The Smoke of +Joy” in the blank space, and mailed it back to the publishers along +with the twenty storiettes he had written in the days before he +discovered the formula for the newspaper storiette. And promptly as the +United States mail could deliver and return, came Singletree, Darnley & +Co.’s check for five thousand dollars. + +“I want you to come down town with me, Maria, this afternoon about two +o’clock,” Martin said, the morning the check arrived. “Or, better, meet +me at Fourteenth and Broadway at two o’clock. I’ll be looking out for +you.” + +At the appointed time she was there; but _shoes_ was the only clew to +the mystery her mind had been capable of evolving, and she suffered a +distinct shock of disappointment when Martin walked her right by a +shoe-store and dived into a real estate office. What happened thereupon +resided forever after in her memory as a dream. Fine gentlemen smiled +at her benevolently as they talked with Martin and one another; a +type-writer clicked; signatures were affixed to an imposing document; +her own landlord was there, too, and affixed his signature; and when +all was over and she was outside on the sidewalk, her landlord spoke to +her, saying, “Well, Maria, you won’t have to pay me no seven dollars +and a half this month.” + +Maria was too stunned for speech. + +“Or next month, or the next, or the next,” her landlord said. + +She thanked him incoherently, as if for a favor. And it was not until +she had returned home to North Oakland and conferred with her own kind, +and had the Portuguese grocer investigate, that she really knew that +she was the owner of the little house in which she had lived and for +which she had paid rent so long. + +“Why don’t you trade with me no more?” the Portuguese grocer asked +Martin that evening, stepping out to hail him when he got off the car; +and Martin explained that he wasn’t doing his own cooking any more, and +then went in and had a drink of wine on the house. He noted it was the +best wine the grocer had in stock. + +“Maria,” Martin announced that night, “I’m going to leave you. And +you’re going to leave here yourself soon. Then you can rent the house +and be a landlord yourself. You’ve a brother in San Leandro or +Haywards, and he’s in the milk business. I want you to send all your +washing back unwashed—understand?—unwashed, and to go out to San +Leandro to-morrow, or Haywards, or wherever it is, and see that brother +of yours. Tell him to come to see me. I’ll be stopping at the Metropole +down in Oakland. He’ll know a good milk-ranch when he sees one.” + +And so it was that Maria became a landlord and the sole owner of a +dairy, with two hired men to do the work for her and a bank account +that steadily increased despite the fact that her whole brood wore +shoes and went to school. Few persons ever meet the fairy princes they +dream about; but Maria, who worked hard and whose head was hard, never +dreaming about fairy princes, entertained hers in the guise of an +ex-laundryman. + +In the meantime the world had begun to ask: “Who is this Martin Eden?” +He had declined to give any biographical data to his publishers, but +the newspapers were not to be denied. Oakland was his own town, and the +reporters nosed out scores of individuals who could supply information. +All that he was and was not, all that he had done and most of what he +had not done, was spread out for the delectation of the public, +accompanied by snapshots and photographs—the latter procured from the +local photographer who had once taken Martin’s picture and who promptly +copyrighted it and put it on the market. At first, so great was his +disgust with the magazines and all bourgeois society, Martin fought +against publicity; but in the end, because it was easier than not to, +he surrendered. He found that he could not refuse himself to the +special writers who travelled long distances to see him. Then again, +each day was so many hours long, and, since he no longer was occupied +with writing and studying, those hours had to be occupied somehow; so +he yielded to what was to him a whim, permitted interviews, gave his +opinions on literature and philosophy, and even accepted invitations of +the bourgeoisie. He had settled down into a strange and comfortable +state of mind. He no longer cared. He forgave everybody, even the cub +reporter who had painted him red and to whom he now granted a full page +with specially posed photographs. + +He saw Lizzie occasionally, and it was patent that she regretted the +greatness that had come to him. It widened the space between them. +Perhaps it was with the hope of narrowing it that she yielded to his +persuasions to go to night school and business college and to have +herself gowned by a wonderful dressmaker who charged outrageous prices. +She improved visibly from day to day, until Martin wondered if he was +doing right, for he knew that all her compliance and endeavor was for +his sake. She was trying to make herself of worth in his eyes—of the +sort of worth he seemed to value. Yet he gave her no hope, treating her +in brotherly fashion and rarely seeing her. + +“Overdue” was rushed upon the market by the Meredith-Lowell Company in +the height of his popularity, and being fiction, in point of sales it +made even a bigger strike than “The Shame of the Sun.” Week after week +his was the credit of the unprecedented performance of having two books +at the head of the list of best-sellers. Not only did the story take +with the fiction-readers, but those who read “The Shame of the Sun” +with avidity were likewise attracted to the sea-story by the cosmic +grasp of mastery with which he had handled it. First he had attacked +the literature of mysticism, and had done it exceeding well; and, next, +he had successfully supplied the very literature he had exposited, thus +proving himself to be that rare genius, a critic and a creator in one. + +Money poured in on him, fame poured in on him; he flashed, comet-like, +through the world of literature, and he was more amused than interested +by the stir he was making. One thing was puzzling him, a little thing +that would have puzzled the world had it known. But the world would +have puzzled over his bepuzzlement rather than over the little thing +that to him loomed gigantic. Judge Blount invited him to dinner. That +was the little thing, or the beginning of the little thing, that was +soon to become the big thing. He had insulted Judge Blount, treated him +abominably, and Judge Blount, meeting him on the street, invited him to +dinner. Martin bethought himself of the numerous occasions on which he +had met Judge Blount at the Morses’ and when Judge Blount had not +invited him to dinner. Why had he not invited him to dinner then? he +asked himself. He had not changed. He was the same Martin Eden. What +made the difference? The fact that the stuff he had written had +appeared inside the covers of books? But it was work performed. It was +not something he had done since. It was achievement accomplished at the +very time Judge Blount was sharing this general view and sneering at +his Spencer and his intellect. Therefore it was not for any real value, +but for a purely fictitious value that Judge Blount invited him to +dinner. + +Martin grinned and accepted the invitation, marvelling the while at his +complacence. And at the dinner, where, with their womankind, were half +a dozen of those that sat in high places, and where Martin found +himself quite the lion, Judge Blount, warmly seconded by Judge Hanwell, +urged privately that Martin should permit his name to be put up for the +Styx—the ultra-select club to which belonged, not the mere men of +wealth, but the men of attainment. And Martin declined, and was more +puzzled than ever. + +He was kept busy disposing of his heap of manuscripts. He was +overwhelmed by requests from editors. It had been discovered that he +was a stylist, with meat under his style. _The Northern Review_, after +publishing “The Cradle of Beauty,” had written him for half a dozen +similar essays, which would have been supplied out of the heap, had not +_Burton’s Magazine_, in a speculative mood, offered him five hundred +dollars each for five essays. He wrote back that he would supply the +demand, but at a thousand dollars an essay. He remembered that all +these manuscripts had been refused by the very magazines that were now +clamoring for them. And their refusals had been cold-blooded, +automatic, stereotyped. They had made him sweat, and now he intended to +make them sweat. _Burton’s Magazine_ paid his price for five essays, +and the remaining four, at the same rate, were snapped up by +_Mackintosh’s Monthly, The Northern Review_ being too poor to stand the +pace. Thus went out to the world “The High Priests of Mystery,” “The +Wonder-Dreamers,” “The Yardstick of the Ego,” “Philosophy of Illusion,” +“God and Clod,” “Art and Biology,” “Critics and Test-tubes,” +“Star-dust,” and “The Dignity of Usury,”—to raise storms and rumblings +and mutterings that were many a day in dying down. + +Editors wrote to him telling him to name his own terms, which he did, +but it was always for work performed. He refused resolutely to pledge +himself to any new thing. The thought of again setting pen to paper +maddened him. He had seen Brissenden torn to pieces by the crowd, and +despite the fact that him the crowd acclaimed, he could not get over +the shock nor gather any respect for the crowd. His very popularity +seemed a disgrace and a treason to Brissenden. It made him wince, but +he made up his mind to go on and fill the money-bag. + +He received letters from editors like the following: “About a year ago +we were unfortunate enough to refuse your collection of love-poems. We +were greatly impressed by them at the time, but certain arrangements +already entered into prevented our taking them. If you still have them, +and if you will be kind enough to forward them, we shall be glad to +publish the entire collection on your own terms. We are also prepared +to make a most advantageous offer for bringing them out in book-form.” + +Martin recollected his blank-verse tragedy, and sent it instead. He +read it over before mailing, and was particularly impressed by its +sophomoric amateurishness and general worthlessness. But he sent it; +and it was published, to the everlasting regret of the editor. The +public was indignant and incredulous. It was too far a cry from Martin +Eden’s high standard to that serious bosh. It was asserted that he had +never written it, that the magazine had faked it very clumsily, or that +Martin Eden was emulating the elder Dumas and at the height of success +was hiring his writing done for him. But when he explained that the +tragedy was an early effort of his literary childhood, and that the +magazine had refused to be happy unless it got it, a great laugh went +up at the magazine’s expense and a change in the editorship followed. +The tragedy was never brought out in book-form, though Martin pocketed +the advance royalties that had been paid. + +_Coleman’s Weekly_ sent Martin a lengthy telegram, costing nearly three +hundred dollars, offering him a thousand dollars an article for twenty +articles. He was to travel over the United States, with all expenses +paid, and select whatever topics interested him. The body of the +telegram was devoted to hypothetical topics in order to show him the +freedom of range that was to be his. The only restriction placed upon +him was that he must confine himself to the United States. Martin sent +his inability to accept and his regrets by wire “collect.” + +“Wiki-Wiki,” published in _Warren’s Monthly_, was an instantaneous +success. It was brought out forward in a wide-margined, beautifully +decorated volume that struck the holiday trade and sold like wildfire. +The critics were unanimous in the belief that it would take its place +with those two classics by two great writers, “The Bottle Imp” and “The +Magic Skin.” + +The public, however, received the “Smoke of Joy” collection rather +dubiously and coldly. The audacity and unconventionality of the +storiettes was a shock to bourgeois morality and prejudice; but when +Paris went mad over the immediate translation that was made, the +American and English reading public followed suit and bought so many +copies that Martin compelled the conservative house of Singletree, +Darnley & Co. to pay a flat royalty of twenty-five per cent for a third +book, and thirty per cent flat for a fourth. These two volumes +comprised all the short stories he had written and which had received, +or were receiving, serial publication. “The Ring of Bells” and his +horror stories constituted one collection; the other collection was +composed of “Adventure,” “The Pot,” “The Wine of Life,” “The +Whirlpool,” “The Jostling Street,” and four other stories. The +Lowell-Meredith Company captured the collection of all his essays, and +the Maxmillian Company got his “Sea Lyrics” and the “Love-cycle,” the +latter receiving serial publication in the _Ladies’ Home Companion_ +after the payment of an extortionate price. + +Martin heaved a sigh of relief when he had disposed of the last +manuscript. The grass-walled castle and the white, coppered schooner +were very near to him. Well, at any rate he had discovered Brissenden’s +contention that nothing of merit found its way into the magazines. His +own success demonstrated that Brissenden had been wrong. + +And yet, somehow, he had a feeling that Brissenden had been right, +after all. “The Shame of the Sun” had been the cause of his success +more than the stuff he had written. That stuff had been merely +incidental. It had been rejected right and left by the magazines. The +publication of “The Shame of the Sun” had started a controversy and +precipitated the landslide in his favor. Had there been no “Shame of +the Sun” there would have been no landslide, and had there been no +miracle in the go of “The Shame of the Sun” there would have been no +landslide. Singletree, Darnley & Co. attested that miracle. They had +brought out a first edition of fifteen hundred copies and been dubious +of selling it. They were experienced publishers and no one had been +more astounded than they at the success which had followed. To them it +had been in truth a miracle. They never got over it, and every letter +they wrote him reflected their reverent awe of that first mysterious +happening. They did not attempt to explain it. There was no explaining +it. It had happened. In the face of all experience to the contrary, it +had happened. + +So it was, reasoning thus, that Martin questioned the validity of his +popularity. It was the bourgeoisie that bought his books and poured its +gold into his money-sack, and from what little he knew of the +bourgeoisie it was not clear to him how it could possibly appreciate or +comprehend what he had written. His intrinsic beauty and power meant +nothing to the hundreds of thousands who were acclaiming him and buying +his books. He was the fad of the hour, the adventurer who had stormed +Parnassus while the gods nodded. The hundreds of thousands read him and +acclaimed him with the same brute non-understanding with which they had +flung themselves on Brissenden’s “Ephemera” and torn it to pieces—a +wolf-rabble that fawned on him instead of fanging him. Fawn or fang, it +was all a matter of chance. One thing he knew with absolute certitude: +“Ephemera” was infinitely greater than anything he had done. It was +infinitely greater than anything he had in him. It was a poem of +centuries. Then the tribute the mob paid him was a sorry tribute +indeed, for that same mob had wallowed “Ephemera” into the mire. He +sighed heavily and with satisfaction. He was glad the last manuscript +was sold and that he would soon be done with it all. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + + +Mr. Morse met Martin in the office of the Hotel Metropole. Whether he +had happened there just casually, intent on other affairs, or whether +he had come there for the direct purpose of inviting him to dinner, +Martin never could quite make up his mind, though he inclined toward +the second hypothesis. At any rate, invited to dinner he was by Mr. +Morse—Ruth’s father, who had forbidden him the house and broken off the +engagement. + +Martin was not angry. He was not even on his dignity. He tolerated Mr. +Morse, wondering the while how it felt to eat such humble pie. He did +not decline the invitation. Instead, he put it off with vagueness and +indefiniteness and inquired after the family, particularly after Mrs. +Morse and Ruth. He spoke her name without hesitancy, naturally, though +secretly surprised that he had had no inward quiver, no old, familiar +increase of pulse and warm surge of blood. + +He had many invitations to dinner, some of which he accepted. Persons +got themselves introduced to him in order to invite him to dinner. And +he went on puzzling over the little thing that was becoming a great +thing. Bernard Higginbotham invited him to dinner. He puzzled the +harder. He remembered the days of his desperate starvation when no one +invited him to dinner. That was the time he needed dinners, and went +weak and faint for lack of them and lost weight from sheer famine. That +was the paradox of it. When he wanted dinners, no one gave them to him, +and now that he could buy a hundred thousand dinners and was losing his +appetite, dinners were thrust upon him right and left. But why? There +was no justice in it, no merit on his part. He was no different. All +the work he had done was even at that time work performed. Mr. and Mrs. +Morse had condemned him for an idler and a shirk and through Ruth had +urged that he take a clerk’s position in an office. Furthermore, they +had been aware of his work performed. Manuscript after manuscript of +his had been turned over to them by Ruth. They had read them. It was +the very same work that had put his name in all the papers, and, it was +his name being in all the papers that led them to invite him. + +One thing was certain: the Morses had not cared to have him for himself +or for his work. Therefore they could not want him now for himself or +for his work, but for the fame that was his, because he was somebody +amongst men, and—why not?—because he had a hundred thousand dollars or +so. That was the way bourgeois society valued a man, and who was he to +expect it otherwise? But he was proud. He disdained such valuation. He +desired to be valued for himself, or for his work, which, after all, +was an expression of himself. That was the way Lizzie valued him. The +work, with her, did not even count. She valued him, himself. That was +the way Jimmy, the plumber, and all the old gang valued him. That had +been proved often enough in the days when he ran with them; it had been +proved that Sunday at Shell Mound Park. His work could go hang. What +they liked, and were willing to scrap for, was just Mart Eden, one of +the bunch and a pretty good guy. + +Then there was Ruth. She had liked him for himself, that was +indisputable. And yet, much as she had liked him she had liked the +bourgeois standard of valuation more. She had opposed his writing, and +principally, it seemed to him, because it did not earn money. That had +been her criticism of his “Love-cycle.” She, too, had urged him to get +a job. It was true, she refined it to “position,” but it meant the same +thing, and in his own mind the old nomenclature stuck. He had read her +all that he wrote—poems, stories, essays—“Wiki-Wiki,” “The Shame of the +Sun,” everything. And she had always and consistently urged him to get +a job, to go to work—good God!