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Martin Eden

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<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> It was not because of Olney, but in spite of Ruth, and his love for Ruth, that he finally decided not to take up Latin.  His money meant time.  There was so much that was more important than Latin, so many studies that clamored with imperious voices.  And he must write.  He must earn money.  He had had no acceptances.  Twoscore of manuscripts were travelling the endless round of the magazines.  How did the others do it?  He spent long hours in the free reading-room, going over what others had written, studying their work eagerly and critically, comparing it with his own, and wondering, wondering, about the secret trick they had discovered which enabled them to sell their work. He was amazed at the immense amount of printed stuff that was dead.  No light, no life, no color, was shot through it.  There was no breath of life in it, and yet it sold, at two cents a word, twenty dollars a thousand—the newspaper clipping had said so.  He was puzzled by countless short stories, written lightly and cleverly he confessed, but without vitality or reality.  Life was so strange and wonderful, filled with an immensity of problems, of dreams, and of heroic toils, and yet these stories dealt only with the commonplaces of life.  He felt the stress and strain of life, its fevers and sweats and wild insurgences—surely this was the stuff to write about!  He wanted to glorify the leaders of forlorn hopes, the mad lovers, the giants that fought under stress and strain, amid terror and tragedy, making life crackle with the strength of their endeavor.  And yet the magazine short stories seemed intent on glorifying the Mr. Butlers, the sordid dollar-chasers, and the commonplace little love affairs of commonplace little men and women.  Was it because the editors of the magazines were commonplace? he demanded.  Or were they afraid of life, these writers and editors and readers? But his chief trouble was that he did not know any editors or writers.  And not merely did he not know any writers, but he did not know anybody who had ever attempted to write.  There was nobody to tell him, to hint to him, to give him the least word of advice.  He began to doubt that editors were real men.  They seemed cogs in a machine.  That was what it was, a machine.  He poured his soul into stories, articles, and poems, and intrusted them to the machine.  He folded them just so, put the proper stamps inside the long envelope along with the manuscript, sealed the envelope, put more stamps outside, and dropped it into the mail-box.  It travelled across the continent, and after a certain lapse of time the postman returned him the manuscript in another long envelope, on the outside of which were the stamps he had enclosed.  There was no human editor at the other end, but a mere cunning arrangement of cogs that changed the manuscript from one envelope to another and stuck on the stamps.  It was like the slot machines wherein one dropped pennies, and, with a metallic whirl of machinery had delivered to him a stick of chewing-gum or a tablet of chocolate.  It depended upon which slot one dropped the penny in, whether he got chocolate or gum.  And so with the editorial machine.  One slot brought checks and the other brought rejection slips.  So far he had found only the latter slot. It was the rejection slips that completed the horrible machinelikeness of the process.  These slips were printed in stereotyped forms and he had received hundreds of them—as many as a dozen or more on each of his earlier manuscripts.  If he had received one line, one personal line, along with one rejection of all his rejections, he would have been cheered.  But not one editor had given that proof of existence.  And he could conclude only that there were no warm human men at the other end, only mere cogs, well oiled and running beautifully in the machine. He was a good fighter, whole-souled and stubborn, and he would have been content to continue feeding the machine for years; but he was bleeding to death, and not years but weeks would determine the fight.  Each week his board bill brought him nearer destruction, while the postage on forty manuscripts bled him almost as severely.  He no longer bought books, and he economized in petty ways and sought to delay the inevitable end; though he did not know how to economize, and brought the end nearer by a week when he gave his sister Marian five dollars for a dress. He struggled in the dark, without advice, without encouragement, and in the teeth of discouragement.  Even Gertrude was beginning to look askance.  At first she had tolerated with sisterly fondness what she conceived to be his foolishness; but now, out of sisterly solicitude, she grew anxious.  To her it seemed that his foolishness was becoming a madness.  Martin knew this and suffered more keenly from it than from the open and nagging contempt of Bernard Higginbotham.  