Chapter VIII

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　Several weeks went by, during which Martin Eden studied hisgrammar, reviewed the books on etiquette, and read voraciously thebooks that caught his fancy. Of his own class he saw nothing. Thegirls of the Lotus Club wondered what had become of him and worriedJim with questions, and some of the fellows who put on the glove atRiley's were glad that Martin came no more. He made anotherdiscovery of treasure-trove in the library. As the grammar hadshown him the tie-ribs of language, so that book showed him thetie-ribs of poetry, and he began to learn metre and constructionand form, beneath the beauty he loved finding the why and whereforeof that beauty. Another modern book he found treated poetry as arepresentative art, treated it exhaustively, with copiousillustrations from the best in literature. Never had he readfiction with so keen zest as he studied these books. And his freshmind, untaxed for twenty years and impelled by maturity of desire,gripped hold of what he read with a virility unusual to the studentmind.When he looked back now from his vantage-ground, the old world hehad known, the world of land and sea and ships, of sailor-men andharpy-women, seemed a very small world; and yet it blended in withthis new world and expanded. His mind made for unity, and he wassurprised when at first he began to see points of contact betweenthe two worlds. And he was ennobled, as well, by the loftiness ofthought and beauty he found in the books. This led him to believemore firmly than ever that up above him, in society like Ruth andher family, all men and women thought these thoughts and livedthem. Down below where he lived was the ignoble, and he wanted topurge himself of the ignoble that had soiled all his days, and torise to that sublimated realm where dwelt the upper classes. Allhis childhood and youth had been troubled by a vague unrest; he hadnever known what he wanted, but he had wanted something that he hadhunted vainly for until he met Ruth. And now his unrest had becomesharp and painful, and he knew at last, clearly and definitely,that it was beauty, and intellect, and love that he must have.During those several weeks he saw Ruth half a dozen times, and eachtime was an added inspiration. She helped him with his English,corrected his pronunciation, and started him on arithmetic. Buttheir intercourse was not all devoted to elementary study. He hadseen too much of life, and his mind was too matured, to be whollycontent with fractions, cube root, parsing, and analysis; and therewere times when their conversation turned on other themes - thelast poetry he had read, the latest poet she had studied. And whenshe read aloud to him her favorite passages, he ascended to thetopmost heaven of delight. Never, in all the women he had heardspeak, had he heard a voice like hers. The least sound of it was astimulus to his love, and he thrilled and throbbed with every wordshe uttered. It was the quality of it, the repose, and the musicalmodulation - the soft, rich, indefinable product of culture and agentle soul. As he listened to her, there rang in the ears of hismemory the harsh cries of barbarian women and of hags, and, inlesser degrees of harshness, the strident voices of working womenand of the girls of his own class. Then the chemistry of visionwould begin to work, and they would troop in review across hismind, each, by contrast, multiplying Ruth's glories. Then, too,his bliss was heightened by the knowledge that her mind wascomprehending what she read and was quivering with appreciation ofthe beauty of the written thought. She read to him much from "ThePrincess," and often he saw her eyes swimming with tears, so finelywas her aesthetic nature strung. At such moments her own emotionselevated him till he was as a god, and, as he gazed at her andlistened, he seemed gazing on the face of life and reading itsdeepest secrets. And then, becoming aware of the heights ofexquisite sensibility he attained, he decided that this was loveand that love was the greatest thing in the world. And in reviewwould pass along the corridors of memory all previous thrills andburnings he had known, - the drunkenness of wine, the caresses ofwomen, the rough play and give and take of physical contests, - andthey seemed trivial and mean compared with this sublime ardor henow enjoyed.The situation was obscured to Ruth. She had never had anyexperiences of the heart. Her only experiences in such matterswere of the books, where the facts of ordinary day were translatedby fancy into a fairy realm of unreality; and she little knew thatthis rough sailor was creeping into her heart and storing therepent forces that would some day burst forth and surge through herin waves of fire. She did not know the actual fire of love. Herknowledge of love was purely theoretical, and she conceived of itas lambent flame, gentle as the fall of dew or the ripple of quietwater, and cool as the velvet-dark of summer nights. Her idea oflove was more that of placid affection, serving the loved onesoftly in an atmosphere, flower-scented and dim-lighted, ofethereal calm. She did not dream of the volcanic convulsions oflove, its scorching heat and sterile wastes of parched ashes. Sheknew neither her own potencies, nor the potencies of the world; andthe deeps of life were to her seas of illusion. The conjugalaffection of her father and mother constituted her ideal of love-affinity, and she looked forward some day to emerging, withoutshock or friction, into that same quiet sweetness of existence witha loved one.So it was that she looked upon Martin Eden as a novelty, a strangeindividual, and she identified with novelty and strangeness theeffects he produced upon her. It was only natural. In similarways she had experienced unusual feelings when she looked at wildanimals in the menagerie, or when she witnessed a