—as if he hadn’t been working, robbing +sleep, exhausting life, in order to be worthy of her. + +So the little thing grew bigger. He was healthy and normal, ate +regularly, slept long hours, and yet the growing little thing was +becoming an obsession. _Work performed_. The phrase haunted his brain. +He sat opposite Bernard Higginbotham at a heavy Sunday dinner over +Higginbotham’s Cash Store, and it was all he could do to restrain +himself from shouting out:- + +“It was work performed! And now you feed me, when then you let me +starve, forbade me your house, and damned me because I wouldn’t get a +job. And the work was already done, all done. And now, when I speak, +you check the thought unuttered on your lips and hang on my lips and +pay respectful attention to whatever I choose to say. I tell you your +party is rotten and filled with grafters, and instead of flying into a +rage you hum and haw and admit there is a great deal in what I say. And +why? Because I’m famous; because I’ve a lot of money. Not because I’m +Martin Eden, a pretty good fellow and not particularly a fool. I could +tell you the moon is made of green cheese and you would subscribe to +the notion, at least you would not repudiate it, because I’ve got +dollars, mountains of them. And it was all done long ago; it was work +performed, I tell you, when you spat upon me as the dirt under your +feet.” + +But Martin did not shout out. The thought gnawed in his brain, an +unceasing torment, while he smiled and succeeded in being tolerant. As +he grew silent, Bernard Higginbotham got the reins and did the talking. +He was a success himself, and proud of it. He was self-made. No one had +helped him. He owed no man. He was fulfilling his duty as a citizen and +bringing up a large family. And there was Higginbotham’s Cash Store, +that monument of his own industry and ability. He loved Higginbotham’s +Cash Store as some men loved their wives. He opened up his heart to +Martin, showed with what keenness and with what enormous planning he +had made the store. And he had plans for it, ambitious plans. The +neighborhood was growing up fast. The store was really too small. If he +had more room, he would be able to put in a score of labor-saving and +money-saving improvements. And he would do it yet. He was straining +every effort for the day when he could buy the adjoining lot and put up +another two-story frame building. The upstairs he could rent, and the +whole ground-floor of both buildings would be Higginbotham’s Cash +Store. His eyes glistened when he spoke of the new sign that would +stretch clear across both buildings. + +Martin forgot to listen. The refrain of “Work performed,” in his own +brain, was drowning the other’s clatter. The refrain maddened him, and +he tried to escape from it. + +“How much did you say it would cost?” he asked suddenly. + +His brother-in-law paused in the middle of an expatiation on the +business opportunities of the neighborhood. He hadn’t said how much it +would cost. But he knew. He had figured it out a score of times. + +“At the way lumber is now,” he said, “four thousand could do it.” + +“Including the sign?” + +“I didn’t count on that. It’d just have to come, onc’t the buildin’ was +there.” + +“And the ground?” + +“Three thousand more.” + +He leaned forward, licking his lips, nervously spreading and closing +his fingers, while he watched Martin write a check. When it was passed +over to him, he glanced at the amount-seven thousand dollars. + +“I—I can’t afford to pay more than six per cent,” he said huskily. + +Martin wanted to laugh, but, instead, demanded:- + +“How much would that be?” + +“Lemme see. Six per cent—six times seven—four hundred an’ twenty.” + +“That would be thirty-five dollars a month, wouldn’t it?” + +Higginbotham nodded. + +“Then, if you’ve no objection, we’ll arrange it this way.” Martin +glanced at Gertrude. “You can have the principal to keep for yourself, +if you’ll use the thirty-five dollars a month for cooking and washing +and scrubbing. The seven thousand is yours if you’ll guarantee that +Gertrude does no more drudgery. Is it a go?” + +Mr. Higginbotham swallowed hard. That his wife should do no more +housework was an affront to his thrifty soul. The magnificent present +was the coating of a pill, a bitter pill. That his wife should not +work! It gagged him. + +“All right, then,” Martin said. “I’ll pay the thirty-five a month, +and—” + +He reached across the table for the check. But Bernard Higginbotham got +his hand on it first, crying: + +“I accept! I accept!” + +When Martin got on the electric car, he was very sick and tired. He +looked up at the assertive sign. + +“The swine,” he groaned. “The swine, the swine.” + +When _Mackintosh’s Magazine_ published “The Palmist,” featuring it with +decorations by Berthier and with two pictures by Wenn, Hermann von +Schmidt forgot that he had called the verses obscene. He announced that +his wife had inspired the poem, saw to it that the news reached the +ears of a reporter, and submitted to an interview by a staff writer who +was accompanied by a staff photographer and a staff artist. The result +was a full page in a Sunday supplement, filled with photographs and +idealized drawings of Marian, with many intimate details of Martin Eden +and his family, and with the full text of “The Palmist” in large type, +and republished by special permission of _Mackintosh’s Magazine_. It +caused quite a stir in the neighborhood, and good housewives were proud +to have the acquaintances of the great writer’s sister, while those who +had not made haste to cultivate it. Hermann von Schmidt chuckled in his +little repair shop and decided to order a new lathe. “Better than +advertising,” he told Marian, “and it costs nothing.” + +“We’d better have him to dinner,” she suggested. + +And to dinner Martin came, making himself agreeable with the fat +wholesale butcher and his fatter wife—important folk, they, likely to +be of use to a rising young man like Hermann von Schmidt. No less a +bait, however, had been required to draw them to his house than his +great brother-in-law. Another man at table who had swallowed the same +bait was the superintendent of the Pacific Coast agencies for the Asa +Bicycle Company. Him Von Schmidt desired to please and propitiate +because from him could be obtained the Oakland agency for the bicycle. +So Hermann von Schmidt found it a goodly asset to have Martin for a +brother-in-law, but in his heart of hearts he couldn’t understand where +it all came in. In the silent watches of the night, while his wife +slept, he had floundered through Martin’s books and poems, and decided +that the world was a fool to buy them. + +And in his heart of hearts Martin understood the situation only too +well, as he leaned back and gloated at Von Schmidt’s head, in fancy +punching it well-nigh off of him, sending blow after blow home just +right—the chuckle-headed Dutchman! One thing he did like about him, +however. Poor as he was, and determined to rise as he was, he +nevertheless hired one servant to take the heavy work off of Marian’s +hands. Martin talked with the superintendent of the Asa agencies, and +after dinner he drew him aside with Hermann, whom he backed financially +for the best bicycle store with fittings in Oakland. He went further, +and in a private talk with Hermann told him to keep his eyes open for +an automobile agency and garage, for there was no reason that he should +not be able to run both establishments successfully. + +With tears in her eyes and her arms around his neck, Marian, at +parting, told Martin how much she loved him and always had loved him. +It was true, there was a perceptible halt midway in her assertion, +which she glossed over with more tears and kisses and incoherent +stammerings, and which Martin inferred to be her appeal for forgiveness +for the time she had lacked faith in him and insisted on his getting a +job. + +“He can’t never keep his money, that’s sure,” Hermann von Schmidt +confided to his wife. “He got mad when I spoke of interest, an’ he said +damn the principal and if I mentioned it again, he’d punch my Dutch +head off. That’s what he said—my Dutch head. But he’s all right, even +if he ain’t no business man. He’s given me my chance, an’ he’s all +right.” + +Invitations to dinner poured in on Martin; and the more they poured, +the more he puzzled. He sat, the guest of honor, at an Arden Club +banquet, with men of note whom he had heard about and read about all +his life; and they told him how, when they had read “The Ring of Bells” +in the _Transcontinental_, and “The Peri and the Pearl” in _The +Hornet_, they had immediately picked him for a winner. My God! and I +was hungry and in rags, he thought to himself. Why didn’t you give me a +dinner then? Then was the time. It was work performed. If you are +feeding me now for work performed, why did you not feed me then when I +needed it? Not one word in “The Ring of Bells,” nor in “The Peri and +the Pearl” has been changed. No; you’re not feeding me now for work +performed. You are feeding me because everybody else is feeding me and +because it is an honor to feed me. You are feeding me now because you +are herd animals; because you are part of the mob; because the one +blind, automatic thought in the mob-mind just now is to feed me. And +where does Martin Eden and the work Martin Eden performed come in in +all this? he asked himself plaintively, then arose to respond cleverly +and wittily to a clever and witty toast. + +So it went. Wherever he happened to be—at the Press Club, at the +Redwood Club, at pink teas and literary gatherings—always were +remembered “The Ring of Bells” and “The Peri and the Pearl” when they +were first published. And always was Martin’s maddening and unuttered +demand: Why didn’t you feed me then? It was work performed. “The Ring +of Bells” and “The Peri and the Pearl” are not changed one iota. They +were just as artistic, just as worth while, then as now. But you are +not feeding me for their sake, nor for the sake of anything else I have +written. You’re feeding me because it is the style of feeding just now, +because the whole mob is crazy with the idea of feeding Martin Eden. + +And often, at such times, he would abruptly see slouch in among the +company a young hoodlum in square-cut coat and under a stiff-rim +Stetson hat. It happened to him at the Gallina Society in Oakland one +afternoon. As he rose from his chair and stepped forward across the +platform, he saw stalk through the wide door at the rear of the great +room the young hoodlum with the square-cut coat and stiff-rim hat. Five +hundred fashionably gowned women turned their heads, so intent and +steadfast was Martin’s gaze, to see what he was seeing. But they saw +only the empty centre aisle. He saw the young tough lurching down that +aisle and wondered if he would remove the stiff-rim which never yet had +he seen him without. Straight down the aisle he came, and up the +platform. Martin could have wept over that youthful shade of himself, +when he thought of all that lay before him. Across the platform he +swaggered, right up to Martin, and into the foreground of Martin’s +consciousness disappeared. The five hundred women applauded softly with +gloved hands, seeking to encourage the bashful great man who was their +guest. And Martin shook the vision from his brain, smiled, and began to +speak. + +The Superintendent of Schools, good old man, stopped Martin on the +street and remembered him, recalling seances in his office when Martin +was expelled from school for fighting. + +“I read your ‘Ring of Bells’ in one of the magazines quite a time ago,” +he said. “It was as good as Poe. Splendid, I said at the time, +splendid!” + +Yes, and twice in the months that followed you passed me on the street +and did not know me, Martin almost said aloud. Each time I was hungry +and heading for the pawnbroker. Yet it was work performed. You did not +know me then. Why do you know me now? + +“I was remarking to my wife only the other day,” the other was saying, +“wouldn’t it be a good idea to have you out to dinner some time? And +she quite agreed with me. Yes, she quite agreed with me.” + +“Dinner?” Martin said so sharply that it was almost a snarl. + +“Why, yes, yes, dinner, you know—just pot luck with us, with your old +superintendent, you rascal,” he uttered nervously, poking Martin in an +attempt at jocular fellowship. + +Martin went down the street in a daze. He stopped at the corner and +looked about him vacantly. + +“Well, I’ll be damned!” he murmured at last. “The old fellow was afraid +of me.