Martin had faith in himself, but he was alone in this faith.  Not even Ruth had faith.  She had wanted him to devote himself to study, and, though she had not openly disapproved of his writing, she had never approved. He had never offered to show her his work.  A fastidious delicacy had prevented him.  Besides, she had been studying heavily at the university, and he felt averse to robbing her of her time.  But when she had taken her degree, she asked him herself to let her see something of what he had been doing.  Martin was elated and diffident.  Here was a judge.  She was a bachelor of arts.  She had studied literature under skilled instructors.  Perhaps the editors were capable judges, too.  But she would be different from them.  She would not hand him a stereotyped rejection slip, nor would she inform him that lack of preference for his work did not necessarily imply lack of merit in his work.  She would talk, a warm human being, in her quick, bright way, and, most important of all, she would catch glimpses of the real Martin Eden.  In his work she would discern what his heart and soul were like, and she would come to understand something, a little something, of the stuff of his dreams and the strength of his power. Martin gathered together a number of carbon copies of his short stories, hesitated a moment, then added his “Sea Lyrics.”  They mounted their wheels on a late June afternoon and rode for the hills.  It was the second time he had been out with her alone, and as they rode along through the balmy warmth, just chilled by she sea-breeze to refreshing coolness, he was profoundly impressed by the fact that it was a very beautiful and well-ordered world and that it was good to be alive and to love.  They left their wheels by the roadside and climbed to the brown top of an open knoll where the sunburnt grass breathed a harvest breath of dry sweetness and content. “Its work is done,” Martin said, as they seated themselves, she upon his coat, and he sprawling close to the warm earth.  He sniffed the sweetness of the tawny grass, which entered his brain and set his thoughts whirling on from the particular to the universal.  “It has achieved its reason for existence,” he went on, patting the dry grass affectionately.  “It quickened with ambition under the dreary downpour of last winter, fought the violent early spring, flowered, and lured the insects and the bees, scattered its seeds, squared itself with its duty and the world, and—” “Why do you always look at things with such dreadfully practical eyes?” she interrupted. “Because I’ve been studying evolution, I guess.  It’s only recently that I got my eyesight, if the truth were told.” “But it seems to me you lose sight of beauty by being so practical, that you destroy beauty like the boys who catch butterflies and rub the down off their beautiful wings.” He shook his head. “Beauty has significance, but I never knew its significance before.  I just accepted beauty as something meaningless, as something that was just beautiful without rhyme or reason.  I did not know anything about beauty.  But now I know, or, rather, am just beginning to know.  This grass is more beautiful to me now that I know why it is grass, and all the hidden chemistry of sun and rain and earth that makes it become grass.  Why, there is romance in the life-history of any grass, yes, and adventure, too.  The very thought of it stirs me.  When I think of the play of force and matter, and all the tremendous struggle of it, I feel as if I could write an epic on the grass. “How well you talk,” she said absently, and he noted that she was looking at him in a searching way. He was all confusion and embarrassment on the instant, the blood flushing red on his neck and brow. “I hope I am learning to talk,” he stammered.  “There seems to be so much in me I want to say.  But it is all so big.  I can’t find ways to say what is really in me.  Sometimes it seems to me that all the world, all life, everything, had taken up residence inside of me and was clamoring for me to be the spokesman.  I feel—oh, I can’t describe it—I feel the bigness of it, but when I speak, I babble like a little child.  It is a great task to transmute feeling and sensation into speech, written or spoken, that will, in turn, in him who reads or listens, transmute itself back into the selfsame feeling and sensation.  It is a lordly task.  See, I bury my face in the grass, and the breath I draw in through my nostrils sets me quivering with a thousand thoughts and fancies.  It is a breath of the universe I have breathed.  I know song and laughter, and success and pain, and struggle and death; and I see visions that arise in my brain somehow out of the scent of the grass, and I would like to tell them to you, to the world.  But how can I?  My tongue is tied.  I have tried, by the spoken word, just now, to describe to you the effect on me of the scent of the grass.  But I have not succeeded.  I have no more than hinted in awkward speech.  My words seem gibberish to me.  And yet I am stifled with desire to tell.  Oh!—” he threw up his hands with a despairing gesture—“it is impossible!  