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Martin Eden

By Jack London

CHAPTER I

The one opened the door with a latch-key and went infollowed by a
young fellow who awkwardly removed his cap. He wore rough clothes
that smacked of the seaand he was manifestly out of place in the
spacious hall in which he found himself. He did not know what to
do with his capand 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 shouldersand
his legs spread unwittinglyas 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 gaitand 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 abreastyet he essayed it with trepidation. His heavy arms
hung loosely at his sides. He did not know what to do with those
arms and handsand whento his excited visionone arm seemed
liable to brush against the books on the tablehe lurched away
like a frightened horsebarely missing the piano stool. He
watched the easy walk of the other in front of himand 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 beadsand he paused and mopped his bronzed face with his
handkerchief.

Hold on, Arthur, my boy,he saidattempting 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 comean' 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 - Hellothere's a
letter for me."

He stepped back to the tabletore open the envelopeand began to
readgiving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. And
the stranger understood and appreciated. His was the gift of
sympathyunderstanding; and beneath his alarmed exterior that
sympathetic process went on. He mopped his forehead dry and
glanced about him with a controlled facethough in the eyes there
was an expression such as wild animals betray when they fear the
trap. He was surrounded by the unknownapprehensive of what might


happenignorant of what he should doaware that he walked and
bore himself awkwardlyfearful that every attribute and power of
him was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitivehopelessly
self-consciousand the amused glance that the other stole privily
at him over the top of the letter burned into him like a daggerthrust.
He saw the glancebut he gave no signfor among the
things he had learned was discipline. Alsothat dagger-thrust
went to his pride. He cursed himself for having comeand at the
same time resolved thathappen what wouldhaving comehe would
carry it through. The lines of his face hardenedand into his
eyes came a fighting light. He looked about more unconcernedly
sharply observantevery 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 beautyand 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; andoutside the line of surfa pilot-schoonerclose-hauled
heeled over till every detail of her deck was visiblewas surging
along against a stormy sunset sky. There was beautyand it drew
him irresistibly. He forgot his awkward walk and came closer to
the paintingvery close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. His
face expressed his bepuzzlement. He stared at what seemed a
careless daub of paintthen 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:


Ruththis is Mr. Eden."

The book was closed on his forefingerand before he turned he was
thrilling to the first new impressionwhich 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 consciousnesshis thoughtssympathiesand
emotions leapt and played like lambent flame. He was
extraordinarily receptive and responsivewhile his imagination
pitched highwas 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 somewas his internal
comment. His mind seemed to turnon the instantinto a vast
camera obscuraand he saw arrayed around his consciousness endless
pictures from his lifeof stoke-holes and forecastlescamps and
beachesjails and boozing-kensfever-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 paleethereal creature
with widespiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He did
not know how she was dressedexcept that the dress was as
wonderful as she. He likened her to a pale gold flower upon a
slender stem. Noshe was a spirita divinitya goddess; such
sublimated beauty was not of the earth. Or perhaps the books were
rightand there were many such as she in the upper walks of life.
She might well be sung by that chapSwinburne. Perhaps he had had
somebody like her in mind when he painted that girlIseultin the
book there on the table. All this plethora of sightand feeling
and thought occurred on the instant. There was no pause of the
realities wherein he moved. He saw her hand coming out to hisand
she looked him straight in the eyes as she shook handsfrankly
like a man. The women he had known did not shake hands that way.
For that mattermost of them did not shake hands at all. A flood
of associationsvisions of various ways he had made the
acquaintance of womenrushed 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! Immediatelybeside heron
either handranged the women he had known. For an eternal second
he stood in the midst of a portrait gallerywherein she occupied
the central placewhile about her were limned many womenall to
be weighed and measured by a fleeting glanceherself the unit of
weight and measure. He saw the weak and sickly faces of the girls
of the factoriesand the simperingboisterous girls from the
south of Market. There were women of the cattle campsand swarthy
cigarette-smoking women of Old Mexico. Thesein turnwere
crowded out by Japanese womendoll-likestepping mincingly on
wooden clogs; by Eurasiansdelicate featuredstamped with
degeneracy; by full-bodied South-Sea-Island womenflower-crowned
and brown-skinned. All these were blotted out by a grotesque and
terrible nightmare brood - frowsyshuffling creatures from the
pavements of Whitechapelgin-bloated hags of the stewsand all
the vast hell's following of harpiesvile-mouthed and filthythat
under the guise of monstrous female form prey upon sailorsthe
scrapings of the portsthe 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
allwhat he had doneand that any fellow would have done it. She
noticed that the hand he waved was covered with fresh abrasionsin
the process of healingand a glance at the other loose-hanging
hand showed it to be in the same condition. Alsowith quick
critical eyeshe noted a scar on his cheekanother that peeped
out from under the hair of the foreheadand 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 cutthe wrinkling of the coat across the
shouldersand 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
allhe was obeying her behest by trying to get into a chair. He
found time to admire the ease with which she sat downthen lurched
toward a chair facing heroverwhelmed with consciousness of the
awkward figure he was cutting. This was a new experience for him.
All his lifeup to thenhe 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 chairgreatly
worried by his hands. They were in the way wherever he put them.
Arthur was leaving the roomand Martin Eden followed his exit with
longing eyes. He felt lostalone there in the room with that pale
spirit of a woman. There was no bar-keeper upon whom to call for
drinksno 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 answeredmoistening his parched
lips and clearing hip throat. "It was just a fight. After I got
the knife awayhe tried to bite off my nose."

Baldly as he had stated itin his eyes was a rich vision of that
hotstarry night at Salina Cruzthe white strip of beachthe
lights of the sugar steamers in the harborthe voices of the
drunken sailors in the distancethe jostling stevedoresthe
flaming passion in the Mexican's facethe glint of the beast-eyes
in the starlightthe sting of the steel in his neckand the rush
of bloodthe crowd and the criesthe two bodieshis and the
Mexican'slocked togetherrolling over and over and tearing up
the sandand from away off somewhere the mellow tinkling of a
guitar. Such was the pictureand he thrilled to the memory of it
wondering if the man could paint it who had painted the pilotschooner
on the wall. The white beachthe starsand the lights
of the sugar steamers would look greathe thoughtand midway on
the sand the dark group of figures that surrounded the fighters.
The knife occupied a place in the picturehe decidedand would
show wellwith a sort of gleamin 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 fireroom.
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 nightin a calmwith a heavy sea runningthe main-boom-lift
carried awayan' next the tackle. The lift was wirean' it was
threshin' around like a snake. The whole watch was tryin' to grab
itan' I rushed in an' got swatted."

Oh,she saidthis time with an accent of comprehensionthough
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 beganattempting to put his plan into
execution and pronouncing the I long.

Who?

Swineburne,he repeatedwith the same mispronunciation. "The
poet."

Swinburne,she corrected.

Yes, that's the chap,he stammeredhis 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 betterand settled back slightly from
the edge of the chairholding 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 talkand while she rattled onhe
strove to follow hermarvelling at all the knowledge that was
stowed away in that pretty head of hersand drinking in the pale
beauty of her face. Follow her he didthough bothered by
unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips and by critical
phrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his mindbut
that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here
was intellectual lifehe thoughtand here was beautywarm 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
forto win toto fight for - ayand die for. The books were
true. There were such women in the world. She was one of them.
She lent wings to his imaginationand greatluminous canvases
spread themselves before him whereon loomed vaguegigantic figures
of love and romanceand of heroic deeds for woman's sake - for a
pale womana flower of gold. And through the swayingpalpitant
visionas through a fairy miragehe stared at the real woman
sitting there and talking of literature and art. He listened as
wellbut he staredunconscious 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 shewho knew little of the world of men
being a womanwas keenly aware of his burning eyes. She had never
had men look at her in such fashionand it embarrassed her. She
stumbled and halted in her utterance. The thread of argument
slipped from her. He frightened herand at the same time it was
strangely pleasant to be so looked upon. Her training warned her
of peril and of wrongsubtlemysteriousluring; while her
instincts rang clarion-voiced through her beingimpelling her to
hurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from another


worldto this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a line
of raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throatwhoall
too evidentlywas soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. She
was cleanand her cleanness revolted; but she was womanand 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 promptedwhile
to himself he seemed suddenly hungryand delicious little thrills
crawled up and down his spine at the sound of her laughter. Like
silverhe thought to himselflike tinkling silver bells; and on
the instantand for an instanthe was transported to a far land
where under pink cherry blossomshe smoked a cigarette and
listened to the bells of the peaked pagoda calling straw-sandalled
devotees to worship.

Yes, thank you,she said. "Swinburne failswhen all is said
because he iswellindelicate. There are many of his poems that
should never be read. Every line of the really great poets is
filled with beautiful truthand 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 hesitatinglythe 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 saidher 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' shiningan' it shun right into
me an' lighted me up insidelike the sun or a searchlight. That's
the way it landed on mebut I guess I ain't up much on poetry
miss."

He broke off lamely. He was confusedpainfully conscious of his
inarticulateness. He had felt the bigness and glow of life in what
he had readbut his speech was inadequate. He could not express
what he feltand to himself he likened himself to a sailorin a
strange shipon a dark nightgroping about in the unfamiliar
running rigging. Wellhe decidedit 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 impulsivelyspurred on to exhibit
and make the most of his little store of book knowledgedesirous
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 smiledand he feltsomehowthat her
smile was tolerantpitifully 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 determinedhis eyes were
flashingthe 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 neckheavy corded
almost bull-likebronzed by the sunspilling over with rugged
health and strength. And though he sat thereblushing 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 truthshe was far
from robustand 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 hadwho shocked her from moment to
moment with his awful grammar.

Yes, I ain't no invalid,he said. "When it comes down to hardpan
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
wayyou see. I like books and poetryand what time I've had I've
read 'embut 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" meantbut 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 knowledgeand 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 momentangry with himself for the boasthe 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
andwith arms around each other's waiststhey advanced toward
him. That must be her motherhe thought. She was a tallblond
womanslenderand statelyand 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 Yokohamawheretoo
from the sidewalkhe had seen grand ladies. Then the city and the
harbor of Yokohamain a thousand picturesbegan 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 introducedand he struggled painfully to his feet
where he stood with trousers bagging at the kneeshis arms loosehanging
and ludicroushis 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 stumblesjerks and lurcheslocomotion had at
times seemed impossible. But at last he had made itand was
seated alongside of Her. The array of knives and forks frightened
him. They bristled with unknown perilsand he gazed at them
fascinatedtill their dazzle became a background across which
moved a succession of forecastle pictureswherein he and his mates
sat eating salt beef with sheath-knives and fingersor scooping
thick pea-soup out of pannikins by means of battered iron spoons.
The stench of bad beef was in his nostrilswhile in his earsto
the accompaniment of creaking timbers and groaning bulkheads
echoed the loud mouth-noises of the eaters. He watched them
eatingand decided that they ate like pigs. Wellhe 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 Arthurand Arthur's
brotherNorman. They were her brothershe reminded himselfand
his heart warmed toward them. How they loved each otherthe
members of this family! There flashed into his mind the picture of
her motherof the kiss of greetingand 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 itand 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 withoutand
hardened himself in the process. He had not known that he needed
love. Nor did he know it now. He merely saw it in operationand
thrilled to itand thought it fineand highand splendid.

He was glad that Mr. Morse was not there. It was difficult enough
getting acquainted with herand her motherand her brother


Norman. Arthur he already knew somewhat. The father would have
been too much for himhe 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
foreheadand 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 beforeto handle strange toolsto 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 dullaching
restlessness; to feel the prod of desire to win to the walk in life
whereon she trodand to have his mind ever and again straying off
in speculation and vague plans of how to reach to her. Alsowhen
his secret glance went across to Norman opposite himor to any one
elseto ascertain just what knife or fork was to be used in any
particular occasionthat person's features were seized upon by his
mindwhich automatically strove to appraise them and to divine
what they were - all in relation to her. Then he had to talkto
hear what was said to him and what was said back and forthand to
answerwhen it was necessarywith a tongue prone to looseness of
speech that required a constant curb. And to add confusion to
confusionthere was the servantan unceasing menacethat
appeared noiselessly at his shouldera dire Sphinx that propounded
puzzles and conundrums demanding instantaneous solution. He was
oppressed throughout the meal by the thought of finger-bowls.
Irrelevantlyinsistentlyscores of timeshe wondered when they
would come on and what they looked like. He had heard of such
thingsand nowsooner or latersomewhere in the next few
minuteshe would see themsit at table with exalted beings who
used them - ayand he would use them himself. And most important
of allfar down and yet always at the surface of his thoughtwas
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 believeassume a part; and there were still more cowardly
suggestions that warned him he would fail in such coursethat his
nature was not fitted to live up to itand that he would make a
fool of himself.

It was during the first part of the dinnerstruggling to decide
upon his attitudethat he was very quiet. He did not know that
his quietness was giving the lie to Arthur's words of the day
beforewhen 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 himjust thento 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 tableperturbed 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
functiontoo. His mind was stirred. He heard words spoken that
were meaningless to himand 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 familyhe thrilled with delight. The romanceand beautyand
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 livingand he kept
himself in the backgroundlisteningobservingand pleasuring
replying in reticent monosyllablessayingYes, miss,and "No
miss to her, and Yesma'am and Noma'am to her mother.
He curbed the impulse, arising out of his sea-training, to say
Yessir and Nosir 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 himselfonce; "I'm
just as good as themand if they do know lots that I don'tI
could learn 'm a few myselfall 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,
Pew!"

On the instant those at the table were keyed up and expectantthe
servant was smugly pleasedand he was wallowing in mortification.
But he recovered himself quickly.

It's the Kanaka for 'finish,'he explainedand it just come out
naturally. It's spelt p-a-u.

He caught her curious and speculative eyes fixed on his handsand
being in explanatory moodhe 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 explainin 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 strongan' when I smash a man on the jaw the hands get
smashedtoo."

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 tactfullyaware of his discomfiture though not
of the reason for it.

Hein turnrealized what she had doneand 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 troublean'
Arthur wasn't botherin' 'em none. They butted in on 'man' then I
butted in on them an' poked a few. That's where some of the skin
off my hands wentalong with some of the teeth of the gang. I
wouldn't 'a' missed it for anything. When I seen - "

He pausedopen-mouthedon 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 talefor the twentieth timeof his
adventure with the drunken hoodlums on the ferry-boat and of how
Martin Eden had rushed in and rescued himthat individualwith
frowning browsmeditated upon the fool he had made of himselfand
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 tribeand he couldn't talk
their lingowas the way he put it to himself. He couldn't fake
being their kind. The masquerade would failand besides
masquerade was foreign to his nature. There was no room in him for
sham or artifice. Whatever happenedhe must be real. He couldn't
talk their talk just yetthough in time he would. Upon that he
was resolved. But in the meantimetalk he mustand it must be
his own talktoned downof courseso as to be comprehensible to
them and so as not to shook them too much. And furthermorehe
wouldn't claimnot even by tacit acceptanceto be familiar with
anything that was unfamiliar. In pursuance of this decisionwhen
the two brotherstalking university shophad used "trig" several
timesMartin Eden demanded:


What is TRIG?

Trignometry,Norman said; "a higher form of math."

And what is math?was the next questionwhichsomehowbrought
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 braintrigonometry 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 gladesall softly luminous or shot
through with flashing lights. In the distancedetail was veiled


and blurred by a purple hazebut behind this purple hazehe knew
was the glamour of the unknownthe lure of romance. It was like
wine to him. Here was adventuresomething to do with head and
handa world to conquer - and straightway from the back of his
consciousness rushed the thoughtCONQUERINGTO WIN TO HERTHAT
LILY-PALE SPIRIT SITTING BESIDE HIM.

The glimmering vision was rent asunder and dissipated by Arthur
whoall eveninghad been trying to draw his wild man out. Martin
Eden remembered his decision. For the first time he became
himselfconsciously and deliberately at firstbut 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 eyesand he could tell what he saw. He brought the
pulsing sea before themand the men and the ships upon the sea.
He communicated his power of visiontill they saw with his eyes
what he had seen. He selected from the vast mass of detail with an
artist's touchdrawing pictures of life that glowed and burned
with light and colorinjecting movement so that his listeners
surged along with him on the flood of rough eloquenceenthusiasm
and power. At times he shocked them with the vividness of the
narrative and his terms of speechbut beauty always followed fast
upon the heels of violenceand tragedy was relieved by humorby
interpretations of the strange twists and quirks of sailors' minds.

And while he talkedthe 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 burningblazing man that was
like a volcano spouting forth strengthrobustnessand health.
She felt that she must lean toward himand resisted by an effort.
Thentoothere was the counter impulse to shrink away from him.
She was repelled by those lacerated handsgrimed by toil so that
the very dirt of life was ingrained in the flesh itselfby 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 himtill 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 laughlife
was no longer an affair of serious effort and restraintbut a toy
to be played with and turned topsy-turvycarelessly to be lived
and pleasured inand carelessly to be flung aside. "Therefore
play!" was the cry that rang through her. "Lean toward himif so
you willand place your two hands upon his neck!" She wanted to
cry out at the recklessness of the thoughtand 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
horrorit was truebut none the less horror. This man from outer
darkness was evil. Her mother saw itand 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 warmand
the fear of him was no longer poignant.

Laterat the pianoshe played for himand at himaggressively
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 downit
incited him. He gazed upon her in awe. In his mindas in her
ownthe gulf widened; but faster than it widenedtowered his
ambition to win across it. But he was too complicated a plexus of


sensibilities to sit staring at a gulf a whole eveningespecially
when there was music. He was remarkably susceptible to music. It
was like strong drinkfiring him to audacities of feeling- a
drug that laid hold of his imagination and went cloud-soaring
through the sky. It banished sordid factflooded his mind with
beautyloosed romance and to its heels added wings. He did not
understand the music she played. It was different from the dancehall
piano-banging and blatant brass bands he had heard. But he
had caught hints of such music from the booksand he accepted her
playing largely on faithpatiently waitingat firstfor the
lifting measures of pronounced and simple rhythmpuzzled because
those measures were not long continued. Just as he caught the
swing of them and startedhis imagination attuned in flight
always they vanished away in a chaotic scramble of sounds that was
meaningless to himand that dropped his imaginationan inert
weightback to earth.

Onceit 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 impossibleand yielded himself more
freely to the music. The old delightful condition began to be
induced. His feet were no longer clayand 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 awayrocking
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 landsand 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 warmbreathless nights at seaor he beat up against the
southeast trades through long tropic dayssinking 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 Valleyor 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 mellowsounding
surf. The hulk of an ancient wreck burned with blue
firesin the light of which danced the HULA dancers to the
barbaric love-calls of the singerswho chanted to tinkling
UKULELES and rumbling tom-toms. It was a sensuoustropic night.
In the background a volcano crater was silhouetted against the
stars. Overhead drifted a pale crescent moonand 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 radianceand what his imagination
daredit objectified in some sublimated and magic way. Past
presentand future mingled; and he went on oscillating across the
broadwarm worldthrough high adventure and noble deeds to Her ay
and with herwinning herhis arm about herand carrying her
on in flight through the empery of his mind.

And sheglancing at him across her shouldersaw something of all
this in his face. It was a transfigured facewith 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 rawstumbling lout was gone. The ill-fitting


clothesbattered handsand sunburned face remained; but these
seemed the prison-bars through which she saw a great soul looking
forthinarticulate and dumb because of those feeble lips that
would not give it speech. Only for a flashing moment did she see
thisthen she saw the lout returnedand she laughed at the whim
of her fancy. But the impression of that fleeting glimpse
lingeredand when the time came for him to beat a stumbling
retreat and goshe lent him the volume of Swinburneand another
of Browning - she was studying Browning in one of her English
courses. He seemed such a boyas he stood blushing and stammering
his thanksthat a wave of pitymaternal in its promptingwelled
up in her. She did not remember the loutnor 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 boywho
was shaking her hand with a hand so calloused that it felt like a
nutmeg-grater and rasped her skinand 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 meand I like it."

I hope you'll call again,she saidas he was saying good night
to her brothers.

He pulled on his caplurched desperately through the doorwayand
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 olderwas the thought in her mind as she
kissed her brothers goodnight.

CHAPTER III

As Martin Eden went down the stepshis hand dropped into his coat
pocket. It came out with a brown rice paper and a pinch of Mexican
tobaccowhich 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 aloudin a
voice of awe and wonder. "By God!" he repeated. And yet again he
murmuredBy God!Then his hand went to his collarwhich he
ripped out of the shirt and stuffed into his pocket. A cold
drizzle was fallingbut he bared his head to it and unbuttoned his
vestswinging along in splendid unconcern. He was only dimly
aware that it was raining. He was in an ecstasydreaming dreams
and reconstructing the scenes just past.

He had met the woman at last - the woman that he had thought little
aboutnot being given to thinking about womenbut whom he had
expectedin a remote wayhe would sometime meet. He had sat next
to her at table. He had felt her hand in hishe had looked into
her eyes and caught a vision of a beautiful spirit; - but no more
beautiful than the eyes through which it shonenor 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 bodysubject to the ills and
frailties of bodies. Her body was more than the garb of her
spirit. It was an emanation of her spirita 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
wordno clewno hintof the divine had ever reached him before.
He had never believed in the divine. He had always been
irreligiousscoffing good-naturedly at the sky-pilots and their
immortality of the soul. There was no life beyondhe had
contended; it was here and nowthen darkness everlasting. But
what he had seen in her eyes was soul - immortal soul that could
never die. No man he had knownnor any womanhad 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 serioussweet and sensitive
smiling with pity and tenderness as only a spirit could smileand
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
purityas an attribute of existencehad never entered his mind.
And nowin herhe conceived purity to be the superlative of
goodness and of cleannessthe 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 meekfilled with selfdisparagement
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 existenceso 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 wingsand he saw himself
climbing the heights with hersharing thoughts with her
pleasuring in beautiful and noble things with her. It was a soulpossession
he dreamedrefined beyond any grossnessa free
comradeship of spirit that he could not put into definite thought.
He did not think it. For that matterhe did not think at all.
Sensation usurped reasonand he was quivering and palpitant with
emotions he had never knowndrifting 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 manmurmuring fervently aloud:
By God! By God!

A policeman on a street corner eyed him suspiciouslythen noted
his sailor roll.

Where did you get it?the policeman demanded.

Martin Eden came back to earth. His was a fluid organismswiftly
adjustablecapable of flowing into and filling all sorts of nooks
and crannies. With the policeman's hail he was immediately his
ordinary selfgrasping 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 cigarettesaid good nightand 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 didwere in her class sociallycould know
hercould see her every day if they wanted to. He wondered that
they did not want tothat they had been out having a good time
instead of being with her that eveningtalking with hersitting
around her in a worshipful and adoring circle. His thoughts
wandered on. He noticed one with narrow-slitted eyes and a looselipped
mouth. That fellow was vicioushe decided. On shipboard
he would be a sneaka whinera tattler. HeMartin Edenwas 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 donehe 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 knotor 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 goodanyway. 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 thathe
could be learning the other side of life from the books.

As the car crossed the zone of scattered dwellings that separated
Oakland from Berkeleyhe kept a lookout for a familiartwo-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 sisterand 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 toycart
left there by one of his numerous nephews and niecesand
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 roomwhere sat his
sister and Bernard Higginbotham. She was patching a pair of his
trouserswhile his lean body was distributed over two chairshis
feet dangling in dilapidated carpet-slippers over the edge of the
second chair. He glanced across the top of the paper he was
readingshowing a pair of darkinsinceresharp-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 verminand 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
whinedhalf bullied; "and you know what union wages are. You
should be more careful."

Martin had intended to replybut 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 itbut
it seemed that now he was seeing it for the first time. It was
cheapthat was what it waslike everything else in this house.
His mind went back to the house he had just leftand he saw
firstthe paintingsand nextHerlooking at him with melting
sweetness as she shook his hand at leaving. He forgot where he was
and Bernard Higginbotham's existencetill that gentleman
demanded:


Seen a ghost?

Martin came back and looked at the beady eyessneeringtruculent
cowardlyand there leaped into his visionas on a screenthe
same eyes when their owner was making a sale in the store below subservient
eyessmugand oilyand flattering.

Yes,Martin answered. "I seen a ghost. Good night. Good night
Gertrude."

He started to leave the roomtripping over a loose seam in the
slatternly carpet.

Don't bang the door,Mr. Higginbotham cautioned him.

He felt the blood crawl in his veinsbut 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
collarthough 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 storereserving for the eveningwith his
familythe privilege of being himself.


I tell you that precious brother of yours was drunk.

His voice was coldsharpand finalhis lips stamping the
enunciation of each word like the die of a machine. His wife
sighed and remained silent. She was a largestout womanalways
dressed slatternly and always tired from the burdens of her flesh
her workand 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 noddedsighedand went on stitching. They were agreed that
Martin had come home drunk. They did not have it in their souls to
know beautyor 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
suddenlyin 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 againhe's got to get out. Understand! I
won't put up with his shinanigan - debotchin' innocent children
with his boozing." Mr. Higginbotham liked the wordwhich was a
new one in his vocabularyrecently gleaned from a newspaper
column. "That's what it isdebotchin' - there ain't no other name
for it."

Still his wife sighedshook her head sorrowfullyand stitched on.
Mr. Higginbotham resumed the newspaper.

Has he paid last week's board?he shot across the top of the
newspaper.

She noddedthen addedHe 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
yetan' 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 saidbut 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 bulliedfor 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
brotheran' 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 feelingsif 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 awayher spirit
wilting down into her tired flesh. Her husband was triumphant. He
had her. His eyes snapped vindictivelywhile his ears joyed in
the sniffles she emitted. He extracted great happiness from
squelching herand she squelched easily these daysthough it had
been different in the first years of their married lifebefore 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 youbefore I forget itthat you'd better send for
Marian to-morrow to take care of the children. With Tom quitI'll
have to be out on the wagonan' 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 Edenwith blood still crawling from contact with his
brother-in-lawfelt his way along the unlighted back hall and
entered his rooma tiny cubbyhole with space for a beda washstand
and one chair. Mr. Higginbotham was too thrifty to keep a
servant when his wife could do the work. Besidesthe servant's
room enabled them to take in two boarders instead of one. Martin
placed the Swinburne and Browning on the chairtook off his coat
and sat down on the bed. A screeching of asthmatic springs greeted
the weight of his bodybut he did not notice them. He started to
take off his shoesbut fell to staring at the white plaster wall
opposite himbroken 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 longtill his
lips began to move and he murmuredRuth.

Ruth.He had not thought a simple sound could be so beautiful.
It delighted his earand he grew intoxicated with the repetition
of it. "Ruth." It was a talismana magic word to conjure with.
Each time he murmured ither face shimmered before himsuffusing
the foul wall with a golden radiance. This radiance did not stop
at the wall. It extended on into infinityand 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 himmade him betterand 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 himselfhe 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 himhe 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
livedtill nowand now it seemed to him that they had always
reached out and dragged at him with vile hands. This was not just
to themnor to himself. But hewho for the first time was
becoming conscious of himselfwas in no condition to judgeand 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 lookingglass
over the wash-stand. He passed a towel over it and looked
againlong and carefully. It was the first time he had ever
really seen himself. His eyes were made for seeingbut up to that
moment they had been filled with the ever changing panorama of the
worldat which he had been too busy gazingever to gaze at
himself. He saw the head and face of a young fellow of twenty
butbeing unused to such appraisementhe did not know how to
value it. Above a square-domed forehead he saw a mop of brown
hairnut-brownwith a wave to it and hints of curls that were a
delight to any womanmaking hands tingle to stroke it and fingers
tingle to pass caresses through it. But he passed it by as without
meritin Her eyesand 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 wonderedalsohow his eyes looked to
her. He tried to imagine himself shegazing into those eyes of
hisbut failed in the jugglery. He could successfully put himself
inside other men's mindsbut they had to be men whose ways of life
he knew. He did not know her way of life. She was wonder and
mysteryand how could he guess one thought of hers? Wellthey
were honest eyeshe concludedand 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 if the arm with his face. Yeshe was
a white manafter all. But the arms were sunburnedtoo. He
twisted his armrolled the biceps over with his other handand
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 mouthhad not the fullsensuous
lips a trickunder stressof drawing firmly across the teeth. At
timesso tightly did they drawthe 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 relishand they could
put the sweetness aside and command life. The chin and jawstrong
and just hinting of square aggressivenesshelped the lips to
command life. Strength balanced sensuousness and had upon it a
tonic effectcompelling 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 regularhe decidedas he
looked at them. But as he lookedhe began to be troubled.
Somewherestored away in the recesses of his mind and vaguely
rememberedwas 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 daytoo. 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 onceto-morrow. It was not by mere
achievement that he could hope to win to her. He must make a
personal reform in all thingseven to tooth-washing and neck-gear
though a starched collar affected him as a renunciation of freedom.

He held up his handrubbing 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-petalhe 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 paleslender
spiritexalted 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 walla
figure in brassarrogant and powerful. He had worked himself; his
first memories seemed connected with workand all his family had
worked. There was Gertrude. When her hands were not hard from the
endless houseworkthey were swollen and red like boiled beefwhat
of the washing. And there was his sister Marian. She had worked
in the cannery the preceding summerand her slimpretty hands
were all scarred with the tomato-knives. Besidesthe tips of two
of her fingers had been left in the cutting machine at the paperbox
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 softand her
mother's handsand her brothers'. This last came to him as a
surprise; it was tremendously indicative of the highness of their
casteof the enormous distance that stretched between her and him.

He sat back on the bed with a bitter laughand finished taking off
his shoes. He was a fool; he had been made drunken by a woman's
face and by a woman's softwhite hands. And thensuddenly
before his eyeson the foul plaster-wall appeared a vision. He
stood in front of a gloomy tenement house. It was night-timein
the East End of Londonand before him stood Margeya little
factory girl of fifteen. He had seen her home after the beanfeast.
She lived in that gloomy tenementa 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 kissedbut 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 eyesand 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 earsand 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
himand his heart was warm with pity. It was a gray scenegreasy
grayand the rain drizzled greasily on the pavement stones. And
then a radiant glory shone on the walland up through the other
visiondisplacing itglimmered Her pale face under its crown of
golden hairremote and inaccessible as a star.

He took the Browning and the Swinburne from the chair and kissed
them. Just the sameshe told me to call againhe thought. He
took another look at himself in the glassand said aloudwith
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 gasand 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 clothesand that was
vibrant with the jar and jangle of tormented life. As he came out
of his room he heard the slosh of watera sharp exclamationand 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 thingthe very air he
breathedwas repulsive and mean. How differenthe thoughtfrom
the atmosphere of beauty and repose of the house wherein Ruth
dwelt. There it was all spiritual. Here it was all materialand
meanly material.

Come here, Alfred,he called to the crying childat the same
time thrusting his hand into his trousers pocketwhere 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 momentsoothing his sobs. "Now run along and get some
candyand 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 youno
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 busyI'd kiss you good
morning."

He wanted to be affectionate to this sisterwho was goodand who
in her wayhe knewloved him. Butsomehowshe grew less


herself as the years went byand more and more baffling. It was
the hard workthe many childrenand the nagging of her husband
he decidedthat had changed her. It came to himin a flash of
fancythat her nature seemed taking on the attributes of stale
vegetablessmelly soapsudsand of the greasy dimesnickelsand
quarters she took in over the counter of the store.

Go along an' get your breakfast,she said roughlythough
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-daywhat of Tom quittin' an' nobody but Bernard to drive
the wagon."

Martin went into the kitchen with a sinking heartthe 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 timehe concluded.
But she was worked to death. Bernard Higginbotham was a brute to
work her so hard. But he could not help but feelon the other
handthat there had not been anything beautiful in that kiss. It
was trueit 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 soapsudsand the lipshe had noticedwere
flabby. There had been no quickvigorous 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 girlbefore her marriagewhen she would dance
with the bestall nightafter 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 onefirm and
frank. In imagination he dared to think of her lips on hisand so
vividly did he imagine that he went dizzy at the thought and seemed
to rift through clouds of rose-petalsfilling his brain with their
perfume.

In the kitchen he found Jimthe other boardereating mush very
languidlywith a sickfar-away look in his eyes. Jim was a
plumber's apprentice whose weak chin and hedonistic temperament
coupled with a certain nervous stupiditypromised to take him
nowhere in the race for bread and butter.

Why don't you eat?he demandedas Martin dipped dolefully into
the coldhalf-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 boastfulnervous giggle. "I was
loaded right to the neck. Ohshe 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 beeran' if that Temescal bunch comesthere'll be a
rough-house. I don't carethough. I'm takin' my lady friend just
the same. Cripesbut 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 explainedand 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 heran' it was all off. Of course
you didn't mean nothin' by itbut 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 itanywayMart?"

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 momentthen answeredPerhaps 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 streetbreathing great breaths
of air. He had been suffocating in that atmospherewhile 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 heherding with
such cattleever become worthy of her? He was appalled at the
problem confronting himweighted down by the incubus of his
working-class station. Everything reached out to hold him down his
sisterhis sister's house and familyJim the apprentice
everybody he knewevery tie of life. Existence did not taste good
in his mouth. Up to then he had accepted existenceas he had
lived it with all about himas a good thing. He had never
questioned itexcept when he read books; but thenthey were only
booksfairy stories of a fairer and impossible world. But now he
had seen that worldpossible and realwith a flower of a woman
called Ruth in the midmost centre of it; and thenceforth he must
know bitter tastesand longings sharp as painand hopelessness
that tantalized because it fed on hope.

He had debated between the Berkeley Free Library and the Oakland
Free Libraryand decided upon the latter because Ruth lived in
Oakland. Who could tell? - a library was a most likely place for
herand he might see her there. He did not know the way of
librariesand he wandered through endless rows of fictiontill
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 deskand began his adventures in
the philosophy alcove. He had heard of book philosophybut 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 sectionand ran the
pagesand stared at the meaningless formulas and figures. He
could read Englishbut 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?
Laterhe remembered that there were other menmany menwho had
mastered it; and he breathed a great oathpassionatelyunder his
breathswearing that his brain could do what theirs had done.

And so he wandered onalternating 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 wayit 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 drinkingwork upand become a captain.
Ruth seemed very near to him in that moment. As a captainhe
could marry her (if she would have him). And if she wouldn'twell

-he would live a good life among menbecause of Herand he would
quit drinking anyway. Then he remembered the underwriters and the
ownersthe two masters a captain must serveeither 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 booksand if he would do

great thingshe must do them on the land. Besidescaptains were
not allowed to take their wives to sea with them.