storm of wind, orshuddered at the bright-ribbed lightning. There was somethingcosmic in such things, and there was something cosmic in him. Hecame to her breathing of large airs and great spaces. The blaze oftropic suns was in his face, and in his swelling, resilient muscleswas the primordial vigor of life. He was marred and scarred bythat mysterious world of rough men and rougher deeds, the outpostsof which began beyond her horizon. He was untamed, wild, and insecret ways her vanity was touched by the fact that he came somildly to her hand. Likewise she was stirred by the common impulseto tame the wild thing. It was an unconscious impulse, andfarthest from her thoughts that her desire was to re-thumb the clayof him into a likeness of her father's image, which image shebelieved to be the finest in the world. Nor was there any way, outof her inexperience, for her to know that the cosmic feel shecaught of him was that most cosmic of things, love, which withequal power drew men and women together across the world, compelledstags to kill each other in the rutting season, and drove even theelements irresistibly to unite.His swift development was a source of surprise and interest. Shedetected unguessed finenesses in him that seemed to bud, day byday, like flowers in congenial soil. She read Browning aloud tohim, and was often puzzled by the strange interpretations he gaveto mooted passages. It was beyond her to realize that, out of hisexperience of men and women and life, his interpretations were farmore frequently correct than hers. His conceptions seemed naive toher, though she was often fired by his daring flights ofcomprehension, whose orbit-path was so wide among the stars thatshe could not follow and could only sit and thrill to the impact ofunguessed power. Then she played to him - no longer at him - andprobed him with music that sank to depths beyond her plumb-line.His nature opened to music as a flower to the sun, and thetransition was quick from his working-class rag-time and jingles toher classical display pieces that she knew nearly by heart. Yet hebetrayed a democratic fondness for Wagner, and the "Tannhauser"overture, when she had given him the clew to it, claimed him asnothing else she played. In an immediate way it personified hislife. All his past was the Venusburg motif, while her heidentified somehow with the Pilgrim's Chorus motif; and from theexalted state this elevated him to, he swept onward and upward intothat vast shadow-realm of spirit-groping, where good and evil wareternally.Sometimes he questioned, and induced in her mind temporary doubtsas to the correctness of her own definitions and conceptions ofmusic. But her singing he did not question. It was too whollyher, and he sat always amazed at the divine melody of her puresoprano voice. And he could not help but contrast it with the weakpipings and shrill quaverings of factory girls, ill-nourished anduntrained, and with the raucous shriekings from gin-cracked throatsof the women of the seaport towns. She enjoyed singing and playingto him. In truth, it was the first time she had ever had a humansoul to play with, and the plastic clay of him was a delight tomould; for she thought she was moulding it, and her intentions weregood. Besides, it was pleasant to be with him. He did not repelher. That first repulsion had been really a fear of herundiscovered self, and the fear had gone to sleep. Though she didnot know it, she had a feeling in him of proprietary right. Also,he had a tonic effect upon her. She was studying hard at theuniversity, and it seemed to strengthen her to emerge from thedusty books and have the fresh sea-breeze of his personality blowupon her. Strength! Strength was what she needed, and he gave itto her in generous measure. To come into the same room with him,or to meet him at the door, was to take heart of life. And when hehad gone, she would return to her books with a keener zest andfresh store of energy.She knew her Browning, but it had never sunk into her that it wasan awkward thing to play with souls. As her interest in Martinincreased, the remodelling of his life became a passion with her."There is Mr. Butler," she said one afternoon, when grammar andarithmetic and poetry had been put aside."He had comparatively no advantages at first. His father had beena bank cashier, but he lingered for years, dying of consumption inArizona, so that when he was dead, Mr. Butler, Charles Butler hewas called, found himself alone in the world. His father had comefrom 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 itmany times, - and he got three dollars a week, at first. Hisincome to-day is at least thirty thousand a year. How did he doit? He was honest, and faithful, and industrious, and economical.He denied himself the enjoyments that most boys indulge in. Hemade it a point to save so much every week, no matter what he hadto do without in order to save it. Of course, he was soon earningmore than three dollars a week, and as his wages increased he savedmore and more."He worked in the daytime, and at night he went to night school.He had his eyes fixed always on the future. Later on he went tonight high school. When he was only seventeen, he was earningexcellent wages at setting type, but he was ambitious. He wanted acareer, not a livelihood, and he was content to make immediatesacrifices for his ultimate again. He decided upon the law, and heentered father's office as an office boy - think of that! - and gotonly four dollars a week. But he had learned how to be economical,and out of that four dollars he went on saving money."She paused for breath, and to note how Martin was receiving it.His face was lighted up with interest in the youthful struggles ofMr. Butler; but there was a frown upon his face as well."I'd say they was pretty hard lines for a young fellow," heremarked. "Four dollars a week! How could he live on it? You