It is not understandable!  It is incommunicable!” “But you do talk well,” she insisted.  “Just think how you have improved in the short time I have known you.  Mr. Butler is a noted public speaker.  He is always asked by the State Committee to go out on stump during campaign.  Yet you talked just as well as he the other night at dinner.  Only he was more controlled.  You get too excited; but you will get over that with practice.  Why, you would make a good public speaker.  You can go far—if you want to.  You are masterly.  You can lead men, I am sure, and there is no reason why you should not succeed at anything you set your hand to, just as you have succeeded with grammar.  You would make a good lawyer.  You should shine in politics.  There is nothing to prevent you from making as great a success as Mr. Butler has made.  And minus the dyspepsia,” she added with a smile. They talked on; she, in her gently persistent way, returning always to the need of thorough grounding in education and to the advantages of Latin as part of the foundation for any career.  She drew her ideal of the successful man, and it was largely in her father’s image, with a few unmistakable lines and touches of color from the image of Mr. Butler.  He listened eagerly, with receptive ears, lying on his back and looking up and joying in each movement of her lips as she talked.  But his brain was not receptive.  There was nothing alluring in the pictures she drew, and he was aware of a dull pain of disappointment and of a sharper ache of love for her.  In all she said there was no mention of his writing, and the manuscripts he had brought to read lay neglected on the ground. At last, in a pause, he glanced at the sun, measured its height above the horizon, and suggested his manuscripts by picking them up. “I had forgotten,” she said quickly.  “And I am so anxious to hear.” He read to her a story, one that he flattered himself was among his very best.  He called it “The Wine of Life,” and the wine of it, that had stolen into his brain when he wrote it, stole into his brain now as he read it.  There was a certain magic in the original conception, and he had adorned it with more magic of phrase and touch.  All the old fire and passion with which he had written it were reborn in him, and he was swayed and swept away so that he was blind and deaf to the faults of it.  But it was not so with Ruth.  Her trained ear detected the weaknesses and exaggerations, the overemphasis of the tyro, and she was instantly aware each time the sentence-rhythm tripped and faltered.  She scarcely noted the rhythm otherwise, except when it became too pompous, at which moments she was disagreeably impressed with its amateurishness.  That was her final judgment on the story as a whole—amateurish, though she did not tell him so.  Instead, when he had done, she pointed out the minor flaws and said that she liked the story. But he was disappointed.  Her criticism was just.  He acknowledged that, but he had a feeling that he was not sharing his work with her for the purpose of schoolroom correction.  The details did not matter.  They could take care of themselves.  He could mend them, he could learn to mend them.  Out of life he had captured something big and attempted to imprison it in the story.  It was the big thing out of life he had read to her, not sentence-structure and semicolons.  He wanted her to feel with him this big thing that was his, that he had seen with his own eyes, grappled with his own brain, and placed there on the page with his own hands in printed words.  Well, he had failed, was his secret decision.  Perhaps the editors were right.  He had felt the big thing, but he had failed to transmute it.  He concealed his disappointment, and joined so easily with her in her criticism that she did not realize that deep down in him was running a strong undercurrent of disagreement. “This next thing I’ve called ‘The Pot’,” he said, unfolding the manuscript.  “It has been refused by four or five magazines now, but still I think it is good.  In fact, I don’t know what to think of it, except that I’ve caught something there.  Maybe it won’t affect you as it does me.  It’s a short thing—only two thousand words.” “How dreadful!” she cried, when he had finished.  “It is horrible, unutterably horrible!” He noted her pale face, her eyes wide and tense, and her clenched hands, with secret satisfaction.  He had succeeded.  He had communicated the stuff of fancy and feeling from out of his brain.  It had struck home.  No matter whether she liked it or not, it had gripped her and mastered her, made her sit there and listen and forget details. “It is life,” he said, “and life is not always beautiful.  And yet, perhaps because I am strangely made, I find something beautiful there.  It seems to me that the beauty is tenfold enhanced because it is there—” “But why couldn’t the poor woman—” she broke in disconnectedly.  Then she left the revolt of her thought unexpressed to cry out: “Oh!  It is degrading!  It is not nice!  