Noon cameand afternoon. He forgot to eatand sought on for the
books on etiquette; forin addition to careerhis mind was vexed
by a simple and very concrete problem: WHEN YOU MEET A YOUNG LADY
AND SHE ASKS YOU TO CALLHOW SOON CAN YOU CALL? was the way he
worded it to himself. But when he found the right shelfhe sought
vainly for the answer. He was appalled at the vast edifice of
etiquetteand lost himself in the mazes of visiting-card conduct
between persons in polite society. He abandoned his search. He
had not found what he wantedthough he had found that it would
take all of a man's time to be politeand 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."

Nowhow 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 awkwardlyuntil 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
soonand so be guilty of an awful breach of that awful thing
called etiquette. He spent long hours in the Oakland and Berkeley
librariesand made out application blanks for membership for
himselfhis sisters Gertrude and Marianand Jimthe latter's
consent being obtained at the expense of several glasses of beer.
With four cards permitting him to draw bookshe burned the gas
late in the servant's roomand 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 readand increased. Alsohe did not know
where to beginand continually suffered from lack of preparation.
The commonest referencesthat he could see plainly every reader
was expected to knowhe 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 ithe concluded. How could sheliving the refined
life she did? Then he chanced upon Kipling's poemsand 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 dictionarywhich deed had
decreased his supply of money and brought nearer the day on which
he must sail in search of more. Alsoit incensed Mr.
Higginbothamwho would have preferred the money taking the form of
board.

He dared not go near Ruth's neighborhood in the daytimebut night
found him lurking like a thief around the Morse homestealing
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 streetslonging all the while for some quick danger of
death to threaten so that he might spring in and save her father.
On another nighthis 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 momentbut it was a long moment to himduring 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 oftenhiding 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 bankand 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 lifeand he had an idea that such
institutions were frequented only by the very rich and the very
powerful.

In one wayhe had undergone a moral revolution. Her cleanness and
purity had reacted upon himand 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 teethand 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 itthe
clerk glanced at his nailssuggested a nail-fileand so he became
possessed of an additional toilet-tool. He ran across a book in
the library on the care of the bodyand promptly developed a
penchant for a cold-water bath every morningmuch to the amazement
of Jimand to the bewilderment of Mr. Higginbothamwho 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 mattershe 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. Alsohe learned the reason whyand
invaded his sister's kitchen in search of irons and ironing-board.
He had misadventures at firsthopelessly burning one pair and
buying anotherwhich expenditure again brought nearer the day on
which he must put to sea.

But the reform went deeper than mere outward appearance. He still
smokedbut he drank no more. Up to that timedrinking had seemed
to him the proper thing for men to doand he had prided himself on
his strong head which enabled him to drink most men under the
table. Whenever he encountered a chance shipmateand there were
many in San Franciscohe treated them and was treated in turnas
of oldbut he ordered for himself root beer or ginger ale and
good-naturedly endured their chaffing. And as they waxed maudlin
he studied themwatching the beast rise and master them and
thanking God that he was no longer as they. They had their
limitations to forgetand when they were drunktheir dimstupid
spirits were even as godsand 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
Ruthwho had fired him with love and with a glimpse of higher and
eternal life; with booksthat had set a myriad maggots of desire
gnawing in his brain; and with the sense of personal cleanliness he
was achievingthat gave him even more superb health than what he
had enjoyed and that made his whole body sing with physical wellbeing.


One night he went to the theatreon the blind chance that he might
see her thereand from the second balcony he did see her. He saw
her come down the aislewith Arthur and a strange young man with a
football mop of hair and eyeglassesthe sight of whom spurred him
to instant apprehension and jealousy. He saw her take her seat in
the orchestra circleand little else than her did he see that
night - a pair of slender white shoulders and a mass of pale gold
hairdim with distance. But there were others who sawand now
and againglancing at those about himhe noted two young girls
who looked back from the row in fronta dozen seats alongand 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 backand gone further and encouraged smiling. But now
it was different. He did smile backthen looked awayand looked
no more deliberately. But several timesforgetting the existence
of the two girlshis eyes caught their smiles. He could not rethumb
himself in a daynor could he violate the intrinsic
kindliness of his nature; soat such momentshe 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 worldso differentso terrifically different
from these two girls of his classthat he could feel for them only
pity and sorrow. He had it in his heart to wish that they could
possessin some small measureher 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 knewdid he belong in Ruth's
classthat 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 outsideand 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 himhe knew; and for the moment he could have cursed
that in him which drew women. Their casual edging across the
sidewalk to the curbas they drew nearapprised him of discovery.
They slowed downand were in the thick of the crown as they came
up with him. One of them brushed against him and apparently for
the first time noticed him. She was a slenderdark girlwith
blackdefiant eyes. But they smiled at himand he smiled back.

Hello,he said.

It was automatic; he had said it so often before under similar
circumstances of first meetings. Besideshe 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 greetingand showed signs of stoppingwhile her
companionarm linked in armgiggled 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 naturallyas a
matter of coursehe swung in along-side the dark-eyed one and
walked with her. There was no awkwardness on his partno numb
tongue. He was at home hereand he held his own royally in the
badinagebristling with slang and sharpnessthat was always the
preliminary to getting acquainted in these swift-moving affairs.
At the corner where the main stream of people flowed onwardhe
started to edge out into the cross street. But the girl with the
black eyes caught his armfollowing him and dragging her companion
after heras 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 laughand turnedfacing them. Across their
shoulders he could see the moving throng passing under the street
lamps. Where he stood it was not so lightandunseenhe 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 girlnodding at the
dark-eyed one.

You ask her,was the convulsed response.

Well, what is it?he demandedturning squarely on the girl in
question.

You ain't told me yours, yet,she retorted.

You never asked it,he smiled. "Besidesyou guessed the first
rattle. It's Billall rightall right."

Aw, go 'long with you.She looked him in the eyesher own
sharply passionate and inviting. "What is ithonest?"

Again she looked. All the centuries of woman since sex began were
eloquent in her eyes. And he measured her in a careless wayand
knewbold nowthat she would begin to retreatcoyly and
delicatelyas he pursuedever ready to reverse the game should he
turn fainthearted. Andtoohe was humanand could feel the draw
of herwhile his ego could not but appreciate the flattery of her
kindness. Ohhe knew it alland knew them wellfrom A to Z.
Goodas goodness might be measured in their particular class
hard-working for meagre wages and scorning the sale of self for
easier waysnervously desirous for some small pinch of happiness
in the desert of existenceand facing a future that was a gamble
between the ugliness of unending toil and the black pit of more
terrible wretchednessthe way whereto being briefer though better
paid.

Bill,he answerednodding his head. "SurePeteBill 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 invitedand felt on the palm familiar
markings and distortions.

When'd you chuck the cannery?he asked.

How'd yeh know?andMy, 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 itand 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 Herunder the lightsbetween
her brother and the strange young man with glassesand his heart
seemed to stand still. He had waited long for this moment. He had
time to note the lightfluffy something that hid her queenly head
the tasteful lines of her wrapped figurethe 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 dresstheir tragic
efforts to be clean and trimthe cheap cloththe cheap ribbons
and the cheap rings on the fingers. He felt a tug at his armand
heard a voice saying:


Wake up, Bill! What's the matter with you?

What was you sayin'?he asked.

Oh, nothin',the dark girl answeredwith 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
bolddefiant eyes of the girl before himhe saw Ruth's clear
luminous eyeslike a saint'sgazing at him out of unplumbed
depths of purity. Andsomehowhe 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 triedat timesbut had only puzzled his listeners.
And as his thoughts had been beyond themsohe argued nowhe
must be beyond them. He felt power move in himand clenched his
fists. If life meant more to himthen it was for him to demand
more from lifebut 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 paintingbeauty and
reposeand 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 pleasurenarrow as the gravethat palledand the grave was
at the end of it. But the bid of the saint's eyes was mysteryand
wonder unthinkableand eternal life. He had caught glimpses of
the soul in themand glimpses of his own soultoo.

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 falteredwith a girl.

You're not stringin' me?she asked earnestly.

He looked her in the eyes and answered: "It's straightall 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 repliedsoftening toward himher hand pressing his
armwhile 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 youRuth.
I kept it for you."

CHAPTER VII

A week of heavy reading had passed since the evening he first met
Ruth Morseand still he dared not call. Time and again he nerved
himself up to callbut 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 himand he was afraid of committing
himself to an irretrievable blunder. Having shaken himself free
from his old companions and old ways of lifeand having no new
companionsnothing remained for him but to readand the long
hours he devoted to it would have ruined a dozen pairs of ordinary
eyes. But his eyes were strongand they were backed by a body
superbly strong. Furthermorehis mind was fallow. It had lain
fallow all his life so far as the abstract thought of the books was
concernedand it was ripe for the sowing. It had never been jaded
by studyand it bit hold of the knowledge in the books with sharp
teeth that would not let go.

It seemed to himby the end of the weekthat he had lived
centuriesso 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 philosophyand the next day one that was
ultra-modernso 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 MarxRicardoAdam
Smithand Milland the abstruse formulas of the one gave no clew


that the ideas of another were obsolete. He was bewilderedand
yet he wanted to know. He had become interestedin a dayin
economicsindustryand politics. Passing through the City Hall
Parkhe had noticed a group of menin the centre of which were
half a dozenwith flushed faces and raised voicesearnestly
carrying on a discussion. He joined the listenersand heard a
newalien tongue in the mouths of the philosophers of the people.
One was a trampanother was a labor agitatora third was a lawschool
studentand the remainder was composed of wordy workingmen.
For the first time he heard of socialismanarchismand single
taxand learned that there were warring social philosophies. He
heard hundreds of technical words that were new to himbelonging
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 theosophista union baker who was an agnostican old
man who baffled all of them with the strange philosophy that WHAT
IS IS RIGHTand 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 hoursand he hurried to the library to look up the
definitions of a dozen unusual words. And when he left the
libraryhe carried under his arm four volumes: Madam Blavatsky's
Secret Doctrine,Progress and Poverty,The Quintessence of
Socialism,andWarfare of Religion and Science.Unfortunately
he began on the "Secret Doctrine." Every line bristled with manysyllabled
words he did not understand. He sat up in bedand the
dictionary was in front of him more often than the book. He looked
up so many new words that when they recurredhe had forgotten
their meaning and had to look them up again. He devised the plan
of writing the definitions in a note-bookand filled page after
page with them. And still he could not understand. He read until
three in the morningand his brain was in a turmoilbut not one
essential thought in the text had he grasped. He looked upand it
seemed that the room was liftingheelingand plunging like a ship
upon the sea. Then he hurled the "Secret Doctrine" and many curses
across the roomturned off the gasand 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 thisand for a
while entertained the idea of reading nothing but the dictionary
until he had mastered every word in it.

Poetryhoweverwas his solaceand he read much of itfinding
his greatest joy in the simpler poetswho were more
understandable. He loved beautyand there he found beauty.
Poetrylike musicstirred him profoundlyandthough he did not
know ithe was preparing his mind for the heavier work that was to
come. The pages of his mind were blankandwithout effortmuch
he read and likedstanza by stanzawas impressed upon those
pagesso 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:


Saythere'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 shoulderswhat 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 seeit'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 fellowan' I ain't never seen
anything of society. This girl is all that I ain'tan' I ain't
anything that she is. You don't think I'm playin' the fooldo
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 otherwith 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 saidpicking 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 herselfand her woman's eyes took in
immediately the creased trousers and the certain slight but
indefinable change in him for the better. Alsoshe was struck by
his face. It was almost violentthis health of hisand 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 warmthand marvelled
again at the effect his presence produced upon her. And hein
turnknew 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
herand his shoulders swung and lurched perilously.

Once they were seated in the living-roomhe 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 toand of the Browning he did not
understand; and she led the conversation on from subject to
subjectwhile 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 beforeand the pity was not
so much derogatory of him as maternal in her. Her pity could not
be of the common sortwhen 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 thereand there was sweetness in the thought of
laying her hands upon it. It seemed still a wanton impulsebut
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
excellenciesand she even felt philanthropic about it.
She did not know she desired him; but with him it was different.
He knew that he loved herand 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 loverand 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 listenedhis thoughts grew daring. He
reviewed all the wild delight of the pressure of her hand in his at
the doorand longed for it again. His gaze wandered often toward
her lipsand 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 spiritand his desire for them
seemed absolutely different from the desire that had led him to
other women's lips. He could kiss her lipsrest his own physical
lips upon thembut 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 himand 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 wasnor that the warm flame of it was affecting
the alchemy of her spirit. Her penetrative virginity exalted and
disguised his own emotionselevating his thoughts to a star-cool
chastityand he would have been startled to learn that there was
that shining out of his eyeslike warm wavesthat flowed through
her and kindled a kindred warmth. She was subtly perturbed by it
and more than oncethough she knew not whyit 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 herand these interruptions would have puzzled her had she
not decided that it was because he was a remarkable type. She was
very sensitive to impressionsand it was not strangeafter 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
himand 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 beganand
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 cattlecamps
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.

Nowto come to what I'm drivin' at. I was never inside a house
like this. When I come a week agoan' saw all thisan' youan'
your motheran' brothersan' everything - wellI liked it. I'd
heard about such things an' read about such things in some of the
booksan' when I looked around at your housewhythe 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 booksand picturesand beautiful things
where people talk in low voices an' are cleanan' 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. Whywhen you was crossin' the room to kiss your motherI
thought it was the most beautiful thing I ever seen. I've seen a
whole lot of lifean' somehow I've seen a whole lot more of it
than most of them that was with me. I like to seean' I want to
see morean' 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 stumblinguncouth 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 anythingwas
the message she read thereand 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
relativessomebody 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 criedwhile 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 humblyYou


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 - wellyou 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 thatnot
helping nobodythey 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 somebodydoes 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 momentthen answered'Do not.'

She nodded her headand saidAnd you use 'don't' when you mean
'does not.'

He was puzzled over thisand did not get it so quickly.

Give me an illustration,he asked.

Well - She puckered her brows and pursed up her mouth as she
thoughtwhile 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 saidprettily 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 forwardfeeling 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 arosethere shot through his mind something that he had
read in the etiquette booksand he stood up awkwardlyworrying as
to whether he was doing the right thingand fearing that she might
take it as a sign that he was about to go.

By the way, Mr. Eden,she called backas she was leaving the
room. "What is BOOZE? You used it several timesyou 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 personaland 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 grammarshe 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 grammarand their heads
were inclined toward each other. He could hardly follow her
outlining of the work he must doso amazed was he by her
delightful propinquity. But when she began to lay down the
importance of conjugationhe forgot all about her. He had never
heard of conjugationand was fascinated by the glimpse he was
catching into the tie-ribs of language. He leaned closer to the
pageand her hair touched his cheek. He had fainted but once in
his lifeand he thought he was going to faint again. He could
scarcely breatheand 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 herin that momentwas of the same order as religious awe and
fervor. It seemed to him that he had intruded upon the holy of
holiesand 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 byduring which Martin Eden studied his
grammarreviewed the books on etiquetteand 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 questionsand 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 languageso that book showed him the
tie-ribs of poetryand he began to learn metre and construction
and formbeneath the beauty he loved finding the why and wherefore
of that beauty. Another modern book he found treated poetry as a
representative arttreated it exhaustivelywith copious
illustrations from the best in literature. Never had he read
fiction with so keen zest as he studied these books. And his fresh
minduntaxed 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-groundthe old world he
had knownthe world of land and sea and shipsof sailor-men and
harpy-womenseemed a very small world; and yet it blended in with
this new world and expanded. His mind made for unityand he was
surprised when at first he began to see points of contact between
the two worlds. And he was ennobledas wellby the loftiness of
thought and beauty he found in the books. This led him to believe
more firmly than ever that up above himin society like Ruth and
her familyall men and women thought these thoughts and lived
them. Down below where he lived was the ignobleand he wanted to
purge himself of the ignoble that had soiled all his daysand 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 wantedbut he had wanted something that he had
hunted vainly for until he met Ruth. And now his unrest had become
sharp and painfuland he knew at lastclearly and definitely
that it was beautyand intellectand love that he must have.

During those several weeks he saw Ruth half a dozen timesand each
time was an added inspiration. She helped him with his English
corrected his pronunciationand started him on arithmetic. But
their intercourse was not all devoted to elementary study. He had
seen too much of lifeand his mind was too maturedto be wholly
content with fractionscube rootparsingand analysis; and there
were times when their conversation turned on other themes - the
last poetry he had readthe latest poet she had studied. And when
she read aloud to him her favorite passageshe ascended to the
topmost heaven of delight. Neverin all the women he had heard
speakhad he heard a voice like hers. The least sound of it was a
stimulus to his loveand he thrilled and throbbed with every word
she uttered. It was the quality of itthe reposeand the musical
modulation - the softrichindefinable product of culture and a
gentle soul. As he listened to herthere rang in the ears of his
memory the harsh cries of barbarian women and of hagsandin
lesser degrees of harshnessthe strident voices of working women
and of the girls of his own class. Then the chemistry of vision
would begin to workand they would troop in review across his
mindeachby contrastmultiplying Ruth's glories. Thentoo
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 loveaffinity,
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 Tannhauser"
overturewhen she had given him the clew to itclaimed him as


nothing else she played. In an immediate way it personified his
life. All his past was the VENUSBURG motifwhile her he
identified somehow with the PILGRIM'S CHORUS motif; and from the
exalted state this elevated him tohe swept onward and upward into
that vast shadow-realm of spirit-gropingwhere good and evil war
eternally.

Sometimes he questionedand 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
herand 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 girlsill-nourished and
untrainedand with the raucous shriekings from gin-cracked throats
of the women of the seaport towns. She enjoyed singing and playing
to him. In truthit was the first time she had ever had a human
soul to play withand the plastic clay of him was a delight to
mould; for she thought she was moulding itand her intentions were
good. Besidesit was pleasant to be with him. He did not repel
her. That first repulsion had been really a fear of her
undiscovered selfand the fear had gone to sleep. Though she did
not know itshe had a feeling in him of proprietary right. Also
he had a tonic effect upon her. She was studying hard at the
universityand 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 neededand he gave it
to her in generous measure. To come into the same room with him
or to meet him at the doorwas to take heart of life. And when he
had goneshe would return to her books with a keener zest and
fresh store of energy.

She knew her Browningbut it had never sunk into her that it was
an awkward thing to play with souls. As her interest in Martin
increasedthe remodelling of his life became a passion with her.

There is Mr. Butler,she said one afternoonwhen 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 daytimeand 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 seventeenhe was earning
excellent wages at setting typebut he was ambitious. He wanted a
careernot a livelihoodand he was content to make immediate
sacrifices for his ultimate again. He decided upon the lawand 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 breathand 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. WhyI pay five dollars a week for
board nowan' there's nothin' excitin' about ityou can lay to
that. He must have lived like a dog. The food he ate - "

He cooked for himself,she interruptedon 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 thousandfold."


Martin looked at her sharply.

There's one thing I'll bet you,he saidand 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 onthat 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 agreementand 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 weekan' a young boy cookin' for himself on an
oil-burner an' layin' up moneyworkin' all day an' studyin' all
nightjust 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 addedI 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 herand contrary to her own beliefsbut
she always felt in them germs of truth that threatened to unseat or
modify her own convictions. Had she been fourteen instead of
twenty-fourshe might have been changed by them; but she was
twenty-fourconservative by nature and upbringingand already
crystallized into the cranny of life where she had been born and
formed. It was truehis bizarre judgments troubled her in the
moments they were utteredbut she ascribed them to his novelty of
type and strangeness of livingand they were soon forgotten.
Neverthelesswhile she disapproved of themthe strength of their
utteranceand the flashing of eyes and earnestness of face that
accompanied themalways thrilled her and drew her toward him. She
would never have guessed that this man who had come from beyond her
horizonwasin such momentsflashing 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 indeedand
that where his conflicted with hers marked his limitations; and she
dreamed of helping him to see as she sawof widening his horizon
until it was identified with hers.

But I have not finished my story,she said. "He workedso
father saysas no other office boy he ever had. Mr. Butler was
always eager to work. He never was lateand 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 bookkeeping
and type-writingand he paid for lessons in shorthand by
dictating at night to a court reporter who needed practice. He
quickly became a clerkand 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
lawyerand 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 timesand father says he could become a
justice of the Supreme Court any time a vacancy occursif 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 womanor for attainment of beautyMartin would
have understood. God's own mad lover should do anything for the
kissbut not for thirty thousand dollars a year. He was
dissatisfied with Mr. Butler's career. There was something paltry
about itafter all. Thirty thousand a year was all rightbut
dyspepsia and inability to be humanly happy robbed such princely
income of all its value.

Much of this he strove to express to Ruthand 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
colorcreedand 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 womanand 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 camehoming for California with a
lover's desire. His store of money exhaustedhe had shipped
before the mast on the treasure-hunting schooner; and the Solomon
Islandsafter eight months of failure to find treasurehad
witnessed the breaking up of the expedition. The men had been paid
off in Australiaand Martin had immediately shipped on a deepwater
vessel for San Francisco. Not alone had those eight months
earned him enough money to stay on land for many weeksbut they
had enabled him to do a great deal of studying and reading.

His was the student's mindand 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
shipmatesand 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
discordand oftenfrom lack of practiceit 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 repeatedlyhe took up the
dictionary and added twenty words a day to his vocabulary. He
found that this was no light taskand at wheel or lookout he
steadily went over and over his lengthening list of pronunciations
and definitionswhile 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 emphaticallyhe 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 Shakespearewhich he never readand
Martin had washed his clothes for him and in return been permitted
access to the precious volumes. For a timeso steeped was he in
the plays and in the many favorite passages that impressed
themselves almost without effort on his brainthat 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 spentandin addition to what he
had learned of right speaking and high thinkinghe had learned
much of himself. Along with his humbleness because he knew so
littlethere arose a conviction of power. He felt a sharp
gradation between himself and his shipmatesand 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
worldand 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 thenin splendor and glorycame 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 heardone of the hearts through
which it felt. He would write - everything - poetry and prose
fiction and descriptionand plays like Shakespeare. There was
career and the way to win to Ruth. The men of literature were the
world's giantsand 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 germinatedit mastered himand 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. Clearlyand
for the first limehe 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 worldbut he saw it as a
whole and not in detailand he sawalsothe 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 itand
she would be surprised and pleased when she saw his name in print.
While he wrotehe could go on studying. There were twenty-four
hours in each day. He was invincible. He knew how to workand
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 coursehe cautioned himselfit would be slow
succeeding at firstand for a time he would be content to earn
enough money by his writing to enable him to go on studying. And
thenafter some time- a very indeterminate time- when he had
learned and prepared himselfhe would write the great things and
his name would be on all men's lips. But greater than that
infinitely greater and greatest of allhe would have proved
himself worthy of Ruth. Fame was all very wellbut it was for
Ruth that his splendid dream arose. He was not a fame-mongerbut
merely one of God's mad lovers.

Arrived in Oaklandwith his snug pay-day in his pockethe 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 herbecause of the violent heat
of creative fever that burned in him. Besidesthe very article he
was writing would bring her nearer to him. He did not know how
long an article he should writebut he counted the words in a
double-page article in the Sunday supplement of the SAN FRANCISCO
EXAMINERand guided himself by that. Three daysat white heat
completed his narrative; but when he had copied it carefullyin a
large scrawl that was easy to readhe 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 overreferring
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 carefullyhe
read in a newspaper an item on hints to beginnersand 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. Alsohe learned from the item that firstclass
papers paid a minimum of ten dollars a column. Sowhile he
copied the manuscript a third timehe consoled himself by


multiplying ten columns by ten dollars. The product was always the
sameone hundred dollarsand he decided that that was better than
seafaring. If it hadn't been for his blundershe 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 writehe concludedthough the money in itself meant nothing
to him. Its value was in the liberty it would get himthe
presentable garments it would buy himall of which would bring him
nearerswiftly nearerto the slenderpale girl who had turned
his life back upon itself and given him inspiration.

He mailed the manuscript in a flat envelopeand addressed it to
the editor of the SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER. He had an idea that
anything accepted by a paper was published immediatelyand 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. ThenSunday afternoonhe
would call and see her. In the meantime he was occupied by another
ideawhich he prided himself upon as being a particularly sane
carefuland 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 storieshe foundwere usually published in that weekly in
five instalments of about three thousand words each. He discovered
several serials that ran to seven instalmentsand decided to write
one of that length.

He had been on a whaling voyage in the Arcticonce - 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
fancifuleven fantastic at timeshe had a basic love of reality
that compelled him to write about the things he knew. He knew
whalingand 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 workhe 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. Higginbothamwho 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 doornervously racing through the many-sheeted
newspaper. He went through it a second timevery carefullythen
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. Besidesthere had not been any
news value in his articleand most likely the editor would write
to him about it first.

After breakfast he went on with his serial. The words flowed from
his penthough 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 timeduring such pauses; and
he consoled himself that while he was not writing the great things
he felt to be in himhe was learning compositionat any rateand
training himself to shape up and express his thoughts. He toiled
on till darkwhen 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


wordsand each evening he puzzled his way through the magazines
taking note of the storiesarticlesand poems that editors saw
fit to publish. One thing was certain: What these multitudinous
writers did he could doand only give him time and he would do
what they could not do. He was cheered to read in BOOK NEWSin a
paragraph on the payment of magazine writersnot that Rudyard
Kipling received a dollar per wordbut that the minimum rate paid
by first-class magazines was two cents a word. THE YOUTH'S
COMPANION was certainly first classand 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 serialtwenty-one thousand words
long. At two cents a wordhe calculatedthat 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
clothesto subscribe to many magazinesand 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 Marion.

He mailed the bulky manuscript to THE YOUTH'S COMPANIONand on
Saturday afternoonafter having planned an article on pearldiving
he went to see Ruth. He had telephonedand 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 glowand to
set her quivering with its imparted strength. He flushed warmly as
he took her hand and looked into her blue eyesbut the fresh
bronze of eight months of sun hid the flushthough 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 additionhis cloth cap had been replaced by a soft
hatwhich 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 handiworkand she was proud of it and
fired with ambition further to help him.

But the most radical change of alland the one that pleased her
mostwas the change in his speech. Not only did he speak more
correctlybut he spoke more easilyand there were many new words
in his vocabulary. When he grew excited or enthusiastichowever
he dropped back into the old slurring and the dropping of final
consonants. Alsothere was an awkward hesitancyat timesas he
essayed the new words he had learned. On the other handalong
with his ease of expressionhe 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
classbut 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 tentativefastidiously soletting Ruth set the
pace of sprightliness and fancykeeping up with her but never
daring to go beyond her.

He told her of what he had been doingand 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 franklywriting 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
queriedsecretly exulting at the language he had usedhis 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 rawgross and bestial.

The whole composite vision was achieved with the speed of light
producing no pause in the conversationnor interrupting his calm
train of thought. On the screen of his imagination he saw himself
and this sweet and beautiful girlfacing each other and conversing
in good Englishin a room of books and paintings and tone and
cultureand all illuminated by a bright light of steadfast
brilliance; while ranged about and fading away to the remote edges
of the screen were antithetical sceneseach scene a pictureand
he the onlookerfree 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 bardrinking fierce whiskeythe air filled with obscenity
and ribald languageand he saw himself with them drinking and
cursing with the wildestor sitting at table with themunder
smoking kerosene lampswhile the chips clicked and clattered and
the cards were dealt around. He saw himselfstripped to the
waistwith naked fistsfighting his great fight with Liverpool
Red in the forecastle of the Susquehanna; and he saw the bloody
deck of the John Rogersthat gray morning of attempted mutinythe
mate kicking in death-throes on the main-hatchthe revolver in the
old man's hand spitting fire and smokethe men with passionwrenched
facesof brutes screaming vile blasphemies and falling
about him - and then he returned to the central scenecalm and
clean in the steadfast lightwhere 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 wordsBut then, may I not be peculiarly
constituted to write?

But no matter how peculiarly constituted a man may be for
blacksmithing,she was laughingI 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 answerwhether 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 himprettily puzzledfor 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 incomebut 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 criedsweetly petulant. "It's slang
and it's horrid."

He flushedand stammeredThat'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 immediatelyas 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 timethat the entrance examinations to high
school began on the following Mondayhe promptly volunteered that
he would take them.

Then she played and sang to himwhile he gazed with hungry
yearning at herdrinking 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 eveningandmuch to Ruth's
satisfactionmade a favorable impression on her father. They
talked about the sea as a careera subject which Martin had at his
finger-endsand Mr. Morse remarked afterward that he seemed a very
clear-headed young man. In his avoidance of slang and his search
after right wordsMartin was compelled to talk slowlywhich
enabled him to find the best thoughts that were in him. He was
more at ease than that first night at dinnernearly a year before
and his shyness and modesty even commended him to Mrs. Morsewho
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 generalit will be a good thing."


A very good thing,he commented. "But suppose- and we must
supposesometimesmy dear- suppose he arouses her interest too
particularly in him?"

Impossible,Mrs. Morse laughed. "She is three years older than
heandbesidesit is impossible. Nothing will ever come of it.
Trust that to me."

And so Martin's role was arranged for himwhile heled on by
Arthur and Normanwas meditating an extravagance. They were going
out for a ride into the hills Sunday morning on their wheelswhich
did not interest Martin until he learned that Ruthtoorode a
wheel and was going along. He did not ridenor own a wheelbut
if Ruth rodeit was up to him to beginwas his decision; and when
he said good nighthe stopped in at a cyclery on his way home and
spent forty dollars for a wheel. It was more than a month's hardearned
wagesand 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 himhe felt that he had reduced the perplexity
the unwonted amount of money had caused him. Nor did he mindin
the course of learning to ride the wheel homethe 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 fireescape
to the rear wall of the buildingand when he had moved his
bed out from the wallfound 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
examinationbut the pearl-diving article lured him awayand 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 thatand
having been deaf to a twice-repeated summonshe 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 prosperityand he honored it by
delivering platitudinous sermonettes upon American institutions and
the opportunity said institutions gave to any hard-working man to
rise - the risein his casewhich 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 morningand took the car down to Oakland to the high
school. And whendays laterhe applied for the results of his
examinationshe learned that he had failed in everything save
grammar.

Your grammar is excellent,Professor Hilton informed himstaring
at him through heavy spectacles; "but you know nothingpositively
nothingin the other branchesand your United States history is
abominable - there is no other word for itabominable. I should
advise you - "

Professor Hilton paused and glared at himunsympathetic and
unimaginative as one of his own test-tubes. He was professor of
physics in the high schoolpossessor of a large familya meagre
salaryand a select fund of parrot-learned knowledge.

Yes, sir,Martin said humblywishing 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 failurethough 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 failedbut chiefly so for her sake.

You see I was right,she said. "You know far more than any of
the students entering high schooland yet you can't pass the
examinations. It is because what education you have is
fragmentarysketchy. You need the discipline of studysuch as
only skilled teachers can give you. You must be thoroughly
grounded. Professor Hilton is rightand if I were youI'd go to
night school. A year and a half of it might enable you to catch up
that additional six months. Besidesthat would leave you your
days in which to writeorif you could not make your living by
your penyou 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 thoughtthough he
refrained from uttering it. Insteadhe 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
sparein 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 with instruction. You need the skilled
teachersthe specialists in the art of imparting knowledge."

He was silent for a minutecasting 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 kindlylike
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 foreboreand 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 gratefullywhere 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 samewas what he wanted to
blurt outas he caught a vision of a world without end of sunlit
spaces and starry voids through which he drifted with herhis arm
around herher 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 himlike a throe of yearning painof the
desire to paint these visions that flashed unsummoned on the mirror
of his mind. Ahthat 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
thoughtand feltand saw. Dogs asleep in the sun often whined
and barkedbut 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 wasa dog asleep in the sun. He saw noble and
beautiful visionsbut he could only whine and bark at Ruth. But
he would cease sleeping in the sun. He would stand upwith open
eyesand he would struggle and toil and learn untilwith eyes
unblinded and tongue untiedhe could share with her his visioned
wealth. Other men had discovered the trick of expressionof
making words obedient servitorsand of making combinations of
words mean more than the sum of their separate meanings. He was
stirred profoundly by the passing glimpse at the secretand he was
again caught up in the vision of sunlit spaces and starry voids until
it came to him that it was very quietand he saw Ruth
regarding him with an amused expression and a smile in her eyes.

I have had a great visioning,he saidand 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 hadand Tennysonand Kipling
and all the other poets. His mind flashed on to his "Pearldiving."
He had never dared the big thingsthe 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 itand again his mind
flashed and daredand 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 thattooas the poets did? They
had sung of love. So would he. By God! -

And in his frightened ears he heard his exclamation echoing.
Carried awayhe had breathed it aloud. The blood surged into his
facewave upon wavemastering 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 bravelybut 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 knewand she
was shockednot merely as a matter of principle and trainingbut
shocked in spirit by this rough blast of life in the garden of her
sheltered maidenhood.

But she forgaveand 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 menand he was trying so hardand
succeedingtoo. It never entered her head that there could be any
other reason for her being kindly disposed toward him. She was
tenderly disposed toward himbut 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 feelingsand she who had never warmed to actual love was
unaware that she was warming now.

CHAPTER XI

Martin went back to his pearl-diving articlewhich 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 poemsinspired
by Ruthbut 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 themselvesbut there wasover and beyond them
an intangible and evasive something that he caught in all great
poetrybut 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 hima warm and
trailing vaporever beyond his reachingthough 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 feetand the rhyme pounded a longer and
equally faultless rhythmbut the glow and high exaltation that he
felt within were lacking. He could not understandand time and
againin despairdefeated and depressedhe 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 grandyou writin' those sort of things."

Yes, yes,he demanded impatiently. "But the story - how did you
like it?"

Just grand,was the reply. "Just grandan' thrillingtoo. 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 pausehow did it end? Did that
young man who spoke so highfalutin' get her?

Andafter he had explained the endwhich he thought he had made
artistically obviousshe would say:


That's what I wanted to know. Why didn't you write that way in
the story?

One thing he learnedafter he had read her a number of stories
namelythat she liked happy endings.

That story was perfectly grand,she announcedstraightening up
from the wash-tub with a tired sigh and wiping the sweat from her
forehead with a redsteamy 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 herand

-You don't mindMart?" she queried apprehensively. "I just
happen to feel that waybecause I'm tiredI guess. But the story
was grand just the sameperfectly 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 Ruthbut did not dare. He would
wait till some were publishedhe decidedthen 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 chemistryandalong with his algebra
worked out problems and demonstrations. He took the laboratory
proofs on faithand 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 pagesoverwhelmed by the clews he was getting to the nature
of things. He had accepted the world as the worldbut now he was
comprehending the organization of itthe play and interplay of
force and matter. Spontaneous explanations of old matters were
continually arising in his mind. Levers and purchases fascinated
himand his mind roved backward to hand-spikes and blocks and
tackles at sea. The theory of navigationwhich enabled the ships
to travel unerringly their courses over the pathless oceanwas
made clear to him. The mysteries of stormand rainand tide were
revealedand 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
andwith bated breath and a feeling of religious awewent through
the laboratoriessaw demonstrationsand listened to a physics
professor lecturing to his classes.