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + + +Kreis came to Martin one day—Kreis, of the “real dirt”; and Martin +turned to him with relief, to receive the glowing details of a scheme +sufficiently wild-catty to interest him as a fictionist rather than an +investor. Kreis paused long enough in the midst of his exposition to +tell him that in most of his “Shame of the Sun” he had been a chump. + +“But I didn’t come here to spout philosophy,” Kreis went on. “What I +want to know is whether or not you will put a thousand dollars in on +this deal?” + +“No, I’m not chump enough for that, at any rate,” Martin answered. “But +I’ll tell you what I will do. You gave me the greatest night of my +life. You gave me what money cannot buy. Now I’ve got money, and it +means nothing to me. I’d like to turn over to you a thousand dollars of +what I don’t value for what you gave me that night and which was beyond +price. You need the money. I’ve got more than I need. You want it. You +came for it. There’s no use scheming it out of me. Take it.” + +Kreis betrayed no surprise. He folded the check away in his pocket. + +“At that rate I’d like the contract of providing you with many such +nights,” he said. + +“Too late.” Martin shook his head. “That night was the one night for +me. I was in paradise. It’s commonplace with you, I know. But it wasn’t +to me. I shall never live at such a pitch again. I’m done with +philosophy. I want never to hear another word of it.” + +“The first dollar I ever made in my life out of my philosophy,” Kreis +remarked, as he paused in the doorway. “And then the market broke.” + +Mrs. Morse drove by Martin on the street one day, and smiled and +nodded. He smiled back and lifted his hat. The episode did not affect +him. A month before it might have disgusted him, or made him curious +and set him to speculating about her state of consciousness at that +moment. But now it was not provocative of a second thought. He forgot +about it the next moment. He forgot about it as he would have forgotten +the Central Bank Building or the City Hall after having walked past +them. Yet his mind was preternaturally active. His thoughts went ever +around and around in a circle. The centre of that circle was “work +performed”; it ate at his brain like a deathless maggot. He awoke to it +in the morning. It tormented his dreams at night. Every affair of life +around him that penetrated through his senses immediately related +itself to “work performed.” He drove along the path of relentless logic +to the conclusion that he was nobody, nothing. Mart Eden, the hoodlum, +and Mart Eden, the sailor, had been real, had been he; but Martin Eden! +the famous writer, did not exist. Martin Eden, the famous writer, was a +vapor that had arisen in the mob-mind and by the mob-mind had been +thrust into the corporeal being of Mart Eden, the hoodlum and sailor. +But it couldn’t fool him. He was not that sun-myth that the mob was +worshipping and sacrificing dinners to. He knew better. + +He read the magazines about himself, and pored over portraits of +himself published therein until he was unable to associate his identity +with those portraits. He was the fellow who had lived and thrilled and +loved; who had been easy-going and tolerant of the frailties of life; +who had served in the forecastle, wandered in strange lands, and led +his gang in the old fighting days. He was the fellow who had been +stunned at first by the thousands of books in the free library, and who +had afterward learned his way among them and mastered them; he was the +fellow who had burned the midnight oil and bedded with a spur and +written books himself. But the one thing he was not was that colossal +appetite that all the mob was bent upon feeding. + +There were things, however, in the magazines that amused him. All the +magazines were claiming him. _Warren’s Monthly_ advertised to its +subscribers that it was always on the quest after new writers, and +that, among others, it had introduced Martin Eden to the reading +public. _The White Mouse_ claimed him; so did _The Northern Review_ and +_Mackintosh’s Magazine_, until silenced by _The Globe_, which pointed +triumphantly to its files where the mangled “Sea Lyrics” lay buried. +_Youth and Age_, which had come to life again after having escaped +paying its bills, put in a prior claim, which nobody but farmers’ +children ever read. The _Transcontinental_ made a dignified and +convincing statement of how it first discovered Martin Eden, which was +warmly disputed by _The Hornet_, with the exhibit of “The Peri and the +Pearl.” The modest claim of Singletree, Darnley & Co. was lost in the +din. Besides, that publishing firm did not own a magazine wherewith to +make its claim less modest. + +The newspapers calculated Martin’s royalties. In some way the +magnificent offers certain magazines had made him leaked out, and +Oakland ministers called upon him in a friendly way, while professional +begging letters began to clutter his mail. But worse than all this were +the women. His photographs were published broadcast, and special +writers exploited his strong, bronzed face, his scars, his heavy +shoulders, his clear, quiet eyes, and the slight hollows in his cheeks +like an ascetic’s. At this last he remembered his wild youth and +smiled. Often, among the women he met, he would see now one, now +another, looking at him, appraising him, selecting him. He laughed to +himself. He remembered Brissenden’s warning and laughed again. The +women would never destroy him, that much was certain. He had gone past +that stage. + +Once, walking with Lizzie toward night school, she caught a glance +directed toward him by a well-gowned, handsome woman of the +bourgeoisie. The glance was a trifle too long, a shade too +considerative. Lizzie knew it for what it was, and her body tensed +angrily. Martin noticed, noticed the cause of it, told her how used he +was becoming to it and that he did not care anyway. + +“You ought to care,” she answered with blazing eyes. “You’re sick. +That’s what’s the matter.” + +“Never healthier in my life. I weigh five pounds more than I ever did.” + +“It ain’t your body. It’s your head. Something’s wrong with your +think-machine. Even I can see that, an’ I ain’t nobody.” + +He walked on beside her, reflecting. + +“I’d give anything to see you get over it,” she broke out impulsively. +“You ought to care when women look at you that way, a man like you. +It’s not natural. It’s all right enough for sissy-boys. But you ain’t +made that way. So help me, I’d be willing an’ glad if the right woman +came along an’ made you care.” + +When he left Lizzie at night school, he returned to the Metropole. + +Once in his rooms, he dropped into a Morris chair and sat staring +straight before him. He did not doze. Nor did he think. His mind was a +blank, save for the intervals when unsummoned memory pictures took form +and color and radiance just under his eyelids. He saw these pictures, +but he was scarcely conscious of them—no more so than if they had been +dreams. Yet he was not asleep. Once, he roused himself and glanced at +his watch. It was just eight o’clock. He had nothing to do, and it was +too early for bed. Then his mind went blank again, and the pictures +began to form and vanish under his eyelids. There was nothing +distinctive about the pictures. They were always masses of leaves and +shrub-like branches shot through with hot sunshine. + +A knock at the door aroused him. He was not asleep, and his mind +immediately connected the knock with a telegram, or letter, or perhaps +one of the servants bringing back clean clothes from the laundry. He +was thinking about Joe and wondering where he was, as he said, “Come +in.” + +He was still thinking about Joe, and did not turn toward the door. He +heard it close softly. There was a long silence. He forgot that there +had been a knock at the door, and was still staring blankly before him +when he heard a woman’s sob. It was involuntary, spasmodic, checked, +and stifled—he noted that as he turned about. The next instant he was +on his feet. + +“Ruth!” he said, amazed and bewildered. + +Her face was white and strained. She stood just inside the door, one +hand against it for support, the other pressed to her side. She +extended both hands toward him piteously, and started forward to meet +him. As he caught her hands and led her to the Morris chair he noticed +how cold they were. He drew up another chair and sat down on the broad +arm of it. He was too confused to speak. In his own mind his affair +with Ruth was closed and sealed. He felt much in the same way that he +would have felt had the Shelly Hot Springs Laundry suddenly invaded the +Hotel Metropole with a whole week’s washing ready for him to pitch +into. Several times he was about to speak, and each time he hesitated. + +“No one knows I am here,” Ruth said in a faint voice, with an appealing +smile. + +“What did you say?” + +He was surprised at the sound of his own voice. + +She repeated her words. + +“Oh,” he said, then wondered what more he could possibly say. + +“I saw you come in, and I waited a few minutes.” + +“Oh,” he said again. + +He had never been so tongue-tied in his life. Positively he did not +have an idea in his head. He felt stupid and awkward, but for the life +of him he could think of nothing to say. It would have been easier had +the intrusion been the Shelly Hot Springs laundry. He could have rolled +up his sleeves and gone to work. + +“And then you came in,” he said finally. + +She nodded, with a slightly arch expression, and loosened the scarf at +her throat. + +“I saw you first from across the street when you were with that girl.” + +“Oh, yes,” he said simply. “I took her down to night school.” + +“Well, aren’t you glad to see me?” she said at the end of another +silence. + +“Yes, yes.” He spoke hastily. “But wasn’t it rash of you to come here?” + +“I slipped in. Nobody knows I am here. I wanted to see you. I came to +tell you I have been very foolish. I came because I could no longer +stay away, because my heart compelled me to come, because—because