It is nasty!” For the moment it seemed to him that his heart stood still.  Nasty!  He had never dreamed it.  He had not meant it.  The whole sketch stood before him in letters of fire, and in such blaze of illumination he sought vainly for nastiness.  Then his heart began to beat again.  He was not guilty. “Why didn’t you select a nice subject?” she was saying.  “We know there are nasty things in the world, but that is no reason—” She talked on in her indignant strain, but he was not following her.  He was smiling to himself as he looked up into her virginal face, so innocent, so penetratingly innocent, that its purity seemed always to enter into him, driving out of him all dross and bathing him in some ethereal effulgence that was as cool and soft and velvety as starshine.  We know there are nasty things in the world!  He cuddled to him the notion of her knowing, and chuckled over it as a love joke.  The next moment, in a flashing vision of multitudinous detail, he sighted the whole sea of life’s nastiness that he had known and voyaged over and through, and he forgave her for not understanding the story.  It was through no fault of hers that she could not understand.  He thanked God that she had been born and sheltered to such innocence.  But he knew life, its foulness as well as its fairness, its greatness in spite of the slime that infested it, and by God he was going to have his say on it to the world.  Saints in heaven—how could they be anything but fair and pure?  No praise to them.  But saints in slime—ah, that was the everlasting wonder!  That was what made life worth while.  To see moral grandeur rising out of cesspools of iniquity; to rise himself and first glimpse beauty, faint and far, through mud-dripping eyes; to see out of weakness, and frailty, and viciousness, and all abysmal brutishness, arising strength, and truth, and high spiritual endowment— He caught a stray sequence of sentences she was uttering. “The tone of it all is low.  And there is so much that is high.  Take ‘In Memoriam.’” He was impelled to suggest “Locksley Hall,” and would have done so, had not his vision gripped him again and left him staring at her, the female of his kind, who, out of the primordial ferment, creeping and crawling up the vast ladder of life for a thousand thousand centuries, had emerged on the topmost rung, having become one Ruth, pure, and fair, and divine, and with power to make him know love, and to aspire toward purity, and to desire to taste divinity—him, Martin Eden, who, too, had come up in some amazing fashion from out of the ruck and the mire and the countless mistakes and abortions of unending creation.  There was the romance, and the wonder, and the glory.  There was the stuff to write, if he could only find speech.  Saints in heaven!—They were only saints and could not help themselves.  But he was a man. “You have strength,” he could hear her saying, “but it is untutored strength.” “Like a bull in a china shop,” he suggested, and won a smile. “And you must develop discrimination.  You must consult taste, and fineness, and tone.” “I dare too much,” he muttered. She smiled approbation, and settled herself to listen to another story. “I don’t know what you’ll make of this,” he said apologetically.  “It’s a funny thing.  I’m afraid I got beyond my depth in it, but my intentions were good.  Don’t bother about the little features of it.  Just see if you catch the feel of the big thing in it.  It is big, and it is true, though the chance is large that I have failed to make it intelligible.” He read, and as he read he watched her.  At last he had reached her, he thought.  She sat without movement, her eyes steadfast upon him, scarcely breathing, caught up and out of herself, he thought, by the witchery of the thing he had created.  He had entitled the story “Adventure,” and it was the apotheosis of adventure—not of the adventure of the storybooks, but of real adventure, the savage taskmaster, awful of punishment and awful of reward, faithless and whimsical, demanding terrible patience and heartbreaking days and nights of toil, offering the blazing sunlight glory or dark death at the end of thirst and famine or of the long drag and monstrous delirium of rotting fever, through blood and sweat and stinging insects leading up by long chains of petty and ignoble contacts to royal culminations and lordly achievements. It was this, all of it, and more, that he had put into his story, and it was this, he believed, that warmed her as she sat and listened.  Her eyes were wide, color was in her pale cheeks, and before he finished it seemed to him that she was almost panting.  Truly, she was warmed; but she was warmed, not by the story, but by him.  She did not think much of the story; it was Martin’s intensity of power, the old excess of strength that seemed to pour from his body and on and over her.  The paradox of it was that it was the story itself that was freighted with his power, that was the channel, for the time being, through which his strength poured out to her.  