But he did not neglect his writing. A stream of short stories
flowed from his penand 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 versethe
swift rejection of whichby half a dozen magazinesdumfounded
him. Then he discovered Henley and wrote a series of sea-poems on
the model of "Hospital Sketches." They were simple poemsof light
and colorand 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 onenot 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
gloriousfar-off time when he would dare to read to her what he
had written. Against that time he kept them with himreading them
aloudgoing over them until he knew them by heart.

He lived every moment of his waking hoursand he lived in his
sleephis subjective mind rioting through his five hours of
surcease and combining the thoughts and events of the day into
grotesque and impossible marvels. In realityhe never restedand
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 nowfor June was approachingwhen she would take
her degree and finish with the university. Bachelor of Arts! when
he thought of her degreeit seemed she fled beyond him faster
than he could pursue.

One afternoon a week she gave to himand arriving latehe usually
stayed for dinner and for music afterward. Those were his redletter
days. The atmosphere of the housein such contrast with
that in which he livedand the mere nearness to hersent him
forth each time with a firmer grip on his resolve to climb the
heights. In spite of the beauty in himand the aching desire to
createit 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 loveadventure.
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 knownor
dreamedor guessed.

But he was oppressed always by her remoteness. She was so far from
himand 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 themwhile he did love herand besidesshe was not
merely of another class. His very love elevated her above all
classes. She was a being apartso 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 languagethat he was drawing nearer
talking her speechdiscovering ideas and delights in common; but
this did not satisfy his lover's yearning. His lover's imagination
had made her holytoo holytoo spiritualizedto 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 thenone daywithout warningthe gulf between them was
bridged for a momentand thereafterthough the gulf remainedit
was ever narrower. They had been eating cherries - great
lusciousblack cherries with a juice of the color of dark wine.
And lateras 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 eveningstruggling with a sonnet that twisted all awry
the beauty and thought that trailed in glow and vapor through his
brainMartin was called to the telephone.

It's a lady's voice, a fine lady's,Mr. Higginbothamwho had
called himjeered.

Martin went to the telephone in the corner of the roomand felt a
wave of warmth rush through him as he heard Ruth's voice. In his
battle with the sonnet he had forgotten her existenceand at the
sound of her voice his love for her smote him like a sudden blow.
And such a voice! - delicate and sweetlike a strain of music
heard far off and faintorbetterlike a bell of silvera
perfect tonecrystal-pure. No mere woman had a voice like that.
There was something celestial about itand it came from other
worlds. He could scarcely hear what it saidso ravished was he
though he controlled his facefor 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 nightbut that he had a
headacheand she was so disappointedand she had the ticketsand
that if he had no other engagementwould 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
irrelevantlystill at the telephone and talking with herhe felt
an overpowering desire to die for herand visions of heroic
sacrifice shaped and dissolved in his whirling brain. He loved her
so muchso terriblyso hopelessly. In that moment of mad
happiness that she should go out with himgo to a lecture with him

-with himMartin 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 loversand it came to him thereat the
telephonein a whirlwind of fire and glory; and to die for herhe
feltwas to have lived and loved well. And he was only twentyone
and he had never been in love before.
His hand trembled as he hung up the receiverand he was weak from
the organ which had stirred him. His eyes were shining like an
angel'sand his face was transfiguredpurged of all earthly
drossand 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
godand he could feel only profound and awful pity for this maggot
of a man. He did not look at himand though his eyes passed over
himhe 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 Higginbothamwhich
somehow had not penetrated to his brain before.

As Ruth's front door closed behind them and he came down the steps
with herhe found himself greatly perturbed. It was not unalloyed
blisstaking her to the lecture. He did not know what he ought to
do. He had seenon the streetswith persons of her classthat
the women took the men's arms. But thenagainhe had seen them
when they didn't; and he wondered if it was only in the evening
that arms were takenor only between husbands and wives and
relatives.

Just before he reached the sidewalkhe remembered Minnie. Minnie
had always been a stickler. She had called him down the second
time she walked out with himbecause he had gone along on the
insideand 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 heelswhenever they crossed
from one side of the street to the otherto remind him to get over
on the outside. He wondered where she had got that item of
etiquetteand whether it had filtered down from above and was all
right.

It wouldn't do any harm to try ithe decidedby 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 freelyside by sideand
after that it was arms around the waistsand 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 tentativenessnot invitinglybut just casuallyas 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 contactand 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 againperturbed 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 sowould he have to
repeat the manoeuvre the next time? And the next? There was
something wrong about itand he resolved not to caper about and
play the fool. Yet he was not satisfied with his conclusionand
when he found himself on the insidehe talked quickly and
earnestlymaking a show of being carried away by what he was
sayingso thatin case he was wrong in not changing sideshis
enthusiasm would seem the cause for his carelessness.

As they crossed Broadwayhe came face to face with a new problem.
In the blaze of the electric lightshe saw Lizzie Connolly and her
giggly friend. Only for an instant he hesitatedthen his hand


went up and his hat came off. He could not be disloyal to his
kindand it was to more than Lizzie Connolly that his hat was
lifted. She nodded and looked at him boldlynot with soft and
gentle eyes like Ruth'sbut 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 lookedtoowith quick
eyes that were timid and mild as a dove'sbut which sawin a look
that was a flutter on and pastthe 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 herthough 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 absentlyfor to him there was
only one beautiful woman in the worldand she was beside himher
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 commentedor 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 bowlegged.
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 youMartin Eden? he demanded of himself in the lookingglass
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 toilwith all that is lowand
vulgarand 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 yousmell them. And yet you dare to open the booksto
listen to beautiful musicto learn to love beautiful paintingsto
speak good Englishto think thoughts that none of your own kind
thinksto 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 glassand 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 byand the stars dimmedand 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 libraryMartin
dismounted from his wheel and listened to the argumentsand 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
nameswhile oaths and obscene allusions were frequent on their
lips. Once or twice he had seen them come to blows. And yethe
knew not whythere 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 menwho slaughtered Englishgesticulated like lunaticsand
fought one another's ideas with primitive angerseemed somehow to
be more alive than Mr. Morse and his cronyMr. Butler.

Martin had heard Herbert Spencer quoted several times in the park
but one afternoon a disciple of Spencer's appeareda seedy tramp
with a dirty coat buttoned tightly at the throat to conceal the
absence of a shirt. Battle royal was wagedamid the smoking of
many cigarettes and the expectoration of much tobacco-juice
wherein the tramp successfully held his owneven when a socialist
workman sneeredThere is no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert
Spencer is his prophet.Martin was puzzled as to what the
discussion was aboutbut when he rode on to the library he carried
with him a new-born interest in Herbert Spencerand 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 withhe had


failed as abjectly as he had failed with Madam Blavatsky. There
had been no understanding the bookand he had returned it unread.
But this nightafter algebra and physicsand an attempt at a
sonnethe 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 floorreading on his backthe book held in
the air above himor changing from side to side. He slept that
nightand did his writing next morningand then the book tempted
him and he fellreading all afternoonoblivious 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 knowand it was this desire that had sent him adventuring over
the world. But he was now learning from Spencer that he never had
knownand that he never could have known had he continued his
sailing and wandering forever. He had merely skimmed over the
surface of thingsobserving detached phenomenaaccumulating
fragments of factsmaking 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 birdsas
organic flying mechanismshad been developed. He had never
dreamed there was such a process. That birds should have come to
bewas unguessed. They always had been. They just happened.

And as it was with birdsso 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 nothingand the only idea he had
gathered was that evolution was a dry-as-dust theoryof 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
ittheir only differences being over the method of evolution.

And here was the man Spencerorganizing all knowledge for him
reducing everything to unityelaborating ultimate realitiesand
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 capriceno chance.
All was law. It was in obedience to law that the bird flewand 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 livingand
here he was at a higher pitch than ever. All the hidden things
were laying their secrets bare. He was drunken with comprehension.
At nightasleephe lived with the gods in colossal nightmare; and
awakein the dayhe went around like a somnambulistwith absent
staregazing upon the world he had just discovered. At table he
failed to hear the conversation about petty and ignoble thingshis
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 awayor 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
meatuntilwith inward gazehe saw the same sun shining in his
brain. He was entranced by illuminationand did not hear the
Bughouse,whispered by Jimnor see the anxiety on his sister's
facenor notice the rotary motion of Bernard Higginbotham's
fingerwhereby he imparted the suggestion of wheels revolving in
his brother-in-law's head.

Whatin a waymost profoundly impressed Martinwas the
correlation of knowledge - of all knowledge. He had been curious
to know thingsand whatever he acquired he had filed away in
separate memory compartments in his brain. Thuson 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.
Thatin the fabric of knowledgethere should be any connection
whatever between a woman with hysterics and a schooner carrying a
weather-helm or heaving to in a galewould have struck him as
ridiculous and impossible. But Herbert Spencer had shown him not
only that it was not ridiculousbut 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 Martinand 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
poetryearthquakefirerattlesnakesrainbowsprecious gems
monstrositiessunsetsthe roaring of lionsilluminating gas
cannibalismbeautymurderloversfulcrumsand tobacco. Thus
he unified the universe and held it up and looked at itor
wandered through its byways and alleys and junglesnot as a
terrified traveller in the thick of mysteries seeking an unknown
goalbut observing and charting and becoming familiar with all
there was to know. And the more he knewthe more passionately he
admired the universeand lifeand his own life in the midst of it
all.

You fool!he cried at his image in the looking-glass. "You
wanted to writeand you tried to writeand you had nothing in you
to write about. What did you have in you? - some childish notions
a few half-baked sentimentsa lot of undigested beautya great
black mass of ignorancea heart filled to bursting with loveand
an ambition as big as your love and as futile as your ignorance.
And you wanted to write! Whyyou're just on the edge of beginning
to get something in you to write about. You wanted to create
beautybut 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
upMartinmy boy. You'll write yet. You know a littlea very
littleand you're on the right road now to know more. Some day
if you're luckyyou may come pretty close to knowing all that may
be known. Then you will write."

He brought his great discovery to Ruthsharing with her all his
joy and wonder in it. But she did not seem to be so enthusiastic
over it. She tacitly accepted it andin a wayseemed aware of it
from her own studies. It did not stir her deeplyas 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 foundbelieved in evolution and had read Spencerthough it did
not seem to have made any vital impression upon themwhile the
young fellow with the glasses and the mop of hairWill Olney
sneered disagreeably at Spencer and repeated the epigramThere is
no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is his prophet.

But Martin forgave him the sneerfor he had begun to discover that
Olney was not in love with Ruth. Laterhe was dumfounded to learn
from various little happenings not only that Olney did not care for
Ruthbut 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 wheelsand Martin had ample
opportunity to observe the armed truce that existed between Ruth
and Olney. The latter chummed with Normanthrowing Arthur and
Martin into company with Ruthfor which Martin was duly grateful.

Those Sundays were great days for Martingreatest because he was
with Ruthand greatalsobecause they were putting him more on a
par with the young men of her class. In spite of their long years
of disciplined educationhe was finding himself their intellectual
equaland 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 booksfalling back upon observation
to show him the right things to do. Except when carried away by
his enthusiasmhe was always on guardkeenly 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, ohyesa great mind." But the man did
not seem to know anything of the content of that great mind. One
eveningat dinnerwhen Mr. Butler was thereMartin turned the
conversation upon Spencer. Mr. Morse bitterly arraigned the
English philosopher's agnosticismbut confessed that he had not
read "First Principles"; while Mr. Butler stated that he had no
patience with Spencerhad never read a line of himand had
managed to get along quite well without him. Doubts arose in
Martin's mindand had he been less strongly individual he would
have accepted the general opinion and given Herbert Spencer up. As
it washe found Spencer's explanation of things convincing; and
as he phrased it to himselfto give up Spencer would be equivalent
to a navigator throwing the compass and chronometer overboard. So
Martin went on into a thorough study of evolutionmastering more
and more the subject himselfand being convinced by the
corroborative testimony of a thousand independent writers. The
more he studiedthe more vistas he caught of fields of knowledge
yet unexploredand the regret that days were only twenty-four
hours long became a chronic complaint with him.

One daybecause the days were so shorthe decided to give up
algebra and geometry. Trigonometry he had not even attempted.
Then he cut chemistry from his study-listretaining only physics.

I am not a specialist,he saidin defenceto Ruth. "Nor am I
going to try to be a specialist. There are too many special fields
for any one manin a whole lifetimeto master a tithe of them. I
must pursue general knowledge. When I need the work of
specialistsI 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 curiouslyand 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 onheading off her objectionI 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 flashingand 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 demandedturning squarely upon
him.

Martin felt very uncomfortableand 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
careernot culture. It just happens that culturein his caseis
incidental to career. If he wanted to be a chemistculture would
be unnecessary. Martin wants to writebut 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 educationyours and
mine and Arthur's and Norman's? We're soaked in general culture
and if our daddies went broke to-daywe'd be falling down tomorrow
on teachers' examinations. The best job you could get
Ruthwould 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 closelyand while he was convinced
that Olney was righthe 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 careerthat did not make her a bit
less lovable. She was all lovableand 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 somewhereto do something."

Oh, but it's mental training. It's mind discipline. It's what
makes disciplined minds.Ruth looked expectantly at Martinas if
waiting for him to change his judgment. "You knowthe 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 effectthen
addedAnd 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 retortbut 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 gobut 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 Ruthand 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 whileinterested in the discussionMartin had been
aware of an irk in it as well. It was about studies and lessons
dealing with the rudiments of knowledgeand 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 talonswith the cosmic thrills that made him ache
and with the inchoate consciousness of mastery of it all. He
likened himself to a poetwrecked on the shores of a strange land
filled with power of beautystumbling and stammering and vainly
trying to sing in the roughbarbaric tongue of his brethren in the
new land. And so with him. He was alivepainfully aliveto the
great universal thingsand 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
welland he went to bed wondering why he could not talk in similar
fashion when he was with Ruth. He was only a schoolboywith a
schoolboy's tonguewhen 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 Olneybut in spite of Ruthand his love for
Ruththat 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 readingroom
going over what others had writtenstudying their work
eagerly and criticallycomparing it with his ownand wondering
wonderingabout 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 lightno lifeno colorwas shot through it. There was no
breath of life in itand yet it soldat two cents a wordtwenty
dollars a thousand - the newspaper clipping had said so. He was
puzzled by countless short storieswritten lightly and cleverly he
confessedbut without vitality or reality. Life was so strange
and wonderfulfilled with an immensity of problemsof dreamsand
of heroic toilsand yet these stories dealt only with the
commonplaces of life. He felt the stress and strain of lifeits
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 loversthe giants that fought under stress and strain
amid terror and tragedymaking life crackle with the strength of
their endeavor. And yet the magazine short stories seemed intent
on glorifying the Mr. Butlersthe sordid dollar-chasersand 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 lifethese
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 writersbut he did
not know anybody who had ever attempted to write. There was nobody
to tell himto hint to himto 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 wasa machine. He poured his soul
into storiesarticlesand poemsand intrusted them to the
machine. He folded them just soput the proper stamps inside the
long envelope along with the manuscriptsealed the envelopeput
more stamps outsideand dropped it into the mail-box. It
travelled across the continentand 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 endbut 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 penniesandwith 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 inwhether 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 lineone personal linealong with one rejection of
all his rejectionshe 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 endonly mere cogswell
oiled and running beautifully in the machine.

He was a good fighterwhole-souled and stubbornand he would have
been content to continue feeding the machine for years; but he was
bleeding to deathand 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 booksand he economized in petty ways and
sought to delay the inevitable end; though he did not know how to
economizeand brought the end nearer by a week when he gave his
sister Marian five dollars for a dress.

He struggled in the darkwithout advicewithout 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 nowout of sisterly
solicitudeshe 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 himselfbut he was
alone in this faith. Not even Ruth had faith. She had wanted him
to devote himself to studyandthough she had not openly
disapproved of his writingshe had never approved.

He had never offered to show her his work. A fastidious delicacy
had prevented him. Besidesshe had been studying heavily at the
universityand he felt averse to robbing her of her time. But
when she had taken her degreeshe 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 judgestoo. But she would be different from them.
She would not hand him a stereotyped rejection slipnor would she
inform him that lack of preference for his work did not necessarily
imply lack of merit in his work. She would talka warm human
beingin her quickbright wayandmost important of allshe
would catch glimpses of the real Martin Eden. In his work she
would discern what his heart and soul were likeand she would come
to understand somethinga little somethingof the stuff of his
dreams and the strength of his power.

Martin gathered together a number of carbon copies of his short
storieshesitated a momentthen 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 aloneand
as they rode along through the balmy warmthjust chilled by she
sea-breeze to refreshing coolnesshe 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 saidas they seated themselvesshe
upon his coatand he sprawling close to the warm earth. He
sniffed the sweetness of the tawny grasswhich 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 winterfought the violent early
springfloweredand lured the insects and the beesscattered its
seedssquared itself with its duty and the worldand - "

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 worldall lifeeverythinghad taken up residence inside
of me and was clamoring for me to be the spokesman. I feel - ohI
can't describe it - I feel the bigness of itbut when I speakI
babble like a little child. It is a great task to transmute
feeling and sensation into speechwritten or spokenthat willin
turnin him who reads or listenstransmute itself back into the
selfsame feeling and sensation. It is a lordly task. SeeI bury
my face in the grassand 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 painand struggle and death; and I see visions
that arise in my brain somehow out of the scent of the grassand I
would like to tell them to youto the world. But how can I? My
tongue is tied. I have triedby the spoken wordjust nowto
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. Whyyou
would make a good public speaker. You can go far - if you want to.
You are masterly. You can lead menI am sureand 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 storyone 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 factI don't know what to think
of itexcept 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 criedwhen he had finished. "It is horrible
unutterably horrible!"

He noted her pale faceher eyes wide and tenseand her clenched
handswith 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 notit had
gripped her and mastered hermade her sit there and listen and
forget details.

It is life,he saidand 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 fireand 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 worldbut that is no reason - "

She talked on in her indignant strainbut he was not following
her. He was smiling to himself as he looked up into her virginal
faceso innocentso penetratingly innocentthat its purity
seemed always to enter into himdriving 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 knowingand chuckled
over it as a love joke. The next momentin a flashing vision of
multitudinous detailhe sighted the whole sea of life's nastiness
that he had known and voyaged over and throughand 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 lifeits
foulness as well as its fairnessits greatness in spite of the
slime that infested itand 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 - ahthat
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 beautyfaint and farthrough muddripping
eyes; to see out of weaknessand frailtyand
viciousnessand all abysmal brutishnessarising strengthand
truthand 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 suggestedand won a smile.

And you must develop discrimination. You must consult taste, and
fineness, and tone.

I dare too much,he muttered.

She smiled approbationand 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 readand as he read he watched her. At last he had reached
herhe thought. She sat without movementher eyes steadfast upon
himscarcely breathingcaught up and out of herselfhe 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 repeatedwith emphasisafter a pause.

Of course it was beautiful; but there was something more than mere
beauty in itsomething 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 worldand he had not expressed it.

What did you think of the - He hesitatedabashed 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 storybut 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 explainedthe 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 artsbut 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 beautifulin
places."

He heard her voice as from far offfor he was debating whether he
would read her the "Sea Lyrics." He lay in dull despairwhile she
watched him searchinglypondering 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 famousbut the process of becoming sothat
counts. And after allto be famous would befor meonly a means
to something else. I want to be famous very muchfor that matter
and for that reason."

For your sake,he wanted to addand might have added had she
proved enthusiastic over what he had read to her.

But she was too busy in her mindcarving out a career for him that


would at least be possibleto 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-daywith his
amateurish and sophomoric productions. He could talk wellbut he
was incapable of expressing himself in a literary way. She
compared Tennysonand Browningand her favorite prose masters
with himand 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 wasafter alla 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 succeedtoo. 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 interestedthat much was sure.
And at least she had not given him a rejection slip. She had
called certain portions of his work beautifuland that was the
first encouragement he had ever received from any one.

I will,he said passionately. "And I promise youMiss Morse
that I will make good. I have come farI know that; and I have
far to goand 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 homeI'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 needyou knowabove all thingsis criticism.
And dopleasebe frank with me."

I will be perfectly frank,she promisedwith 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 battleand battles to the end of timeunless - "

He had not finished the sentencebut looked about the mean little
room and let his eyes dwell sadly upon a heap of returned
manuscriptsstill in their long envelopeswhich lay in a corner
on the floor. He had no stamps with which to continue them on
their travelsand for a week they had been piling up. More of
them would come in on the morrowand on the next dayand the
nexttill they were all in. And he would be unable to start them
out again. He was a month's rent behind on the typewriterwhich
he could not payhaving 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 itand he suddenly discovered that he was fond of it.

Dear old table,he saidI'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 achingand he wanted to cry. It reminded him of
his first fightwhen he was six years oldwhen he punched away
with the tears running down his cheeks while the other boytwo
years his elderhad beaten and pounded him into exhaustion. He
saw the ring of boyshowling like barbarians as he went down at
lastwrithing in the throes of nauseathe 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
eyelidsand 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
allfight after fighthimself 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 fightingand
had never once shown mercy to him. But he had stayed! He had
stayed with it!

Nexthe saw a narrow alleybetween ramshackle frame buildings.
The end of the alley was blocked by a one-story brick buildingout
of which issued the rhythmic thunder of the pressesrunning off
the first edition of the ENQUIRER. He was elevenand Cheese-Face
was thirteenand they both carried the ENQUIRER. That was why
they were therewaiting for their papers. Andof courseCheese-
Face had picked on him againand there was another fight that was
indeterminatebecause at quarter to four the door of the pressroom
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 voicepiping and trembling with unshed tears
agreeing to be there on the morrow.

And he had come there the next dayhurrying from school to be
there firstand beating Cheese-Face by two minutes. The other
boys said he was all rightand gave him advicepointing out his
faults as a scrapper and promising him victory if he carried out
their instructions. The same boys gave Cheese-Face advicetoo.
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 onand it went onwithout roundsfor
thirty minutesuntil the press-room door was opened.

He watched the youthful apparition of himselfday 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 elbowwhat of the
countless blows he had warded offand here and there the tortured
flesh was beginning to fester. His head and arms and shoulders
achedthe small of his back ached- he ached all overand his
brain was heavy and dazed. He did not play at school. Nor did he
study. Even to sit still all day at his deskas he didwas a
torment. It seemed centuries since he had begun the round of daily
fightsand 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 himMartinout of his misery. It
never entered his head to cease fightingto allow Cheese-Face to
whip him.


And so he dragged himself to the ENQUIRER alleysick in body and
soulbut learning the long patienceto confront his eternal
enemyCheese-Facewho was just as sick as heand 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 afternoonafter
twenty minutes of desperate efforts to annihilate each other
according to set rules that did not permit kickingstriking below
the beltnor hitting when one was downCheese-Facepanting for
breath and reelingoffered to call it quits. And Martinhead on
armsthrilled at the picture he caught of himselfat that moment
in the afternoon of long agowhen 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-Facespitting out a
mouthful of blood so that he could speakcrying out that he would
never quitthough Cheese-Face could give in if he wanted to. And
Cheese-Face did not give inand the fight went on.

The next day and the nextdays without endwitnessed the
afternoon fight. When he put up his armseach dayto beginthey
pained exquisitelyand the first few blowsstruck and received
racked his soul; after that things grew numband he fought on
blindlyseeing as in a dreamdancing and waveringthe large
features and burninganimal-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 faceand he
would never know restblessed restuntil he had beaten that face
into a pulp with his bleeding knucklesor until the bleeding
knuckles that somehow belonged to that face had beaten him into a
pulp. And thenone way or the otherhe would have rest. But to
quit- for himMartinto quit- that was impossible!

Came the day when he dragged himself into the ENQUIRER alleyand
there was no Cheese-Face. Nor did Cheese-Face come. The boys
congratulated himand told him that he had licked Cheese-Face.
But Martin was not satisfied. He had not licked Cheese-Facenor
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 somebodyand Martin
interferedto 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 whisperedthe
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-Faceat 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 worksa railroad firemanand half a dozen of the
Boo Gangalong with as many more from the dread Eighteen-and



Market Gang.

When the theatre let outthe two gangs strung along
inconspicuously on opposite sides of the street. When they came to
a quiet cornerthey 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 lightan' whichever way the bulls come in we
kin sneak the other way."

That's agreeable to me,Martin saidafter consulting with the
leaders of his own gang.

The Eighth Street Bridgecrossing an arm of San Antonio Estuary
was the length of three city blocks. In the middle of the bridge
and at each endwere 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 sullenrigidly keeping apart from each other and
backing their respective champions; and he saw himself and Cheese-
Face stripping. A short distance away lookouts were settheir
task being to watch the lighted ends of the bridge. A member of
the Boo Gang held Martin's coatand shirtand capready to race
with them into safety in case the police interfered. Martin
watched himself go into the centrefacing Cheese-Faceand he
heard himself sayas 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 grudgefight
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 otherlike young bullsin all the glory
of youthwith naked fistswith hatredwith desire to hurtto
maimto destroy. All the painfulthousand years' gains of man in
his upward climb through creation were lost. Only the electric
light remaineda milestone on the path of the great human
adventure. Martin and Cheese-Face were two savagesof the stone
ageof the squatting place and the tree refuge. They sank lower
and lower into the muddy abyssback into the dregs of the raw
beginnings of lifestriving blindly and chemicallyas atoms
striveas the star-dust if the heavens strivescolliding
recoilingand colliding again and eternally again.

God! We are animals! Brute-beasts!Martin muttered aloudas
he watched the progress of the fight. It was to himwith his
splendid power of visionlike 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 himand
he was Martin Edenjust returned from sea and fighting Cheese-Face
on the Eighth Street Bridge. He suffered and toiled and sweated
and bledand exulted when his naked knuckles smashed home.

They were twin whirlwinds of hatredrevolving about each other
monstrously. The time passedand 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 offand 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 knucklesan' you
hit me with 'em!"

Both gangs surged forwardgrowling and snarling. In a second
there would be a free-for-all fightand 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 brutesbut he was the archbrute
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-Facesobered and a bit frightenedsurrendered the foul
weapon.

You passed 'em to him, you red-head sneakin' in behind the push
there,Martin went onas 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 onthrough exhaustion and beyondto exhaustion
immeasurable and inconceivableuntil the crowd of brutesits
blood-lust satedterrified by what it sawbegged them impartially
to cease. And Cheese-Faceready to drop and dieor to stay on
his legs and diea grisly monster out of whose features all
likeness to Cheese-Face had been beatenwavered and hesitated; but
Martin sprang in and smashed him again and again.

Nextafter a seeming century or sowith Cheese-Face weakening
fastin a mix-up of blows there was a loud snapand Martin's
right arm dropped to his side. It was a broken bone. Everybody
heard it and knew; and Cheese-Face knewrushing 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
blowsMartin warned them back with vile and earnest curses sobbed
out and groaned in ultimate desolation and despair.

He punched onwith his left hand onlyand as he punched
doggedlyonly half-consciousas from a remote distance he heard
murmurs of fear in the gangsand 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 itand he was gladpunching on wearily and
endlessly with his one armbattering away at a bloody something
before him that was not a face but a horroran oscillating
hideousgibberingnameless thing that persisted before his


wavering vision and would not go away. And he punched on and on
slower and sloweras the last shreds of vitality oozed from him
through centuries and aeons and enormous lapses of timeuntilin
a dim wayhe 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 itstaggering and swaying on
shaky legsclutching at the air for supportand saying in a voice
he did not recognize:


D'ye want any more? Say, d'ye want any more?

He was still saying itover and over- demandingentreating
threateningto know if it wanted any more- when he felt the
fellows of his gang laying hands on himpatting 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 onbut Martin Edenhis
face buried on his armsdid 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.
Thenlike one from the deadhe sprang uprighteyes flaming
sweat pouring down his faceshouting:


I licked you, Cheese-Face! It took me eleven years, but I licked
you!

His knees were trembling under himhe felt faintand he staggered
back to the bedsinking down and sitting on the edge of it. He
was still in the clutch of the past. He looked about the room
perplexedalarmedwondering where he wasuntil he caught sight
of the pile of manuscripts in the corner. Then the wheels of
memory slipped ahead through four years of timeand he was aware
of the presentof the books he had opened and the universe he had
won from their pagesof his dreams and ambitionsand of his love
for a pale wraith of a girlsensitive 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. "Wellnever
mind. You licked Cheese-Faceand 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 finishyou know."

CHAPTER XVI

The alarm-clock went offjerking Martin out of sleep with a
suddenness that would have given headache to one with less splendid


constitution. Though he slept soundlyhe awoke instantlylike a
catand he awoke eagerlyglad that the five hours of
unconsciousness were gone. He hated the oblivion of sleep. There
was too much to dotoo much of life to live. He grudged every
moment of life sleep robbed him ofand 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 handno new story demanding
articulation. He had studied lateand it was nearly time for
breakfast. He tried to read a chapter in Fiskebut his brain was
restless and he closed the book. To-day witnessed the beginning of
the new battlewherein 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 themhis pitifuldishonored children
that were welcome nowhere. He went over and began to rummage among
themreading snatches here and therehis favorite portions. "The
Pot" he honored with reading aloudas 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
everythinganyway."

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 workno 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. "WellI got to get somebody
to-day."

He turned and stared at Martinand Martinstaring backnoted the
puffed and discolored facehandsome and weakand 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 otherand 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 itand 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. "Geebut 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 sixtythe second man forty. But he knew the biz.
You're green. If I break you inI'll be doing plenty of your work
at first. Suppose you begin at thirtyan' 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 announcedstretching out his handwhich the
other shook. "Any advance? - for rail-road ticket and extras?"

I blew it in,was Joe's sad answerwith 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 longperplexed whistleand 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 noddedand Joe lamentedWish 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'tI'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 workingclass
worldand 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 himselfthere was his wheel.
It was seventy milesand 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 Sierrasat Lake Tahoe.

He arrived at Shelly Hot Springstired and dustyon Sunday night.
Joe greeted him exuberantly. With a wet towel bound about his
aching browhe 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 packingcase
for breakfast foodand Mr. Higginbotham had charged him half
a dollar for it. Two rope handlesnailed on by Martinhad
technically transformed it into a trunk eligible for the baggagecar.
Joe watchedwith bulging eyesa few shirts and several
changes of underclothes come out of the boxfollowed by booksand
more books.

Books clean to the bottom?he asked.

Martin noddedand went on arranging the books on a kitchen table
which served in the room in place of a wash-stand.

Gee!Joe explodedthen 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 nightand smiled. The
room was situated over the laundry and was in the same building
with the engine that pumped watermade electricityand ran the
laundry machinery. The engineerwho occupied the adjoining room
dropped in to meet the new hand and helped Martin rig up an
electric bulbon an extension wireso that it travelled along a
stretched cord from over the table to the bed.

The next morningat quarter-past sixMartin was routed out for a
quarter-to-seven breakfast. There happened to be a bath-tub for
the servants in the laundry buildingand he electrified Joe by
taking a cold bath.

Gee, but you're a hummer!Joe announcedas they sat down to
breakfast in a corner of the hotel kitchen.

With them was the engineerthe gardenerand the assistant
gardenerand two or three men from the stable. They ate hurriedly
and gloomilywith but little conversationand as Martin ate and


listened he realized how far he had travelled from their status.
Their small mental caliber was depressing to himand he was
anxious to get away from them. So he bolted his breakfasta
sicklysloppy affairas rapidly as theyand heaved a sigh of
relief when he passed out through the kitchen door.

It was a perfectly appointedsmall steam laundrywherein the most
modern machinery did everything that was possible for machinery to
do. Martinafter a few instructionssorted the great heaps of
soiled clotheswhile Joe started the masher and made up fresh
supplies of soft-soapcompounded of biting chemicals that
compelled him to swathe his mouth and nostrils and eyes in bathtowels
till he resembled a mummy. Finished the sortingMartin
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 minutetearing the matter from the clothes by
centrifugal force. Then Martin began to alternate between the
dryer and the wringerbetween times "shaking out" socks and
stockings. By the afternoonone feeding and onestacking 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'clockat which time Joe shook his head dubiously.

Way behind,he said. "Got to work after supper." And after
supper they worked until ten o'clockunder the blazing electric
lightsuntil the last piece of under-clothing was ironed and
folded away in the distributing room. It was a hot California
nightand though the windows were thrown widethe roomwith its
red-hot ironing-stovewas a furnace. Martin and Joedown to
undershirtsbare armedsweated and panted for air.

Like trimming cargo in the tropics,Martin saidwhen they went
upstairs.

You'll do,Joe answered. "You take hold like a good fellow. If
you keep up the paceyou'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 act 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 shoesto ease his swollen feethe sat
down at the table with his books. He opened Fiskewhere he had
left off to read. But he found trouble began to read it through a
second time. Then he awokein 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 pitchand 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 timepointing out to Martin where he did in five motions what
could be done in threeor 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 cuffsrubbing the starch out
from between the double thicknesses of linen so that there would be
no blisters when it came to the ironingand 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 nothingwaited on nothingand 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
wristbandsneckbandyokeand 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 starchand at the moment
the right hand dipped into the starch - starch so hot thatin
order to wring it outtheir hands had to thrustand thrust
continuallyinto a bucket of cold water. And that night they
worked till half-past tendipping "fancy starch" -all the
frilled and airydelicate 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 alarmdrew up to the tableand opened Fiske. He
did not finish the first paragraph. The lines blurred and ran
together and his head nodded. He walked up and downbatting his
head savagely with his fistsbut he could not conquer the numbness
of sleep. He propped the book before himand propped his eyelids
with his fingersand fell asleep with his eyes wide open. Then he
surrenderedandscarcely conscious of what he didgot off his
clothes and into bed. He slept seven hours of heavyanimal-like
sleepand awoke by the alarmfeeling 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 dayby handin a large barrelwith
strong soft-soapby means of a hub from a wagon wheelmounted on
a plunger-pole that was attached to a spring-pole overhead.

My invention,Joe said proudly. "Beats a washboard an' your
knucklesandbesidesit saves at least fifteen minutes in the
weekan' 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 nightwhile 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."

ThursdayJoe 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 weeka-savin' minutesan' them a-comin' an' ringin' in fancystarch
extras on me? This is a free countryan' 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 momentreversing his
judgment and surrendering to fate.

And Martin did no reading that night. He had seen no daily paper
all weekandstrangely to himfelt no desire to see one. He was
not interested in the news. He was too tired and jaded to be
interested in anythingthough he planned to leave Saturday
afternoonif they finished at threeand ride on his wheel to
Oakland. It was seventy milesand 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 trainbut the
round trip was two dollars and a halfand he was intent on saving
money.