I +wanted to come.” + +She came forward, out of her chair and over to him. She rested her hand +on his shoulder a moment, breathing quickly, and then slipped into his +arms. And in his large, easy way, desirous of not inflicting hurt, +knowing that to repulse this proffer of herself was to inflict the most +grievous hurt a woman could receive, he folded his arms around her and +held her close. But there was no warmth in the embrace, no caress in +the contact. She had come into his arms, and he held her, that was all. +She nestled against him, and then, with a change of position, her hands +crept up and rested upon his neck. But his flesh was not fire beneath +those hands, and he felt awkward and uncomfortable. + +“What makes you tremble so?” he asked. “Is it a chill? Shall I light +the grate?” + +He made a movement to disengage himself, but she clung more closely to +him, shivering violently. + +“It is merely nervousness,” she said with chattering teeth. “I’ll +control myself in a minute. There, I am better already.” + +Slowly her shivering died away. He continued to hold her, but he was no +longer puzzled. He knew now for what she had come. + +“My mother wanted me to marry Charley Hapgood,” she announced. + +“Charley Hapgood, that fellow who speaks always in platitudes?” Martin +groaned. Then he added, “And now, I suppose, your mother wants you to +marry me.” + +He did not put it in the form of a question. He stated it as a +certitude, and before his eyes began to dance the rows of figures of +his royalties. + +“She will not object, I know that much,” Ruth said. + +“She considers me quite eligible?” + +Ruth nodded. + +“And yet I am not a bit more eligible now than I was when she broke our +engagement,” he meditated. “I haven’t changed any. I’m the same Martin +Eden, though for that matter I’m a bit worse—I smoke now. Don’t you +smell my breath?” + +In reply she pressed her open fingers against his lips, placed them +graciously and playfully, and in expectancy of the kiss that of old had +always been a consequence. But there was no caressing answer of +Martin’s lips. He waited until the fingers were removed and then went +on. + +“I am not changed. I haven’t got a job. I’m not looking for a job. +Furthermore, I am not going to look for a job. And I still believe that +Herbert Spencer is a great and noble man and that Judge Blount is an +unmitigated ass. I had dinner with him the other night, so I ought to +know.” + +“But you didn’t accept father’s invitation,” she chided. + +“So you know about that? Who sent him? Your mother?” + +She remained silent. + +“Then she did send him. I thought so. And now I suppose she has sent +you.” + +“No one knows that I am here,” she protested. “Do you think my mother +would permit this?” + +“She’d permit you to marry me, that’s certain.” + +She gave a sharp cry. “Oh, Martin, don’t be cruel. You have not kissed +me once. You are as unresponsive as a stone. And think what I have +dared to do.” She looked about her with a shiver, though half the look +was curiosity. “Just think of where I am.” + +“_I could die for you! I could die for you_!”—Lizzie’s words were +ringing in his ears. + +“Why didn’t you dare it before?” he asked harshly. “When I hadn’t a +job? When I was starving? When I was just as I am now, as a man, as an +artist, the same Martin Eden? That’s the question I’ve been propounding +to myself for many a day—not concerning you merely, but concerning +everybody. You see I have not changed, though my sudden apparent +appreciation in value compels me constantly to reassure myself on that +point. I’ve got the same flesh on my bones, the same ten fingers and +toes. I am the same. I have not developed any new strength nor virtue. +My brain is the same old brain. I haven’t made even one new +generalization on literature or philosophy. I am personally of the same +value that I was when nobody wanted me. And what is puzzling me is why +they want me now. Surely they don’t want me for myself, for myself is +the same old self they did not want. Then they must want me for +something else, for something that is outside of me, for something that +is not I! Shall I tell you what that something is? It is for the +recognition I have received. That recognition is not I. It resides in +the minds of others. Then again for the money I have earned and am +earning. But that money is not I. It resides in banks and in the +pockets of Tom, Dick, and Harry. And is it for that, for the +recognition and the money, that you now want me?” + +“You are breaking my heart,” she sobbed. “You know I love you, that I +am here because I love you.” + +“I am afraid you don’t see my point,” he said gently. “What I mean is: +if you love me, how does it happen that you love me now so much more +than you did when your love was weak enough to deny me?” + +“Forget and forgive,” she cried passionately. “I loved you all the +time, remember that, and I am here, now, in your arms.” + +“I’m afraid I am a shrewd merchant, peering into the scales, trying to +weigh your love and find out what manner of thing it is.” + +She withdrew herself from his arms, sat upright, and looked at him long +and searchingly. She was about to speak, then faltered and changed her +mind. + +“You see, it appears this way to me,” he went on. “When I was all that +I am now, nobody out of my own class seemed to care for me. When my +books were all written, no one who had read the manuscripts seemed to +care for them. In point of fact, because of the stuff I had written +they seemed to care even less for me. In writing the stuff it seemed +that I had committed acts that were, to say the least, derogatory. ‘Get +a job,’ everybody said.” + +She made a movement of dissent. + +“Yes, yes,” he said; “except in your case you told me to get a +position. The homely word _job_, like much that I have written, offends +you. It is brutal. But I assure you it was no less brutal to me when +everybody I knew recommended it to me as they would recommend right +conduct to an immoral creature. But to return. The publication of what +I had written, and the public notice I received, wrought a change in +the fibre of your love. Martin Eden, with his work all performed, you +would not marry. Your love for him was not strong enough to enable you +to marry him. But your love is now strong enough, and I cannot avoid +the conclusion that its strength arises from the publication and the +public notice. In your case I do not mention royalties, though I am +certain that they apply to the change wrought in your mother and +father. Of course, all this is not flattering to me. But worst of all, +it makes me question love, sacred love. Is love so gross a thing that +it must feed upon publication and public notice? It would seem so. I +have sat and thought upon it till my head went around.” + +“Poor, dear head.” She reached up a hand and passed the fingers +soothingly through his hair. “Let it go around no more. Let us begin +anew, now. I loved you all the time. I know that I was weak in yielding +to my mother’s will. I should not have done so. Yet I have heard you +speak so often with broad charity of the fallibility and frailty of +humankind. Extend that charity to me. I acted mistakenly. Forgive me.” + +“Oh, I do forgive,” he said impatiently. “It is easy to forgive where +there is really nothing to forgive. Nothing that you have done requires +forgiveness. One acts according to one’s lights, and more than that one +cannot do. As well might I ask you to forgive me for my not getting a +job.” + +“I meant well,” she protested. “You know that I could not have loved +you and not meant well.” + +“True; but you would have destroyed me out of your well-meaning.” + +“Yes, yes,” he shut off her attempted objection. “You would have +destroyed my writing and my career. Realism is imperative to my nature, +and the bourgeois spirit hates realism. The bourgeoisie is cowardly. It +is afraid of life. And all your effort was to make me afraid of life. +You would have formalized me. You would have compressed me into a +two-by-four pigeonhole of life, where all life’s values are unreal, and +false, and vulgar.” He felt her stir protestingly. “Vulgarity—a hearty +vulgarity, I’ll admit—is the basis of bourgeois refinement and culture. +As I say, you wanted to formalize me, to make me over into one of your +own class, with your class-ideals, class-values, and class-prejudices.” +He shook his head sadly. “And you do not understand, even now, what I +am saying. My words do not mean to you what I endeavor to make them +mean. What I say is so much fantasy to you. Yet to me it is vital +reality. At the best you are a trifle puzzled and amused that this raw +boy, crawling up out of the mire of the abyss, should pass judgment +upon your class and call it vulgar.” + +She leaned her head wearily against his shoulder, and her body shivered +with recurrent nervousness. He waited for a time for her to speak, and +then went on. + +“And now you want to renew our love. You want us to be married. You +want me. And yet, listen—if my books had not been noticed, I’d +nevertheless have been just what I am now. And you would have stayed +away. It is all those damned books—” + +“Don’t swear,” she interrupted. + +Her reproof startled him. He broke into a harsh laugh. + +“That’s it,” he said, “at a high moment, when what seems your life’s +happiness is at stake, you are afraid of life in the same old +way—afraid of life and a healthy oath.” + +She was stung by his words into realization of the puerility of her +act, and yet she felt that he had magnified it unduly and was +consequently resentful. They sat in silence for a long time, she +thinking desperately and he pondering upon his love which had departed. +He knew, now, that he had not really loved her. It was an idealized +Ruth he had loved, an ethereal creature of his own creating, the bright +and luminous spirit of his love-poems. The real bourgeois Ruth, with +all the bourgeois failings and with the hopeless cramp of the bourgeois +psychology in her mind, he had never loved. + +She suddenly began to speak. + +“I know that much you have said is so. I have been afraid of life. I +did not love you well enough. I have learned to love better. I love you +for what you are, for what you were, for the ways even by which you +have become. I love you for the ways wherein you differ from what you +call my class, for your beliefs which I do not understand but which I +know I can come to understand. I shall devote myself to understanding +them. And even your smoking and your swearing—they are part of you and +I will love you for them, too. I can still learn. In the last ten +minutes I have learned much. That I have dared to come here is a token +of what I have already learned. Oh, Martin!