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Martin Eden

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<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> Maria Silva was poor, and all the ways of poverty were clear to her.  Poverty, to Ruth, was a word signifying a not-nice condition of existence.  That was her total knowledge on the subject.  She knew Martin was poor, and his condition she associated in her mind with the boyhood of Abraham Lincoln, of Mr. Butler, and of other men who had become successes.  Also, while aware that poverty was anything but delectable, she had a comfortable middle-class feeling that poverty was salutary, that it was a sharp spur that urged on to success all men who were not degraded and hopeless drudges.  So that her knowledge that Martin was so poor that he had pawned his watch and overcoat did not disturb her.  She even considered it the hopeful side of the situation, believing that sooner or later it would arouse him and compel him to abandon his writing. Ruth never read hunger in Martin’s face, which had grown lean and had enlarged the slight hollows in the cheeks.  In fact, she marked the change in his face with satisfaction.  It seemed to refine him, to remove from him much of the dross of flesh and the too animal-like vigor that lured her while she detested it.  Sometimes, when with her, she noted an unusual brightness in his eyes, and she admired it, for it made him appear more the poet and the scholar—the things he would have liked to be and which she would have liked him to be.  But Maria Silva read a different tale in the hollow cheeks and the burning eyes, and she noted the changes in them from day to day, by them following the ebb and flow of his fortunes.  She saw him leave the house with his overcoat and return without it, though the day was chill and raw, and promptly she saw his cheeks fill out slightly and the fire of hunger leave his eyes.  In the same way she had seen his wheel and watch go, and after each event she had seen his vigor bloom again. Likewise she watched his toils, and knew the measure of the midnight oil he burned.  Work!  She knew that he outdid her, though his work was of a different order.  And she was surprised to behold that the less food he had, the harder he worked.  On occasion, in a casual sort of way, when she thought hunger pinched hardest, she would send him in a loaf of new baking, awkwardly covering the act with banter to the effect that it was better than he could bake.  And again, she would send one of her toddlers in to him with a great pitcher of hot soup, debating inwardly the while whether she was justified in taking it from the mouths of her own flesh and blood.  Nor was Martin ungrateful, knowing as he did the lives of the poor, and that if ever in the world there was charity, this was it. On a day when she had filled her brood with what was left in the house, Maria invested her last fifteen cents in a gallon of cheap wine.  Martin, coming into her kitchen to fetch water, was invited to sit down and drink.  He drank her very-good health, and in return she drank his.  Then she drank to prosperity in his undertakings, and he drank to the hope that James Grant would show up and pay her for his washing.  James Grant was a journeymen carpenter who did not always pay his bills and who owed Maria three dollars. Both Maria and Martin drank the sour new wine on empty stomachs, and it went swiftly to their heads.  Utterly differentiated creatures that they were, they were lonely in their misery, and though the misery was tacitly ignored, it was the bond that drew them together.  Maria was amazed to learn that he had been in the Azores, where she had lived until she was eleven.  She was doubly amazed that he had been in the Hawaiian Islands, whither she had migrated from the Azores with her people.  But her amazement passed all bounds when he told her he had been on Maui, the particular island whereon she had attained womanhood and married.  Kahului, where she had first met her husband,—he, Martin, had been there twice!  Yes, she remembered the sugar steamers, and he had been on them—well, well, it was a small world.  And Wailuku!  That place, too!  Did he know the head-luna of the plantation?  Yes, and had had a couple of drinks with him. And so they reminiscenced and drowned their hunger in the raw, sour wine.  To Martin the future did not seem so dim.  Success trembled just before him.  He was on the verge of clasping it.  Then he studied the deep-lined face of the toil-worn woman before him, remembered her soups and loaves of new baking, and felt spring up in him the warmest gratitude and philanthropy. “Maria,” he exclaimed suddenly.  “What would you like to have?” She looked at him, bepuzzled. “What would you like to have now, right now, if you could get it?” “Shoe alla da roun’ for da childs—seven pairs da shoe.” “You shall have them,” he announced, while she nodded her head gravely.  “But I mean a big wish, something big that you want.” Her eyes sparkled good-naturedly.  He was choosing to make fun with her, Maria, with whom few made fun these days. “Think hard,” he cautioned, just as she was opening her mouth to speak. “Alla right,” she answered.  “I thinka da hard.  I lika da house, dis house—all mine, no paya da rent, seven dollar da month.” “You shall have it,” he granted, “and in a short time.  Now wish the great wish.  Make believe I am God, and I say to you anything you want you can have.  Then you wish that thing, and I listen.” Maria considered solemnly for a space. “You no ’fraid?” she asked warningly. “No, no,” he laughed, “I’m not afraid.  Go ahead.” “Most verra big,” she warned again. “All right.  Fire away.” “Well, den—”  She drew a big breath like a child, as she voiced to the uttermost all she cared to demand of life.  “I lika da have one milka ranch—good milka ranch.  Plenty cow, plenty land, plenty grass.  I lika da have near San Le-an; my sister liva dere.  I sella da milk in Oakland.  I maka da plentee mon.  Joe an’ Nick no runna da cow.  Dey go-a to school.  Bimeby maka da good engineer, worka da railroad.  Yes, I lika da milka ranch.” She paused and regarded Martin with twinkling eyes. “You shall have it,” he answered promptly. She nodded her head and touched her lips courteously to the wine-glass and to the giver of the gift she knew would never be given.  His heart was right, and in her own heart she appreciated his intention as much as if the gift had gone with it. “No, Maria,” he went on; “Nick and Joe won’t have to peddle milk, and all the kids can go to school and wear shoes the whole year round.  It will be a first-class milk ranch—everything complete.  There will be a house to live in and a stable for the horses, and cow-barns, of course.  There will be chickens, pigs, vegetables, fruit trees, and everything like that; and there will be enough cows to pay for a hired man or two.  Then you won’t have anything to do but take care of the children.  For that matter, if you find a good man, you can marry and take it easy while he runs the ranch.” And from such largess, dispensed from his future, Martin turned and took his one good suit of clothes to the pawnshop.  His plight was desperate for him to do this, for it cut him off from Ruth.  He had no second-best suit that was presentable, and though he could go to the butcher and the baker, and even on occasion to his sister’s, it was beyond all daring to dream of entering the Morse home so disreputably apparelled. He toiled on, miserable and well-nigh hopeless.  It began to appear to him that the second battle was lost and that he would have to go to work.  In doing this he would satisfy everybody—the grocer, his sister, Ruth, and even Maria, to whom he owed a month’s room rent.  He was two months behind with his type-writer, and the agency was clamoring for payment or for the return of the machine.  In desperation, all but ready to surrender, to make a truce with fate until he could get a fresh start, he took the civil service examinations for the Railway Mail.  To his surprise, he passed first.  The job was assured, though when the call would come to enter upon his duties nobody knew. It was at this time, at the lowest ebb, that the smooth-running editorial machine broke down.  A cog must have slipped or an oil-cup run dry, for the postman brought him one morning a short, thin envelope.  Martin glanced at the upper left-hand corner and read the name and address of the Transcontinental Monthly.  His heart gave a great leap, and he suddenly felt faint, the sinking feeling accompanied by a strange trembling of the knees.  He staggered into his room and sat down on the bed, the envelope still unopened, and in that moment came understanding to him how people suddenly fall dead upon receipt of extraordinarily good news. Of course this was good news.  There was no manuscript in that thin envelope, therefore it was an acceptance.  He knew the story in the hands of the Transcontinental.  It was “The Ring of Bells,” one of his horror stories, and it was an even five thousand words.  And, since first-class magazines always paid on acceptance, there was a check inside.  Two cents a word—twenty dollars a thousand; the check must be a hundred dollars.  One hundred dollars!  As he tore the envelope open, every item of all his debts surged in his brain—$3.85 to the grocer; butcher $4.00 flat; baker, $2.00; fruit store, $5.00; total, $14.85.  Then there was room rent, $2.50; another month in advance, $2.50; two months’ type-writer, $8.00; a month in advance, $4.00; total, $31.85.  And finally to be added, his pledges, plus interest, with the pawnbroker—watch, $5.50; overcoat, $5.50; wheel, $7.75; suit of clothes, $5.50 (60 % interest, but what did it matter?)—grand total, $56.10.  He saw, as if visible in the air before him, in illuminated figures, the whole sum, and the subtraction that followed and that gave a remainder of $43.90.  