CHAPTER XVII

Martin learned to do many things. In the course of the first week
in one afternoonhe and Joe accounted for the two hundred white
shirts. Joe ran the tilera machine wherein a hot iron was hooked
on a steel string which furnished the pressure. By this means he
ironed the yokewristbandsand neckbandsetting the latter at
right angles to the shirtand put the glossy finish on the bosom.
As fast as he finished themhe flung the shirts on a rack between
him and Martinwho caught them up and "backed" them. This task
consisted of ironing all the unstarched portions of the shirts.

It was exhausting workcarried onhour after hourat top speed.
Out on the broad verandas of the hotelmen and womenin cool
whitesipped iced drinks and kept their circulation down. But in
the laundry the air was sizzling. The huge stove roared red hot
and white hotwhile the ironsmoving over the damp clothsent 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 Martinand 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 lostand Martin found time to marvel at the


accuracy he developed - an automatic accuracyfounded 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 handan intelligent machineall 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
rooma conning towerwhence were directed his arm and shoulder
muscleshis ten nimble fingersand the swift-moving iron along
its steaming path in broadsweeping strokesjust so many strokes
and no morejust so far with each stroke and not a fraction of an
inch fartherrushing along interminable sleevessidesbacksand
tailsand tossing the finished shirtswithout rumplingupon the
receiving frame. And even as his hurrying soul tossedit was
reaching for another shirt. This went onhour after hourwhile
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
waterbut 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. Alwaysat seaexcept at rare intervalsthe
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-rackingbodydestroying
toil. Outside of that it was impossible to think. He
did not know that he loved Ruth. She did not even existfor his
driven soul had no time to remember her. It was only when he
crawled to bed at nightor to breakfast in the morningthat she
asserted herself to him in fleeting memories.

This is hell, ain't it?Joe remarked once.

Martin noddedbut 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 strideas 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 sheetspillow-slipsspreadstablecloths
and napkins. This finishedthey buckled down to "fancy
starch." It was slow workfastidious and delicateand Martin did
not learn it so readily. Besideshe could not take chances.
Mistakes were disastrous.

See that,Joe saidholding 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 thatand eased down on his muscular
tensionthough nervous tension rose higher than everand 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
nightmareand it was Joe'stoo. 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'clockwhile the hotel guests slept


the two laundrymen sweated on at "fancy starch" till midnighttill
onetill 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 demandedas 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. Indomitablenever restingfighting for seconds and
minutes all weekcircumventing delays and crushing down obstacles
a fount of resistless energya high-driven human motora demon
for worknow that he had accomplished the week's task he was in a
state of collapse. He was worn and haggardand 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 dawn
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 dreamilya minute later.

Martin took a bathafter which he found that the head laundryman
had disappeared. Most likely he had gone for a glass of beer
Martin decidedbut 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
offtrying to make up his mind. He did not reach out for a book.
He was too tired to feel sleepyand he layscarcely thinkingin
a semi-stupor of wearinessuntil it was time for supper. Joe did
not appear for that functionand when Martin heard the gardener
remark that most likely he was ripping the slats off the bar
Martin understood. He went to bed immediately afterwardand in
the morning decided that he was greatly rested. Joe being still
absentMartin procured a Sunday paper and lay down in a shady nook
under the trees. The morning passedhe knew not how. He did not
sleepnobody disturbed himand he did not finish the paper. He


came back to it in the afternoonafter dinnerand fell asleep
over it.

So passed Sundayand Monday morning he was hard at worksorting
clotheswhile Joea towel bound tightly around his headwith
groans and blasphemieswas running the washer and mixing softsoap.


I simply can't help it,he explained. "I got to drink when
Saturday night comes around."

Another week passeda great battle that continued under the
electric lights each night and that culminated on Saturday
afternoon at three o'clockwhen 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 newspaperand spent long hours lying
on his backdoing nothingthinking nothing. He was too dazed to
thinkthough he was aware that he did not like himself. He was
self-repelledas 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
beasta work-beast. He saw no beauty in the sunshine sifting down
through the green leavesnor 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 stupidand its taste
was bad in his mouth. A black screen was drawn across his mirror
of inner visionand fancy lay in a darkened sick-room where
entered no ray of light. He envied Joedown in the village
rampanttearing the slats off the barhis brain gnawing with
maggotsexulting 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 byand Martin loathed himselfand loathed life.
He was oppressed by a sense of failure. There was reason for the
editors refusing his stuff. He could see that clearly nowand
laugh at himself and the dreams he had dreamed. Ruth returned his
Sea Lyricsby 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 lieand she could not disguise the
truth from herself. She knew they were failuresand 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 himand
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 grotesquehis felicities of expression were monstrosities
and everything was absurdunrealand impossible. He would have
burned the "Sea Lyrics" on the spothad his will been strong
enough to set them aflame. There was the engine-roombut 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 afternoonafter work was
finished and he had taken a baththe 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.

NowI can wait for you he said grimly; but hurry up."

Joe hurriedand 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 onbut I kind of hate to
see you come off the wagon, Mart. Well, here's how!

Martin drank on silentlybiting out his orders and invitations and
awing the barkeeperan 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 upI'd break loose an' burn down
the shebang. My bowlin' up is all that saves 'emI can tell you
that."

But Martin made no answer. A few more drinksand in his brain he
felt the maggots of intoxication beginning to crawl. Ahit was
livingthe 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 ona thing of flaming brightness. His mirror of
vision was silver-cleara flashingdazzling palimpsest of
imagery. Wonder and beauty walked with himhand in handand all
power was his. He tried to tell it to Joebut Joe had visions of
his owninfallible 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 awayleaving him to tell it to the barkeeper
until that worthy was called away to furnish drinks to two farmers
whocoming inaccepted Martin's invitation. Martin dispensed
royal largessinviting everybody upfarm-handsa stablemanand
the gardener's assistant from the hotelthe barkeeperand the
furtive hobo who slid in like a shadow and like a shadow hovered at
the end of the bar.

CHAPTER XVIII


Monday morningJoe 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 noonwhen they knocked off for
dinner.

Tears came into the other's eyes.

That's all right, old man,he said. "We're in hellan' we can't
help ourselves. An'you knowI 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 itan' go hoboin'. I
ain't never tried itbut it must be dead easy. An' nothin' to do.
Just think of itnothin' to do. I was sick oncetyphoidin the
hospitalan' it was beautiful. I wish I'd get sick again."

The week dragged on. The hotel was fulland extra "fancy starch"
poured in upon them. They performed prodigies of valor. They
fought late each night under the electric lightsbolted their
mealsand even got in a half hour's work before breakfast. Martin
no longer took his cold baths. Every moment was drivedrive
driveand Joe was the masterful shepherd of momentsherding them
carefullynever losing onecounting them over like a miser
counting goldworking on in a frenzytoil-mada feverish
machineaided ably by that other machine that thought of itself as
once having been one Martin Edena man.

But it was only at rare moments that Martin was able to think. The
house of thought was closedits windows boarded upand he was its
shadowy caretaker. He was a shadow. Joe was right. They were
both shadowsand this was the unending limbo of toil. Or was it a
dream? Sometimesin the steamingsizzling heatas he swung the
heavy irons back and forth over the white garmentsit came to him
that it was a dream. In a short whileor maybe after a thousand
years or sohe would awakein his little room with the inkstained
tableand take up his writing where he had left off the
day before. Or maybe that was a dreamtooand the awakening
would be the changing of the watcheswhen he would drop down out
of his bunk in the lurching forecastle and go up on deckunder the
tropic starsand 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 saidin the
queermonotonous tones that marked his week-end collapse.

Martin seemed suddenly to wake up. He opened the kit bag and oiled
his wheelputting graphite on the chain and adjusting the
bearings. Joe was halfway down to the saloon when Martin passed
bybending low over the handle-barshis legs driving the ninetysix
gear with rhythmic strengthhis face set for seventy miles of
road and grade and dust. He slept in Oakland that nightand on
Sunday covered the seventy miles back. And on Monday morning
wearyhe began the new week's workbut he had kept sober.


A fifth week passedand a sixthduring which he lived and toiled
as a machinewith just a spark of something more in himjust a
glimmering bit of soulthat compelled himat each week-endto
scorch off the hundred and forty miles. But this was not rest. It
was super-machinelikeand 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 weekwithout intending ittoo weak to
resisthe drifted down to the village with Joe and drowned life
and found life until Monday morning.

Againat the week-endshe ground out the one hundred and forty
milesobliterating 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 forgotand
lived againandlivinghe sawin clear illuminationthe beast
he was making of himself - not by the drinkbut by the work. The
drink was an effectnot a cause. It followed inevitably upon the
workas the night follows upon the day. Not by becoming a toilbeast
could he win to the heightswas the message the whiskey
whispered to himand he nodded approbation. The whiskey was wise.
It told secrets on itself.

He called for paper and penciland for drinks all aroundand
while they drank his very good healthhe clung to the bar and
scribbled.

A telegram, Joe,he said. "Read it."

Joe read it with a drunkenquizzical leer. But what he read
seemed to sober him. He looked at the other reproachfullytears
oozing into his eyes and down his cheeks.

You ain't goin' back on me, Mart?he queried hopelessly.

Martin noddedand 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 barhis legs wobbling under himMartin's arm
around him and supporting himwhile he thought.

Make that two laundrymen,he said abruptly. "Herelemme 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 answerbut I can hobo all right, all right.

Martin looked at him searchingly for a momentthen 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. Funnyain't it?
But when I've ben workin' like a slave all weekI just got to bowl
up. Ever noticed that cooks drink like hell? - an' bakerstoo?
It's the work. They've sure got to. Herelemme pay half of that
telegram."

I'll shake you for it,Martin offered.

Come on, everybody drink,Joe calledas 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 headnor 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. Awcome onMartlet's chuck it. What's the good of
waitin' another moment. That's the land of nothin' to do out
therean' I got a ticket for it - an' it ain't no return ticket
b'gosh!"

A few minutes laterfilling the truck with soiled clothes for the
washerJoe spied the hotel manager's shirt. He knew its markand
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
itan' right there where I've got you! Take that! an' that! an'
that! damn you! Hold me backsomebody! Hold me back!"

Martin laughed and held him to his work. On Tuesday night the new
laundrymen arrivedand 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 tobut if they doI'll quit. No more work in minethank
you kindly. Me for the freight cars an' the shade under the trees.
Go to ityou slaves! That's right. Slave an' sweat! Slave an'
sweat! An' when you're deadyou'll rot the same as mean' 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 wheelready to
start. They shook handsand Joe held on to his for a momentas
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 stooda forlorn figurein the middle of the roadwatching
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 himselfto the water tankwhere
half a dozen empties lay on a side-track waiting for the up
freight.

CHAPTER XIX

Ruth and her family were home againand Martinreturned to
Oaklandsaw much of her. Having gained her degreeshe was doing
no more studying; and hehaving worked all vitality out of his
mind and bodywas doing no writing. This gave them time for each
other that they had never had beforeand their intimacy ripened
fast.

At firstMartin had done nothing but rest. He had slept a great
dealand spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing.
He was like one recovering from some terrible bout if 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
novelsand poetry; and after several days more he was head
over heels in his long-neglected Fiske. His splendid body and
health made new vitalityand 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 warin 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 franknessand he remembered his old resolve to be
frankno 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 healthso all the preachers sayand Heaven knows I've never
been afraid of it. But there is such a thing as too much of a good
thingand the laundry up there is one of them. And that's why I'm
going to sea one more voyage. It will be my lastI thinkfor
when I come backI shall break into the magazines. I am certain


of it."

She was silentunsympatheticand 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.

Neversince the first meetinghad they seemed so far apart as
that day. His confessiontold in franknesswith the spirit of
revolt behindhad 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 himand once acceptedit paved the way
for greater intimacy. Pitytoowas arousedand 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 environmentand 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 weatherand
out in the hills they read poetry aloudnow one and now the other
nobleuplifting poetry that turned one's thoughts to higher
things. Renunciationsacrificepatienceindustryand high
endeavor were the principles she thus indirectly preached - such
abstractions being objectified in her mind by her fatherand Mr.
Butlerand by Andrew Carnegiewhofrom 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 nowand 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 everfor he loved her for what she was
and even her physical frailty was an added charm in his eyes. He
read of sickly Elizabeth Barrettwho for years had not placed her
feet upon the grounduntil that day of flame when she eloped with
Browning and stood uprightupon the earthunder the open sky; and
what Browning had done for herMartin decided he could do for
Ruth. But firstshe must love him. The rest would be easy. He
would give her strength and health. And he caught glimpses of
their lifein the years to comewhereinagainst a background of
work and comfort and general well-beinghe saw himself and Ruth
reading and discussing poetryshe 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
readone arm about herher head upon his shoulder. Sometimes
they pored together over the printed pages of beauty. Thentoo
she loved natureand with generous imagination he changed the
scene of their reading - sometimes they read in closed-in valleys
with precipitous wallsor in high mountain meadowsandagain
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 mistreaching the sea in vapor veils that swayed and
shivered to every vagrant wisp of wind. But alwaysin the
foregroundlords of beauty and eternally reading and sharinglay
he and Ruthand always in the background that was beyond the
background of naturedim and hazywere 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 if; not -

Ruth was blushingbut 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 noddedand again a blush mantled her face.

It is just that,she said. "It has not been his faultbut 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 otherand 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 protege. Thentoohe is my first boy friend - but not
exactly friend; rather protege and friend combined. Sometimes
toowhen he frightens meit seems that he is a bulldog I have
taken for a playthinglike some of the 'frat' girlsand he is
tugging hardand showing his teethand 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 talland slenderand
dark - a gracefulbewitching prince. Nothere is no danger of my
failing 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 himand even when I don't happen to feel that waywhy
he's nasty to meanyway. But I am happy with Martin Eden. No one
ever loved me before - no manI meanin that way. And it is
sweet to be loved - that way. You know what I meanmother dear.
It is sweet to feel that you are really and truly a woman." She
buried her face in her mother's lapsobbing. "You think I am
dreadfulI knowbut I am honestand I tell you just how I feel."

Mrs. Morse was strangely sad and happy. Her child-daughterwho
was a bachelor of artswas gone; but in her place was a womandaughter.
The experiment had succeeded. The strange void in
Ruth's nature had been filledand filled without danger or
penalty. This rough sailor-fellow had been the instrumentand
though Ruth did not love himhe had made her conscious of her
womanhood.

His hand trembles,Ruth was confessingher facefor shame's
sakestill buried. "It is most amusing and ridiculousbut I feel
sorry for himtoo. And when his hands are too tremblyand his
eyes too shinywhyI lecture him about his life and the wrong way
he is going about it to mend it. But he worships meI know. His
eyes and his hands do not lie. And it makes me feel grown-upthe
thought of itthe 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. AndthentooI
knew that I was not like them beforeand I knew that it worried
you. You thought you did not let me know that dear worry of yours
but I didand I wanted to - 'to make good' as Martin Eden says."

It was a holy hour for mother and daughterand their eyes were wet
as they talked on in the twilightRuth all white innocence and
franknessher mother sympatheticreceptiveyet 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 youhe shouldin the name of common sensebe doing
something that would give him the right to marryinstead of
paltering around with those stories of his and with childish
dreams. Martin EdenI am afraidwill never grow up. He does not
take to responsibility and a man's work in the world like your
father didor like all our friendsMr. Butler for one. Martin
EdenI am afraidwill never be a money-earner. And this world is
so ordered that money is necessary to happiness - ohnonot these
swollen fortunesbut 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 saidAnd that is the
children.

I - have thought about them,Ruth confessedremembering the
wanton thoughts that had vexed her in the pasther 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 cleanand
he isI am afraidnot clean. Your father has told me of sailors'
livesand - and you understand."

Ruth pressed her mother's hand in assentfeeling that she really
did understandthough her conception was of something vague
remoteand terrible that was beyond the scope of imagination.

You know I do nothing without telling you,she began. " - Only
sometimes you must ask melike this time. I wanted to tell you
but I did not know how. It is false modestyI know it is that
but you can make it easy for me. Sometimeslike this timeyou
must ask meyou must give me a chance."

Why, mother, you are a woman, too!she cried exultantlyas they
stood upcatching her mother's hands and standing erectfacing
her in the twilightconscious 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 onetoo."

We are women together,her mother saiddrawing 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 brisklyin
matter-of-factbusinesslike 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 backshe will not
be here. We will send her to Aunt Clara's. Andbesidesa year
in the Eastwith the change in climatepeopleideasand
everythingis 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 brainand 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 loveand in both matters
he prospered. He was soon spilling over with vitalityand each


day he saw Ruthat the moment of meetingshe 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 herselfand in a
few days he would be off to sea. Thenby the time he returned
she would be away on her visit East. There was a magichowever
in the strength and health of Martin. Hetoohad been told of
her contemplated Eastern tripand he felt the need for haste. Yet
he did not know how to make love to a girl like Ruth. Thentoo
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 flirtationwhile she knew
nothing about such things. Her prodigious innocence appalled him
freezing on his lips all ardors of speechand convincing himin
spite of himselfof 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 hisand been fascinated by some
of thembut he had not known what it was to love them. He had
whistled in a masterfulcareless wayand they had come to him.
They had been diversionsincidentspart of the game men playbut
a small part at most. And nowand for the first timehe was a
supplianttender and timid and doubting. He did not know the way
of lovenor its speechwhile he was frightened at his loved one's
clear innocence.

In the course of getting acquainted with a varied worldwhirling
on through the ever changing phases of ithe had learned a rule of
conduct which was to the effect that when one played a strange
gamehe 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 strangeand to
wait for a weaknessfor a place of entranceto divulge itself.
It was like sparring for an opening in fist-fighting. And when
such an opening camehe knew by long experience to play for it and
to play hard.

So he waited with Ruth and watcheddesiring to speak his love but
not daring. He was afraid of shocking herand he was not sure of
himself. Had he but known ithe was following the right course
with her. Love came into the world before articulate speechand
in its own early youth it had learned ways and means that it had
never forgotten. It was in this oldprimitive way that Martin
wooed Ruth. He did not know he was doing it at firstthough later
he divined it. The touch of his hand on hers was vastly more
potent than any word he could utterthe 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 appealedin partto her judgment; but
the touch of handthe fleeting contactmade its way directly to
her instinct. Her judgment was as young as shebut her instincts
were as old as the race and older. They had been young when love
was youngand they were wiser than convention and opinion and all
the new-born things. So her judgment did not act. There was no
call upon itand she did not realize the strength of the appeal
Martin made from moment to moment to her love-nature. That he
loved heron the other handwas as clear as dayand she
consciously delighted in beholding his love-manifestations - the
glowing eyes with their tender lightsthe trembling handsand the
never failing swarthy flush that flooded darkly under his sunburn.
She even went fartherin a timid way inciting himbut doing it so
delicately that he never suspectedand doing it half-consciously


so that she scarcely suspected herself. She thrilled with these
proofs of her power that proclaimed her a womanand she took an
Eve-like delight in tormenting him and playing upon him.

Tongue-tied by inexperience and by excess of ardorwooing
unwittingly and awkwardlyMartin continued his approach by
contact. The touch of his hand was pleasant to herand something
deliciously more than pleasant. Martin did not know itbut he did
know that it was not distasteful to her. Not that they touched
hands oftensave at meeting and parting; but that in handling the
bicyclesin strapping on the books of verse they carried into the
hillsand in conning the pages of books side by sidethere were
opportunities for hand to stray against hand. And there were
opportunitiestoofor her hair to brush his cheekand for
shoulder to touch shoulderas 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 greatlywhen they tired of readingto 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 pasthe had rested his head on many lapsandusuallyhe
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 nowand now he
found Ruth's lap inaccessible and impossible. Yet it was right
herein his reticencethat the strength of his wooing lay. It
was because of this reticence that he never alarmed her. Herself
fastidious and timidshe never awakened to the perilous trend of
their intercourse. Subtly and unaware she grew toward him and
closer to himwhile hesensing the growing closenesslonged to
dare but was afraid.

Once he daredone afternoonwhen he found her in the darkened
living room with a blinding headache.

Nothing can do it any good,she had answered his inquiries. "And
besidesI 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 againhalf an hour laterwhen she askedAren't
you tired?

The question was perfunctoryand 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 itor so it seemed to heruntil with the
easement of painshe 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 completelyMr.


Edenand I don't know how to thank you."

He was warmand bungling of speechand very happyas he replied
to herand there was dancing in his mindthroughout the telephone
conversationthe memory of Browning and of sickly Elizabeth
Barrett. What had been done could be done againand heMartin
Edencould 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 willso thatdespite all determinationhe 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 wroteand he wrote under the best conditions for
great workat a climacteric of livingin 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 risenand Ruthgazing into the starry vault
of the sky and exchanging no speech with Martinexperienced a
sudden feeling of loneliness. She glanced at him. A puff of wind
was heeling the boat over till the deck was awashand heone hand
on tiller and the other on main-sheetwas luffing slightlyat the
same time peering ahead to make out the near-lying north shore. He
was unaware of her gazeand she watched him intentlyspeculating
fancifully about the strange warp of soul that led hima young man
with signal powersto fritter away his time on the writing of
stories and poems foredoomed to mediocrity and failure.

Her eyes wandered along the strong throatdimly seen in the
starlightand over the firm-poised headand 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
pronouncedand she felt tired. Her position on the heeling boat
irked herand she remembered the headache he had cured and the
soothing rest that resided in him. He was sitting beside her
quite beside herand the boat seemed to tilt her toward him. Then
arose in her the impulse to lean against himto rest herself
against his strength - a vaguehalf-formed impulsewhicheven as
she considered itmastered 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 faultbut she made no effort to retrieve it. She leaned
lightly against his shoulderbut she leanedand she continued to
lean when he shifted his position to make it more comfortable for
her.

It was a madnessbut she refused to consider the madness. She was
no longer herself but a womanwith a woman's clinging need; and
though she leaned ever so lightlythe need seemed satisfied. She
was no longer tired. Martin did not speak. Had hethe 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 skillstopping
way on the boat without exciting the notice of the wranglersand
mentally forgiving his hardest voyages in that they had made this
marvellous night possiblegiving him mastery over sea and boat and
wind so that he could sail with her beside himher dear weight
against him on his shoulder.

When the first light of the rising moon touched the sail
illuminating the boat with pearly radianceRuth moved away from
him. Andeven as she movedshe 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 seenor Olney see.
Why had she done it? She had never done anything like it in her
lifeand 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 Martinwho was busy putting the boat about
on the other tackand she could have hated him for having made her
do an immodest and shameful thing. And heof all men! Perhaps
her mother was rightand she was seeing too much of him. It would
never happen againshe resolvedand she would see less of him in
the future. She entertained a wild idea of explaining to him the
first time they were alone togetherof lying to himof 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 moonand she knew he would know
it for a lie.

In the days that swiftly followed she was no longer herself but a
strangepuzzling creaturewilful over judgment and scornful of
self-analysisrefusing to peer into the future or to think about
herself and whither she was drifting. She was in a fever of
tingling mysteryalternately frightened and charmedand in
constant bewilderment. She had one idea firmly fixedhowever
which insured her security. She would not let Martin speak his
love. As long as she did thisall would be well. In a few days
he would be off to sea. And even if he did speakall would be
well. It could not be otherwisefor she did not love him. Of
courseit would be a painful half hour for himand an
embarrassing half hour for herbecause it would be her first
proposal. She thrilled deliciously at the thought. She was really
a womanwith 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 lifeof
all that constituted herquivered and grew tremulous. The thought
fluttered in her mind like a flame-attracted moth. She went so far
as to imagine Martin proposingherself putting the words into his
mouth; and she rehearsed her refusaltempering 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
noshe must not let him speak at all. She could stop himand she
had told her mother that she would. All flushed and burningshe
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 daywarm and languidpalpitant with the
hush of the changing seasona California Indian summer daywith
hazy sun and wandering wisps of breeze that did not stir the
slumber of the air. Filmy purple miststhat were not vapors but
fabrics woven of colorhid 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 metalwhereon sailing
craft lay motionless or drifted with the lazy tide. Far Tamalpais
barely seen in the silver hazebulked hugely by the Golden Gate
the latter a pale gold pathway under the westering sun. Beyond
the Pacificdim and vastwas raising on its sky-line tumbled
cloud-masses that swept landwardgiving warning of the first
blustering breath of winter.

The erasure of summer was at hand. Yet summer lingeredfading and
fainting among her hillsdeepening 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 hillson their favorite knollMartin and Ruth sat side
by sidetheir heads bent over the same pageshe 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 liveda
beautiful and unrepentant voluptuaryand reminiscent rapture and
content freighted heavily the air. It entered into themdreamy
and languorousweakening the fibres of resolutionsuffusing the
face of moralityor of judgmentwith haze and purple mist.
Martin felt tender and meltingand from time to time warm glows
passed over him. His head was very near to hersand when
wandering phantoms of breeze stirred her hair so that it touched
his facethe 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 eyesand was on the verge of
becoming awkwardwhen 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 groundand they sat idly
and silentlygazing 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 gravitationstrong as destiny. It was only an
inch to leanand it was accomplished without volition on her part.
Her shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly touches a
flowerand just as lightly was the counter-pressure. She felt his
shoulder press hersand 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 waitedshe knew
not for whatpantingwith dryburning lipsa leaping pulseand
a fever of expectancy in all her blood. The girdling arm lifted
higher and drew her toward himdrew her slowly and caressingly.
She could wait no longer. With a tired sighand with an impulsive
movement all her ownunpremeditatedspasmodicshe rested her
head upon his breast. His head bent over swiftlyandas his lips
approachedhers flew to meet them.

This must be loveshe thoughtin the one rational moment that was
vouchsafed her. If it was not loveit 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 himwith a snuggling movement of her body. And a
moment latertearing herself half out of his embracesuddenly 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 moanrelaxed her handsand lay
half-swooning in his arms.

Not a word had been spokenand not a word was spoken for a long
time. Twice he bent and kissed herand each time her lips met his
shyly and her body made its happynestling movement. She clung to
himunable to release herselfand he sathalf supporting her in
his armsas 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 therewarm 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 saidafter a long
sigh.

He crushed her in his arms again and againand 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 crieda ring of vexation
in his voice. "I never dreamed it until just howwhen 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 slowlyher eyes
warm and fluttery and meltinga 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 youMartinnot until
just now. How did you make me love you?"


I don't know,he laughedunless 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 momentbut her own dropped as she continuedYou see,
I didn't know what this was like.

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

What will my people say?she queriedwith 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 mebut 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
brokenbut instead he saidAnd 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 criedwithdrawing herself from his
arms with a swiftpassionate movement. "Impossible for you. You
have been a sailorand sailorsI have heardare - 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 portsbut I never knew a passing touch of love until I saw
you that first night. Do you knowwhen I said good night and went
awayI 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 firstmy 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 surpriseshe 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 truehe decided; though the
novels he had read had led him to believe otherwise. His ideafor
which the novels were responsiblehad been that only formal
proposals obtained in the upper classes. It was all right enough
down whence he had comefor 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
caressesunaccompanied by speechthat were efficacious with the
girls of the working-classwere equally efficacious with the girls
above the working-class. They were all of the same fleshafter
allsisters 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 herhe 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 himmade her possible. Her dear
flesh was as anybody's fleshas his flesh. There was no bar to
their marriage. Class difference was the only differenceand
class was extrinsic. It could be shaken off. A slavehe had
readhad risen to the Roman purple. That being sothen he could
rise to Ruth. Under her purityand saintlinessand cultureand
ethereal beauty of soulshe wasin things fundamentally human
just like Lizzie Connolly and all Lizzie Connollys. All that was
possible of them was possible of her. She could loveand hate
maybe have hysterics; and she could certainly be jealousas she
was jealous nowuttering her last sobs in his arms.

Besides, I am older than you,she remarked suddenlyopening her
eyes and looking up at himthree years older.

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

In truththey were children togetherso far as love was
concernedand they were as naive and immature in the expression of
their love as a pair of childrenand 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 daytalking as lovers
are prone to talkmarvelling at the wonder of love and at destiny
that had flung them so strangely togetherand dogmatically


believing that they loved to a degree never attained by lovers
before. And they returned insistentlyagain and againto 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
sunand the circle of the sky turned to rosewhile the zenith
glowed with the same warm color. The rosy light was all about
themflooding over themas she sangGood-by, Sweet Day.She
sang softlyleaning in the cradle of his armher 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 storyand more
eloquently did the eyeslarge and brightreflecting an
unmistakable inward glory.

What has happened?Mrs. Morse askedhaving bided her time till
Ruth had gone to bed.

You know?Ruth queriedwith trembling lips.

For replyher mother's arm went around herand a hand was softly
caressing her hair.

He did not speak,she blurted out. "I did not intend that it
should happenand 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 know what happenedafter
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 methat 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 meand I kissed him. I couldn't help it. I just had to.
And then I knew I loved him."

She pausedwaiting with expectancy the benediction of her mother's
kissbut 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 criedstarting up. "I do not want to be released.
I love himand love is very sweet. I am going to marry him - of
courseif 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 harebrained
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 accidentmy loving him; but I can't
help myself. Could you help loving father? Then it is the same
with me. There is something in mein him - I never knew it was
there until to-day - but it is thereand it makes me love him.
never thought to love himbutyou seeI 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-fellowthe only accessible man at the


momentand of course she promptly loved himor thought she did
which amounts to the same thing."

Mrs. Morse took it upon herself to work slowly and indirectly upon
Ruthrather than to combat her. There would be plenty of time for
thisfor Martin was not in position to marry.

Let her see all she wants of him,was Mr. Morse's advice. "The
more she knows himthe less she'll love himI wager. And give
her plenty of contrast. Make a point of having young people at the
house. Young women and young menall sorts of young menclever
menmen who have done something or who are doing thingsmen of
her own classgentlemen. She can gauge him by them. They will
show him up for what he is. And after allhe is a mere boy of
twenty-one. Ruth is no more than a child. It is calf love with
the pair of themand they will grow out of it."

So the matter rested. Within the family it was accepted that Ruth
and Martin were engagedbut no announcement was made. The family
did not think it would ever be necessary. Alsoit was tacitly
understood that it was to be a long engagement. They did not ask
Martin to go to worknor to cease writing. They did not intend to
encourage him to mend himself. And he aided and abetted them in
their unfriendly designsfor 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
expensiveand I am going to board myself. I've rented a little
room out in North Oaklandretired neighborhood and all the rest
you knowand 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 inand to-morrow I
start to work."

A position!she criedbetraying the gladness of her surprise in
all her bodynestling closer to himpressing his handsmiling.
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 coldprosaic
matter-of-fact business proposition. It is better than going to
sea againand 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
stoutlyputting 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 saidbut 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-
writertaking dictationor 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
makeshiftand I don't take it seriously. Give me two years. I
shall succeed in that timeand 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 isnow; 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 businessI shall never succeed at it. I am not in sympathy
with it. It strikes me as dulland stupidand mercenaryand
tricky. Anyway I am not adapted for it. I'd never get beyond a
clerkshipand 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 itgoing 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; butas a
rulepretty 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 writerdid not alter
her nor diminish her in Martin's eyes. In the breathing spell of
the vacation he had takenhe had spent many hours in selfanalysis
and thereby learned much of himself. He had discovered
that he loved beauty more than fameand 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
sublimates 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 outand some of it he
reasoned out later. In the meantime he workedtaking no
recreation except when he went to see Ruthand living like a
Spartan. He paid two dollars and a half a month rent for the small
room he got from his Portuguese landladyMaria Silvaa virago and
a widowhard working and harsher temperedrearing her large brood
of children somehowand drowning her sorrow and fatigue at
irregular intervals in a gallon of the thinsour wine that she
bought from the corner grocery and saloon for fifteen cents. From
detesting her and her foul tongue at firstMartin grew to admire
her as he observed the brave fight she made. There were but four
rooms in the little house - threewhen Martin's was subtracted.
One of thesethe parlorgay with an ingrain carpet and dolorous
with a funeral card and a death-picture of one of her numerous
departed babeswas kept strictly for company. The blinds were


always downand her barefooted tribe was never permitted to enter
the sacred precinct save on state occasions. She cookedand all
atein the kitchenwhere she likewise washedstarchedand
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 bedroomsmall as the one occupied by
Martininto 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 bedthe squalls and squabblesthe soft
chatteringand the sleepytwittering noises as of birds. Another
source of income to Maria were her cowstwo of themwhich 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 walksattended always by one or more of her ragged
boyswhose watchful guardianship consisted chiefly in keeping
their eyes out for the poundmen.

In his own small room Martin livedsleptstudiedwroteand kept
house. Before the one windowlooking out on the tiny front porch
was the kitchen table that served as desklibraryand typewriting
stand. The bedagainst the rear walloccupied two-thirds
of the total space of the room. The table was flanked on one side
by a gaudy bureaumanufactured for profit and not for servicethe
thin veneer of which was shed day by day. This bureau stood in the
cornerand in the opposite corneron the table's other flankwas
the kitchen - the oil-stove on a dry-goods boxinside of which
were dishes and cooking utensilsa shelf on the wall for
provisionsand a bucket of water on the floor. Martin had to
carry his water from the kitchen sinkthere being no tap in his
room. On days when there was much steam to his cookingthe
harvest of veneer from the bureau was unusually generous. Over the
bedhoisted by a tackle to the ceilingwas his bicycle. At first
he had tried to keep it in the basement; but the tribe of Silva
loosening the bearings and puncturing the tireshad driven him
out. Next he attempted the tiny front porchuntil 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 readinghe had developed the habit
of making notesand 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 sohe was crowded until navigating the room was a
difficult task. He could not open the door without first closing
the closet doorand 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 doorshe had to steer
sharply to the right to avoid the kitchen. Nexthe sheered to the
leftto escape the foot of the bed; but this sheerif too
generousbrought him against the corner of the table. With a
sudden twitch and lurchhe terminated the sheer and bore off to
the right along a sort of canalone bank of which was the bedthe
other the table. When the one chair in the room was at its usual
place before the tablethe canal was unnavigable. When the chair
was not in useit reposed on top of the bedthough sometimes he
sat on the chair when cookingreading a book while the water
boiledand even becoming skilful enough to manage a paragraph or
two while steak was frying. Alsoso small was the little corner
that constituted the kitchenhe was ablesitting downto reach


anything he needed. In factit was expedient to cook sitting
down; standing uphe 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
dietas well as potatoes and beansthe latter large and brown and
cooked in Mexican style. Ricecooked as American housewives never
cook it and can never learn to cook itappeared on Martin's table
at least once a day. Dried fruits were less expensive than fresh
and he had usually a pot of themcooked and ready at handfor
they took the place of butter on his bread. Occasionally he graced
his table with a piece of round-steakor with a soup-bone.
Coffeewithout cream or milkhe had twice a dayin 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 laundryand 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 Gertudehe lived a reclusein
each day accomplishing at least three days' labor of ordinary men.
He slept a scant five hoursand only one with a constitution of
iron could have held himself downas Martin didday after dayto
nineteen consecutive hours of toil. He never lost a moment. On
the looking-glass were lists of definitions and pronunciations;
when shavingor dressingor combing his hairhe conned these
lists over. Similar lists were on the wall over the oil-stoveand
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 downand laterwhen a sufficient number
had been accumulatedwere typed and pinned to the wall or lookingglass.
He even carried them in his pocketsand reviewed them at
odd moments on the streetor while waiting in butcher shop or
grocery to be served.

