Chapter I

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　The one opened the door with a latch-key and went in, followed by ayoung fellow who awkwardly removed his cap. He wore rough clothesthat smacked of the sea, and he was manifestly out of place in thespacious hall in which he found himself. He did not know what todo with his cap, and was stuffing it into his coat pocket when theother took it from him. The act was done quietly and naturally,and the awkward young fellow appreciated it. "He understands," washis thought. "He'll see me through all right."He walked at the other's heels with a swing to his shoulders, andhis legs spread unwittingly, as if the level floors were tilting upand sinking down to the heave and lunge of the sea. The wide roomsseemed too narrow for his rolling gait, and to himself he was interror lest his broad shoulders should collide with the doorways orsweep the bric-a-brac from the low mantel. He recoiled from sideto side between the various objects and multiplied the hazards thatin reality lodged only in his mind. Between a grand piano and acentre-table piled high with books was space for a half a dozen towalk abreast, yet he essayed it with trepidation. His heavy armshung loosely at his sides. He did not know what to do with thosearms and hands, and when, to his excited vision, one arm seemedliable to brush against the books on the table, he lurched awaylike a frightened horse, barely missing the piano stool. Hewatched the easy walk of the other in front of him, and for thefirst time realized that his walk was different from that of othermen. He experienced a momentary pang of shame that he should walkso uncouthly. The sweat burst through the skin of his forehead intiny beads, and he paused and mopped his bronzed face with hishandkerchief."Hold on, Arthur, my boy," he said, attempting to mask his anxietywith facetious utterance. "This is too much all at once for yourstruly. Give me a chance to get my nerve. You know I didn't wantto come, an' I guess your fam'ly ain't hankerin' to see meneither.""That's all right," was the reassuring answer. "You mustn't befrightened at us. We're just homely people - Hello, there's aletter for me."He stepped back to the table, tore open the envelope, and began toread, giving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. Andthe stranger understood and appreciated. His was the gift ofsympathy, understanding; and beneath his alarmed exterior thatsympathetic process went on. He mopped his forehead dry andglanced about him with a controlled face, though in the eyes therewas an expression such as wild animals betray when they fear thetrap. He was surrounded by the unknown, apprehensive of what mighthappen, ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked andbore himself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power ofhim was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelesslyself-conscious, and the amused glance that the other stole privilyat him over the top of the letter burned into him like a dagger-thrust. He saw the glance, but he gave no sign, for among thethings he had learned was discipline. Also, that dagger-thrustwent to his pride. He cursed himself for having come, and at thesame time resolved that, happen what would, having come, he wouldcarry it through. The lines of his face hardened, and into hiseyes came a fighting light. He looked about more unconcernedly,sharply observant, every detail of the pretty interior registeringitself on his brain. His eyes were wide apart; nothing in theirfield of vision escaped; and as they drank in the beauty beforethem the fighting light died out and a warm glow took its place.He was responsive to beauty, and here was cause to respond.An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy surf thundered andburst over an outjutting rock; lowering storm-clouds covered thesky; and, outside the line of surf, a pilot-schooner, close-hauled,heeled over till every detail of her deck was visible, was surgingalong against a stormy sunset sky. There was beauty, and it drewhim irresistibly. He forgot his awkward walk and came closer tothe painting, very close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. Hisface expressed his bepuzzlement. He stared at what seemed acareless daub of paint, then stepped away. Immediately all thebeauty flashed back into the canvas. "A trick picture," was histhought, as he dismissed it, though in the midst of themultitudinous impressions he was receiving he found time to feel aprod of indignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed tomake a trick. He did not know painting. He had been brought up onchromos and lithographs that were always definite and sharp, nearor far. He had seen oil paintings, it was true, in the showwindows of shops, but the glass of the windows had prevented hiseager eyes from approaching too near.He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and saw thebooks on the table. Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and ayearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into the eyes of astarving man at sight of food. An impulsive stride, with one lurchto right and left of the shoulders, brought him to the table, wherehe began affectionately handling the books. He glanced at thetitles and the authors' names, read fragments of text, caressingthe volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once, recognized a bookhe had read. For the rest, they were strange books and strangeauthors. He chanced upon a volume of Swinburne and began readingsteadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing. Twice heclosed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of theauthor. Swinburne! he would remember that name. That fellow hadeyes, and he had certainly seen color and flashing light. But whowas Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of thepoets? Or was he alive still, and writing? He turned to thetitle-page . . . yes, he had written other books; well, he would goto the free library the first thing