When he had squared every debt, redeemed every pledge, he would still have jingling in his pockets a princely $43.90.  And on top of that he would have a month’s rent paid in advance on the type-writer and on the room. By this time he had drawn the single sheet of type-written letter out and spread it open.  There was no check.  He peered into the envelope, held it to the light, but could not trust his eyes, and in trembling haste tore the envelope apart.  There was no check.  He read the letter, skimming it line by line, dashing through the editor’s praise of his story to the meat of the letter, the statement why the check had not been sent.  He found no such statement, but he did find that which made him suddenly wilt.  The letter slid from his hand.  His eyes went lack-lustre, and he lay back on the pillow, pulling the blanket about him and up to his chin. Five dollars for “The Ring of Bells”—five dollars for five thousand words!  Instead of two cents a word, ten words for a cent!  And the editor had praised it, too.  And he would receive the check when the story was published.  Then it was all poppycock, two cents a word for minimum rate and payment upon acceptance.  It was a lie, and it had led him astray.  He would never have attempted to write had he known that.  He would have gone to work—to work for Ruth.  He went back to the day he first attempted to write, and was appalled at the enormous waste of time—and all for ten words for a cent.  And the other high rewards of writers, that he had read about, must be lies, too.  His second-hand ideas of authorship were wrong, for here was the proof of it. The Transcontinental sold for twenty-five cents, and its dignified and artistic cover proclaimed it as among the first-class magazines.  It was a staid, respectable magazine, and it had been published continuously since long before he was born.  Why, on the outside cover were printed every month the words of one of the world’s great writers, words proclaiming the inspired mission of the Transcontinental by a star of literature whose first coruscations had appeared inside those self-same covers.  And the high and lofty, heaven-inspired Transcontinental paid five dollars for five thousand words!  The great writer had recently died in a foreign land—in dire poverty, Martin remembered, which was not to be wondered at, considering the magnificent pay authors receive. Well, he had taken the bait, the newspaper lies about writers and their pay, and he had wasted two years over it.  But he would disgorge the bait now.  Not another line would he ever write.  He would do what Ruth wanted him to do, what everybody wanted him to do—get a job.  The thought of going to work reminded him of Joe—Joe, tramping through the land of nothing-to-do.  Martin heaved a great sigh of envy.  The reaction of nineteen hours a day for many days was strong upon him.  But then, Joe was not in love, had none of the responsibilities of love, and he could afford to loaf through the land of nothing-to-do.  He, Martin, had something to work for, and go to work he would.  He would start out early next morning to hunt a job.  And he would let Ruth know, too, that he had mended his ways and was willing to go into her father’s office. Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, the market price for art.  The disappointment of it, the lie of it, the infamy of it, were uppermost in his thoughts; and under his closed eyelids, in fiery figures, burned the “$3.85” he owed the grocer.  He shivered, and was aware of an aching in his bones.  The small of his back ached especially.  His head ached, the top of it ached, the back of it ached, the brains inside of it ached and seemed to be swelling, while the ache over his brows was intolerable.  And beneath the brows, planted under his lids, was the merciless “$3.85.”  He opened his eyes to escape it, but the white light of the room seemed to sear the balls and forced him to close his eyes, when the “$3.85” confronted him again. Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent—that particular thought took up its residence in his brain, and he could no more escape it than he could the “$3.85” under his eyelids.  A change seemed to come over the latter, and he watched curiously, till “$2.00” burned in its stead.  Ah, he thought, that was the baker.  The next sum that appeared was “$2.50.”  It puzzled him, and he pondered it as if life and death hung on the solution.  He owed somebody two dollars and a half, that was certain, but who was it?  To find it was the task set him by an imperious and malignant universe, and he wandered through the endless corridors of his mind, opening all manner of lumber rooms and chambers stored with odds and ends of memories and knowledge as he vainly sought the answer.  After several centuries it came to him, easily, without effort, that it was Maria.  With a great relief he turned his soul to the screen of torment under his lids.  He had solved the problem; now he could rest.  