He went farther in the matter. Reading the works of men who had
arrivedhe noted every result achieved by themand worked out the
tricks by which they had been achieved - the tricks of narrative
of expositionof stylethe points of viewthe contraststhe
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 mannerismstill out of many suchculled from many
writershe was able to induce the general principle of mannerism
andthus equippedto cast about for new and original ones of his
ownand to weigh and measure and appraise them properly. In
similar manner he collected lists of strong phrasesthe phrases of
living languagephrases that bit like acid and scorched like
flameor 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 laboratorywhere cooking smells alternated
with the outer bedlam of the Silva tribe; andhaving dissected and
learned the anatomy of beautyhe was nearer being able to create
beauty itself.

He was so made that he could work only with understanding. He
could not work blindlyin the darkignorant 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 geniusandbefore he began a story or poem
the thing itself was already alive in his brainwith 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 handhe appreciated the chance effects in words and phrases
that came lightly and easily into his brainand that later stood
all tests of beauty and power and developed tremendous and
incommunicable connotations. Before such he bowed down and
marvelledknowing 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 possiblehe
was awarealwaysof the innermost mystery of beauty to which he
did not penetrate and to which no man had ever penetrated. He knew
full wellfrom his Spencerthat man can never attain ultimate
knowledge of anythingand that the mystery of beauty was no less
than that of life - naymore that the fibres of beauty and life
were intertwistedand that he himself was but a bit of the same
nonunderstandable fabrictwisted of sunshine and star-dust and
wonder.

In factit 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 a
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 moneyand publishers' checks
were far away as ever. All his important manuscripts had come back
and been started out againand 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 apricotsrice and apricots was his menu three times a day
for five days hand-running. Then he startled to realize on his
credit. The Portuguese grocerto 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 groceryou 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 strongbodied
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 jobno 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 drankin his easy wayto show that he was good friends
with the houseand then went supperless to bed.

The fruit storewhere Martin had bought his vegetableswas 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 dollarsand 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 rentbut he estimated that he could
get two months' credit on thatwhich would be eight dollars. When
that occurredhe 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 potatoesand nothing but potatoesthree
times a day. An occasional dinner at Ruth's helped to keep
strength in his bodythough 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 againthough afflicted with
secret shamehe 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 onand day by day the postman delivered to
him rejected manuscripts. He had no money for stampsso 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'sfor 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 misfortunethe postmanin his afternoon roundbrought him
five returned manuscripts. Then it was that Martin wore his
overcoat down into Oaklandand came back without itbut with five
dollars tinkling in his pocket. He paid a dollar each on account
to the four tradesmenand in his kitchen fried steak and onions
made coffeeand 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
outhe flung it under the tablefor there had been nothing left
from the five dollars with which to buy stamps.

Later on he pawned his watchand still later his wheelreducing
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 newspapersweekliesand cheap magazinesand decided that
his was betterfar betterthan the average; yet it would not
sell. Then he discovered that most of the newspapers printed a
great deal of what was called "plate" stuffand he got the address
of the association that furnished it. His own work that he sent in
was returnedalong 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
returnedand though he tried repeatedly he never succeeded in
placing one. Later onwhen it no longer matteredhe learned that
the associate editors and sub-editors augmented their salaries by
supplying those paragraphs themselves. The comic weeklies returned
his jokes and humorous verseand 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
syndicateshe deluged them with storiettes. When he had written
twenty and failed to place one of themhe ceased. And yetfrom
day to dayhe read storiettes in the dailies and weekliesscores
and scores of storiettesnot one of which would compare with his.
In his despondencyhe concluded that he had no judgment whatever
that he was hypnotized by what he wroteand that he was a selfdeluded
pretender.

The inhuman editorial machine ran smoothly as ever. He folded the
stamps in with his manuscriptdropped it into the letter-boxand
from three weeks to a month afterward the postman came up the steps
and handed him the manuscript. Surely there were no livewarm
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 oneand from absence of
judgment in rejecting all he wrote it seemed plausible that editors
were mythsmanufactured and maintained by office boys
typesettersand pressmen.
The hours he spent with Ruth were the only happy ones he hadand
they were not all happy. He was afflicted always with a gnawing
restlessnessmore tantalizing than in the old days before he
possessed her love; for now that he did possess her lovethe
possession of her was far away as ever. He had asked for two
years; time was flyingand he was achieving nothing. Againhe
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 herbut 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 mouldrefused to be moulded. To a certain extent she had
found his clay plasticthen it had developed stubbornness
declining to be shaped in the image of her father or of Mr. Butler.

What was great and strong in himshe missedorworse yet
misunderstood. This manwhose clay was so plastic that he could
live in any number of pigeonholes of human existenceshe thought
wilful and most obstinate because she could not shape him to live
in her pigeonholewhich was the only one she knew. She could not
follow the flights of his mindand 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 motherher brothers and
Olney; whereforewhen she could not follow Martinshe 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 stuffand it seems to me the perfection of the
felicitous expression of the inane. Whyhe is no more than a
ponderous bromidethanks 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 loftyso
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 repliedwhen 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 professorsbut which to Ruth was
blasphemy. She could not help but measure the professorsneat
scholarlyin fitting clothesspeaking in well-modulated voices
breathing of culture and refinementwith this almost indescribable
young fellow whom somehow she lovedwhose clothes never would fit
himwhose heavy muscles told of damning toilwho grew excited
when he talkedsubstituting abuse for calm statement and
passionate utterance for cool self-possession. They at least
earned good salaries and were - yesshe compelled herself to face
it - were gentlemen; while he could not earn a pennyand 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 professorswere 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 phrasethey made good
and he did not make good. And besidesit did not seem reasonable
that he should be right - he who had stoodso short a time before
in that same living roomblushing and awkwardacknowledging his
introductionlooking fearfully about him at the bric-a-brac his
swinging shoulders threatened to breakasking how long since
Swinburne diedand boastfully announcing that he had read
Excelsiorand the "Psalm of Life."

UnwittinglyRuth herself proved his point that she worshipped the
established. Martin followed the processes of her thoughtsbut
forbore to go farther. He did not love her for what she thought of
Praps and Vanderwater and English professorsand he was coming to
realizewith increasing convictionthat he possessed brain-areas
and stretches of knowledge which she could never comprehend nor
know existed.

In music she thought him unreasonableand in the matter of opera
not only unreasonable but wilfully perverse.


How did you like it?she asked him one nighton 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 itherself still tremulous and stirred by what she had just
seen and heardshe 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
Carusothey 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 meanthen.
You admire their voicesyet 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 canvasyet you accept the
illusion of three dimensions which the art of a painter enables him
to throw into the canvas. In writingagainthe author must be


omnipotent. You accept as perfectly legitimate the author's
account of the secret thoughts of the heroineand 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 stagewith sculpturewith operawith
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 himselfinstead 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. Buton
the other handwe would not accept a sea scene as a forest. We
can't do it. It violates our senses. Nor would youorrather
should youaccept 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 hadI could have wept
sentimental tears to-nightand 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 oldnow. I must have
the real or nothing. An illusion that won't convince is a palpable
lieand that's what grand opera is to me when little Barillo
throws a fitclutches 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 musicand she
had enjoyed opera ever since she was a childand all her world had
enjoyed ittoo. Then by what right did Martin Eden emergeas he
had so recently emergedfrom 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 bestin her most charitable frame of mindshe considered


the statement of his views to be a capricean erratic and
uncalled-for prank. But when he took her in his arms at the door
and kissed her good night in tender lover-fashionshe forgot
everything in the outrush of her own love to him. And lateron a
sleepless pillowshe puzzledas she had often puzzled of lateas
to how it was that she loved so strange a manand loved him
despite the disapproval of her people.

And next day Martin Eden cast hack-work asideand at white heat
hammered out an essay to which he gave the titleThe Philosophy
of Illusion.A stamp started it on its travelsbut it was
destined to receive many stamps and to be started on many travels
in the months that followed.

CHAPTER XXV

Maria Silva was poorand all the ways of poverty were clear to
her. Povertyto Ruthwas a word signifying a not-nice condition
of existence. That was her total knowledge on the subject. She
knew Martin was poorand his condition she associated in her mind
with the boyhood of Abraham Lincolnof Mr. Butlerand of other
men who had become successes. Alsowhile aware that poverty was
anything but delectableshe had a comfortable middle-class feeling
that poverty was salutarythat 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 situationbelieving that sooner or later it
would arouse him and compel him to abandon his writing.

Ruth never read hunger in Martin's facewhich had grown lean and
had enlarged the slight hollows in the cheeks. In factshe 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 animallike
vigor that lured her while she detested it. Sometimeswhen
with hershe noted an unusual brightness in his eyesand she
admired itfor 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 eyesand she noted the changes in them from
day to dayby them following the ebb and flow of his fortunes.
She saw him leave the house with his overcoat and return without
itthough the day was chill and rawand 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 goand after each
event she had seen his vigor bloom again.

Likewise she watched his toilsand knew the measure of the
midnight oil he burned. Work! She knew that he outdid herthough
his work was of a different order. And she was surprised to behold
that the less food he hadthe harder he worked. On occasionin a
casual sort of waywhen she thought hunger pinched hardestshe
would send him in a loaf of new bakingawkwardly covering the act
with banter to the effect that it was better than he could bake.
And againshe would send one of her toddlers in to him with a
great pitcher of hot soupdebating inwardly the while whether she
was justified in taking it from the mouths of her own flesh and
blood. Nor was Martin ungratefulknowing as he did the lives of
the poorand that if ever in the world there was charitythis was
it.


On a day when she had filled her brood with what was left in the
houseMaria invested her last fifteen cents in a gallon of cheap
wine. Martincoming into her kitchen to fetch waterwas invited
to sit down and drink. He drank her very-good healthand in
return she drank his. Then she drank to prosperity in his
undertakingsand 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 werethey were lonely in their miseryand
though the misery was tacitly ignoredit was the bond that drew
them together. Maria was amazed to learn that he had been in the
Azoreswhere she had lived until she was eleven. She was doubly
amazed that he had been in the Hawaiian Islandswhither she had
migrated from the Azores with her people. But her amazement passed
all bounds when he told her he had been on Mauithe particular
island whereon she had attained womanhood and married. Kahului
where she had first met her husband- heMartinhad been there
twice! Yesshe remembered the sugar steamersand he had been on
them - wellwellit was a small world. And Wailuku! That place
too! Did he know the head-luna of the plantation? Yesand had
had a couple of drinks with him.

And so they reminiscenced and drowned their hunger in the rawsour
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 bakingand felt spring up
in him the warmest gratitude and philanthropy.

Maria,he exclaimed suddenly. "What would you like to have?"

She looked at himbepuzzled.

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 announcedwhile she nodded her head
gravely. "But I mean a big wishsomething big that you want."

Her eyes sparkled good-naturedly. He was choosing to make fun with
herMariawith whom few made fun these days.

Think hard,he cautionedjust as she was opening her mouth to
speak.

Alla right,she answered. "I thinka da hard. I lika da house
dis house - all mineno paya da rentseven dollar da month."

You shall have it,he grantedand 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 laughedI'm not afraid. Go ahead.


Most verra big,she warned again.

All right. Fire away.

Well, den - She drew a big breath like a childas she voiced
to the uttermost all she cared to demand of life. "I lika da have
one milka ranch - good milka ranch. Plenty cowplenty 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
engineerworka da railroad. YesI 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 wineglass
and to the giver of the gift she knew would never be given.
His heart was rightand 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 horsesand
cow-barnsof course. There will be chickenspigsvegetables
fruit treesand 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 matterif you find
a good manyou can marry and take it easy while he runs the
ranch."

And from such largessdispensed from his futureMartin turned and
took his one good suit of clothes to the pawnshop. His plight was
desperate for him to do thisfor it cut him off from Ruth. He had
no second-best suit that was presentableand though he could go to
the butcher and the bakerand even on occasion to his sister'sit
was beyond all daring to dream of entering the Morse home so
disreputably apparelled.

He toiled onmiserable 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 sisterRuthand even Mariato whom he owed a month's room
rent. He was two months behind with his type-writerand the
agency was clamoring for payment or for the return of the machine.
In desperationall but ready to surrenderto make a truce with
fate until he could get a fresh starthe took the civil service
examinations for the Railway Mail. To his surprisehe passed
first. The job was assuredthough when the call would come to
enter upon his duties nobody knew.

It was at this timeat the lowest ebbthat the smooth-running
editorial machine broke down. A cog must have slipped or an oilcup
run dryfor the postman brought him one morning a shortthin
envelope. Martin glanced at the upper left-hand corner and read
the name and address of the TRANSCONTINENTAL MONTHLY. His heart
gave a great leapand he suddenly felt faintthe sinking feeling
accompanied by a strange trembling of the knees. He staggered into
his room and sat down on the bedthe envelope still unopenedand
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


envelopetherefore 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 wordten words for a cent!
And the editor had praised ittoo. And he would receive the check
when the story was published. Then it was all poppycocktwo 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 writeand was
appalled at the enormous waste of time - and all for ten words for
a cent. And the other high rewards of writersthat he had read
aboutmust be liestoo. His second-hand ideas of authorship were
wrongfor here was the proof of it.

The TRANSCONTINENTAL sold for twenty-five centsand its dignified
and artistic cover proclaimed it as among the first-class
magazines. It was a staidrespectable magazineand it had been
published continuously since long before he was born. Whyon the
outside cover were printed every month the words of one of the
world's great writerswords 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 loftyheaven-inspired TRANSCONTINENTAL paid five dollars
for five thousand words! The great writer had recently died in a
foreign land - in dire povertyMartin rememberedwhich was not to
be wondered atconsidering the magnificent pay authors receive.

Wellhe had taken the baitthe newspaper lies about writers and
their payand 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 dowhat everybody wanted him to
do - get a job. The thought of going to work reminded him of Joe



Joetramping 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 thenJoe was not in lovehad none
of the responsibilities of loveand he could afford to loaf
through the land of nothing-to-do. HeMartinhad something to
work forand go to work he would. He would start out early next
morning to hunt a job. And he would let Ruth knowtoothat he
had mended his ways and was willing to go into her father's office.

Five dollars for five thousand wordsten words for a centthe
market price for art. The disappointment of itthe lie of itthe
infamy of itwere uppermost in his thoughts; and under his closed
eyelidsin fiery figuresburned the "$3.85" he owed the grocer.
He shiveredand was aware of an aching in his bones. The small of
his back ached especially. His head achedthe top of it ached
the back of it achedthe brains inside of it ached and seemed to
be swellingwhile the ache over his brows was intolerable. And
beneath the browsplanted under his lidswas the merciless
$3.85.He opened his eyes to escape itbut 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 wordsten words for a cent - that
particular thought took up its residence in his brainand he could
no more escape it than he could the "$3.85" under his eyelids. A
change seemed to come over the latterand he watched curiously
till "$2.00" burned in its stead. Ahhe thoughtthat 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 halfthat was certainbut who was
it? To find it was the task set him by an imperious and malignant
universeand he wandered through the endless corridors of his
mindopening 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 himeasilywithout
effortthat 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 nothe "$2.50" faded awayand 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 knowbut after what
seemed an enormous lapse of timehe was called back to himself by
a knock at the doorand by Maria's asking if he was sick. He
replied in a muffled voice he did not recognizesaying 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
afternoonand he realized that he was sick.

Then the "$8.00" began to smoulder under his lids againand 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 hima monstrous
wheel of fortunea merry-go-round of memorya revolving sphere of
wisdom. Faster and faster it revolveduntil its vortex sucked him
in and he was flung whirling through black chaos.

Quite naturally he found himself at a manglefeeding starched
cuffs. But as he fed he noticed figures printed in the cuffs. It
was a new way of marking linenhe thoughtuntillooking closer
he saw "$3.85" on one of the cuffs. Then it came to him that it
was the grocer's billand 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 doneand he crumpled the cuffs spitefully as he flung
them upon an unusually dirty floor. Ever the heap grewand though
each bill was duplicated a thousand timeshe found only one for
two dollars and a halfwhich was what he owed Maria. That meant
that Maria would not press for paymentand 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 desperatelyfor
agesand was still searching when the manager of the hotel
enteredthe fat Dutchman. His face blazed with wrathand he
shouted in stentorian tones that echoed down the universeI shall
deduct the cost of those cuffs from your wages!The pile of cuffs
grew into a mountainand Martin knew that he was doomed to toil
for a thousand years to pay for them. Wellthere was nothing left
to do but kill the manager and burn down the laundry. But the big
Dutchman frustrated himseizing him by the nape of the neck and
dancing him up and down. He danced him over the ironing tables
the stoveand the manglesand out into the wash-room and over the
wringer and washer. Martin was danced until his teeth rattled and
his head achedand he marvelled that the Dutchman was so strong.

And then he found himself before the manglethis time receiving
the cuffs an editor of a magazine was feeding from the other side.
Each cuff was a checkand Martin went over them anxiouslyin a
fever of expectationbut they were all blanks. He stood there and
received the blanks for a million years or sonever 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
thenI shall kill you Martin said. He went out into the washroom
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 againWilliearoundaround
around."

He recovered the axe in the midst of the Milky Way of checks
starched shirtsand manuscriptsand preparedwhen he came down
to kill Joe. But he did not come down. Insteadat two in the
morningMariahaving heard his groans through the thin partition
came into his roomto 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. Maryone of the tribe of Silva
eight years oldkeeping watchraised 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 desireand 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 eatto-morrow can eat
maybe."

Martin was not used to sicknessand when Maria and her little girl
left himhe essayed to get up and dress. By a supreme exertion of
willwith rearing brain and eyes that ached so that he could not
keep them openhe managed to get out of bedonly to be left
stranded by his senses upon the table. Half an hour later he
managed to regain the bedwhere 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 peacetoo wise to vex him with chatter. This
moved him to gratitudeand he murmured to himselfMaria, 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
TRANSCONTINENTALa life-time since it was all over and done with
and a new page turned. He had shot his boltand shot it hardand
now he was down on his back. If he hadn't starved himselfhe
wouldn't have been caught by La Grippe. He had been run downand
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 ledgerthe
monthly salaryand the little home with Ruth."

Two days laterhaving eaten an egg and two slices of toast and
drunk a cup of teahe asked for his mailbut found his eyes still
hurt too much to permit him to read.

You read for me, Maria,he said. "Never mind the biglong
letters. Throw them under the table. Read me the small letters."

No can,was the answer. "Teresashe go to schoolshe can."

So Teresa Silvaaged nineopened his letters and read them to
him. He listened absently to a long dun from the type-writer
peoplehis 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. "Heregive it to me!"

He could see to readnowand he was unaware of the pain of the
action. It was the WHITE MOUSE that was offering him forty
dollarsand 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 thirdthere 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-raterand
it paid a cent for ten words. He had classed the WHITE MOUSE as of
no accountand it paid twenty times as much as the
TRANSCONTINENTAL and also had paid on acceptance.

Wellthere was one thing certain: when he got wellhe 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 denouement. 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. "YesI was
right. Four days for 'The Ring of Bells' two days for 'The
Whirlpool.' That's forty-five dollars for a week's workone
hundred and eighty dollars a month. That beats any salary I can
command. AndbesidesI'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 slangand 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 himentreaty in her eyesand as he looked at
her delicate face and into her purelimpid eyesas of old he was
struck with his own unworthiness.

I wish you wouldn't smoke any more,she whispered. "Pleasefor

-my sake."
All right, I won't,he cried. "I'll do anything you askdear
loveanything; you know that."

A great temptation assailed her. In an insistent way she had
caught glimpses of the largeeasy-going side of his natureand


she felt sureif she asked him to cease attempting to writethat
he would grant her wish. In the swift instant that elapsedthe
words trembled on her lips. But she did not utter them. She was
not quite brave enough; she did not quite dare. Insteadshe
leaned toward him to meet himand 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 mischievouslythough 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 pointand 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 roomexamining the clothes-lines
of notes overheadlearning the mystery of the tackle used for
suspending his wheel under the ceilingand being saddened by the
heap of manuscripts under the table which represented to her just
so much wasted time. The oil-stove won her admirationbut 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 sideand she saw him double his arm at
the elbowthe biceps crawling under his shirt-sleeve and swelling
into a knot of muscleheavy and hard. The sight repelled her.
Sentimentallyshe disliked it. But her pulseher bloodevery
fibre of herloved it and yearned for itandin the old
inexplicable wayshe leaned toward himnot away from him. And in
the moment that followedwhen he crushed her in his armsthe
brain of herconcerned with the superficial aspects of lifewas
in revolt; while the heart of herthe woman of herconcerned with
life itselfexulted triumphantly. It was in moments like this
that she felt to the uttermost the greatness of her love for
Martinfor it was almost a swoon of delight to her to feel his
strong arms about herholding her tightlyhurting her with the
grip of their fervor. At such moments she found justification for
her treason to her standardsfor her violation of her own high
idealsandmost of allfor 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 hertoosometimes
when she was apart from hima cool and reasoning creature. With
himshe loved him - in truthat times a vexed and worried love;
but love it wasa love that was stronger than she.

This La Grippe is nothing,he was saying. "It hurts a bitand


gives one a nasty headachebut it doesn't compare with break-bone
fever."

Have you had that, too?she queried absentlyintent on the
heaven-sent justification she was finding in his arms.

And sowith absent queriesshe led him ontill 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 beachI headed
inland for some place of hiding. For three days I lived off
guavasOHIA-applesand bananasall of which grew wild in the
jungle. On the fourth day I found the trail - a mere foot-trail.
It led inlandand it led up. It was the way I wanted to goand
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 crestand on either side the ridge
fell away in precipices hundreds of feet deep. One manwith
plenty of ammunitioncould 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 taropatches,
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 breathlesslylisteninglike any
Desdemonaappalled 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 confessedI 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 saidstill 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 livingwhile 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 speakbut 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 nightwith a clear sky and under a full moon
the huge seas glinting coldly in the moonlight. Nexthe 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 incidentbut he heard Ruth muffle a dry sob in
her throatand noticed that she turned her face away to gaze out
of the window. When she turned it back to himit 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 youMartinI doI do. I shall grow more catholic in
timebut at present I can't help being jealous of those ghosts of
the pastand 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-bydear."

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
doorand I am going to send you some.

The door closedbut opened again.

I do, I do,she whispered to him; and this time she was really
gone.

Mariawith 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 viewthen transferred their stare to
Mariawho 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 centand had the
Portuguese grocer witnessed that afternoon carriage-call he would
have allowed Martin an additional three-dollars-and-eighty-fivecents'
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 meatand 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 lifemuch less been in one on
businessand 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 handpractical 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 grocerpaying his
bill with him in fulland receiving in change a pocketful of
jingling coin. Alsohe paid the other tradesmen in fullredeemed
his suit and his bicyclepaid 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 pocketfor emergenciesa balance
of nearly three dollars.

In itselfthis small sum seemed a fortune. Immediately on
recovering his clothes he had gone to see Ruthand on the way he
could not refrain from jingling the little handful of silver in his
pocket. He had been so long without money thatlike 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 avariciousbut the money meant more than so many dollars and
cents. It stood for successand 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 nowwith nearly all debts paid
three dollars jingling in his pocketand in his mind the
consciousness of successthe sun shone bright and warmand even a
rain-squall that soaked unprepared pedestrians seemed a merry
happening to him. When he starvedhis thoughts had dwelt often
upon the thousands he knew were starving the world over; but now
that he was feasted fullthe fact of the thousands starving was no
longer pregnant in his brain. He forgot about themandbeing in
loveremembered the countless lovers in the world. Without
deliberately thinking about itMOTIFS for love-lyrics began to
agitate his brain. Swept away by the creative impulsehe got off
the electric carwithout vexationtwo blocks beyond his crossing.

He found a number of persons in the Morse home. Ruth's two girlcousins
were visiting her from San Rafaeland Mrs. Morseunder
pretext of entertaining themwas pursuing her plan of surrounding


Ruth with young people. The campaign had begun during Martin's
enforced absenceand was already in full swing. She was making a
point of having at the house men who were doing things. Thusin
addition to the cousins Dorothy and FlorenceMartin encountered
two university professorsone of Latinthe other of English; a
young army officer just back from the Philippinesone-time schoolmate
of Ruth's; a young fellow named Melvilleprivate secretary to
Joseph Perkinshead of the San Francisco Trust Company; and
finally of the mena live bank cashierCharles Hapgooda
youngish man of thirty-fivegraduate of Stanford University
member of the Nile Club and the Unity Cluband a conservative
speaker for the Republican Party during campaigns - in shorta
rising young man in every way. Among the women was one who painted
portraitsanother who was a professional musicianand 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 bestthey were necessary accessories. The men who
did things must be drawn to the house somehow.

Don't get excited when you talk,Ruth admonished Martinbefore
the ordeal of introduction began.

He bore himself a bit stiffly at firstoppressed by a sense of his
own awkwardnessespecially of his shoulderswhich were up to
their old trick of threatening destruction to furniture and
ornaments. Alsohe was rendered self-conscious by the company.
He had never before been in contact with such exalted beings nor
with so many of them. Melvillethe bank cashierfascinated him
and he resolved to investigate him at the first opportunity. For
underneath Martin's awe lurked his assertive egoand 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 girlssuperficially brilliantand she
could scarcely understand their praise of Martin later that night
at going to bed. But heon the other handa wit in his own
classa gay quizzer and laughter-maker at dances and Sunday
picnicshad found the making of fun and the breaking of goodnatured
lances simple enough in this environment. And on this
evening success stood at his backpatting him on the shoulder and
telling him that he was making goodso that he could afford to
laugh and make laughter and remain unabashed.

LaterRuth's anxiety found justification. Martin and Professor
Caldwell had got together in a conspicuous cornerand though
Martin no longer wove the air with his handsto Ruth's critical
eye he permitted his own eyes to flash and glitter too frequently
talked too rapidly and warmlygrew too intenseand allowed his
aroused blood to redden his cheeks too much. He lacked decorum and
controland 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. FurthermoreProfessor Caldwell did not realize
Martin's concept of the average English professor. Martin wanted
him to talk shopandthough he seemed averse at firstsucceeded
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 beforethis
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 objectedthere are the topics of general interest
to all.

There, you mistake,he had rushed on. "All persons in society
all cliques in society - orrathernearly all persons and cliques

-ape their betters. Nowwho are the best betters? The idlers
the wealthy idlers. They do not knowas a rulethe things known
by the persons who are doing something in the world. To listen to
conversation about such things would mean to be boredwherefore
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 aboutand those things are the latest operaslatest
novelscardsbilliardscocktailsautomobileshorse shows
trout fishingtuna-fishingbig-game shootingyacht sailingand
so forth - and mark youthese are the things the idlers know. In
all truththey constitute the shop-talk of the idlers. And the
funniest part of it is that many of the clever peopleand all the
would-be clever peopleallow the idlers so to impose upon them.
As for meI want the best a man's got in himcall 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 politicianyou know. Sacramento gives us our
appropriations and therefore we kowtow to Sacramentoand to the
Board of Regentsand to the party pressor 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 onMartin 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 wordsand it dawned upon him that the
other reminded him of the trade windof the Northeast Trade
steadyand cooland strong. He was equablehe was to be relied
uponand withal there was a certain bafflement about him. Martin
had the feeling that he never spoke his full mindjust 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 fancyand its
contents seemed ever ordered and spread for his inspection.
Whatever occurred in the instant presentMartin'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 facein a momentary jealousy had called
before his eyes a forgotten moonlight galeand as Professor
Caldwell made him see again the Northeast Trade herding the white
billows across the purple seasofrom moment to momentnot
disconcerting but rather identifying and classifyingnew memory-
visions rose before himor spread under his eyelidsor were
thrown upon the screen of his consciousness. These visions came
out of the actions and sensations of the pastout of things and
events and books of yesterday and last week - a countless host of
apparitions thatwaking or sleepingforever thronged his mind.


So it wasas he listened to Professor Caldwell's easy flow of
speech - the conversation of a clevercultured man - that Martin
kept seeing himself down all his past. He saw himself when he had
been quite the hoodlumwearing a "stiff-rim" Stetson hat and a
square-cutdouble-breasted coatwith a certain swagger to the
shoulders and possessing the ideal of being as tough as the police
permitted. He did not disguise it to himselfnor attempt to
palliate it. At one time in his life he had been just a common
hoodlumthe leader of a gang that worried the police and
terrorized honestworking-class householders. But his ideals had
changed. He glanced about him at the well-bredwell-dressed men
and womenand breathed into his lungs the atmosphere of culture
and refinementand at the same moment the ghost of his early
youthin stiff-rim and square-cutwith swagger and toughness
stalked across the room. This figureof the corner hoodlumhe
saw merge into himselfsitting and talking with an actual
university professor.


Forafter allhe had never found his permanent abiding place. He
had fitted in wherever he found himselfbeen 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 unresthad heard always
the call of something from beyondand had wandered on through life
seeking it until he found books and art and love. And here he was



in the midst of all thisthe 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 followedcomprehendingly
and criticallyhe noted the unbroken field of the other's
knowledge. As for himselffrom moment to moment the conversation
showed him gaps and open stretcheswhole subjects with which he
was unfamiliar. Neverthelessthanks to his Spencerhe saw that
he possessed the outlines of the field of knowledge. It was a
matter only of timewhen he would fill in the outline. Then watch
outhe thought - 'ware shoaleverybody! He felt like sitting at
the feet of the professorworshipful and absorbent; butas he
listenedhe 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 ithe leapt
to equality at once.

Ruth came up to them a second timejust 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. - OhI mean the real interpretative biology
from the ground upfrom 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 continuedthat 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 incoherentlybut I've tried to hammer out
the idea. It came to me as you were talkingso 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 youin turn- or so it seems to me- leave out the
biological factorthe very stuff out of which has been spun the
fabric of all the artsthe warp and the woof of all human actions
and achievements."

To Ruth's amazementMartin was not immediately crushedand 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 lastI'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
asidewhispering:


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
upand he was so interesting that I did not think. Do you know
he is the brightestthe most intellectualman I have ever talked
with. And I'll tell you something else. I once thought that
everybody who went to universitiesor who sat in the high places
in societywas 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 himnor could Ruth have
wished better behavior on her lover's part. Not once did his eyes
flash nor his cheeks flushwhile 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 centand 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 simplea healthywholesome
young fellowcontent to occupy the place in life into which birth
and luck had flung him. On learning that he had completed two
years in the universityMartin 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 pompoussmugly complacent
superior certitude with which they are uttered and the time taken
to do it. WhyI 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 knowhe 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 RockPeterand 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 heartilyI'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 pollparrot.
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 momentand watched the youthful shade
of himselfin stiff-rim and square-cutenter the door and swagger
across the room. "As I was sayingup here I thought all men and
women were brilliant and radiant. But nowfrom what little I've
seen of themthey strike me as a pack of ninniesmost of them
and ninety percent of the remainder as bores. Now there's
Professor Caldwell - he's different. He's a manevery 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 thingsand 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
hasperhapscaught 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 doingand whoall the timein his innermost heart
is regretting that he has not done them; who has secretly laughed
at the rewards for doingand yetstill more secretlyhas yearned
for the rewards and for the joy of doing."

I don't read him that way,she said. "And for that matterI
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 feelingand 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
goalin 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 climband (he did notwith
false modestyhide it from himself) he was superior to the beings
among whom he had climbed - with the exceptionof courseof
Professor Caldwell. About life and the books he knew more than
theyand 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 addressand her messengers no longer
came to his door. For twenty-five daysworking Sundays and
holidayshe 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 essayslong and shorthe 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 highgrade
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 typewriter
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 hackwork.
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-mycountry-
and-the-Czar" and "I-may-be-poor-but-I-am-honest" brand of
sentiment.

Having learned such precautionsMartin consulted "The Duchess" for
toneand 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 quantitybut the first and second
parts could be varied an infinite number of times. Thusthe pair
of lovers could be jarred apart by misunderstood motivesby
accident of fateby jealous rivalsby irate parentsby crafty
guardiansby scheming relativesand so forth and so forth; they
could be reunited by a brave deed of the man loverby a similar
deed of the woman loverby change of heart in one lover or the
otherby forced confession of crafty guardianscheming relative
or jealous rivalby voluntary confession of sameby discovery of
some unguessed secretby lover storming girl's heartby lover
making long and noble self-sacrificeand so onendlessly. It was
very fetching to make the girl propose in the course of being
reunitedand Martin discoveredbit by bitother 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 fellthe wedding bells must go
on ringing just the same. In quantitythe formula prescribed
twelve hundred words minimum dosefifteen hundred words maximum
dose.
Before he got very far along in the art of the storietteMartin
worked out half a dozen stock formswhich he always consulted when
constructing storiettes. These forms were like the cunning tables
used by mathematicianswhich may be entered from topbottom
rightand leftwhich entrances consist of scores of lines and
dozens of columnsand from which may be drawnwithout reasoning
or thinkingthousands of different conclusionsall unchallengably
precise and true. Thusin the course of half an hour with his
formsMartin could frame up a dozen or so storietteswhich he put
aside and filled in at his convenience. He found that he could


fill one inafter a day of serious workin the hour before going
to bed. As he later confessed to Ruthhe could almost do it in
his sleep. The real work was in constructing the framesand that
was merely mechanical.

He had no doubt whatever of the efficacy of his formulaand 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
broughtfor four dollars eachat 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 semioccasionally
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
publishedas he had ascertained at the file in the Central
Reading-roombut no word could he get from the editor. His
letters were ignored. To satisfy himself that they had been
receivedhe registered several of them. It was nothing less than
robberyhe concluded - a cold-blooded steal; while he starvedhe
was pilfered of his merchandiseof his goodsthe sale of which
was the sole way of getting bread to eat.