—” + +She was sobbing and nestling close against him. + +For the first time his arms folded her gently and with sympathy, and +she acknowledged it with a happy movement and a brightening face. + +“It is too late,” he said. He remembered Lizzie’s words. “I am a sick +man—oh, not my body. It is my soul, my brain. I seem to have lost all +values. I care for nothing. If you had been this way a few months ago, +it would have been different. It is too late, now.” + +“It is not too late,” she cried. “I will show you. I will prove to you +that my love has grown, that it is greater to me than my class and all +that is dearest to me. All that is dearest to the bourgeoisie I will +flout. I am no longer afraid of life. I will leave my father and +mother, and let my name become a by-word with my friends. I will come +to you here and now, in free love if you will, and I will be proud and +glad to be with you. If I have been a traitor to love, I will now, for +love’s sake, be a traitor to all that made that earlier treason.” + +She stood before him, with shining eyes. + +“I am waiting, Martin,” she whispered, “waiting for you to accept me. +Look at me.” + +It was splendid, he thought, looking at her. She had redeemed herself +for all that she had lacked, rising up at last, true woman, superior to +the iron rule of bourgeois convention. It was splendid, magnificent, +desperate. And yet, what was the matter with him? He was not thrilled +nor stirred by what she had done. It was splendid and magnificent only +intellectually. In what should have been a moment of fire, he coldly +appraised her. His heart was untouched. He was unaware of any desire +for her. Again he remembered Lizzie’s words. + +“I am sick, very sick,” he said with a despairing gesture. “How sick I +did not know till now. Something has gone out of me. I have always been +unafraid of life, but I never dreamed of being sated with life. Life +has so filled me that I am empty of any desire for anything. If there +were room, I should want you, now. You see how sick I am.” + +He leaned his head back and closed his eyes; and like a child, crying, +that forgets its grief in watching the sunlight percolate through the +tear-dimmed films over the pupils, so Martin forgot his sickness, the +presence of Ruth, everything, in watching the masses of vegetation, +shot through hotly with sunshine that took form and blazed against this +background of his eyelids. It was not restful, that green foliage. The +sunlight was too raw and glaring. It hurt him to look at it, and yet he +looked, he knew not why. + +He was brought back to himself by the rattle of the door-knob. Ruth was +at the door. + +“How shall I get out?” she questioned tearfully. “I am afraid.” + +“Oh, forgive me,” he cried, springing to his feet. “I’m not myself, you +know. I forgot you were here.” He put his hand to his head. “You see, +I’m not just right. I’ll take you home. We can go out by the servants’ +entrance. No one will see us. Pull down that veil and everything will +be all right.” + +She clung to his arm through the dim-lighted passages and down the +narrow stairs. + +“I am safe now,” she said, when they emerged on the sidewalk, at the +same time starting to take her hand from his arm. + +“No, no, I’ll see you home,” he answered. + +“No, please don’t,” she objected. “It is unnecessary.” + +Again she started to remove her hand. He felt a momentary curiosity. +Now that she was out of danger she was afraid. She was in almost a +panic to be quit of him. He could see no reason for it and attributed +it to her nervousness. So he restrained her withdrawing hand and +started to walk on with her. Halfway down the block, he saw a man in a +long overcoat shrink back into a doorway. He shot a glance in as he +passed by, and, despite the high turned-up collar, he was certain that +he recognized Ruth’s brother, Norman. + +During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation. She was +stunned. He was apathetic. Once, he mentioned that he was going away, +back to the South Seas, and, once, she asked him to forgive her having +come to him. And that was all. The parting at her door was +conventional. They shook hands, said good night, and he lifted his hat. +The door swung shut, and he lighted a cigarette and turned back for his +hotel. When he came to the doorway into which he had seen Norman +shrink, he stopped and looked in in a speculative humor. + +“She lied,” he said aloud. “She made believe to me that she had dared +greatly, and all the while she knew the brother that brought her was +waiting to take her back.” He burst into laughter. “Oh, these +bourgeois! When I was broke, I was not fit to be seen with his sister. +When I have a bank account, he brings her to me.” + +As he swung on his heel to go on, a tramp, going in the same direction, +begged him over his shoulder. + +“Say, mister, can you give me a quarter to get a bed?” were the words. + +But it was the voice that made Martin turn around. The next instant he +had Joe by the hand. + +“D’ye remember that time we parted at the Hot Springs?” the other was +saying. “I said then we’d meet again. I felt it in my bones. An’ here +we are.” + +“You’re looking good,” Martin said admiringly, “and you’ve put on +weight.” + +“I sure have.” Joe’s face was beaming. “I never knew what it was to +live till I hit hoboin’. I’m thirty pounds heavier an’ feel tiptop all +the time. Why, I was worked to skin an’ bone in them old days. Hoboin’ +sure agrees with me.” + +“But you’re looking for a bed just the same,” Martin chided, “and it’s +a cold night.” + +“Huh? Lookin’ for a bed?” Joe shot a hand into his hip pocket and +brought it out filled with small change. “That beats hard graft,” he +exulted. “You just looked good; that’s why I battered you.” + +Martin laughed and gave in. + +“You’ve several full-sized drunks right there,” he insinuated. + +Joe slid the money back into his pocket. + +“Not in mine,” he announced. “No gettin’ oryide for me, though there +ain’t nothin’ to stop me except I don’t want to. I’ve ben drunk once +since I seen you last, an’ then it was unexpected, bein’ on an empty +stomach. When I work like a beast, I drink like a beast. When I live +like a man, I drink like a man—a jolt now an’ again when I feel like +it, an’ that’s all.” + +Martin arranged to meet him next day, and went on to the hotel. He +paused in the office to look up steamer sailings. The _Mariposa_ sailed +for Tahiti in five days. + +“Telephone over to-morrow and reserve a stateroom for me,” he told the +clerk. “No deck-stateroom, but down below, on the weather-side,—the +port-side, remember that, the port-side. You’d better write it down.” + +Once in his room he got into bed and slipped off to sleep as gently as +a child. The occurrences of the evening had made no impression on him. +His mind was dead to impressions. The glow of warmth with which he met +Joe had been most fleeting. The succeeding minute he had been bothered +by the ex-laundryman’s presence and by the compulsion of conversation. +That in five more days he sailed for his loved South Seas meant nothing +to him. So he closed his eyes and slept normally and comfortably for +eight uninterrupted hours. He was not restless. He did not change his +position, nor did he dream. Sleep had become to him oblivion, and each +day that he awoke, he awoke with regret. Life worried and bored him, +and time was a vexation. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. + + +“Say, Joe,” was his greeting to his old-time working-mate next morning, +“there’s a Frenchman out on Twenty-eighth Street. He’s made a pot of +money, and he’s going back to France. It’s a dandy, well-appointed, +small steam laundry. There’s a start for you if you want to settle +down. Here, take this; buy some clothes with it and be at this man’s +office by ten o’clock. He looked up the laundry for me, and he’ll take +you out and show you around. If you like it, and think it is worth the +price—twelve thousand—let me know and it is yours. Now run along. I’m +busy. I’ll see you later.” + +“Now look here, Mart,” the other said slowly, with kindling anger, “I +come here this mornin’ to see you. Savve? I didn’t come here to get no +laundry. I come here for a talk for old friends’ sake, and you shove a +laundry at me. I tell you what you can do. You can take that laundry +an’ go to hell.” + +He was out of the room when Martin caught him and whirled him around. + +“Now look here, Joe,” he said; “if you act that way, I’ll punch your +head. And for old friends’ sake I’ll punch it hard. Savve?—you will, +will you?” + +Joe had clinched and attempted to throw him, and he was twisting and +writhing out of the advantage of the other’s hold. They reeled about +the room, locked in each other’s arms, and came down with a crash +across the splintered wreckage of a wicker chair. Joe was underneath, +with arms spread out and held and with Martin’s knee on his chest. He +was panting and gasping for breath when Martin released him. + +“Now we’ll talk a moment,” Martin said. “You can’t get fresh with me. I +want that laundry business finished first of all. Then you can come +back and we’ll talk for old sake’s sake. I told you I was busy. Look at +that.” + +A servant had just come in with the morning mail, a great mass of +letters and magazines. + +“How can I wade through that and talk with you? You go and fix up that +laundry, and then we’ll get together.” + +“All right,” Joe admitted reluctantly. “I thought you was turnin’ me +down, but I guess I was mistaken. But you can’t lick me, Mart, in a +stand-up fight. I’ve got the reach on you.” + +“We’ll put on the gloves sometime and see,” Martin said with a smile. + +“Sure; as soon as I get that laundry going.” Joe extended his arm. “You +see that reach? It’ll make you go a few.” + +Martin heaved a sigh of relief when the door closed behind the +laundryman. He was becoming anti-social. Daily he found it a severer +strain to be decent with people. Their presence perturbed him, and the +effort of conversation irritated him. They made him restless, and no +sooner was he in contact with them than he was casting about for +excuses to get rid of them. + +He did not proceed to attack his mail, and for a half hour he lolled in +his chair, doing nothing, while no more than vague, half-formed +thoughts occasionally filtered through his intelligence, or rather, at +wide intervals, themselves constituted the