She was aware only of the strength, and not of the medium, and when she seemed most carried away by what he had written, in reality she had been carried away by something quite foreign to it—by a thought, terrible and perilous, that had formed itself unsummoned in her brain.  She had caught herself wondering what marriage was like, and the becoming conscious of the waywardness and ardor of the thought had terrified her.  It was unmaidenly.  It was not like her.  She had never been tormented by womanhood, and she had lived in a dreamland of Tennysonian poesy, dense even to the full significance of that delicate master’s delicate allusions to the grossnesses that intrude upon the relations of queens and knights.  She had been asleep, always, and now life was thundering imperatively at all her doors.  Mentally she was in a panic to shoot the bolts and drop the bars into place, while wanton instincts urged her to throw wide her portals and bid the deliciously strange visitor to enter in. Martin waited with satisfaction for her verdict.  He had no doubt of what it would be, and he was astounded when he heard her say: “It is beautiful.” “It is beautiful,” she repeated, with emphasis, after a pause. Of course it was beautiful; but there was something more than mere beauty in it, something more stingingly splendid which had made beauty its handmaiden.  He sprawled silently on the ground, watching the grisly form of a great doubt rising before him.  He had failed.  He was inarticulate.  He had seen one of the greatest things in the world, and he had not expressed it. “What did you think of the—”  He hesitated, abashed at his first attempt to use a strange word.  “Of the motif?” he asked. “It was confused,” she answered.  “That is my only criticism in the large way.  I followed the story, but there seemed so much else.  It is too wordy.  You clog the action by introducing so much extraneous material.” “That was the major motif,” he hurriedly explained, “the big underrunning motif, the cosmic and universal thing.  I tried to make it keep time with the story itself, which was only superficial after all.  I was on the right scent, but I guess I did it badly.  I did not succeed in suggesting what I was driving at.  But I’ll learn in time.” She did not follow him.  She was a bachelor of arts, but he had gone beyond her limitations.  This she did not comprehend, attributing her incomprehension to his incoherence. “You were too voluble,” she said.  “But it was beautiful, in places.” He heard her voice as from far off, for he was debating whether he would read her the “Sea Lyrics.”  He lay in dull despair, while she watched him searchingly, pondering again upon unsummoned and wayward thoughts of marriage. “You want to be famous?” she asked abruptly. “Yes, a little bit,” he confessed.  “That is part of the adventure.  It is not the being famous, but the process of becoming so, that counts.  And after all, to be famous would be, for me, only a means to something else.  I want to be famous very much, for that matter, and for that reason.” “For your sake,” he wanted to add, and might have added had she proved enthusiastic over what he had read to her. But she was too busy in her mind, carving out a career for him that would at least be possible, to ask what the ultimate something was which he had hinted at.  There was no career for him in literature.  Of that she was convinced.  He had proved it to-day, with his amateurish and sophomoric productions.  He could talk well, but he was incapable of expressing himself in a literary way.  She compared Tennyson, and Browning, and her favorite prose masters with him, and to his hopeless discredit.  Yet she did not tell him her whole mind.  Her strange interest in him led her to temporize.  His desire to write was, after all, a little weakness which he would grow out of in time.  Then he would devote himself to the more serious affairs of life.  And he would succeed, too.  She knew that.  He was so strong that he could not fail—if only he would drop writing. “I wish you would show me all you write, Mr. Eden,” she said. He flushed with pleasure.  She was interested, that much was sure.  And at least she had not given him a rejection slip.  She had called certain portions of his work beautiful, and that was the first encouragement he had ever received from any one. “I will,” he said passionately.  “And I promise you, Miss Morse, that I will make good.  I have come far, I know that; and I have far to go, and I will cover it if I have to do it on my hands and knees.”  He held up a bunch of manuscript.  “Here are the ‘Sea Lyrics.’  When you get home, I’ll turn them over to you to read at your leisure.  And you must be sure to tell me just what you think of them.  What I need, you know, above all things, is criticism.  And do, please, be frank with me.” “I will be perfectly frank,” she promised, with an uneasy conviction that she had not been frank with him and with a doubt if she could be quite frank with him the next time. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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