YOUTH AND AGE was a weeklyand 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 situationThe Pot,which he looked upon as one of the
best things he had writtenwas lost to him. In despaircasting
about frantically among the magazineshe had sent it to THE
BILLOWa society weekly in San Francisco. His chief reason for
submitting it to that publication was thathaving only to travel
across the bay from Oaklanda quick decision could be reached.
Two weeks later he was overjoyed to seein the latest number on
the news-standhis story printed in fullillustratedand in the
place of honor. He went home with leaping pulsewondering how
much they would pay him for one of the best things he had done.
Alsothe 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 weektwo weeksand half a week longerdesperation
conquered diffidenceand 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 dollarsMartin thought to himself
it will buy enough beans and pea-soup to enable me to write half a
dozen like itand possibly as good.

Back came a cool letter from the editor that at least elicited
Martin's admiration.

We thank you,it ranfor 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 customand of course yours was unsolicited. We
assumednaturallywhen we received your storythat you
understood the situation. We can only deeply regret this
unfortunate misunderstandingand assure you of our unfailing
regard. Againthanking you for your kind contributionand hoping
to receive more from you in the near futurewe remainetc."

There was also a postscript to the effect that though THE BILLOW
carried no free-listit took great pleasure in sending him a
complimentary subscription for the ensuing year.

After that experienceMartin typed at the top of the first sheet
of all his manuscripts: "Submitted at your usual rate."

Some dayhe consoled himselfthey will be submitted at MY usual
rate.

He discovered in himselfat this perioda 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 antitobacco
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 m the strength of
those on 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 robberpublications
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
trueafter six months' correspondencehe 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 GLOBEa Chicago magazinegave Martin the most cruel
treatment of all. He had refrained from offering his "Sea Lyrics"
for publicationuntil driven to it by starvation. After having
been rejected by a dozen magazinesthey had come to rest in THE
GLOBE office. There were thirty poems in the collectionand he
was to receive a dollar apiece for them. The first month four were
publishedand he promptly received a cheek for four dollars; but
when he looked over the magazinehe 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 casean absolutely different
titlea misappropriate titlewas substituted. In place of his
ownMedusa Lights,the editor had printedThe Backward Track.
But the slaughter in the body of the poems was terrifying. Martin
groaned and sweated and thrust his hands through his hair.
Phraseslinesand stanzas were cut outinterchangedor 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 maltreatmentand 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 againbeggingentreatingthreateningbut his
letters were ignored. Month by month the slaughter went on till
the thirty poems were publishedand month by month he received a
check for those which had appeared in the current number.

Despite these various misadventuresthe memory of the WHITE MOUSE
forty-dollar check sustained himthough he was driven more and
more to hack-work. He discovered a bread-and-butter field in the
agricultural weeklies and trade journalsthough among the
religious weeklies he found he could easily starve. At his lowest
ebbwhen his black suit was in pawnhe 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 contestand he entered them alllaughing at himself bitterly
the while in that he was driven to such straits to live. His poem
won the first prize of ten dollarshis campaign song the second
prize of five dollarshis 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 Committeeandthough a rich banker and a
state senator were members of itthe money was not forthcoming.
While this affair was hanging firehe proved that he understood
the principles of the Democratic Party by winning the first prize
for his essay in a similar contest. Andmoreoverhe received the
moneytwenty-five dollars. But the forty dollars won in the first
contest he never received.

Driven to shifts in order to see Ruthand deciding that the long
walk from north Oakland to her house and back again consumed too
much timehe kept his black suit in pawn in place of his bicycle.


The latter gave him exercisesaved him hours of time for workand
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. Besideshe no
longer had opportunity to see much of her in her own homewhere
Mrs. Morse was thoroughly prosecuting her campaign of
entertainment. The exalted beings he met thereand to whom he had
looked up but a short time beforenow bored him. They were no
longer exalted. He was nervous and irritablewhat of his hard
timesdisappointmentsand close application to workand 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 mindwith the exception of Professor Caldwelland
Caldwell he had met there only once. As for the restthey were
numskullsninniessuperficialdogmaticand 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 mindsthe deep and rational thinkers
existed. He had his proofs from the booksthe 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 novelswherein he caught glimpses
of men and women talking politics and philosophy. And he read of
salons in great citieseven in the United Stateswhere art and
intellect congregated. Foolishlyin the pasthe 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 togetherto himand he had been deceived into believing
that college educations and mastery were the same things.

Wellhe would fight his way on and up higher. And he would take
Ruth with him. Her he dearly lovedand he was confident that she
would shine anywhere. As it was clear to him that he had been
handicapped by his early environmentso now he perceived that she
was similarly handicapped. She had not had a chance to expand.
The books on her father's shelvesthe paintings on the wallsthe
music on the piano - all was just so much meretricious display. To
real literaturereal paintingreal musicthe Morses and their
kindwere dead. And bigger than such things was lifeof which
they were denselyhopelessly ignorant. In spite of their
Unitarian proclivities and their masks of conservative
broadmindednessthey were two generations behind interpretative
science: their mental processes were mediaevalwhile 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 raceas old as the cave-manand 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 thoughtand he thought furthertill it dawned upon him
that the difference between these lawyersofficersbusiness 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 woreneighborhoods 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 produceand he was not impressed by it. A
pauper himselfa slave to the money-lenderhe knew himself the
superior of those he met at the Morses'; andwhen his one decent
suit of clothes was out of pawnhe moved among them a lord of
lifequivering 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. Morseone
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 beastand his temper was a trifle short
where the talker of platitudes was concerned.

Yes,he had saidCharley 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 retortor 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. "Prayhow 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 saidthat 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 otherand 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 meMr. Morseyou 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 feeblybut I still believe you
incline that way.

Bless meMartin thought to himselfhe doesn't know what I was
talking about. He hasn't understood a word of it. What did he do
with his educationanyway?

Thusin his developmentMartin found himself face to face with
economic moralityor the morality of class; and soon it became to
him a grisly monster. Personallyhe was an intellectual moralist
and more offending to him than platitudinous pomposity was the
morality of those about himwhich was a curious hotchpotch of the
economicthe metaphysicalthe sentimentaland the imitative.

A sample of this curious messy mixture he encountered nearer home.
His sister Marian had been keeping company with an industrious
young mechanicof German extractionwhoafter thoroughly


learning the tradehad set up for himself in a bicycle-repair
shop. Alsohaving 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 engagementduring 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 verseairy and delicatewhich he had named "The Palmist."
He was surprisedwhen he finished reading itto note no enjoyment
in his sister's face. Insteadher eyes were fixed anxiously upon
her betrothedand Martinfollowing her gazesaw spread on that
worthy's asymmetrical features nothing but black and sullen
disapproval. The incident passed overthey made an early
departureand Martin forgot all about itthough for the moment he
had been puzzled that any womaneven of the working classshould
not have been flattered and delighted by having poetry written
about her.

Several evenings later Marian again visited himthis time alone.
Nor did she waste time in coming to the pointupbraiding him
sorrowfully for what he had done.

Why, Marian,he chidedyou 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 moodwhatever it waswas 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 indecentob obscene."


Martin emitted a longlow whistle of incredulitythen proceeded
to resurrect and read a carbon copy of "The Palmist."

I can't see it,he said finallyproffering the manuscript to
her. "Read it yourself and show me whatever strikes you as obscene

-that was the wordwasn't it?"
He says so, and he ought to know,was the answerwith a wave
aside of the manuscriptaccompanied 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 disgracean' 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 girlknew the futility of attempting
to convince her husband or herandthough the whole situation was
absurd and preposteroushe resolved to surrender.

All right,he announcedtearing 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 knowand neither
himself nor they nor the world would lose if the prettyharmless
poem ever were published.

Marianstarting to reach into the waste-basketrefrained.

Can I?she pleaded.

He nodded his headregarding 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 Connollythough 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 parthe
pair of themin dress and carriageand 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 fadedand 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 commandedand 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 writereh?" 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
firmlyand 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. Alsoyou 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 goneand once or twice
broke out into laughter that was bitter as he saw his sister and
her betrothedall the members of his own class and the members of
Ruth's classdirecting their narrow little lives by narrow little
formulas - herd-creaturesflocking together and patterning their
lives by one another's opinionsfailing 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 Hapgoodand 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 soulsthe great men
and women? He found them not among the carelessgrossand 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
alonea late-comer enteredunexpected and unsummoned. Martin
watched him and saw the stiff-rimthe square-cutdouble-breasted
coat and the swaggering shouldersof 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 opinionslike 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 gangnot 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
inand you wouldn't give in partly because you were an abysmal
brute and for the rest because you believed what every one about
you believedthat the measure of manhood was the carnivorous
ferocity displayed in injuring and marring fellow-creatures'
anatomies. Whyyou whelpyou even won other fellows' girls away
from themnot because you wanted the girlsbut because in the
marrow of those about youthose who set your moral pacewas the
instinct of the wild stallion and the bull-seal. Wellthe years
have passedand what do you think about it now?"

As if in replythe vision underwent a swift metamorphosis. The
stiff-rim and the square-cut vanishedbeing replaced by milder
garments; the toughness went out of the facethe hardness out of
the eyes; andthe facechastened and refinedwas irradiated from
an inner life of communion with beauty and knowledge. The
apparition was very like his present selfandas he regarded it
he noted the student-lamp by which it was illuminatedand the book
over which it pored. He glanced at the title and readThe
Science of AEsthetics.Nexthe entered into the apparition
trimmed the student-lampand himself went on reading "The Science
of AEsthetics."

CHAPTER XXX

On a beautiful fall daya day of similar Indian summer to that
which had seen their love declared the year beforeMartin read his
Love-cycleto Ruth. It was in the afternoonandas before
they had ridden out to their favorite knoll in the hills. Now and
again she had interrupted his reading with exclamations of
pleasureand nowas he laid the last sheet of manuscript with its
fellowshe waited her judgment.

She delayed to speakand at last she spoke haltinglyhesitating
to frame in words the harshness of her thought.

I think they are beautiful, very beautiful,she said; "but you
can't sell themcan 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 pleasedeardon't misunderstand me.
I am flatteredand made proudand 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 lovethe thought of our
futurewith which I am burdened. A whole year has gone by since
we learned we loved each otherand our wedding day is no nearer.
Don't think me immodest in thus talking about our weddingfor
really I have my heartall that I amat stake. Why don't you try
to get work on a newspaperif you are so bound up in your writing?
Why not become a reporter? - for a whileat least?"

It would spoil my style,was his answerin a lowmonotonous
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 itstudied about itin the
university in the course of earning her Bachelorship of Arts; but
she was not originalnot creativeand 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. "Rememberan editor must have proved
qualifications or else he would not be an editor."

That's in line with the persistence of the established,he
rejoinedhis heat against the editor-folk getting the better of
him. "What isis not only rightbut is the best possible. The
existence of anything is sufficient vindication of its fitness to
exist - to existmark youas the average person unconsciously
believesnot merely in present conditionsbut in all conditions.
It is their ignoranceof coursethat makes them believe such rot

-their ignorancewhich is nothing more nor less than the
henidical mental process described by Weininger. They think they
thinkand such thinkless creatures are the arbiters of the lives
of the few who really think."
He pausedovercome 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 writeand they have failed.
And right there is the cursed paradox of it. Every portal to
success in literature is guarded by those watch-dogsthe failures
in literature. The editorssub-editorsassociate editorsmost
of themand the manuscript-readers for the magazines and bookpublishers
most of themnearly all of themare men who wanted to
write and who have failed. And yet theyof all creatures under
the sun the most unfitare the very creatures who decide what
shall and what shall not find its way into print - theywho have
proved themselves not originalwho have demonstrated that they
lack the divine firesit in judgment upon originality and genius.
And after them come the reviewersjust so many more failures.
Don't tell me that they have not dreamed the dream and attempted to
write poetry or fiction; for they haveand 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 criticsbut they are as rare as comets. If I fail as a
writerI shall have proved for the career of editorship. There's
bread and butter and jamat any rate."

Ruth's mind was quickand 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 blazingglorious work as to burn to ashes those that opposed
them. They arrived by course of miracleby winning a thousand-toone
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 failI shall become an editorand you will be an
editor's wife."

She frowned at his facetiousness - a prettyadorable frown that
made him put his arm around her and kiss it away.

There, that's enough,she urgedby 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
youyou know; but I assured them over and over of my abiding love
for youand at last father agreed that if you wanted toyou could
begin right away in his office. And thenof his own accordhe
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?"

Martinwith the dull pain of despair at his heartmechanically
reaching for the tobacco and paper (which he no longer carried) to
roll a cigarettemuttered something inarticulateand 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 hardeven she did not knowwas the thought in Martin's mind.

Well, then,he saidhow 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 himand 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 shehaving gone as far as she
daredwas 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 himand 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
expressedand her verdict stunned him.

No matter how poorly it is done,he persisteddon'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 mutelyher 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 medear. 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 continuedafter 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 verseand fictionand essay. I do not
ask you to have faith in thatthough. I do not ask you to have
faith in menor in my writing. What I do ask of you is to love me
and have faith in love."
A year ago I believed 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 plungea bubbleand 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 herwave 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 voicehis flashing eyesand the
vigor of life and intellect surging in him. And in that moment
and for the momentshe was aware of a rift that showed in her
certitude - a rift through which she caught sight of the real
Martin Edensplendid and invincible; and as animal-trainers have
their moments of doubtso shefor the instantseemed 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-housefor petty business
squabblingand legal jangling. Make me do such thingsmake me
like those other mendoing the work they dobreathing the air
they breathedeveloping the point of view they have developedand
you have destroyed the differencedestroyed medestroyed the
thing you love. My desire to write is the most vital thing in me.
Had I been a mere clodneither would I have desired to writenor
would you have desired me for a husband."


But you forget,she interruptedthe 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 themand suffered
with them and for themnot 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 sometimesit is recordedthey 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 herjust thenhe was the
hurt childthe 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 lovenot
fear of their enmity. All things may go astray in this worldbut
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 proveda most propitious yet disconcerting chance. Waiting
on the corner for a carshe had seen him firstand noted the
eagerhungry lines of his face and the desperateworried look of
his eyes. In truthhe was desperate and worried. He had just
come from a fruitless interview with the pawnbrokerfrom whom he
had tried to wring an additional loan on his wheel. The muddy fall
weather having come onMartin had pledged his wheel some time
since and retained his black suit.

There's the black suit,the pawnbrokerwho knew his every asset
had answered. "You needn't tell me you've gone and pledged it with
that JewLipka. Because if you have - "

The man had looked the threatand 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. Nonot
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 denso 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 appearancein the unhealthy fatin the drooping
shouldersthe tired face with the sagging linesand in the heavy
fall of her feetwithout elasticity - a very caricature of the
walk that belongs to a free and happy body.

You'd better stop here,he saidthough she had already come to a
halt at the first cornerand 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 headbut 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 contemptuouslybut succeeded in
producing only a sniffle. "Herelemme see."

Andfumbling in her satchelshe pressed a five-dollar piece into
his hand. "I guess I forgot your last birthdayMart 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 himan able ally of
hungerand 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 uncomfortableand
failing of other expedientshe 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 waitedthough he knew in his secret heart what she was about to
sayso 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 alreadyplenty of
itand 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. "Wellbecause 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 feeblybut 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 carhe hurried to the postoffice
and invested three of the five dollars in stamps; and when
later in the dayon the way to the Morse homehe stopped in at
the post-office to weigh a large number of longbulky envelopes
he affixed to them all the stamps save three of the two-cent
denomination.

It proved a momentous night for Martinfor after dinner he met
Russ Brissenden. How he chanced to come therewhose friend he was
or what acquaintance brought himMartin did not know. Nor had he
the curiosity to inquire about him of Ruth. In shortBrissenden
struck Martin as anaemic and feather-brainedand was promptly
dismissed from his mind. An hour later he decided that Brissenden
was a boor as wellwhat of the way he prowled about from one room
to anotherstaring 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 companyhuddling into a capacious Morris chair and
reading steadily from a thin volume he had drawn from his pocket.
As he readhe abstractedly ran his fingerswith a caressing
movementthrough his hair. Martin noticed him no more that
eveningexcept once when he observed him chaffing with great
apparent success with several of the young women.

It chanced that when Martin was leavinghe overtook Brissenden
already half down the walk to the street.


Hello, is that you?Martin said.

The other replied with an ungracious gruntbut swung alongside.
Martin made no further attempt at conversationand for several
blocks unbroken silence lay upon them.

Pompous old ass!

The suddenness and the virulence of the exclamation startled
Martin. He felt amusedand 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 dayand 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 bedand after he went to bed there was a volume
of Weismann waiting for himto say nothing of Herbert Spencer's
Autobiographywhich 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 yetit was not so much the man nor
the drink as was it what was associated with the drink - the bright
lightsthe mirrors and dazzling array of glassesthe warm and
glowing faces and the resonant hum of the voices of men. That was
itit was the voices of menoptimistic menmen 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 Joeat Shelly Hot Springswith the one exception
of the wine he took with the Portuguese grocerhad Martin had a
drink at a public bar. Mental exhaustion did not produce a craving
for liquor such as physical exhaustion didand he had felt no need
for it. But just now he felt desire for the drinkorratherfor
the atmosphere wherein drinks were dispensed and disposed of. Such
a place was the Grottowhere Brissenden and he lounged in
capacious leather chairs and drank Scotch and soda.

They talked. They talked about many thingsand now Brissenden and
now Martin took turn in ordering Scotch and soda. Martinwho was
extremely strong-headedmarvelled at the other's capacity for
liquorand ever and anon broke off to marvel at the other's
conversation. He was not long in assuming that Brissenden knew
everythingand in deciding that here was the second intellectual
man he had met. But he noted that Brissenden had what Professor
Caldwell lacked - namelyfirethe flashing insight and
perceptionthe flaming uncontrol of genius. Living language
flowed from him. His thin lipslike the dies of a machine
stamped out phrases that cut and stung; or againpursing
caressingly about the inchoate sound they articulatedthe thin
lips shaped soft and velvety thingsmellow phrases of glow and
gloryof haunting beautyreverberant of the mystery and
inscrutableness of life; and yet again the thin lips were like a
buglefrom which rang the crash and tumult of cosmic strife
phrases that sounded clear as silverthat were luminous as starry


spacesthat epitomized the final word of science and yet said
something more - the poet's wordthe transcendental truthelusive
and without words which could expressand which none the less
found expression in the subtle and all but ungraspable connotations
of common words. Heby some wonder of visionsaw beyond the
farthest outpost of empiricismwhere was no language for
narrationand yetby some golden miracle of speechinvesting
known words with unknown significanceshe 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 intelligencea
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 myselfI 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 dogmatistand that's what
makes it so marvellous. You state dogmatically the latest facts
which science has been able to establish only by E POSTERIORI
reasoning. You jump at correct conclusions. You certainly shortcut
with a vengeance. You feel your way with the speed of light
by some hyperrational processto truth."

Yes, that was what used to bother Father Joseph, and Brother
Dutton,Brissenden replied. "Ohno 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 himhe was busy studying Brissendenranging
from a longleanaristocratic face and drooping shoulders to the
overcoat on a neighboring chairits pockets sagged and bulged by
the freightage of many books. Brissenden's face and longslender
hands were browned by the sun - excessively brownedMartin
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 facenarrow
with high cheek-bones and cavernous hollowsand 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 smallwhile their color was a nondescript brown;
but in them smouldered a fireorratherlurked an expression
dual and strangely contradictory. Defiantindomitableeven harsh


to excessthey at the same time aroused pity. Martin found
himself pitying him he knew not whythough he was soon to learn.

Oh, I'm a lunger,Brissenden announcedoffhanda 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-likeand Martin almost caught his breath as he
noted the eagle beak with its dilated nostrilsdefiantassertive
aggressive. Magnificentwas what he commented to himselfhis
blood thrilling at the sight. Aloudhe quoted:


'Under the bludgeoning of Chance
My head is bloody but unbowed.'

You like Henley,Brissenden saidhis expression changing swiftly
to large graciousness and tenderness. "Of courseI couldn't have
expected anything else of you. AhHenley! 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 eyeand 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 slushand God knows they get itbut 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 povertypassing 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 cuffwinding up and dwelling upon Martin's
sunken cheeks. "On the contraryhack-work is above youso far
above you that you can never hope to rise to it. WhymanI could
insult you by asking you to have something to eat."

Martin felt the heat in his face of the involuntary bloodand
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 spokeas if with the
intention of departing to the restaurant forthwith.

Martin's fists were tight-clenchedand his blood was drumming in
his temples.

Bosco! He eats 'em alive! Eats 'em alive!Brissenden
exclaimedimitating the SPIELER of a locally famous snake-eater.

I could certainly eat you alive,Martin saidin turn running
insolent eyes over the other's disease-ravaged frame.

Only I'm not worthy of it?

On the contrary,Martin consideredbecause the incident is not
worthy.He broke into a laughhearty and wholesome. "I confess
you made a fool of meBrissenden. That I am hungry and you are
aware of it are only ordinary phenomenaand there's no disgrace.
You seeI laugh at the conventional little moralities of the herd;
then you drift bysay a sharptrue wordand 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 answeredattempting 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 grimaceand felt for a moment the kindly
weight of Brissenden's hand upon his shoulder.

CHAPTER XXXII

Promptlythe next afternoonMaria was excited by Martin's second
visitor. But she did not lose her head this timefor 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 answeredshaking hands and waving him
to the solitary chairhimself 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 bookby a poet. Read it and keep it." And
thenin reply to Martin's protest: "What have I to do with books?
I had another hemorrhage this morning. Got any whiskey? Noof
course not. Wait a minute."

He was off and away. Martin watched his long figure go down the
outside stepsandon turning to close the gatenoted with a pang
the shoulderswhich had once been broaddrawn in now overthe
collapsed ruin of the chest. Martin got two tumblersand fell to
reading the book of verseHenry 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 itor 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. "WhyI 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
criticsor the reviewersrather."

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 yourselfflung 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 laughbut 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 poetbut Martin
learned that Brissenden also was one. He was swept off his feet by
the other's workand 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 youMartin 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? - Ohyes'Manthe latest of the
ephemera.' Wellwhat do youthe latest of the ephemerawant
with fame? If you got itit would be poison to you. You are too
simpletook elementaland too rationalby my faithto 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 sonnetwhich 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 mineBeauty is the handmaiden of
Love."

Brissenden looked at him pityingly and admiringly. "You are so
youngMartin boyso young. You will flutter highbut your wings


are of the finest gauzedusted 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 degradingman and womanall of them animated stomachs
guided by the high intellectual and artistic impulses of clams - "

He broke off suddenly and regarded Martin. Thenwith a flash of
divinationhe 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 throatand he was being shaken till his teeth
rattled. But Martinlooking into his eyessaw no fear therenaught
but a curious and mocking devil. Martin remembered himself
and flung Brissendenby the necksidelong upon the bedat the
same moment releasing his hold.

Brissenden panted and gasped painfully for a momentthen 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 panthera lion cub. Wellwellit is you who must
pay for that strength."

What do you mean?Martin asked curiouslypassing aim 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 dieas
they have already worried youor 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 greatwanton
flame of a womanwho laughs at life and jeers at death and loves
one while she may. There are such womenand 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 loveand the magazinesand many thingsbut
they liked each otherand on Martin's part it was no less than a
profound liking. Day after day they were togetherif for no more
than the hour Brissenden spent in Martin's stuffy room. Brissenden
never arrived without his quart of whiskeyand when they dined
together down-townhe drank Scotch and soda throughout the meal.
He invariably paid the way for bothand it was through him that
Martin learned the refinements of fooddrank his first champagne
and made acquaintance with Rhenish wines.

But Brissenden was always an enigma. With the face of an ascetic
he wasin all the failing blood of hima frank voluptuary. He
was unafraid to diebitter and cynical of all the ways of living;
and yetdyinghe loved lifeto the last atom of it. He was
possessed by a madness to liveto thrillto 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 thrillsnew sensations. As he told Martinhe had
once gone three days without waterhad done so voluntarilyin
order to experience the exquisite delight of such a thirst
assuaged. Who or what he wasMartin never learned. He was a man
without a pastwhose 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 wouldthe
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 comingand the corresponding effect on him was one
of desperation. He told her that he would comeafter all; that he
would go over to San Franciscoto the TRANSCONTINENTAL office
collect the five dollars due himand with it redeem his suit of
clothes.

In the morning he borrowed ten cents from Maria. He would have
borrowed itby preferencefrom Brissendenbut that erratic
individual had disappeared. Two weeks had passed since Martin had
seen himand he vainly cudgelled his brains for some cause of
offence. The ten cents carried Martin across the ferry to San
Franciscoand 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 Oaklandand he knew no one in
San Francisco from whom to borrow another ten cents.

The door to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office was ajarand Martinin
the act of opening itwas brought to a sudden pause by a loud
voice from withinwhich exclaimed:- "But that is not the question
Mr. Ford." (FordMartin knewfrom his correspondenceto be the


editor's name.) "The question isare you prepared to pay? - cash
and cash downI 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 youright nowthe
Christmas TRANSCONTINENTAL don't go to press till I have the money
in my hand. Good day. When you get the moneycome and see me."

The door jerked openand the man flung past Martinwith an angry
countenance and went down the corridormuttering curses and
clenching his fists. Martin decided not to enter immediatelyand
lingered in the hallways for a quarter of an hour. Then he shoved
the door open and walked in. It was a new experiencethe first
time he had been inside an editorial office. Cards evidently were
not necessary in that officefor 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 officethe editorial sanctum. Martin's first
impression was of the disorder and cluttered confusion of the room.
Next he noticed a bewhiskeredyouthful-looking mansitting at a
roll-top deskwho 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 handswas 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 suitwhich was also his worst suitand
which was ragged and past repairthough 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 talkingMr. Ford led him into the general officewhere he
introduced him to the associate editorMr. Whitea slenderfrail
little man whose hand seemed strangely coldas if he were
suffering from a chilland 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-eyedbald-headed
manwhose face looked youthful enough from what little could be
seen of itfor most of it was covered by a snow-white beard
carefully trimmed - by his wifewho did it on Sundaysat which
times she also shaved the back of his neck.

The three men surrounded Martinall talking admiringly and at
onceuntil 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 bluntlywith the idea of showing them his imperative need
for the money.

Surelyhe thought to himselfmy glad rags in themselves are
eloquent advertisement of my need. Time and againwhenever
opportunity offeredhe hinted about the purpose of his business.
But his admirers' ears were deaf. They sang his praisestold him
what they had thought of his story at first sightwhat they
subsequently thoughtwhat 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 Yorkand when the
train stopped at Ogdenthe 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
colossalfor strong upon him were all the dreary months of vain
yearningof hunger and privationand his present hunger awoke and
gnawed at himreminding him that he had eaten nothing since the
day beforeand 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.
Wellhe 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 rememberedif he did not get itthat there was no way
for him to go back to Oakland. He controlled himself with an
effortbut 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 dollarsI believe
is what you promised me would be paid on publication."

Mr. Fordwith an expression on his mobile features of mediate and
happy acquiescencestarted to reach for his pocketthen turned
suddenly to Mr. Endsand said that he had left his money home.
That Mr. Ends resented thiswas 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. Endsbut 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. Whitebut that gentleman
laughed and shrugged his shoulders. His conscience was clean at
any rate. He had come into the TRANSCONTINENTAL to learn magazineliterature
instead of which he had principally learned finance.
The TRANSCONTINENTAL owed him four months' salaryand 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 carelessnessI 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 addresshaven't you
Mr. Ends?"

YesMr. Ends had the addressand the check would be mailed the
first thing in the morning. Martin's knowledge of banks and checks
was hazybut 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 tomorrow?
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 suavelyonly 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 inand I have explained
that I want the money to-day.

He had felt his pulse quicken a trifle at the business manager's
brusquenessand upon him he kept an alert eyefor 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 momentwith an impatient movementMr. Ends turned as
if about to leave the room. At the same instant Martin sprang for
himclutching him by the throat with one hand in such fashion that
Mr. Ends' snow-white beardstill maintaining its immaculate
trimnesspointed ceilingward at an angle of forty-five degrees.
To the horror of Mr. White and Mr. Fordthey saw their business
manager shaken like an Astrakhan rug.

Dig up, you venerable discourager of rising young talent!Martin
exhorted. "Dig upor I'll shake it out of youeven if it's all
in nickels." Thento the two affrighted onlookers: "Keep away!
If you interferesomebody's liable to get hurt."

Mr. Ends was chokingand 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 togetherafter repeated digsits
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 waitbut ransacked his pocketswith the result
of sixty cents.

Sure that is all?Martin demanded menacinglypossessing himself
of it. "What have you got in your vest pockets?"

In token of his good faithMr. 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 itwhen
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. Whiteand found that fragile creature in
the act of handing him a nickel.

Thank you,Martin saidaddressing them collectively. "I wish
you a good day."

Robber!Mr. Ends snarled after him.

Sneak-thief!Martin retortedslamming 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 againMr. 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 nannygoats
but you fellows are a lot of prize-fighters."

More laughter greeted this.

I must say, Mr. Eden,the editor of THE HORNET called downthat
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 neckof coursebut the little rough-house?"

I'll go you if I lose,Martin accepted.

And robbers and robbed drank togetheramicably agreeing that the
battle was to the strongand 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-writerand when Martin let
her infound 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 criedseparating the carbon
copies and running the pages of manuscript into shape. "It's my
latestand different from anything I've done. It is so altogether
different that I am almost afraid of itand 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 glowthough she shivered in
the cold room and had been struck by the coldness of his hands at
greeting. She listened closely while he readand though he from
time to time had seen only disapprobation in her faceat the close
he asked:


Frankly, what do you think of it?

I - I don't know,sheanswered. "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 trueon 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 livingisn'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 answerand for an awkward moment they sat silent. It
was because he loved her that he did not quite understand herand
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 trioas he had last seen them
mulcted of four dollars and ninety cents and a ferry ticketmade
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 seethis morning
the poundman got Maria's two cows and the baby calfand - wellit
happened that Maria didn't have any moneyand 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 Londonor Parisor anywhere you wish. I
know it."

I saw in the paper a few days ago,she announced abruptlythat
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 himbut 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 saidwhen he finished. She stood uppulling at
her gloves. "I must goMartin. Arthur is waiting for me."

He took her in his arms and kissed herbut she proved a passive
sweetheart. There was no tenseness in her bodyher arms did not
go around himand her lips met his without their wonted pressure.

She was angry with himhe concludedas 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. Wellyeshe was to blame a
littlewas his next thoughtfor 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 thinand 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 shortformal lettersigned by the office editormerely
informing him that an anonymous letter which they had received was
enclosedand 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 Martinand of assertion
that the "so-called Martin Eden" who was selling stories to


magazines was no writer at alland that in reality he was stealing
stories from old magazinestyping themand 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 grammarHigginbotham's colloquialisms
Higginbotham's mental quirks and processeswere apparent
throughout. Martin saw in every linenot the fine Italian hand
but the coarse grocer's fistof his brother-in-law.

But why? he vainly questioned. What injury had he done Bernard
Higginbotham? The thing was so unreasonableso 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 handsomelyMartin concluded.
He was wholly unknown to themyet 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 factif
anything came of itit was bound to be goodfor at least his name
had been called to the attention of a number of editors. Sometime
perhapsreading a submitted manuscript of histhey 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
paintears of weakness running down her cheeksvainly endeavoring
to put through a large ironing. He promptly diagnosed her
affliction as La Grippedosed 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 protestedand delivered that nightor 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 waistthan whom there was no
more exacting and fastidiously dressed woman in Maria's world.
AlsoMiss Flanagan had sent special instruction that said waist
must be delivered by that night. As every one knewshe was
keeping company with John Collinsthe blacksmithandas Maria
knew privilyMiss 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 chairfrom where she
watched him with bulging eyes. In a quarter of the time it would
have taken her she saw the shirt-waist safely ironedand ironed as
well as she could have done itas Martin made her grant.

I could work faster,he explainedif your irons were only
hotter.

To herthe irons he swung were much hotter than she ever dared to
use.

Your sprinkling is all wrong,he complained next. "Herelet 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 cellarfitted
a cover to itand raided the scrap-iron the Silva tribe was
collecting for the junkman. With fresh-sprinkled garments in the
boxcovered with the board and pressed by the ironthe device was
complete and in operation.


Now you watch me, Maria,he saidstripping 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'Mariayou are da greata fool. I showa
you how to washa da wools' an' he shows metoo. Ten minutes he
maka da machine - one barrelone wheel-hubtwo polesjusta like
dat."

Martin had learned the contrivance from Joe at the Shelly Hot
Springs. The old wheel-hubfixed on the end of the upright pole
constituted the plunger. Making thisin turnfast to the springpole
attached to the kitchen raftersso that the hub played upon
the woollens in the barrelhe was ablewith one handthoroughly
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."

Neverthelessby 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 booksand his grand friends who visited him in carriages
or with countless bottles of whiskeywent for naught. He was
after alla mere workingmana member of her own class and caste.
He was more human and approachablebuthe was no longer mystery.

Martin's alienation from his family continued. Following upon Mr.
Higginbotham's unprovoked attackMr. Hermann von Schmidt showed
his hand. The fortunate sale of several storiettessome humorous
verseand a few jokes gave Martin a temporary splurge of
prosperity. Not only did he partially pay up his billsbut he had
sufficient balance left to redeem his black suit and wheel. The
latterby virtue of a twisted crank-hangerrequired repairing
andas a matter of friendliness with his future brother-in-lawhe
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
friendlywas Martin's conclusion from this unusual favor.
Repaired wheels usually had to be called for. But when he examined
the wheelhe discovered no repairs had been made. A little later
in the day he telephoned his sister's betrothedand learned that
that person didn't want anything to do with him in "any shape
manneror form."

Hermann von Schmidt,Martin answered cheerfullyI've a good
mind to come over and punch that Dutch nose of yours.

You come to my shop,came the replyan' 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 itselfdissipating his angerand he
hung up the receiver with a long whistle of incredulous amusement.
But after the amusement came the reactionand he was oppressed by
his loneliness. Nobody understood himnobody seemed to have any


use for himexcept Brissendenand Brissenden had disappearedGod
alone knew where.

Twilight was falling as Martin left the fruit store and turned
homewardhis marketing on his arm. At the corner an electric car
had stoppedand at sight of a leanfamiliar figure alightinghis
heart leapt with joy. It was Brissendenand in the fleeting
glimpseere the car started upMartin noted the overcoat pockets
one bulging with booksthe other bulging with a quart bottle of
whiskey.

CHAPTER XXXV

Brissenden gave no explanation of his long absencenor 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 proclaimedafter hearing
Martin's account of the work he had accomplished.

He pulled a manuscript from his inside coat pocket and passed it to
Martinwho looked at the title and glanced up curiously.