in the morning and try to gethold of some of Swinburne's stuff. He went back to the text andlost himself. He did not notice that a young woman had entered theroom. The first he knew was when he heard Arthur's voice saying:-"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden."The book was closed on his forefinger, and before he turned he wasthrilling to the first new impression, which was not of the girl,but of her brother's words. Under that muscled body of his he wasa mass of quivering sensibilities. At the slightest impact of theoutside world upon his consciousness, his thoughts, sympathies, andemotions leapt and played like lambent flame. He wasextraordinarily receptive and responsive, while his imagination,pitched high, was ever at work establishing relations of likenessand difference. "Mr. Eden," was what he had thrilled to - he whohad been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or just "Martin," all hislife. And "Mister!" It was certainly going some, was his internalcomment. His mind seemed to turn, on the instant, into a vastcamera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his consciousness endlesspictures from his life, of stoke-holes and forecastles, camps andbeaches, jails and boozing-kens, fever-hospitals and slum streets,wherein the thread of association was the fashion in which he hadbeen addressed in those various situations.And then he turned and saw the girl. The phantasmagoria of hisbrain vanished at sight of her. She was a pale, ethereal creature,with wide, spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He didnot know how she was dressed, except that the dress was aswonderful as she. He likened her to a pale gold flower upon aslender stem. No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess; suchsublimated beauty was not of the earth. Or perhaps the books wereright, and there were many such as she in the upper walks of life.She might well be sung by that chap, Swinburne. Perhaps he had hadsomebody like her in mind when he painted that girl, Iseult, in thebook there on the table. All this plethora of sight, and feeling,and thought occurred on the instant. There was no pause of therealities wherein he moved. He saw her hand coming out to his, andshe looked him straight in the eyes as she shook hands, frankly,like a man. The women he had known did not shake hands that way.For that matter, most of them did not shake hands at all. A floodof associations, visions of various ways he had made theacquaintance of women, rushed into his mind and threatened to swampit. But he shook them aside and looked at her. Never had he seensuch a woman. The women he had known! Immediately, beside her, oneither hand, ranged the women he had known. For an eternal secondhe stood in the midst of a portrait gallery, wherein she occupiedthe central place, while about her were limned many women, all tobe weighed and measured by a fleeting glance, herself the unit ofweight and measure. He saw the weak and sickly faces of the girlsof the factories, and the simpering, boisterous girls from thesouth of Market. There were women of the cattle camps, and swarthycigarette-smoking women of Old Mexico. These, in turn, werecrowded out by Japanese women, doll-like, stepping mincingly onwooden clogs; by Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped withdegeneracy; by full-bodied South-Sea-Island women, flower-crownedand brown-skinned. All these were blotted out by a grotesque andterrible nightmare brood - frowsy, shuffling creatures from thepavements of Whitechapel, gin-bloated hags of the stews, and allthe vast hell's following of harpies, vile-mouthed and filthy, thatunder the guise of monstrous female form prey upon sailors, thescrapings of the ports, the scum and slime of the human pit."Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying. "I have beenlooking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us. It wasbrave of you - "He waved his hand deprecatingly and muttered that it was nothing atall, what he had done, and that any fellow would have done it. Shenoticed that the hand he waved was covered with fresh abrasions, inthe process of healing, and a glance at the other loose-hanginghand showed it to be in the same condition. Also, with quick,critical eye, she noted a scar on his cheek, another that peepedout from under the hair of the forehead, and a third that ran downand disappeared under the starched collar. She repressed a smileat sight of the red line that marked the chafe of the collaragainst the bronzed neck. He was evidently unused to stiffcollars. Likewise her feminine eye took in the clothes he wore,the cheap and unaesthetic cut, the wrinkling of the coat across theshoulders, and the series of wrinkles in the sleeves thatadvertised bulging biceps muscles.While he waved his hand and muttered that he had done nothing atall, he was obeying her behest by trying to get into a chair. Hefound time to admire the ease with which she sat down, then lurchedtoward a chair facing her, overwhelmed with consciousness of theawkward figure he was cutting. This was a new experience for him.All his life, up to then, he had been unaware of being eithergraceful or awkward. Such thoughts of self had never entered hismind. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, greatlyworried by his hands. They were in the way wherever he put them.Arthur was leaving the room, and Martin Eden followed his exit withlonging eyes. He felt lost, alone there in the room with that palespirit of a woman. There was no bar-keeper upon whom to call fordrinks, no small boy to send around the corner for a can of beerand by means of that social fluid start the amenities of friendshipflowing."You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden," the girl was saying."How did it happen? I am sure it must have been some adventure.""A Mexican with a knife, miss," he answered, moistening his parchedlips and clearing hip throat. "It was just a fight. After I gotthe knife away, he tried to bite off my nose."Baldly as he had stated it, in his eyes was a rich vision of thathot, starry night at Salina Cruz, the white strip of beach, thelights of the sugar steamers in the harbor, the voices of thedrunken sailors in the distance, the jostling stevedores, theflaming passion in the Mexican's face, the glint of the beast-eyesin the starlight, the sting of the steel in his neck, and the rushof blood, the crowd and the cries, the two bodies, his and theMexican's, locked together, rolling over and over and tearing upthe sand, and from away off somewhere the mellow tinkling of aguitar. Such was the picture, and he thrilled to the memory of it,wondering if the man could paint it who had painted the pilot-schooner on the wall. The white beach, the stars, and the lightsof the sugar steamers would look great, he thought, and midway onthe sand the dark group of figures that surrounded the fighters.The knife occupied a place in the picture, he decided, and wouldshow well, with a sort of gleam, in the light of the stars. But ofall this no hint had crept into his speech. "He tried to bite offmy nose," he concluded."Oh," the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed theshock in her sensitive face.He felt a shock himself, and a blush of embarrassment shone faintlyon his sunburned cheeks, though to him it burned as hotly as whenhis cheeks had been exposed to the open furnace-door in the fire-room. Such sordid things as stabbing affrays were evidently notfit subjects for conversation with a lady. People in the books, inher walk of life, did not talk about such things - perhaps they didnot know about them, either.There was a brief pause in the conversation they were trying to getstarted. Then she asked tentatively about the scar on his cheek.Even as she asked, he realized that she was making an effort totalk his talk, and he resolved to get away from it and talk hers."It was just an accident," he said, putting his hand to his cheek."One night, in a calm, with a heavy sea running, the main-boom-liftcarried away, an' next the tackle. The lift was wire, an' it wasthreshin' around like a snake. The whole watch was tryin' to grabit, an' I rushed in an' got swatted.""Oh," she said, this time with an accent of comprehension, thoughsecretly his speech had been so much Greek to her and she waswondering what a lift was and what swatted meant."This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan intoexecution and pronouncing the I long."Who?""Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "Thepoet.""Swinburne," she corrected."Yes, that's the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "Howlong since he died?""Why, I haven't heard that he was dead." She looked at himcuriously. "Where did you make his acquaintance?""I never clapped eyes on him," was the reply. "But I read some ofhis poetry out of that book there on the table just before you comein. How do you like his poetry?"And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subjecthe had suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly fromthe edge of the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands,as if it might get away from him and buck him to the floor. He hadsucceeded in making her talk her talk, and while she rattled on, hestrove to follow her, marvelling at all the knowledge that wasstowed away in that pretty head of hers, and drinking in the palebeauty of her face. Follow her he did, though bothered byunfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips and by criticalphrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his mind, butthat nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Herewas intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm andwonderful as he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himselfand stared at her with hungry eyes. Here was something to livefor, to win to, to fight for - ay, and die for. The books weretrue. There were such women in the world. She was one of them.She lent wings to his imagination, and great, luminous canvasesspread themselves before him whereon loomed vague, gigantic figuresof love and romance, and of heroic deeds for woman's sake - for apale woman, a flower of gold. And through the swaying, palpitantvision, as through a fairy mirage, he stared at the real woman,sitting there and talking of literature and art. He listened aswell, but he stared, unconscious of the fixity of his gaze or ofthe fact that all that was essentially masculine in his nature wasshining in his eyes. But she, who knew little of the world of men,being a woman, was keenly aware of his burning eyes. She had neverhad men look at her in such fashion, and it embarrassed her. Shestumbled and halted in her utterance. The thread of argumentslipped from her. He frightened her, and at the same time it wasstrangely pleasant to be so looked upon. Her training warned herof peril and of wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while herinstincts rang clarion-voiced through her being, impelling her tohurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from anotherworld, to this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a lineof raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throat, who, alltoo evidently, was soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. Shewas clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she was woman, and shewas just beginning to learn the paradox of woman."As I was saying - what was I saying?" She broke off abruptly andlaughed merrily at her predicament."You was saying that this man Swinburne failed bein' a great poetbecause - an' that was as far as you got, miss," he prompted, whileto himself he seemed suddenly hungry, and delicious little thrillscrawled up and down his spine at the sound of her laughter. Likesilver, he thought to himself, like tinkling silver bells; and onthe instant, and for an instant, he was transported to a far land,where under pink cherry blossoms, he smoked a cigarette andlistened to the bells of the peaked pagoda calling straw-sandalleddevotees to worship."Yes, thank