flickering of his +intelligence. + +He roused himself and began glancing through his mail. There were a +dozen requests for autographs—he knew them at sight; there were +professional begging letters; and there were letters from cranks, +ranging from the man with a working model of perpetual motion, and the +man who demonstrated that the surface of the earth was the inside of a +hollow sphere, to the man seeking financial aid to purchase the +Peninsula of Lower California for the purpose of communist +colonization. There were letters from women seeking to know him, and +over one such he smiled, for enclosed was her receipt for pew-rent, +sent as evidence of her good faith and as proof of her respectability. + +Editors and publishers contributed to the daily heap of letters, the +former on their knees for his manuscripts, the latter on their knees +for his books—his poor disdained manuscripts that had kept all he +possessed in pawn for so many dreary months in order to fund them in +postage. There were unexpected checks for English serial rights and for +advance payments on foreign translations. His English agent announced +the sale of German translation rights in three of his books, and +informed him that Swedish editions, from which he could expect nothing +because Sweden was not a party to the Berne Convention, were already on +the market. Then there was a nominal request for his permission for a +Russian translation, that country being likewise outside the Berne +Convention. + +He turned to the huge bundle of clippings which had come in from his +press bureau, and read about himself and his vogue, which had become a +furore. All his creative output had been flung to the public in one +magnificent sweep. That seemed to account for it. He had taken the +public off its feet, the way Kipling had, that time when he lay near to +death and all the mob, animated by a mob-mind thought, began suddenly +to read him. Martin remembered how that same world-mob, having read him +and acclaimed him and not understood him in the least, had, abruptly, a +few months later, flung itself upon him and torn him to pieces. Martin +grinned at the thought. Who was he that he should not be similarly +treated in a few more months? Well, he would fool the mob. He would be +away, in the South Seas, building his grass house, trading for pearls +and copra, jumping reefs in frail outriggers, catching sharks and +bonitas, hunting wild goats among the cliffs of the valley that lay +next to the valley of Taiohae. + +In the moment of that thought the desperateness of his situation dawned +upon him. He saw, cleared eyed, that he was in the Valley of the +Shadow. All the life that was in him was fading, fainting, making +toward death. + +He realized how much he slept, and how much he desired to sleep. Of +old, he had hated sleep. It had robbed him of precious moments of +living. Four hours of sleep in the twenty-four had meant being robbed +of four hours of life. How he had grudged sleep! Now it was life he +grudged. Life was not good; its taste in his mouth was without tang, +and bitter. This was his peril. Life that did not yearn toward life was +in fair way toward ceasing. Some remote instinct for preservation +stirred in him, and he knew he must get away. He glanced about the +room, and the thought of packing was burdensome. Perhaps it would be +better to leave that to the last. In the meantime he might be getting +an outfit. + +He put on his hat and went out, stopping in at a gun-store, where he +spent the remainder of the morning buying automatic rifles, ammunition, +and fishing tackle. Fashions changed in trading, and he knew he would +have to wait till he reached Tahiti before ordering his trade-goods. +They could come up from Australia, anyway. This solution was a source +of pleasure. He had avoided doing something, and the doing of anything +just now was unpleasant. He went back to the hotel gladly, with a +feeling of satisfaction in that the comfortable Morris chair was +waiting for him; and he groaned inwardly, on entering his room, at +sight of Joe in the Morris chair. + +Joe was delighted with the laundry. Everything was settled, and he +would enter into possession next day. Martin lay on the bed, with +closed eyes, while the other talked on. Martin’s thoughts were far +away—so far away that he was rarely aware that he was thinking. It was +only by an effort that he occasionally responded. And yet this was Joe, +whom he had always liked. But Joe was too keen with life. The +boisterous impact of it on Martin’s jaded mind was a hurt. It was an +aching probe to his tired sensitiveness. When Joe reminded him that +sometime in the future they were going to put on the gloves together, +he could almost have screamed. + +“Remember, Joe, you’re to run the laundry according to those old rules +you used to lay down at Shelly Hot Springs,” he said. “No overworking. +No working at night. And no children at the mangles. No children +anywhere. And a fair wage.” + +Joe nodded and pulled out a note-book. + +“Look at here. I was workin’ out them rules before breakfast this A.M. +What d’ye think of them?” + +He read them aloud, and Martin approved, worrying at the same time as +to when Joe would take himself off. + +It was late afternoon when he awoke. Slowly the fact of life came back +to him. He glanced about the room. Joe had evidently stolen away after +he had dozed off. That was considerate of Joe, he thought. Then he +closed his eyes and slept again. + +In the days that followed Joe was too busy organizing and taking hold +of the laundry to bother him much; and it was not until the day before +sailing that the newspapers made the announcement that he had taken +passage on the _Mariposa_. Once, when the instinct of preservation +fluttered, he went to a doctor and underwent a searching physical +examination. Nothing could be found the matter with him. His heart and +lungs were pronounced magnificent. Every organ, so far as the doctor +could know, was normal and was working normally. + +“There is nothing the matter with you, Mr. Eden,” he said, “positively +nothing the matter with you. You are in the pink of condition. +Candidly, I envy you your health. It is superb. Look at that chest. +There, and in your stomach, lies the secret of your remarkable +constitution. Physically, you are a man in a thousand—in ten thousand. +Barring accidents, you should live to be a hundred.” + +And Martin knew that Lizzie’s diagnosis had been correct. Physically he +was all right. It was his “think-machine” that had gone wrong, and +there was no cure for that except to get away to the South Seas. The +trouble was that now, on the verge of departure, he had no desire to +go. The South Seas charmed him no more than did bourgeois civilization. +There was no zest in the thought of departure, while the act of +departure appalled him as a weariness of the flesh. He would have felt +better if he were already on board and gone. + +The last day was a sore trial. Having read of his sailing in the +morning papers, Bernard Higginbotham, Gertrude, and all the family came +to say good-by, as did Hermann von Schmidt and Marian. Then there was +business to be transacted, bills to be paid, and everlasting reporters +to be endured. He said good-by to Lizzie Connolly, abruptly, at the +entrance to night school, and hurried away. At the hotel he found Joe, +too busy all day with the laundry to have come to him earlier. It was +the last straw, but Martin gripped the arms of his chair and talked and +listened for half an hour. + +“You know, Joe,” he said, “that you are not tied down to that laundry. +There are no strings on it. You can sell it any time and blow the +money. Any time you get sick of it and want to hit the road, just pull +out. Do what will make you the happiest.” + +Joe shook his head. + +“No more road in mine, thank you kindly. Hoboin’s all right, exceptin’ +for one thing—the girls. I can’t help it, but I’m a ladies’ man. I +can’t get along without ’em, and you’ve got to get along without ’em +when you’re hoboin’. The times I’ve passed by houses where dances an’ +parties was goin’ on, an’ heard the women laugh, an’ saw their white +dresses and smiling faces through the windows—Gee! I tell you them +moments was plain hell. I like dancin’ an’ picnics, an’ walking in the +moonlight, an’ all the rest too well. Me for the laundry, and a good +front, with big iron dollars clinkin’ in my jeans. I seen a girl +already, just yesterday, and, d’ye know, I’m feelin’ already I’d just +as soon marry her as not. I’ve ben whistlin’ all day at the thought of +it. She’s a beaut, with the kindest eyes and softest voice you ever +heard. Me for her, you can stack on that. Say, why don’t you get +married with all this money to burn? You could get the finest girl in +the land.” + +Martin shook his head with a smile, but in his secret heart he was +wondering why any man wanted to marry. It seemed an amazing and +incomprehensible thing. + +From the deck of the _Mariposa_, at the sailing hour, he saw Lizzie +Connolly hiding in the skirts of the crowd on the wharf. Take her with +you, came the thought. It is easy to be kind. She will be supremely +happy. It was almost a temptation one moment, and the succeeding moment +it became a terror. He was in a panic at the thought of it. His tired +soul cried out in protest. He turned away from the rail with a groan, +muttering, “Man, you are too sick, you are too sick.” + +He fled to his stateroom, where he lurked until the steamer was clear +of the dock. In the dining saloon, at luncheon, he found himself in the +place of honor, at the captain’s right; and he was not long in +discovering that he was the great man on board. But no more +unsatisfactory great man ever sailed on a ship. He spent the afternoon +in a deck-chair, with closed eyes, dozing brokenly most of the time, +and in the evening went early to bed. + +After the second day, recovered from seasickness, the full passenger +list was in evidence, and the more he saw of the passengers the more he +disliked them. Yet he knew that he did them injustice. They were good +and kindly people, he forced himself to acknowledge, and in the moment +of acknowledgment he qualified—good and kindly like all the +bourgeoisie, with all the psychological cramp and intellectual futility +of their kind, they bored him when they talked with him, their little +superficial minds were so filled with emptiness; while the boisterous +high spirits and the excessive energy of the younger people shocked +him. They were never quiet, ceaselessly playing deck-quoits, tossing +rings, promenading, or rushing to the rail with loud cries to watch the +leaping porpoises and the first schools of flying fish. + +He slept much. After breakfast he sought his deck-chair with a magazine +he never finished. The printed pages tired him. He puzzled that men +found so much to write about, and, puzzling, dozed in his chair. When +the gong awoke him for luncheon, he was irritated that he must awaken. +There was no satisfaction in being awake. + +Once, he tried to arouse himself from his lethargy, and went forward +into the forecastle with the sailors. But the breed of sailors seemed +to have changed since the days he had lived in the forecastle. He could +find no kinship with these stolid-faced, ox-minded bestial creatures. +He was in despair. Up above nobody had wanted Martin Eden for his own +sake, and he could not go back to those of his own class who had wanted +him in the past. He did not want them. He could not stand them any more +than he could stand the stupid first-cabin passengers and the riotous +young people. + +Life was to him like strong, white light that hurts the tired eyes of a +sick person. During every conscious moment life blazed in a raw glare +around him and upon him. It hurt. It hurt intolerably. It was the first +time in his life that Martin had travelled first class. On ships at sea +he had always been in the forecastle, the steerage, or in the black +depths of the coal-hold, passing coal. In those days, climbing up the +iron ladders out the pit of stifling heat, he had often caught glimpses +of the passengers, in cool white, doing nothing but enjoy themselves, +under awnings spread to keep the sun and wind away from them, with +subservient stewards taking care of their every want and whim, and it +had seemed to him that the realm in which they moved and had their +being was nothing else than paradise. Well, here he was, the great man +on board, in the midmost centre of it, sitting at the captain’s right +hand, and yet vainly harking back to forecastle and stoke-hole in quest +of the Paradise he had lost. He had found no new one, and now he could +not find the old one. + +He strove to stir himself and find something to interest him. He +ventured the petty officers’ mess, and was glad to get away. He talked +with a quartermaster off duty, an intelligent man who promptly prodded +him with the socialist propaganda and forced into his hands a bunch of +leaflets and pamphlets. He listened to the man expounding the +slave-morality, and as he listened, he thought languidly of his own +Nietzsche philosophy. But what was it worth, after all? He remembered +one of Nietzsche’s mad utterances wherein that madman had doubted +truth. And who was to say? Perhaps Nietzsche had been right. Perhaps +there was no truth in anything, no truth in truth—no such thing as +truth. But his mind wearied quickly, and he was content to go back to +his chair and doze. + +Miserable as he was on the steamer, a new misery came upon him. What +when the steamer reached Tahiti? He would have to go ashore. He would +have to order his trade-goods, to find a passage on a schooner to the +Marquesas, to do a thousand and one things that were awful to +contemplate. Whenever he steeled himself deliberately to think, he +could see the desperate peril in which he stood. In all truth, he was +in the Valley of the Shadow, and his danger lay in that he was not +afraid. If he were only afraid, he would make toward life. Being +unafraid, he was drifting deeper into the shadow. He found no delight +in the old familiar things of life. The _Mariposa_ was now in the +northeast trades, and this wine of wind, surging against him, irritated +him. He had his chair moved to escape the embrace of this lusty comrade +of old days and nights. + +The day the _Mariposa_ entered the doldrums, Martin was more miserable +than ever. He could no longer sleep. He was soaked with sleep, and +perforce he must now stay awake and endure the white glare of life. He +moved about restlessly. The air was sticky and humid, and the +rain-squalls were unrefreshing. He ached with life. He walked around +the deck until that hurt too much, then sat in his chair until he was +compelled to walk again. He forced himself at last to finish the +magazine, and from the steamer library he culled several volumes of +poetry. But they could not hold him, and once more he took to walking. + +He stayed late on deck, after dinner, but that did not help him, for +when he went below, he could not sleep. This surcease from life had +failed him. It was too much. He turned on the electric light and tried +to read. One of the volumes was a Swinburne. He lay in bed, glancing +through its pages, until suddenly he became aware that he was reading +with interest. He finished the stanza, attempted to read on, then came +back to it. He rested the book face downward on his breast and fell to +thinking. That was it. The very thing. Strange that it had never come +to him before. That was the meaning of it all; he had been drifting +that way all the time, and now Swinburne showed him that it was the +happy way out. He wanted rest, and here was rest awaiting him. He +glanced at the open port-hole. Yes, it was large enough. For the first +time in weeks he felt happy. At last he had discovered the cure of his +ill. He picked up the book and read the stanza slowly aloud:- + +“‘From too much love of living, + From hope and fear set free, +We thank with brief thanksgiving + Whatever gods may be +That no life lives forever; +That dead men rise up never; + That even the weariest river + Winds somewhere safe to sea.’” + + +He looked again at the open port. Swinburne had furnished the key. Life +was ill, or, rather, it had become ill—an unbearable thing. “That dead +men rise up never!” That line stirred him with a profound feeling of +gratitude. It was the one beneficent thing in the universe. When life +became an aching weariness, death was ready to soothe away to +everlasting sleep. But what was he waiting for? It was time to go. + +He arose and thrust his head out the port-hole, looking down into the +milky wash. The _Mariposa_ was deeply loaded, and, hanging by his +hands, his feet would be in the water. He could slip in noiselessly. No +one would hear. A smother of spray dashed up, wetting his face. It +tasted salt on his lips, and the taste was good. He wondered if he +ought to write a swan-song, but laughed the thought away. There was no +time. He was too impatient to be gone. + +Turning off the light in his room so that it might not betray him, he +went out the port-hole feet first. His shoulders stuck, and he forced +himself back so as to try it with one arm down by his side. A roll of +the steamer aided him, and he was through, hanging by his hands. When +his feet touched the sea, he let go. He was in a milky froth of water. +The side of the _Mariposa_ rushed past him like a dark wall, broken +here and there by lighted ports. She was certainly making time. Almost +before he knew it, he was astern, swimming gently on the foam-crackling +surface. + +A bonita struck at his white body, and he laughed aloud. It had taken a +piece out, and the sting of it reminded him of why he was there. In the +work to do he had forgotten the purpose of it. The lights of the +_Mariposa_ were growing dim in the distance, and there he was, swimming +confidently, as though it were his intention to make for the nearest +land a thousand miles or so away. + +It was the automatic instinct to live. He ceased swimming, but the +moment he felt the water rising above his mouth the hands struck out +sharply with a lifting movement. The will to live, was his thought, and +the thought was accompanied by a sneer. Well, he had will,—ay, will +strong enough that with one last exertion it could destroy itself and +cease to be. + +He changed his position to a vertical one. He glanced up at the quiet +stars, at the same time emptying his lungs of air. With swift, vigorous +propulsion of hands and feet, he lifted his shoulders and half his +chest out of water. This was to gain impetus for the descent. Then he +let himself go and sank without movement, a white statue, into the sea. +He breathed in the water deeply, deliberately, after the manner of a +man taking an anaesthetic. When he strangled, quite involuntarily his +arms and legs clawed the water and drove him up to the surface and into +the clear sight of the stars. + +The will to live, he thought disdainfully, vainly endeavoring not to +breathe the air into his bursting lungs. Well, he would have to try a +new way. He filled his lungs with air, filled them full. This supply +would take him far down. He turned over and went down head first, +swimming with all his strength and all his will. Deeper and deeper he +went. His eyes were open, and he watched the ghostly, phosphorescent +trails of the darting bonita. As he swam, he hoped that they would not +strike at him, for it might snap the tension of his will. But they did +not strike, and he found time to be grateful for this last kindness of +life. + +Down, down, he swam till his arms and legs grew tired and hardly moved. +He knew that he was deep. The pressure on his ear-drums was a pain, and +there was a buzzing in his head. His endurance was faltering, but he +compelled his arms and legs to drive him deeper until his will snapped +and the air drove from his lungs in a great explosive rush. The bubbles +rubbed and bounded like tiny balloons against his cheeks and eyes as +they took their upward flight. Then came pain and strangulation. This +hurt was not death, was the thought that oscillated through his reeling +consciousness. Death did not hurt. It was life, the pangs of life, this +awful, suffocating feeling; it was the last blow life could deal him. + +His wilful hands and feet began to beat and churn about, spasmodically +and feebly. But he had fooled them and the will to live that made them +beat and churn. He was too deep down. They could never bring him to the +surface. He seemed floating languidly in a sea of dreamy vision. Colors +and radiances surrounded him and bathed him and pervaded him. What was +that? It seemed a lighthouse; but it was inside his brain—a flashing, +bright white light. It flashed swifter and swifter. There was a long +rumble of sound, and it seemed to him that he was falling down a vast +and interminable stairway. And somewhere at the bottom he fell into +darkness. That much he knew. He had fallen into darkness. And at the +instant he knew, he ceased to know. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1056 *** |