Yes, that's it,Brissenden laughed. "Pretty good titleeh?
'Ephemera' - it is the one word. And you're responsible for it
what of your MANwho is always the erectedthe vitalized
inorganicthe latest of the ephemerathe 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 faceflushed at firstpaled as he read on. It was
perfect art. Form triumphed over substanceif 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 delightto put passionate tears into his eyesand to send
chills creeping up and down his back. It was a long poem of six or
seven hundred linesand it was a fantasticamazingunearthly
thing. It was terrificimpossible; and yet there it wasscrawled
in black ink across the sheets of paper. It dealt with man and his
soul-gropings in their ultimate termsplumbing the abysses of
space for the testimony of remotest suns and rainbow spectrums. It
was a mad orgy of imaginationwassailing 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 conflictto the onset of starry
hoststo the impact of cold suns and the flaming up of nebular in
the darkened void; and through it allunceasing and faintlike a
silver shuttleran the frailpiping voice of mana querulous
chirp amid the screaming of planets and the crash of systems.

There is nothing like it in literature,Martin saidwhen at last
he was able to speak. "It's wonderful! - wonderful! It has gone
to my head. I am drunken with it. That greatinfinitesimal
question - I can't shake it out of my thoughts. That questing
eternalever recurringthin 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 myselfbut
the thing has obsessed me. You are - I don't know what you are



you are wonderfulthat's all. But how do you do it? How do you
do it?"

Martin paused from his rhapsodyonly 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 manwith sweet illusions and clean ideals. And I've got it
nowin my last graspand I'll not have it pawed over and soiled
by a lot of swine. NoI won't take the bet. It's mine. I made
itand 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 rabidfanaticaland 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 truewith the
exception of the magazine editors. His hatred of them knew no
boundsand 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 publishedit 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 carhe swung suddenly back on Martin and thrust
into his hand a smalltightly crumpled wad of paper.

Here, take this,he said. "I was out to the races to-dayand I
had the right dope."

The bell clanged and the car pulled outleaving Martin wondering
as to the nature of the crinklygreasy 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 moneyand he knew alsowith profound certitudethat his
success would enable him to repay it. In the morning he paid every
billgave Maria three months' advance on the roomand redeemed
every pledge at the pawnshop. Next he bought Marian's wedding
presentand simpler presentssuitable to Christmasfor Ruth and
Gertrude. And finallyon the balance remaining to himhe herded
the whole Silva tribe down into Oakland. He was a winter late in
redeeming his promisebut redeemed it wasfor the lastleast
Silva got a pair of shoesas well as Maria herself. Alsothere
were hornsand dollsand toys of various sortsand 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 if the biggest candycane
ever madethat he encountered Ruth and her mother. Mrs.
Morse was shocked. Even Ruth was hurtfor she had some regard for
appearancesand her lovercheek by jowl with Mariaat the head
of that army of Portuguese ragamuffinswas 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. Furtherand keenest of allshe
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
secrettheir long intimacy had not been unproductive of gossip;
and in the shopglancing 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 quickand her sensitive nature was
quivering with the shame of it. So it waswhen Martin arrived


later in the daythat he kept her present in his breast-pocket
deferring the giving of it to a more propitious occasion. Ruth in
tears - passionateangry 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 knewand to take the
Silvas out to a Christmas treat could in no wayso it seemed to
himshow lack of consideration for Ruth. On the other handhe
did see Ruth's point of viewafter she had explained it; and he
looked upon it as a feminine weaknesssuch 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 Franciscoand were at the Ferry
Buildingreturning to Oaklandwhen 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 overcoatwith Martin straining to
keep up with him. At a wholesale liquor store he bought two
gallon-demijohns of old portand with one in each hand boarded a
Mission Street carMartin at his heels burdened with several
quart-bottles of whiskey.

If Ruth could see me nowwas his thoughtwhile he wondered as to
what constituted the real dirt.

Maybe nobody will be there,Brissenden saidwhen they dismounted
and plunged off to the right into the heart of the working-class
ghettosouth 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 outthey'll talk an arm off of you on
any subject under the sun."

Hope Norton's there,he panted a little laterresisting Martin's
effort to relieve him of the two demijohns. "Norton's an idealist

-a Harvard man. Prodigious memory. Idealism led him to
philosophic anarchyand his family threw him off. Father's a
railroad president and many times millionnairebut the son's
starving in 'Friscoediting an anarchist sheet for twenty-five a
month."
Martin was little acquainted in San Franciscoand not at all south
of Market; so he had no idea of where he was being led.

Go ahead,he said; "tell me about them beforehand. What do they


do for a living? How do they happen to be here?"

Hope Hamilton's there.Brissenden paused and rested his hands.
Strawn-Hamilton's his name - hyphenated, you know - comes of old
Southern stock. He's a tramp - laziest man I ever knew, though
he's clerking, or trying to, in a socialist cooperative store for
six dollars a week. But he's a confirmed hobo. Tramped into town.
I've seen him sit all day on a bench and never a bite pass his
lips, and in the evening, when I invited him to dinner - restaurant
two blocks away - have him say, 'Too much trouble, old man. Buy me
a package of cigarettes instead.' He was a Spencerian like you
till Kreis turned him to materialistic monism. I'll start him on
monism if I can. Norton's another monist - only he affirms naught
but spirit. He can give Kreis and Hamilton all they want, too.

Who is Kreis?Martin asked.

His rooms we're going to. One time professor - fired from
university - usual story. A mind like a steel trap. Makes his
living any old way. I know he's been a street fakir when he was
down. Unscrupulous. Rob a corpse of a shroud - anything.
Difference between him - and the bourgeoisie is that he robs
without illusion. He'll talk Nietzsche, or Schopenhauer, or Kant,
or anything, but the only thing in this world, not excepting Mary,
that he really cares for, is his monism. Haeckel is his little tin
god. The only way to insult him is to take a slap at Haeckel.

Here's the hang-out.Brissenden rested his demijohn at the
upstairs entrancepreliminary to the climb. It was the usual twostory
corner buildingwith 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 hallbut 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 slotmachine.
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 Kreisa handsome
brunette manwith dazzling white teetha drooping black mustache
and largeflashing black eyes. Marya matronly young blondewas


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 washinghanging 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 acclamationandon being
introducedMartin 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 Brissendenin his glory
plunged into the manufacture of a toddy and the serving of wine and
whiskey-and-sodas. At his commandBring 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 aroundI 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 opinionsthough the opinions often clashedandthough they
were witty and cleverthey were not superficial. He swiftly saw
no matter upon what they talkedthat 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 Martinat
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
playthrough 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 Matthewspassed on to the German designs in the Far East
and the economic aspect of the Yellow Perilwrangled over the
German elections and Bebel's last speechand settled down to local
politicsthe latest plans and scandals in the union labor party
administrationand 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 surprisethe girlMaryjoined in the
conversationdisplaying an intelligence he had never encountered
in the few women he had met. They talked together on Swinburne and
Rossettiafter which she led him beyond his depth into the bypaths
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 inand the air was thick with
tobacco smokewhen 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 metallicmagnetic
thingwhile Norton looked at Martin sympatheticallywith a sweet
girlish smileas much as to say that he would be amply protected.

Kreis began directly on Martinbut 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 bemuch less in the labor ghetto south of Market.


The books were alive in these men. They talked with fire and
enthusiasmthe intellectual stimulant stirring them as he had seen
drink and anger stir other men. What he heard was no longer the
philosophy of the dryprinted wordwritten by half-mythical
demigods like Kant and Spencer. It was living philosophywith
warmred bloodincarnated in these two men till its very features
worked with excitement. Now and again other men joined inand all
followed the discussion with cigarettes going out in their hands
and with alertintent faces.

Idealism had never attracted Martinbut the exposition it now
received at the hands of Norton was a revelation. The logical
plausibility of itthat made an appeal to his intellectseemed
missed by Kreis and Hamiltonwho sneered at Norton as a
metaphysicianand whoin turnsneered 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-jugglerywith 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 KantKreis 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
Parsimonythe 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 Spencerianand hetoo
strove for Martin's philosophic soultalking as much at him as to
his two opponents.

You know Berkeley has never been answered,he saidlooking
directly at Martin. "Herbert Spencer came the nearestwhich 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 dayand
the best Saleeby could say was that Herbert Spencer NEARLY
succeeded in answering Berkeley."

You know what Hume said?Hamilton asked. Norton noddedbut
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 yourswith this difference: he was wise enough to admit
there was no answering Berkeley."

Norton was sensitive and excitablethough 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
lateNortonsmarting under the repeated charges of being a
metaphysicianclutching his chair to keep from jumping to his
feethis gray eyes snapping and his girlish face grown harsh and
suremade 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 nonexistence
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.
Appearancesor phenomenaare all the content your minds can
receive from your five senses. Then noumenawhich are not in your
minds when you are bornhave 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 seeI am willing to admit
for the sake of the argumentthat matter exists; and what I am
about to do is to efface you by your own argument. I can't do it
any other wayfor 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 Oaklandand
Brissenden and Martin slipped outleaving 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 madeI guess. But I'd like to have made a reply to Kreis
and Hamiltonand 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
unassailableand next time I'm going to take a hand myself."

But Brissendenbreathing painfullyhad dropped off to sleephis
chin buried in a scarf and resting on his sunken chesthis 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 itand 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 magazineswhich was a pronounced mania with
himMartin decided that the great poem should see print. He did
not intendhoweverto publish it without the other's permission.
His plan was to get it accepted by one of the high magazinesand
thus armedagain to wrestle with Brissenden for consent.

Martin beganthat morninga 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 storya tale of twentieth-century adventure and
romancehandling real charactersin a real worldunder 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 whichon the other handwould not diminish in any way
the interest and enjoyment for such a reader. It was thisand not
the mere storythat impelled Martin to write it. For that matter
it was always the greatuniversal motif that suggested plots to
him. After having found such a motifhe 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 itand 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 sharpcutting 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 hourhe feltas never beforethe 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 telltoohe was
confidentgreat vital things that would be true of all timeand
all seaand all life - thanks to Herbert Spencerhe thought
leaning back for a moment from the table. Aythanks to Herbert
Spencer and to the master-key of lifeevolutionwhich 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 keptsounding 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 writeweeks before he
had arrived at the endthe end itself. He compared the taleas
yet unwrittenwith the tales of the sea-writersand 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 meand say'Well done
Martinmy boy.'"

He toiled on all dayrecollectingat the last momentthat he was
to have dinner at the Morses'. Thanks to Brissendenhis 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 Ruthnot her family.

It seemed to him that he had never seen Ruth more beautifulmore
spiritual and ethereal and at the same time more healthy. There
was color in her cheeksand her eyes drew him again and again the
eyes in which he had first read immortality. He had forgotten
immortality of lateand the trend of his scientific reading had
been away from it; but herein Ruth's eyeshe read an argument
without words that transcended all worded arguments. He saw that
in her eyes before which all discussion fled awayfor 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 herbefore they went in to dinnerleft
him supremely happy and supremely satisfied with life.
Neverthelessat tablethe 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 tableat 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 himso long agoa
self-conscious savagesprouting sweat at every pore in an agony of
apprehensionpuzzled by the bewildering minutiae of eatingimplements
tortured by the ogre of a servantstriving at a leap
to live at such dizzy social altitudeand deciding in the end to
be frankly himselfpretending no knowledge and no polish he did
not possess.

He glanced at Ruth for reassurancemuch in the same manner that a
passengerwith sudden panic thought of possible shipwreckwill
strive to locate the life preservers. Wellthat 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 himas she had been busy
with all normal menfor the purpose of loving. She had spent ten
thousand centuries - aya hundred thousand and a million centuries

-upon the taskand he was the best she could do. She had made
love the strongest thing in himincreased its power a myriad per
cent with her gift of imaginationand sent him forth into the
ephemera to thrill and melt and mate. His hand sought Ruth's hand
beside him hidden by the tableand a warm pressure was given and
received. She looked at him a swift instantand 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 himcater-corneredat Mr. Morse's right
sat Judge Blounta 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 politicsthe local situationand
socialismand 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 merrilybut it was with an effort. The day had
been too longthe day's effort too intenseand 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 patientlet him tell you that
you are poor diagnosticians. In factyou are both suffering from
the disease you think you find in me. As for meI 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
controversyto reverse positions."

Out of your mouth.Martin's eyes were sparklingbut he kept
control of himself. "You seeJudgeI've heard your campaign
speeches. By some henidical process - henidicalby 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 strongand 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 discussionand turned to
Ruth.

I'm wrought up to-day,he said in an undertone. "All I want to
do is to lovenot talk."

He ignored Mr. Morsewho 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 humorand returned to Ruth.

But Mr. Morse was not content. He did not like the laziness and
the disinclination for soberlegitimate work of this prospective
son-in-law of hisfor 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 himand Martinwhose
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 Martinas
much as to sayThere, my boy, you see.

Chattering daws,Martin muttered under his breathand went on
talking with Ruth and Arthur.

But the long day and the "real dirt" of the night before were
telling upon him; andbesidesstill 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 Parkon the lips of a workingman who ought to have known
better. I have heard it often sinceand 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 countenanceand 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 tablebut 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 onaddressing
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 yoursI 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 abruptlyin 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 funeralthe judge and Mr. Morse confining
their talk to each otherand the rest of the conversation being
extremely desultory. Then afterwardwhen Ruth and Martin were
alonethere was a scene.


You are unbearable,she wept.

But his anger still smoulderedand he kept mutteringThe beasts!
The beasts!

When she averred he had insulted the judgehe retorted:


By telling the truth about him?

I don't care whether it was true or not,she insisted. "There
are certain bounds of decencyand 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 greatnoble
man who is dead. Ohthe beasts! The beasts!"

His complex anger flamed afreshand Ruth was in terror of him.
Never had she seen him so angryand it was all mystified and
unreasonable to her comprehension. And yetthrough 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 himand
in that madculminating momentlay her hands upon his neck. She
was hurt and outraged by what had taken placeand yet she lay in
his arms and quivered while he went on mutteringThe beasts! The
beasts!And she still lay there when he said: "I'll not bother
your table againdear. They do not like meand it is wrong of me
to thrust my objectionable presence upon them. Besidesthey are
just as objectionable to me. Faugh! They are sickening. And to
think of itI dreamed in my innocence that the persons who sat in
the high placeswho lived in fine houses and had educations and
bank accountswere worth while!

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Come on, let's go down to the local.

So spoke Brissendenfaint from a hemorrhage of half an hour before

-the second hemorrhage in three days. The perennial whiskey glass
was in his handsand 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 forand you must be handcuffed to
life somehow. As for meyou 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 manyand willy-nilly they'll drag down the would-be
equestrian before ever he gets astride. You can't get away from
themand you'll have to swallow the whole slave-morality. It's
not a nice messI'll allow. But it's been a-brewing and swallow
it you must. You are antediluvian anywaywith your Nietzsche
ideas. The past is pastand the man who says history repeats
itself is a liar. Of course I don't like the crowdbut what's a
poor chap to do? We can't have the man on horsebackand anything
is preferable to the timid swine that now rule. But come on
anyway. I'm loaded to the guards nowand if I sit here any
longerI'll get drunk. And you know the doctor says - damn the
doctor! I'll fool him yet."

It was Sunday nightand they found the small hall packed by the
Oakland socialistschiefly members of the working class. The
speakera clever Jewwon 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 ghettoand strong on Martin was the age-long struggle of
the feeblewretched 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 cooperationNature 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 menaping herbred race-horses and cucumbers.
Doubtlessa creator of a Cosmos could have devised a better
method; but creatures of this particular Cosmos must put up with
this particular method. Of coursethey could squirm as they
perishedas the socialists squirmedas 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 thoughtand so he spoke when Brissenden urged him to
give them hell. He obeyed the mandatewalking up to the platform
as was the customand addressing the chairman. He began in a low
voicehaltinglyforming 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 uphe was in full stridehis attack upon their
doctrines but half completed. He had caught their interestand
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 intentlyfollowing every word. He spoke with
fire and convictionmincing 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 Malthusand
enunciated the biological law of development.

And so,he concludedin a swift resumeno 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.

RememberI 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 sortand there
arose a new set of masters - not the greatvirilenoble menbut
the shrewd and spidery traders and money-lenders. And they
enslaved you over again - but not franklyas the truenoble men
would do with weight of their own right armsbut secretlyby
spidery machinations and by wheedling and cajolery and lies. They
have purchased your slave judgesthey have debauched your slave
legislaturesand 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 oneencouraged by vociferous applausespeaking with fire
and enthusiasm and excited gesturesthey replied to the attack.
It was a wild night - but it was wild intellectuallya battle of
ideas. Some strayed from the pointbut most of the speakers
replied directly to Martin. They shook him with lines of thought
that were new to him; and gave him insightsnot into new
biological lawsbut into new applications of the old laws. They
were too earnest to be always politeand more than once the
chairman rapped and pounded for order.

It chanced that a cub reporter sat in the audiencedetailed 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 facthe 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. Furtherhe had
an idealnamelyof 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 bonehe was
able to reconstruct a whole speech from the one word REVOLUTION.
He did it that nightand he did it well; and since Martin had made
the biggest stirhe put it all into his mouth and made him the
arch-anarch of the showtransforming his reactionary individualism
into the most luridred-shirt socialist utterance. The cub
reporter was an artistand it was a large brush with which he laid
on the local color - wild-eyed long-haired menneurasthenia and
degenerate types of menvoices shaken with passionclenched fists
raised on highand all projected against a background of oaths
yellsand the throaty rumbling of angry men.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Over the coffeein his little roomMartin read next morning's
paper. It was a novel experience to find himself head-linedon
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 himand
though at first he was angered by the fabricationin the end he
tossed the paper aside with a laugh.

Either the man was drunk or criminally malicious,he said that
afternoonfrom his perch on the bedwhen 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 whilethen 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 himnoting
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 askedwith a quick glance at
Brissenden that appraised the color-value of that cadaverous and
dying man.

And he wrote that report,Martin said softly. "Whyhe 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 Edenthe 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 outsideyou seeand 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 himMartin!
Poke him!"

I guess I'm getting old,was the answer. "I know I oughtbut 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 seeit
does take energy to give a fellow a poking. Besideswhat does it
matter?"

That's right - that's the way to take it,the cub announced
airilythough 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 venturedand 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 quietismand 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 judiciallyand 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 warnedor else I'll have to punch your
face. It would be a pity, for it is such a pretty face.

His uplifted hand descendedand thereafter rose and fell in a
swift and steady rhythm. The cub struggled and cursed and
squirmedbut did not offer to bite. Brissenden looked on gravely
though once he grew excited and gripped the whiskey bottle
pleadingHere, just let me swat him once.

Sorry my hand played out,Martin saidwhen 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 snarledtears 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 honestit is not
squareit is not manlyto tell lies about one's fellow-creatures
the way he has doneand 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.
Nowe are not anarchists but socialists." When the reporter
pointed out to him that there seemed little difference between the
two schoolsMartin 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 learnedalsothat he spoke nightly to the workmen in the City
Hall Parkand 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 roomits 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 historyand procured a photograph of
Higginbotham's Cash Store with Bernard Higginbotham himself
standing out in front. That gentleman was depicted as an
intelligentdignified businessman who had no patience with his
brother-in-law's socialistic viewsand no patience with the
brother-in-laweitherwhom 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 Yon SchmidtMarian's
husbandhad likewise been interviewed. He had called Martin the
black sheep of the family and repudiated him. "He tried to sponge
off of mebut 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 goodtake that from me."

This time Martin was genuinely angry. Brissenden looked upon the
affair as a good jokebut he could not console Martinwho knew
that it would be no easy task to explain to Ruth. As for her
fatherhe 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 disasterand read it standing at the open door when
he had received it from the postman. As he readmechanically 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 throughfrom 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
wildnessthat 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
letterand 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 youMartin. Please remember
that. It was simply a mistake. As father and mother have
contendedwe were not made for each otherand 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 usas well as for my mother. I feel
as it isthat 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 endcarefullya second timethen sat
down and replied. He outlined the remarks he had uttered at the
socialist meetingpointing 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 daynor the next. "Overdue" lay
untouched upon the tableand each day the heap of returned
manuscripts under the table grew larger. For the first time
Martin's glorious sleep was interrupted by insomniaand he tossed
through longrestless nights. Three times he called at the Morse
homebut was turned away by the servant who answered the bell.
Brissenden lay sick in his hoteltoo feeble to stir outand
though Martin was with him oftenhe 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 creditwhile the
greengrocerwho was an American and proud of ithad 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 feelingand indignation against
Martin ran high. No one would have anything to do with a socialist
traitor. Poor Maria was dubious and frightenedbut she remained
loyal. The children of the neighborhood recovered from the awe of
the grand carriage which once had visited Martinand from safe
distances they called him "hobo" and "bum." The Silva tribe
howeverstanchly defended himfighting more than one pitched
battle for his honorand black eyes and bloody noses became quite
the order of the day and added to Maria's perplexities and
troubles.

OnceMartin met Gertrude on the streetdown in Oaklandand
learned what he knew could not be otherwise - that Bernard
Higginbotham was furious with him for having dragged the family
into public disgraceand 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. Afterwardswhen this all
blows overyou can come back."

Martin shook his headbut 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 positionin regard
to socialism. There were not words enough in the English language
nor in any languageto make his attitude and conduct intelligible
to them. Their highest concept of right conductin his casewas
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!
Poorstupid slaveshe thoughtwhile 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 againwhen Gertrude offered him moneythough 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
monthswhen he is cooled downif you want toyou can get the job
of drivin' delivery-wagon for him. Any time you want mejust send
for me an' I'll come. Don't forget."

She went away weeping audiblyand he felt a pang of sorrow shoot
through him at sight of her heavy body and uncouth gait. As he
watched her gothe Nietzschean edifice seemed to shake and totter.
The slave-class in the abstract was all very wellbut it was not
wholly satisfactory when it was brought home to his own family.
And yetif there was ever a slave trampled by the strongthat
slave was his sister Gertrude. He grinned savagely at the paradox.
A fine Nietzsche-man he wasto allow his intellectual concepts to
be shaken by the first sentiment or emotion that strayed along ay
to be shaken by the slave-morality itselffor 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

Overduestill continued to lie forgotten on the table. Every
manuscript that he had had out now lay under the table. Only one
manuscript he kept goingand that was Brissenden's "Ephemera."
His bicycle and black suit were again in pawnand the type-writer
people were once more worrying about the rent. But such things no
longer bothered him. He was seeking a new orientationand until
that was found his life must stand still.

After several weekswhat he had been waiting for happened. He met
Ruth on the street. It was trueshe was accompanied by her
brotherNormanand 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 youand 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 tremblingbut she held up and looked inquiringly.

The question I asked in my letter,he prompted.

Norman made an impatient movementbut 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 lowfirm 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. "Martinyou 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 outstarting on with her.

Martin stood aside and let them passfumbling unconsciously in his
coat pocket for the tobacco and brown papers that were not there.

It was a long walk to North Oaklandbut 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 finishedand 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
reachedand 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 wasit 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 poemlet me tell you
that we have set it for the August numberour 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 unsatisfactorykindly
telegraph us at once and state what you consider a fair price."

Since the honorarium they had offered was three hundred and fifty
dollarsMartin thought it not worth while to telegraph. Then
toothere was Brissenden's consent to be gained. Wellhe had
been rightafter all. Here was one magazine editor who knew real
poetry when he saw it. And the price was splendideven though it
was for the poem of a century. As for Cartwright BruceMartin
knew that he was the one critic for whose opinions Brissenden had
any respect.

Martin rode down town on an electric carand 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 poemwhile his own contention that good stuff
could find its way into the magazines had proved correct. But
enthusiasm had lost its spring in himand 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 inand 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 concernedhe
had been in a trance. For that matterhe was still in a trance.
All this life through which the electric car whirred seemed remote
and unrealand he would have experienced little interest and less
shook 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 roomand hurried down
again. The room was empty. All luggage was gone.

Did Mr. Brissenden leave any address?he asked the clerkwho
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 voicelike some one
else's voicefrom a long way offasking 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 PARTHENONadvising them to proceed with the publication of
the poem. He had in his pocket but five cents with which to pay
his carfare homeso he sent the message collect.

Once in his roomhe resumed his writing. The days and nights came
and wentand he sat at his table and wrote on. He went nowhere
save to the pawnbrokertook no exerciseand ate methodically when
he was hungry and had something to cookand just as methodically
went without when he had nothing to cook. Composed as the story
wasin advancechapter by chapterhe nevertheless saw and
developed an opening that increased the power of itthough it
necessitated twenty thousand additional words. It was not that
there was any vital need that the thing should be well donebut
that his artistic canons compelled him to do it well. He worked on
in the dazestrangely detached from the world around himfeeling
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 did unaware of it.


Came the day when "Overdue" was finished. The agent of the type-
writer firm had come for the machineand he sat on the bed while
Martinon the one chairtyped 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 longerand hurried away to the stove
where she filled a quart-bowl with soupputting 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 eatbetween 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 drearilywith drooping shoulderson the
edge of the bedgazing about him with lack-lustre eyes that saw
nothing until the torn wrapper of a magazinewhich had come in the
morning's mail and which lay unopenedshot a gleam of light into
his darkened brain. It is THE PARTHENONhe thoughtthe August
PARTHENONand it must contain "Ephemera." If only Brissenden were
here to see!


He was turning the pages of the magazinewhen suddenly he stopped.
Ephemerahad been featuredwith gorgeous head-piece and
Beardsley-like margin decorations. On one side of the head-piece
was Brissenden's photographon the other side was the photograph
of Sir John Valuethe British Ambassador. A preliminary editorial
note quoted Sir John Value as saying that there were no poets in
Americaand the publication of "Ephemera" was THE PARTHENON'S.
There, take that, Sir John Value!Cartwright Bruce was described
as the greatest critic in Americaand he was quoted as saying that
Ephemerawas the greatest poem ever written in America. And
finallythe 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 oftenwondering
at the words and their arrangementwondering where Mr. Brissenden
got themand 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 nauseatingand Martin noted
apathetically that he was not nauseated very much. He wished he
could get angrybut 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 allwhat 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 efforthe 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 languidlyandwhen he had finishedsat on the edge of
the bed staring blankly before him.

How long he sat there he did not knowuntilsuddenlyacross 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. Nextin
the line of breakers he made out a small canoean outrigger canoe.
In the stern he saw a young bronzed god in scarlet hip-cloth
dipping a flashing paddle. He recognized him. He was Motithe
youngest son of Tatithe chiefand this was Tahitiand 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 dayand
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. Nexthe
was no longer an onlooker but was himself in the canoeMoti was
crying outthey 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 jetthe air was filled with
driven spraythere 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 eyesand 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 fadedand 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 moonlightbut he could not see them. He could see only the
littered writing-tablethe empty space where the type-writer had
stoodand the unwashed window-pane. He closed his eyes with a
groanand slept.

CHAPTER XLI

He slept heavily all nightand did not stir until aroused by the
postman on his morning round. Martin felt tired and passiveand
went through his letters aimlessly. One thin envelopefrom a


robber magazinecontained 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 checksthis one was not
pregnant with promise of great things to come. To him it was a
check for twenty-two dollarsthat was alland it would buy him
something to eat.

Another check was in the same mailsent 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 himwhich he
calmly considered. He did not know what he was going to doand 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
investmentandafter he had cashed the checks at the bank down in
Oaklandhe 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.
Butinsteadhe went into the Forum Cafe and ordered a breakfast
that cost two dollars. He tipped the waiter a quarterand 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 notand besideshe 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
rudderlessand he had no port to makewhile drifting involved the
least livingand it was living that hurt.

The days slipped alongand he slept eight hours regularly every
night. Though nowwhile waiting for more checkshe ate in the
Japanese restaurants where meals were served for ten centshis
wasted body filled outas did the hollows in his cheeks. He no
longer abused himself with short sleepoverworkand overstudy.
He wrote nothingand the books were closed. He walked muchout
in the hillsand loafed long hours in the quiet parks. He had no
friends nor acquaintancesnor did he make any. He had no
inclination. He was waiting for some impulsefrom he knew not
whereto put his stopped life into motion again. In the meantime
his life remained run downplanlessand empty and idle.

Once he made a trip to San Francisco to look up the "real dirt."
But at the last momentas 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 discussedand
he fled furtivelyfor 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
Ephemerawas being maltreated. It had made a hit. But what a
hit! Everybody had read itand everybody was discussing whether
or not it was really poetry. The local papers had taken it upand
daily there appeared columns of learned criticismsfacetious
editorialsand 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 publicproving that he was no poet.


THE PARTHENON came out in its next number patting itself on the
back for the stir it had madesneering at Sir John Valueand
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 Delmarin which she
gibed and sneered at Brissenden. Alsoshe was guilty of a second
poemin which she parodied him.

Martin had many times to be glad that Brissenden was dead. He had
hated the crowd soand 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 itonly better
some time ago." Another paperin deadly seriousnessreproving
Helen Della Delmar for her parodysaid: "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. Howeverwhether Miss Delmar be jealous or not of
the man who invented 'Ephemera' it is certain that shelike
thousands of othersis fascinated by his workand 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 crippleand 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 worldwith love on the pinnaclethe crash of
magazinedom and the dear public was a small crash indeed.
Brissenden had been wholly right in his judgment of the magazines
and heMartinhad spent arduous and futile years in order to find
it out for himself. The magazines were all Brissenden had said
they were and more. Wellhe was donehe solaced himself. He had
hitched his wagon to a star and been landed in a pestiferous marsh.
The visions of Tahiti - cleansweet Tahiti - were coming to him
more frequently. And there were the low Paumotusand the high
Marquesas; he saw himself oftennowon board trading schooners or
frail little cuttersslipping out at dawn through the reef at
Papeete and beginning the long beat through the pearl-atolls to
Nukahiva and the Bay of Taiohaewhere Tamarihe knewwould kill
a pig in honor of his comingand where Tamari's flower-garlanded
daughters would seize his hands and with song and laughter garland
him with flowers. The South Seas were callingand he knew that
sooner or later he would answer the call.

In the meantime he driftedresting 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
himhe turned it over to the local lawyer who had attended to
Brissenden's affairs for his family. Martin took a receipt for the
checkand 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 MILLENNIUMscanned the face of a
check that represented three hundred dollarsand noted that it was
the payment on acceptance for "Adventure." Every debt he owed in
the worldincluding the pawnshopwith its usurious interest
amounted to less than a hundred dollars. And when he had paid
everythingand lifted the hundred-dollar note with Brissenden's
lawyerhe still had over a hundred dollars in pocket. He ordered
a suit of clothes from the tailor and ate his meals in the best
cafes in town. He still slept in his little room at Maria'sbut
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 storywas bought by WARREN'S
MONTHLY for two hundred and fifty dollars. THE NORTHERN REVIEW
took his essayThe 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 vacationsand
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 Oaklandand in Oaklandwith the few who
thought they knew himhe 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 magazineshe had taken
Brissenden's rejected advice and startedThe Shame of the Sunon
the round of publishers. After several refusalsSingletree
Darnley & Co. accepted itpromising fall publication. When Martin
asked for an advance on royaltiesthey wrote that such was not
their customthat 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 dollaron a royalty of fifteen per centit 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 longhad brought him twice as much from
THE MILLENNIUM. That newspaper paragraph he had read so long ago
had been trueafter all. The first-class magazines did not pay on
acceptanceand they paid well. Not two cents a wordbut four
cents a wordhad THE MILLENNIUM paid him. Andfurthermorethey
bought good stufftoofor were they not buying his? This last
thought he accompanied with a grin.

He wrote to SingletreeDarnley & Co.offering to sell out his
rights in "The Shame of the Sun" for a hundred dollarsbut they
did not care to take the risk. In the meantime he was not in need
of moneyfor several of his later stories had been accepted and
paid for. He actually opened a bank accountwherewithout a debt
in the worldhe 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 himand 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 amountaccompanied by a contractcame 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 troubleshe had stuffed the few
dollars she possessed into her hand-satchel; and so sure was she
that disaster had overtaken her brotherthat she stumbled forward
sobbinginto his armsat 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.
Higginbothamand that is what would have surely happened."

He'll be all right after a time,she assured himwhile 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 joband 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 arrivedshe 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
horrorand her heavy limbs shrank under the golden stream as
though it were burning her.

It's yours,he laughed.

She burst into tearsand began to moanMy 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 itpausing now and
again to wipe her eyesand when she had finishedsaid:


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 herand 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 possessionand 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 announcedwhen she
was leaving.

Martin wincedthen grinned.


Yes, do,he said. "And thenmaybehe'll invite me to dinner
again."

Yes, he will - I'm sure he will!she exclaimed ferventlyas 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
strongand had nothing to do. The cessation from writing and
studyingthe death of Brissendenand the estrangement from Ruth
had made a big hole in his life; and his life refused to be pinned
down to good living in cafes and the smoking of Egyptian
cigarettes. It was true the South Seas were calling to himbut he
had a feeling that the game was not yet played out in the United
States. Two books were soon to be publishedand he had more books
that might find publication. Money could be made out of themand
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 horseshoelandlocked
bay to the tops of the dizzycloud-capped peaks and
contained perhaps ten thousand acres. It was filled with tropical
fruitswild chickensand wild pigswith an occasional herd of
wild cattlewhile 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 bayas he remembered itwas magnificentwith water deep
enough to accommodate the largest vessel afloatand so safe that
the South Pacific Directory recommended it to the best careening
place for ships for hundreds of miles around. He would buy a
schooner - one of those yacht-likecoppered 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'sand have it and the
valley and the schooner filled with dark-skinned servitors. He
would entertain there the factor of Taiohaecaptains of wandering
tradersand 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 strikeit might enable him to sell the whole heap of
manuscripts. Also he could collect the stories and the poems into
booksand make sure of the valley and the bay and the schooner.
He would never write again. Upon that he was resolved. But in the
meantimeawaiting the publication of the bookshe must do
something more than live dazed and stupid in the sort of uncaring
trance into which he had fallen.

He notedone Sunday morningthat the Bricklayers' Picnic took
place that day at Shell Mound Parkand 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 likeand as he entered the
park he experienced a recrudescence of all the old sensations.
After allthey were his kindthese working people. He had been
born among themhe had lived among themand though he had strayed
for a timeit was well to come back among them.


If it ain't Mart!he heard some one sayand 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 gapand here and there a new face. The
fellows were not bricklayersbutas in the old daysthey
attended all Sunday picnics for the dancingand the fightingand
the fun. Martin drank with themand began to feel really human
once more. He was a fool to have ever left themhe 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 beerhe concludedand wondered ifafter
allthe books had spoiled him for companionship with these friends
of his youth. He resolved that he would not be so spoiledand he
went on to the dancing pavilion. Jimmythe plumberhe met there
in the company of a tallblond 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 Jimmyand the three of them
with half a dozen friendswatched 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 excileand his lonely heart
burgeoned in the geniality in which it bathed. He made a mad day
of itand was at his best. Alsohe had money in his pockets
andas in the old days when he returned from sea with a pay-day
he made the money fly.