But no, the “$2.50” faded away, and in its place burned “$8.00.”  Who was that?  He must go the dreary round of his mind again and find out. How long he was gone on this quest he did not know, but after what seemed an enormous lapse of time, he was called back to himself by a knock at the door, and by Maria’s asking if he was sick.  He replied in a muffled voice he did not recognize, saying that he was merely taking a nap.  He was surprised when he noted the darkness of night in the room.  He had received the letter at two in the afternoon, and he realized that he was sick. Then the “$8.00” began to smoulder under his lids again, and he returned himself to servitude.  But he grew cunning.  There was no need for him to wander through his mind.  He had been a fool.  He pulled a lever and made his mind revolve about him, a monstrous wheel of fortune, a merry-go-round of memory, a revolving sphere of wisdom.  Faster and faster it revolved, until its vortex sucked him in and he was flung whirling through black chaos. Quite naturally he found himself at a mangle, feeding starched cuffs.  But as he fed he noticed figures printed in the cuffs.  It was a new way of marking linen, he thought, until, looking closer, he saw “$3.85” on one of the cuffs.  Then it came to him that it was the grocer’s bill, and that these were his bills flying around on the drum of the mangle.  A crafty idea came to him.  He would throw the bills on the floor and so escape paying them.  No sooner thought than done, and he crumpled the cuffs spitefully as he flung them upon an unusually dirty floor.  Ever the heap grew, and though each bill was duplicated a thousand times, he found only one for two dollars and a half, which was what he owed Maria.  That meant that Maria would not press for payment, and he resolved generously that it would be the only one he would pay; so he began searching through the cast-out heap for hers.  He sought it desperately, for ages, and was still searching when the manager of the hotel entered, the fat Dutchman.  His face blazed with wrath, and he shouted in stentorian tones that echoed down the universe, “I shall deduct the cost of those cuffs from your wages!”  The pile of cuffs grew into a mountain, and Martin knew that he was doomed to toil for a thousand years to pay for them.  Well, there was nothing left to do but kill the manager and burn down the laundry.  But the big Dutchman frustrated him, seizing him by the nape of the neck and dancing him up and down.  He danced him over the ironing tables, the stove, and the mangles, and out into the wash-room and over the wringer and washer.  Martin was danced until his teeth rattled and his head ached, and he marvelled that the Dutchman was so strong. And then he found himself before the mangle, this time receiving the cuffs an editor of a magazine was feeding from the other side.  Each cuff was a check, and Martin went over them anxiously, in a fever of expectation, but they were all blanks.  He stood there and received the blanks for a million years or so, never letting one go by for fear it might be filled out.  At last he found it.  With trembling fingers he held it to the light.  It was for five dollars.  “Ha! Ha!” laughed the editor across the mangle.  “Well, then, I shall kill you,” Martin said.  He went out into the wash-room to get the axe, and found Joe starching manuscripts.  He tried to make him desist, then swung the axe for him.  But the weapon remained poised in mid-air, for Martin found himself back in the ironing room in the midst of a snow-storm.  No, it was not snow that was falling, but checks of large denomination, the smallest not less than a thousand dollars.  He began to collect them and sort them out, in packages of a hundred, tying each package securely with twine. He looked up from his task and saw Joe standing before him juggling flat-irons, starched shirts, and manuscripts.  Now and again he reached out and added a bundle of checks to the flying miscellany that soared through the roof and out of sight in a tremendous circle.  Martin struck at him, but he seized the axe and added it to the flying circle.  Then he plucked Martin and added him.  Martin went up through the roof, clutching at manuscripts, so that by the time he came down he had a large armful.  But no sooner down than up again, and a second and a third time and countless times he flew around the circle.  From far off he could hear a childish treble singing: “Waltz me around again, Willie, around, around, around.” He recovered the axe in the midst of the Milky Way of checks, starched shirts, and manuscripts, and prepared, when he came down, to kill Joe.  But he did not come down.  Instead, at two in the morning, Maria, having heard his groans through the thin partition, came into his room, to put hot flat-irons against his body and damp cloths upon his aching eyes. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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