you," she said. "Swinburne fails, when all is said,because he is, well, indelicate. There are many of his poems thatshould never be read. Every line of the really great poets isfilled with beautiful truth, and calls to all that is high andnoble in the human. Not a line of the great poets can be sparedwithout impoverishing the world by that much.""I thought it was great," he said hesitatingly, "the little I read.I had no idea he was such a - a scoundrel. I guess that crops outin his other books.""There are many lines that could be spared from the book you werereading," she said, her voice primly firm and dogmatic."I must 'a' missed 'em," he announced. "What I read was the realgoods. It was all lighted up an' shining, an' it shun right intome an' lighted me up inside, like the sun or a searchlight. That'sthe way it landed on me, but I guess I ain't up much on poetry,miss."He broke off lamely. He was confused, painfully conscious of hisinarticulateness. He had felt the bigness and glow of life in whathe had read, but his speech was inadequate. He could not expresswhat he felt, and to himself he likened himself to a sailor, in astrange ship, on a dark night, groping about in the unfamiliarrunning rigging. Well, he decided, it was up to him to getacquainted in this new world. He had never seen anything that hecouldn't get the hang of when he wanted to and it was about timefor him to want to learn to talk the things that were inside of himso that she could understand. She was bulking large on hishorizon."Now Longfellow - " she was saying."Yes, I've read 'm," he broke in impulsively, spurred on to exhibitand make the most of his little store of book knowledge, desirousof showing her that he was not wholly a stupid clod. "'The Psalmof Life,' 'Excelsior,' an' . . . I guess that's all."She nodded her head and smiled, and he felt, somehow, that hersmile was tolerant, pitifully tolerant. He was a fool to attemptto make a pretence that way. That Longfellow chap most likely hadwritten countless books of poetry."Excuse me, miss, for buttin' in that way. I guess the real factsis that I don't know nothin' much about such things. It ain't inmy class. But I'm goin' to make it in my class."It sounded like a threat. His voice was determined, his eyes wereflashing, the lines of his face had grown harsh. And to her itseemed that the angle of his jaw had changed; its pitch had becomeunpleasantly aggressive. At the same time a wave of intensevirility seemed to surge out from him and impinge upon her."I think you could make it in - in your class," she finished with alaugh. "You are very strong."Her gaze rested for a moment on the muscular neck, heavy corded,almost bull-like, bronzed by the sun, spilling over with ruggedhealth and strength. And though he sat there, blushing and humble,again she felt drawn to him. She was surprised by a wanton thoughtthat rushed into her mind. It seemed to her that if she could layher two hands upon that neck that all its strength and vigor wouldflow out to her. She was shocked by this thought. It seemed toreveal to her an undreamed depravity in her nature. Besides,strength to her was a gross and brutish thing. Her ideal ofmasculine beauty had always been slender gracefulness. Yet thethought still persisted. It bewildered her that she should desireto place her hands on that sunburned neck. In truth, she was farfrom robust, and the need of her body and mind was for strength.But she did not know it. She knew only that no man had everaffected her before as this one had, who shocked her from moment tomoment with his awful grammar."Yes, I ain't no invalid," he said. "When it comes down to hard-pan, I can digest scrap-iron. But just now I've got dyspepsia.Most of what you was sayin' I can't digest. Never trained thatway, you see. I like books and poetry, and what time I've had I'veread 'em, but I've never thought about 'em the way you have.That's why I can't talk about 'em. I'm like a navigator adrift ona strange sea without chart or compass. Now I want to get mybearin's. Mebbe you can put me right. How did you learn all thisyou'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 millionmiles."I'm going there now. I'm taking special courses in English."He did not know what "English" meant, but he made a mental note ofthat item of ignorance and passed on."How long would I have to study before I could go to theuniversity?" he asked.She beamed encouragement upon his desire for knowledge, and said:"That depends upon how much studying you have already done. Youhave never attended high school? Of course not. But did youfinish grammar school?""I had two years to run, when I left," he answered. "But I wasalways honorably promoted at school."The next moment, angry with himself for the boast, he had grippedthe arms of the chair so savagely that every finger-end wasstinging. At the same moment he became aware that a woman wasentering the room. He saw the girl leave her chair and tripswiftly across the floor to the newcomer. They kissed each other,and, with arms around each other's waists, they advanced towardhim. That must be her mother, he thought. She was a tall, blondwoman, slender, and stately, and beautiful. Her gown was what hemight expect in such a house. His eyes delighted in the gracefullines of it. She and her dress together reminded him of women onthe stage. Then he remembered seeing similar grand ladies andgowns entering the London theatres while he stood and watched andthe policemen shoved him back into the drizzle beyond the awning.Next his mind leaped to the Grand Hotel at Yokohama, where, too,from the sidewalk, he had seen grand ladies. Then the city and theharbor of Yokohama, in a thousand pictures, began flashing beforehis eyes. But he swiftly dismissed the kaleidoscope of memory,oppressed by the urgent need of the present. He knew that he muststand up to be introduced, and he struggled painfully to his feet,where he stood with trousers bagging at the knees, his arms loose-hanging and ludicrous, his face set hard for the impending ordeal.