Onceon the dancing-floorhe saw Lizzie Connolly go by in the
arms of a young workingman; andlaterwhen he made the round of
the pavilionhe came upon her sitting by a refreshment table.
Surprise and greetings overhe led her away into the grounds
where they could talk without shouting down the music. From the
instant he spoke to hershe was his. He knew it. She showed it
in the proud humility of her eyesin every caressing movement of
her proudly carried bodyand in the way she hung upon his speech.
She was not the young girl as he had known her. She was a woman
nowand Martin noted that her wilddefiant beauty had improved
losing none of its wildnesswhile the defiance and the fire seemed
more in control. "A beautya 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 backan' then that
fresh guy comes buttin' in. Let go o' meI tell yeh. I'm goin'
to fix 'm."

What's eatin' yer?Jimmy was demandingas he helped hold the
young fellow back. "That guy's Mart Eden. He's nifty with his
mitslemme tell you thatan' 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 effectand 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
pavilionand the gang followed after him.

Who is he?Martin asked Lizzie. "And what's it all about
anyway?"

Already the zest of combatwhich of old had been so keen and
lastinghad died downand he discovered that he was selfanalytical
too much so to livesingle heart and single handso
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 lowerand
she looked straight before her. "I'd throw 'm down for you any
time."


Martin looking at her averted faceknowing that all he had to do
was to reach out his hand and pluck herfell to pondering whether
after allthere was any real worth in refinedgrammatical
Englishandsoforgot to reply to her.

You put it all over him,she said tentativelywith a laugh.

He's a husky young fellow, though,he admitted generously. "If
they hadn't taken him awayhe 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
restaurantwhere he ordered wine and expensive delicacies and
afterward he danced with her and with no one but hertill she was
tired. He was a good dancerand she whirled around and around
with him in a heaven of delighther head against his shoulder
wishing that it could last forever. Later in the afternoon they
strayed off among the treeswherein the good old fashionshe
sat down while he sprawled on his backhis head in her lap. He
lay and dozedwhile she fondled his hairlooked down on his
closed eyesand loved him without reserve. Looking up suddenly
he read the tender advertisement in her face. Her eyes fluttered
downthen they opened and looked into his with soft defiance.

I've kept straight all these years,she saidher 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 himselfwhy 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
strongbut 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 backnor 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 perceptiblythen went on with
the same gentle stroke. He noticed her face hardenbut it was
with the hardness of resolutionfor still the soft color was in
her cheeks and she was all glowing and melting.

I did not mean that - she beganthen 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 wayI 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 amI am. You are a ray of
light to me in a very dark worldand I've got to be straight with
youjust 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 marryingand I'm not - wellloving
without marryingthough 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
nowand 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 eyesthen 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 baythe
grass-walled castle and the trimwhite schooner. After allwhat
did it matter? He could go awayas he had done so oftenbefore
the maston 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 replybut satgazing straight before herdry-eyed
and motionlessbut 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 pangwhile she
offered him herselfalong with disgrace and shameand sinand
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 onlet's go
home. I'm all tired out."

The day was doneand 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 withstraggling in the reara
second gangthe friends that Lizzie's young man had collected to
avenge the loss of his lady. Several constables and special police
officersanticipating troubletrailed along to prevent itand
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 Stationand the waiting electric car could be


seenthe conductor of which was impatiently clanging the gong.

There she is,Jimmy counselled. "Make a run for itan' 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 Jimmywho sprang on
the stepscrying to the motorman:


Slam on the juice, old man, and beat it outa here!

The next moment Jimmy whirled aboutand 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. ThusJimmy and his gangstrung out on the longlower
stepsmet the attacking gang. The car started with a great
clanging of its gongandas Jimmy's gang drove off the last
assailantstheytoojumped off to finish the job. The car
dashed onleaving the flurry of combat far behindand 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 fightwith a recrudescence of the old
fighting thrills. But they quickly died awayand he was oppressed
by a great sadness. He felt very old - centuries older than those
carelesscare-free young companions of his others days. He had
travelled fartoo far to go back. Their mode of lifewhich had
once been hiswas now distasteful to him. He was disappointed in
it all. He had developed into an alien. As the steam beer had
tasted rawso 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 handhe was humanand his gregarious need for companionship
remained unsatisfied. He had found no new home. As the gang could
not understand himas his own family could not understand himas
the bourgeoisie could not understand himso this girl beside him
whom he honored highcould 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 Lizzieat partingas they stood
in front of the workingman's shack in which she livednear 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 imperativelynot seductivelybut wistfully and humbly.
He was touched to the heart. His large tolerance rose up in him.
He put his arms around herand kissed herand 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 bruteand you're a damn
poor Nietzscheman. You'd marry her if you could and fill her
quivering heart full with happiness. But you can'tyou can't.
And it's a damn shame."

'A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers,'he muttered
remembering his Henly. "'Life isI thinka blunder and a shame.'
It is - a blunder and a shame."

CHAPTER XLIII

The Shame of the Sunwas 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 tablea heavy
sadness fell upon him. He thought of the wild delight that would
have been his had this happened a few short months beforeand he
contrasted that delight that should have been with his present
uncaring coldness. His bookhis first bookand his pulse had not
gone up a fraction of a beatand 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 explainedin 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 braggingnot showing off. His sole motive was to make
her happyto make her proud of himto 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 madea fetich
of friendship. It softened the blow of his having been a
laundrymanand though she could not understand a line of itshe
knew that every line of it was great. She was a simplepractical
hard-working womanbut 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 hitthat was evident. It meant
more gold in the money sack. He could fix up Lizzieredeem all
his promisesand still have enough left to build his grass-walled
castle.

SingletreeDarnley & Co. had cautiously brought out an edition of
fifteen hundred copiesbut 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 editionand
hot-footed upon this came the news of FrenchGermanand
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 betterand 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
Canadaand a new edition of twenty thousand is on the presses. We
are overworkedtrying 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
arithmeticfinding 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 spaceand 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 returncame SingletreeDarnley & Co.'s check for five
thousand dollars.

I want you to come down town with me, Maria, this afternoon about
two o'clock,Martin saidthe morning the check arrived. "Or
bettermeet 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 evolvingand 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 theretooand affixed his


signature; and when all was over and she was outside on the
sidewalkher landlord spoke to hersayingWell, 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 incoherentlyas if for a favor. And it was not
until she had returned home to North Oakland and conferred with her
own kindand had the Portuguese grocer investigatethat 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 eveningstepping out to hail him when he got off the
car; and Martin explained that he wasn't doing his own cooking any
moreand 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 nightI'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 milkranch
when he sees one.

And so it was that Maria became a landlord and the sole owner of a
dairywith 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 Mariawho worked hard and whose head was
hardnever dreaming about fairy princesentertained 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
publishersbut the newspapers were not to be denied. Oakland was
his own townand the reporters nosed out scores of individuals who
could supply information. All that he was and was notall that he
had done and most of what he had not donewas spread out for the
delectation of the publicaccompanied 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 firstso great was his disgust with the
magazines and all bourgeois societyMartin fought against
publicity; but in the endbecause it was easier than not tohe
surrendered. He found that he could not refuse himself to the
special writers who travelled long distances to see him. Then
againeach day was so many hours longandsince he no longer was
occupied with writing and studyingthose hours had to be occupied
somehow; so he yielded to what was to him a whimpermitted
interviewsgave his opinions on literature and philosophyand
even accepted invitations of the bourgeoisie. He had settled down
into a strange and comfortable state of mind. He no longer cared.
He forgave everybodyeven the cub reporter who had painted him red
and to whom he now granted a full page with specially posed
photographs.
He saw Lizzie occasionallyand 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 rightfor 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 hopetreating her in brotherly
fashion and rarely seeing her.

Overduewas rushed upon the market by the Meredith-Lowell Company
in the height of his popularityand being fictionin 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-readersbut 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 mysticismand
had done it exceeding well; andnexthe had successfully supplied
the very literature he had expositedthus proving himself to be
that rare geniusa critic and a creator in one.

Money poured in on himfame poured in on him; he flashedcometlike
through the world of literatureand 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 thingor the beginning of the
little thingthat was soon to become the big thing. He had
insulted Judge Blounttreated him abominablyand Judge Blount
meeting him on the streetinvited 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 valuebut for a purely fictitious value that Judge
Blount invited him to dinner.

Martin grinned and accepted the invitationmarvelling the while at
his complacence. And at the dinnerwherewith their womankind
were half a dozen of those that sat in high placesand where
Martin found himself quite the lionJudge Blountwarmly seconded
by Judge Hanwellurged privately that Martin should permit his
name to be put up for the Styx - the ultra-select club to which
belongednot the mere men of wealthbut the men of attainment.
And Martin declinedand 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 stylistwith 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 lovepoems.
We were greatly impressed by them at the timebut certain
arrangements already entered into prevented our taking them. If
you still have themand if you will be kind enough to forward
themwe 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 tragedyand sent it instead.
He read it over before mailingand was particularly impressed by
its sophomoric amateurishness and general worthlessness. But he
sent it; and it was publishedto 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 itthat the magazine had
faked it very clumsilyor 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 childhoodand that the magazine had refused to be
happy unless it got ita great laugh went up at the magazine's
expense and a change in the editorship followed. The tragedy was
never brought out in book-formthough Martin pocketed the advance
royalties that had been paid.

COLEMAN'S WEEKLY sent Martin a lengthy telegramcosting nearly
three hundred dollarsoffering him a thousand dollars an article
for twenty articles. He was to travel over the United Stateswith
all expenses paidand 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 MONTHLYwas 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 Impand "The Magic Skin."

The publichoweverreceived 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
SingletreeDarnley & Co. to pay a flat royalty of twenty-five per
cent for a third bookand thirty per cent flat for a fourth.
These two volumes comprised all the short stories he had written
and which had receivedor were receivingserial publication.
The Ring of Bellsand 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 landslideand
had there been no miracle in the go of "The Shame of the Sun" there
would have been no landslide. SingletreeDarnley & 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 itand 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 contraryit
had happened.

So it wasreasoning thusthat Martin questioned the validity of
his popularity. It was the bourgeoisie that bought his books and
poured its gold into his money-sackand 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 fangit was all a
matter of chance. One thing he knew with absolute certitude:
Ephemerawas 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 indeedfor 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 casuallyintent on other affairsor
whether he had come there for the direct purpose of inviting him to
dinnerMartin never could quite make up his mindthough he
inclined toward the second hypothesis. At any rateinvited to
dinner he was by Mr. Morse - Ruth's fatherwho had forbidden him
the house and broken off the engagement.

Martin was not angry. He was not even on his dignity. He
tolerated Mr. Morsewondering the while how it felt to eat such
humble pie. He did not decline the invitation. Insteadhe put it
off with vagueness and indefiniteness and inquired after the
familyparticularly after Mrs. Morse and Ruth. He spoke her name
without hesitancynaturallythough secretly surprised that he had
had no inward quiverno oldfamiliar increase of pulse and warm
surge of blood.

He had many invitations to dinnersome 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 dinnersand went weak and faint for lack of
them and lost weight from sheer famine. That was the paradox of
it. When he wanted dinnersno one gave them to himand now that
he could buy a hundred thousand dinners and was losing his
appetitedinners were thrust upon him right and left. But why?
There was no justice in itno 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. Furthermorethey 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 papersandit 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 workbut for the fame that was hisbecause he
was somebody amongst menand - why not? - because he had a hundred
thousand dollars or so. That was the way bourgeois society valued
a manand 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 workwhichafter allwas an expression of himself.
That was the way Lizzie valued him. The workwith herdid not
even count. She valued himhimself. That was the way Jimmythe
plumberand 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 likedand were willing to scrap forwas just Mart Edenone
of the bunch and a pretty good guy.

Then there was Ruth. She had liked him for himselfthat was
indisputable. And yetmuch as she had liked him she had liked the
bourgeois standard of valuation more. She had opposed his writing


and principallyit seemed to himbecause it did not earn money.
That had been her criticism of his "Love-cycle." Shetoohad
urged him to get a job. It was trueshe 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 mewhen then you let me
starveforbade me your houseand damned me because I wouldn't get
a job. And the work was already doneall done. And nowwhen I
speakyou 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 graftersand 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 Edena 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 notionat least you
would not repudiate itbecause I've got dollarsmountains of
them. And it was all done long ago; it was work performedI tell
youwhen you spat upon me as the dirt under your feet."

But Martin did not shout out. The thought gnawed in his brainan
unceasing tormentwhile he smiled and succeeded in being tolerant.
As he grew silentBernard Higginbotham got the reins and did the
talking. He was a success himselfand proud of it. He was selfmade.
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 Storethat 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 Martinshowed with what
keenness and with what enormous planning he had made the store.
And he had plans for itambitious plans. The neighborhood was
growing up fast. The store was really too small. If he had more
roomhe would be able to put in a score of labor-saving and moneysaving
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
rentand 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 saidfour 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 forwardlicking his lipsnervously spreading and
closing his fingerswhile he watched Martin write a check. When
it was passed over to himhe 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 laughbutinsteaddemanded:


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, well arrange it this way.Martin
glanced at Gertrude. "You can have the principal to keep for
yourselfif 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 pilla 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 firstcrying:

I accept! I accept!

When Martin got on the electric carhe was very sick and tired.
He looked up at the assertive sign.

The swine,he groaned. "The swinethe 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 typeand republished by special
permission of MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE. It caused quite a stir in the


neighborhoodand good housewives were proud to have the
acquaintances of the great writer's sisterwhile 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 camemaking himself agreeable with the fat
wholesale butcher and his fatter wife - important folkthey
likely to be of use to a rising young man like Hermann Yon Schmidt.
No less a baithoweverhad 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-lawbut in his heart
of hearts he couldn't understand where it all came in. In the
silent watches of the nightwhile his wife slepthe had
floundered through Martin's books and poemsand decided that the
world was a fool to buy them.

And in his heart of hearts Martin understood the situation only too
wellas he leaned back and gloated at Von Schmidt's headin fancy
punching it well-nigh off of himsending blow after blow home just
right - the chuckle-headed Dutchman! One thing he did like about
himhowever. Poor as he wasand determined to rise as he washe
nevertheless hired one servant to take the heavy work off of
Marian's hands. Martin talked with the superintendent of the Asa
agenciesand after dinner he drew him aside with Hermannwhom he
backed financially for the best bicycle store with fittings in
Oakland. He went furtherand in a private talk with Hermann told
him to keep his eyes open for an automobile agency and garagefor
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 neckMarianat
partingtold Martin how much she loved him and always had loved
him. It was truethere was a perceptible halt midway in her
assertionwhich she glossed over with more tears and kisses and
incoherent stammeringsand 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 interestan' he
said damn the principal and if I mentioned it againhe'd punch my
Dutch head off. That's what he said - my Dutch head. But he's all
righteven 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
pouredthe more he puzzled. He satthe guest of honorat an
Arden Club banquetwith men of note whom he had heard about and
read about all his life; and they told him howwhen they had read
The Ring of Bellsin the TRANSCONTINENTALand "The Peri and the
Pearl" in THE HORNETthey had immediately picked him for a winner.
My God! and I was hungry and in ragshe 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 performedwhy 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 blindautomatic
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 plaintivelythen arose to respond cleverly and
wittily to a clever and witty toast.

So it went. Wherever he happened to be - at the Press Clubat the
Redwood Clubat 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 artisticjust as worth
whilethen as now. But you are not feeding me for their sakenor
for the sake of anything else I have written. You're feeding me
because it is the style of feeding just nowbecause the whole mob
is crazy with the idea of feeding Martin Eden.

And oftenat such timeshe 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 platformhe 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
headsso intent and steadfast was Martin's gazeto 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 cameand up the platform. Martin could
have wept over that youthful shade of himselfwhen he thought of
all that lay before him. Across the platform he swaggeredright
up to Martinand into the foreground of Martin's consciousness
disappeared. The five hundred women applauded softly with gloved
handsseeking to encourage the bashful great man who was their
guest. And Martin shook the vision from his brainsmiledand
began to speak.

The Superintendent of Schoolsgood old manstopped Martin on the
street and remembered himrecalling 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. SplendidI said at the
timesplendid!"

Yesand twice in the months that followed you passed me on the
street and did not know meMartin 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
sayingwouldn'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 nervouslypoking
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 - Kreisof the "real dirt"; and
Martin turned to him with reliefto 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 youI 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 remarkedas he paused in the doorway. "And then the market
broke."

Mrs. Morse drove by Martin on the street one dayand smiled and
nodded. He smiled back and lifted his hat. The episode did not
affect him. A month before it might have disgusted himor 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 nobodynothing. Mart Eden
the hoodlumand Mart Edenthe sailorhad been realhad been he;


but Martin Eden! the famous writerdid not exist. Martin Eden
the famous writerwas a vapor that had arisen in the mob-mind and
by the mob-mind had been thrust into the corporeal being of Mart
Edenthe 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 himselfand 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 forecastlewandered in
strange landsand 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 libraryand 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 thingshoweverin 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 thatamong othersit had introduced Martin Eden to the
reading public. THE WHITE MOUSE claimed him; so did THE NORTHERN
REVIEW and MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINEuntil silenced by THE GLOBE
which pointed triumphantly to its files where the mangled "Sea
Lyrics" lay buried. YOUTH AND AGEwhich had come to life again
after having escaped paying its billsput in a prior claimwhich
nobody but farmers' children ever read. The TRANSCONTINENTAL made
a dignified and convincing statement of how it first discovered
Martin Edenwhich was warmly disputed by THE HORNETwith the
exhibit of "The Peri and the Pearl." The modest claim of
SingletreeDarnley & Co. was lost in the din. Besidesthat
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 outand
Oakland ministers called upon him in a friendly waywhile
professional begging letters began to clutter his mail. But worse
than all this were the women. His photographs were published
broadcastand special writers exploited his strongbronzed face
his scarshis heavy shouldershis clearquiet eyesand the
slight hollows in his cheeks like an ascetic's. At this last he
remembered his wild youth and smiled. Oftenamong the women he
methe would see now onenow anotherlooking at himappraising
himselecting him. He laughed to himself. He remembered
Brissenden's warning and laughed again. The women would never
destroy himthat much was certain. He had gone past that stage.

Oncewalking with Lizzie toward night schoolshe caught a glance
directed toward him by a well-gownedhandsome woman of the
bourgeoisie. The glance was a trifle too longa shade too
considerative. Lizzie knew it for what it wasand her body tensed
angrily. Martin noticednoticed the cause of ittold 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 herreflecting.

I'd give anything to see you get over it,she broke out
impulsively. "You ought to care when women look at you that waya
man like you. It's not natural. It's all right enough for sissyboys.
But you ain't made that way. So help meI'd be willing an'
glad if the right woman came along an' made you care."

When he left Lizzie at night schoolhe returned to the Metropole.

Once in his roomshe dropped into a Morris chair and sat staring
straight before him. He did not doze. Nor did he think. His mind
was a blanksave for the intervals when unsummoned memory pictures
took form and color and radiance just under his eyelids. He saw
these picturesbut he was scarcely conscious of them - no more so
than if they had been dreams. Yet he was not asleep. Oncehe
roused himself and glanced at his watch. It was just eight
o'clock. He had nothing to doand it was too early for bed. Then
his mind went blank againand 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 asleepand his mind
immediately connected the knock with a telegramor letteror
perhaps one of the servants bringing back clean clothes from the
laundry. He was thinking about Joe and wondering where he wasas
he saidCome in.

He was still thinking about Joeand 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 doorand was still staring
blankly before him when he heard a woman's sob. It was
involuntaryspasmodiccheckedand stifled - he noted that as he
turned about. The next instant he was on his feet.

Ruth!he saidamazed and bewildered.

Her face was white and strained. She stood just inside the door
one hand against it for supportthe other pressed to her side.
She extended both hands toward him piteouslyand 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 speakand each time he hesitated.

No one knows I am here,Ruth said in a faint voicewith an
appealing smile.

What did you say?

He was surprised at the sound of his own voice.

She repeated her words.

Oh,he saidthen 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 awkwardbut 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 noddedwith a slightly arch expressionand 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 forwardout of her chair and over to him. She rested her
hand on his shoulder a momentbreathing quicklyand then slipped
into his arms. And in his largeeasy waydesirous of not
inflicting hurtknowing that to repulse this proffer of herself
was to inflict the most grievous hurt a woman could receivehe
folded his arms around her and held her close. But there was no
warmth in the embraceno caress in the contact. She had come into
his armsand he held herthat was all. She nestled against him
and thenwith a change of positionher hands crept up and rested
upon his neck. But his flesh was not fire beneath those handsand
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 himselfbut she clung more closely
to himshivering violently.

It is merely nervousness,she said with chattering teeth. "I'll
control myself in a minute. ThereI am better already."

Slowly her shivering died away. He continued to hold herbut 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 addedAnd 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
certitudeand 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 Edenthough 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 lipsplaced them
graciously and playfullyand 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. "OhMartindon'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 nowas a
manas an artistthe same Martin Eden? That's the question I've
been propounding to myself for many a day - not concerning you
merelybut 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 bonesthe 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 myselffor myself is
the same old self they did not want. Then they must want me for
something elsefor something that is outside of mefor 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 TomDickand Harry. And is it for
thatfor the recognition and the moneythat 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 mehow 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
timeremember thatand I am herenowin 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 armssat uprightand looked at him
long and searchingly. She was about to speakthen faltered and
changed her mind.

You see, it appears this way to me,he went on. "When I was all
that I am nownobody out of my own class seemed to care for me.
When my books were all writtenno one who had read the manuscripts
seemed to care for them. In point of factbecause 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 wereto say the
leastderogatory. '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 JOBlike 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 writtenand the public notice I
receivedwrought a change in the fibre of your love. Martin Eden
with his work all performedyou would not marry. Your love for
him was not strong enough to enable you to marry him. But your
love is now strong enoughand I cannot avoid the conclusion that
its strength arises from the publication and the public notice. In
your case I do not mention royaltiesthough 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 allit makes me
question lovesacred 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 anewnow. 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 lightsand
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
natureand 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 lifewhere all
life's values are unrealand falseand vulgar." He felt her stir
protestingly. "Vulgarity - a hearty vulgarityI'll admit - is the
basis of bourgeois refinement and culture. As I sayyou wanted to
formalize meto make me over into one of your own classwith your
class-idealsclass-valuesand class-prejudices." He shook his
head sadly. "And you do not understandeven nowwhat 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 boycrawling up out of the mire of the abyssshould pass
judgment upon your class and call it vulgar."

She leaned her head wearily against his shoulderand her body

shivered with recurrent nervousness. He waited for a time for her
to speakand 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 saidat 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
actand yet she felt that he had magnified it unduly and was
consequently resentful. They sat in silence for a long timeshe
thinking desperately and he pondering upon his love which had
departed. He knewnowthat he had not really loved her. It was
an idealized Ruth he had lovedan ethereal creature of his own
creatingthe bright and luminous spirit of his love-poems. The
real bourgeois Ruthwith all the bourgeois failings and with the
hopeless cramp of the bourgeois psychology in her mindhe 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.
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 - ohnot my body. It is my soulmy brain. I seem to
have lost all values. I care for nothing. If you had been this
way a few months agoit would have been different. It is too
latenow."

It is not too late,she cried. "I will show you. I will prove
to you that my love has grownthat 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 motherand let my name become a by-word with
my friends. I will come to you here and nowin free love if you
willand I will be proud and glad to be with you. If I have been
a traitor to loveI will nowfor love's sakebe a traitor to all
that made that earlier treason."

She stood before himwith shining eyes.

I am waiting, Martin,she whisperedwaiting for you to accept
me. Look at me.

It was splendidhe thoughtlooking at her. She had redeemed
herself for all that she had lackedrising up at lasttrue woman
superior to the iron rule of bourgeois convention. It was
splendidmagnificentdesperate. And yetwhat 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 firehe 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 lifebut 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 roomI should want younow.
You see how sick I am."

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes; and like a child
cryingthat forgets its grief in watching the sunlight percolate
through the tear-dimmed films over the pupilsso Martin forgot his
sicknessthe presence of Rutheverythingin watching the masses
of vegetationshot 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 itand yet he lookedhe 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 criedspringing to his feet. "I'm not
myselfyou know. I forgot you were here." He put his hand to his
head. "You seeI'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 saidwhen they emerged on the sidewalkat
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
blockhe saw a man in a long overcoat shrink back into a doorway.
He shot a glance in as he passed byanddespite the high turnedup
collarhe was certain that he recognized Ruth's brother
Norman.

During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation. She was
stunned. He was apathetic. Oncehe mentioned that he was going
awayback to the South Seasandonceshe asked him to forgive
her having come to him. And that was all. The parting at her door
was conventional. They shook handssaid good nightand he lifted
his hat. The door swung shutand he lighted a cigarette and
turned back for his hotel. When he came to the doorway into which
he had seen Norman shrinkhe stopped and looked in in a
speculative humor.

She lied,he said aloud. "She made believe to me that she had
dared greatlyand 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 brokeI was not fit to be seen with
his sister. When I have a bank accounthe brings her to me."

As he swung on his heel to go ona trampgoing in the same
directionbegged 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 admiringlyand 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. WhyI 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 chidedand
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 methough
there ain't nothin' to stop me except I don't want to. I've ben
drunk once since I seen you lastan' then it was unexpectedbein'
on an empty stomach. When I work like a beastI drink like a
beast. When I live like a manI drink like a man - a jolt now an'
again when I feel like itan' that's all."

Martin arranged to meet him next dayand 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-stateroombut down belowon the weatherside
- the port-sideremember thatthe 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 positionnor did he
dream. Sleep had become to him oblivionand each day that he
awokehe awoke with regret. Life worried and bored himand time
was a vexation.

CHAPTER XLVI

Say, Joe,was his greeting to his old-time working-mate next
morningthere'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 slowlywith kindling anger
I come here this mornin' to see you. Savve? I didn't come here
to get no laundry. I come a 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 wayI'll punch
your head. An for old friends' sake I'll punch it hard. Savve? you
willwill you?"


Joe had clinched and attempted to throw himand he was twisting
and writhing out of the advantage of the other's hold. They reeled
about the roomlocked in each other's armsand came down with a
crash across the splintered wreckage of a wicker chair. Joe was
underneathwith 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 maila 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 downbut I guess I was mistaken. But you can't lick meMart
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
himand the effort of conversation irritated him. They made him
restlessand 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 mailand for a half hour he
lolled in his chairdoing nothingwhile no more than vaguehalfformed
thoughts occasionally filtered through his intelligenceor
ratherat wide intervalsthemselves 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 motionand
the man who demonstrated that the surface of the earth was the
inside of a hollow sphereto 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 himand over one such he smiledfor enclosed was her receipt
for pew-rentsent 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 manuscriptsthe 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 find
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 booksand informed him that Swedish editionsfrom
which he could expect nothing because Sweden was not a party to the


Berne Conventionwere already on the market. Then there was a
nominal request for his permission for a Russian translationthat
country being likewise outside the Berne Convention.

He turned to the huge bundle of clippings which had come in from
his press bureauand read about himself and his voguewhich 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 feetthe way Kipling hadthat
time when he lay near to death and all the mobanimated by a mobmind
thoughtbegan suddenly to read him. Martin remembered how
that same world-mobhaving read him and acclaimed him and not
understood him in the leasthadabruptlya 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? Wellhe would fool the mob. He would be away
in the South Seasbuilding his grass housetrading for pearls and
coprajumping reefs in frail outriggerscatching sharks and
bonitashunting 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 sawcleared eyedthat he was in the Valley
of the Shadow. All the life that was in him was fadingfainting
making toward death.

He realized how much he sleptand how much he desired to sleep.
Of oldhe 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 tangand 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 himand he knew he must get
away. He glanced about the roomand 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 outstopping in at a gun-storewhere
he spent the remainder of the morning buying automatic rifles
ammunitionand fishing tackle. Fashions changed in tradingand
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 somethingand the doing of anything just now was unpleasant.
He went back to the hotel gladlywith a feeling of satisfaction in
that the comfortable Morris chair was waiting for him; and he
groaned inwardlyon entering his roomat sight of Joe in the
Morris chair.

Joe was delighted with the laundry. Everything was settledand he
would enter into possession next day. Martin lay on the bedwith
closed eyeswhile 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 Joewhom 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 togetherhe 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 aloudand Martin approvedworrying 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 Joehe
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. Oncewhen the instinct of
preservation flutteredhe 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
organso far as the doctor could knowwas 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 wrongand there was no cure for that except to get away to
the South Seas. The trouble was that nowon the verge of
departurehe had no desire to go. The South Seas charmed him no
more than did bourgeois civilization. There was no zest in the
thought of departurewhile 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 papersBernard HigginbothamGertrudeand all the family
came to say good-byas did Hermann von Schmidt and Marian. Then
there was business to be transactedbills to be paidand
everlasting reporters to be endured. He said good-by to Lizzie
Connollyabruptlyat the entrance to night schooland hurried
away. At the hotel he found Joetoo busy all day with the laundry
to have come to him earlier. It was the last strawbut Martin
gripped the arms of his chair and talked and listened for half an
hour.

You know, Joe,he saidthat 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 smilebut 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 Mariposaat the sailing hourhe saw Lizzie
Connolly hiding in the skirts of the crowd on the wharf. Take her
with youcame the thought. It is easy to be kind. She will be
supremely happy. It was almost a temptation one momentand 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 groanmutteringMan, you are too sick,
you are too sick.

He fled to his stateroomwhere he lurked until the steamer was
clear of the dock. In the dining saloonat luncheonhe found
himself in the place of honorat 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-chairwith closed eyesdozing brokenly most
of the timeand in the evening went early to bed.

After the second dayrecovered from seasicknessthe full
passenger list was in evidenceand 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 peoplehe forced himself to
acknowledgeand in the moment of acknowledgment he qualified good
and kindly like all the bourgeoisiewith all the
psychological cramp and intellectual futility of their kindthey
bored him when they talked with himtheir 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 quietceaselessly playing deck-quoitstossing rings
promenadingor 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 aboutandpuzzlingdozed
in his chair. When the gong awoke him for luncheonhe was
irritated that he must awaken. There was no satisfaction in being
awake.

Oncehe tried to arouse himself from his lethargyand 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-facedoxminded
bestial creatures. He was in despair. Up above nobody had
wanted Martin Eden for his own sakeand 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 strongwhite 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 forecastlethe
steerageor in the black depths of the coal-holdpassing coal.
In those daysclimbing up the iron ladders out the pit of stifling
heathe had often caught glimpses of the passengersin cool
whitedoing nothing but enjoy themselvesunder awnings spread to
keep the sun and wind away from themwith subservient stewards
taking care of their every want and whimand it had seemed to him
that the realm in which they moved and had their being was nothing
else than paradise. Wellhere he wasthe great man on boardin
the midmost centre of itsitting at the captain's right handand
yet vainly harking back to forecastle and stoke-hole in quest of
the Paradise he had lost. He had found no new oneand now he
could not find the old one.

He strove to stir himself and find something to interest him. He
ventured the petty officers' messand was glad to get away. He
talked with a quartermaster off dutyan 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-moralityand as he listenedhe 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
quicklyand he was content to go back to his chair and doze.

Miserable as he was on the steamera new misery came upon him.
What when the steamer reached Tahiti? He would have to go ashore.
He would have to order his trade-goodsto find a passage on a
schooner to the Marquesasto do a thousand and one things that
were awful to contemplate. Whenever he steeled himself
deliberately to thinkhe could see the desperate peril in which he
stood. In all truthhe was in the Valley of the Shadowand his
danger lay in that he was not afraid. If he were only afraidhe
would make toward life. Being unafraidhe was drifting deeper
into the shadow. He found no delight in the old familiar things of
life. The Mariposa was now in the northeast tradesand this wine
of windsurging against himirritated 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 doldrumsMartin was more
miserable than ever. He could no longer sleep. He was soaked with
sleepand perforce he must now stay awake and endure the white
glare of life. He moved about restlessly. The air was sticky and
humidand the rain-squalls were unrefreshing. He ached with life.
He walked around the deck until that hurt too muchthen sat in his
chair until he was compelled to walk again. He forced himself at
last to finish the magazineand from the steamer library he culled
several volumes of poetry. But they could not hold himand once
more he took to walking.

He stayed late on deckafter dinnerbut that did not help him
for when he went belowhe 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 bedglancing through its pagesuntil suddenly he became


aware that he was reading with interest. He finished the stanza
attempted to read onthen 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 timeand now Swinburne showed him that it was the happy way
out. He wanted restand here was rest awaiting him. He glanced
at the open port-hole. Yesit 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 illorratherit 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 wearinessdeath 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-holelooking down into
the milky wash. The Mariposa was deeply loadedandhanging by
his handshis 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 lipsand the taste was
good. He wondered if he ought to write a swan-songbut 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 stuckand he
forced himself back so as to try it with one arm down by his side.
A roll of the steamer aided himand he was throughhanging by his
hands. When his feet touched the seahe let go. He was in a
milky froth of water. The side of the Mariposa rushed past him
like a dark wallbroken here and there by lighted ports. She was
certainly making time. Almost before he knew ithe was astern
swimming gently on the foam-crackling surface.


A bonita struck at his white bodyand he laughed aloud. It had
taken a piece outand 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 distanceand there
he wasswimming confidentlyas 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 swimmingbut the
moment he felt the water rising above his mouth the hands struck
out sharply with a lifting movement. The will to livewas his
thoughtand the thought was accompanied by a sneer. Wellhe had
will- aywill 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 starsat the same time emptying his lungs of air. With
swiftvigorous propulsion of hands and feethe 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
movementa white statueinto the sea. He breathed in the water
deeplydeliberatelyafter the manner of a man taking an
anaesthetic. When he strangledquite 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 livehe thought disdainfullyvainly endeavoring not
to breathe the air into his bursting lungs. Wellhe would have to
try a new way. He filled his lungs with airfilled them full.
This supply would take him far down. He turned over and went down
head firstswimming with all his strength and all his will.
Deeper and deeper he went. His eyes were openand he watched the
ghostlyphosphorescent trails of the darting bonita. As he swam
he hoped that they would not strike at himfor it might snap the
tension of his will. But they did not strikeand he found time to
be grateful for this last kindness of life.

Downdownhe swam till his arms and leg grew tired and hardly
moved. He knew that he was deep. The pressure on his ear-drums
was a painand there was a buzzing in his head. His endurance was
falteringbut 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 deathwas the
thought that oscillated through his reeling consciousness. Death
did not hurt. It was lifethe pangs of lifethis 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 flashingbright white
light. It flashed swifter and swifter. There was a long rumble of
soundand 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 knewhe ceased to know.