canbet he didn't have any frills. Why, I pay five dollars a week forboard now, an' there's nothin' excitin' about it, you can lay tothat. He must have lived like a dog. The food he ate - ""He cooked for himself," she interrupted, "on a little kerosenestove.""The food he ate must have been worse than what a sailor gets onthe worst-feedin' deep-water ships, than which there ain't muchthat can be possibly worse.""But think of him now!" she cried enthusiastically. "Think of whathis income affords him. His early denials are paid for a thousand-fold."Martin looked at her sharply."There's one thing I'll bet you," he said, "and it is that Mr.Butler is nothin' gay-hearted now in his fat days. He fed himselflike that for years an' years, on a boy's stomach, an' I bet hisstomach's none too good now for it."Her eyes dropped before his searching gaze."I'll bet he's got dyspepsia right now!" Martin challenged."Yes, he has," she confessed; "but - ""An' I bet," Martin dashed on, "that he's solemn an' serious as anold owl, an' doesn't care a rap for a good time, for all his thirtythousand a year. An' I'll bet he's not particularly joyful atseein' others have a good time. Ain't I right?"She nodded her head in agreement, and hastened to explain:-"But he is not that type of man. By nature he is sober andserious. He always was that.""You can bet he was," Martin proclaimed. "Three dollars a week,an' four dollars a week, an' a young boy cookin' for himself on anoil-burner an' layin' up money, workin' all day an' studyin' allnight, just workin' an' never playin', never havin' a good time,an' never learnin' how to have a good time - of course his thirtythousand came along too late."His sympathetic imagination was flashing upon his inner sight allthe thousands of details of the boy's existence and of his narrowspiritual development into a thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year man.With the swiftness and wide-reaching of multitudinous thoughtCharles Butler's whole life was telescoped upon his vision."Do you know," he added, "I feel sorry for Mr. Butler. He was tooyoung to know better, but he robbed himself of life for the sake ofthirty thousand a year that's clean wasted upon him. Why, thirtythousand, lump sum, wouldn't buy for him right now what ten centshe was layin' up would have bought him, when he was a kid, in theway of candy an' peanuts or a seat in nigger heaven."It was just such uniqueness of points of view that startled Ruth.Not only were they new to her, and contrary to her own beliefs, butshe always felt in them germs of truth that threatened to unseat ormodify her own convictions. Had she been fourteen instead oftwenty-four, she might have been changed by them; but she wastwenty-four, conservative by nature and upbringing, and alreadycrystallized into the cranny of life where she had been born andformed. It was true, his bizarre judgments troubled her in themoments they were uttered, but she ascribed them to his novelty oftype and strangeness of living, and they were soon forgotten.Nevertheless, while she disapproved of them, the strength of theirutterance, and the flashing of eyes and earnestness of face thataccompanied them, always thrilled her and drew her toward him. Shewould never have guessed that this man who had come from beyond herhorizon, was, in such moments, flashing on beyond her horizon withwider and deeper concepts. Her own limits were the limits of herhorizon; but limited minds can recognize limitations only inothers. And so she felt that her outlook was very wide indeed, andthat where his conflicted with hers marked his limitations; and shedreamed of helping him to see as she saw, of widening his horizonuntil it was identified with hers."But I have not finished my story," she said. "He worked, sofather says, as no other office boy he ever had. Mr. Butler wasalways eager to work. He never was late, and he was usually at theoffice a few minutes before his regular time. And yet he saved histime. Every spare moment was devoted to study. He studied book-keeping and type-writing, and he paid for lessons in shorthand bydictating at night to a court reporter who needed practice. Hequickly became a clerk, and he made himself invaluable. Fatherappreciated him and saw that he was bound to rise. It was onfather's suggestion that he went to law college. He became alawyer, and hardly was he back in the office when father took himin as junior partner. He is a great man. He refused the UnitedStates Senate several times, and father says he could become ajustice of the Supreme Court any time a vacancy occurs, if he wantsto. Such a life is an inspiration to all of us. It shows us thata 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 jarredupon his sense of beauty and life. He could not find an adequatemotive in Mr. Butler's life of pinching and privation. Had he doneit for love of a woman, or for attainment of beauty, Martin wouldhave understood. God's own mad lover should do anything for thekiss, but not for thirty thousand dollars a year. He wasdissatisfied with Mr. Butler's career. There was something paltryabout it, after all. Thirty thousand a year was all right, butdyspepsia and inability to be humanly happy robbed such princelyincome of all its value.Much of this he strove to express to Ruth, and shocked her and madeit clear that more remodelling was necessary. Hers was that commoninsularity of mind that makes human creatures believe that theircolor, creed, and politics are best and right and that other humancreatures scattered over the world are less fortunately placed thanthey. It was the same insularity of mind that made the ancient Jewthank God he was not born a woman, and sent the modern missionarygod-substituting to the ends of the earth; and it made Ruth desireto shape this man from other crannies of life into the likeness ofthe men who lived in her particular cranny of life.