Chapter XIII

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　It was the knot of wordy socialists and working-class philosophersthat held forth in the City Hall Park on warm afternoons that wasresponsible for the great discovery. Once or twice in the month,while riding through the park on his way to the library, Martindismounted from his wheel and listened to the arguments, and eachtime he tore himself away reluctantly. The tone of discussion wasmuch lower than at Mr. Morse's table. The men were not grave anddignified. They lost their tempers easily and called one anothernames, while oaths and obscene allusions were frequent on theirlips. Once or twice he had seen them come to blows. And yet, heknew not why, there seemed something vital about the stuff of thesemen's thoughts. Their logomachy was far more stimulating to hisintellect than the reserved and quiet dogmatism of Mr. Morse.These men, who slaughtered English, gesticulated like lunatics, andfought one another's ideas with primitive anger, seemed somehow tobe more alive than Mr. Morse and his crony, Mr. Butler.Martin had heard Herbert Spencer quoted several times in the park,but one afternoon a disciple of Spencer's appeared, a seedy trampwith a dirty coat buttoned tightly at the throat to conceal theabsence of a shirt. Battle royal was waged, amid the smoking ofmany cigarettes and the expectoration of much tobacco-juice,wherein the tramp successfully held his own, even when a socialistworkman sneered, "There is no god but the Unknowable, and HerbertSpencer is his prophet." Martin was puzzled as to what thediscussion was about, but when he rode on to the library he carriedwith him a new-born interest in Herbert Spencer, and because of thefrequency 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 with, he hadfailed as abjectly as he had failed with Madam Blavatsky. Therehad been no understanding the book, and he had returned it unread.But this night, after algebra and physics, and an attempt at asonnet, he got into bed and opened "First Principles." Morningfound him still reading. It was impossible for him to sleep. Nordid he write that day. He lay on the bed till his body grew tired,when he tried the hard floor, reading on his back, the book held inthe air above him, or changing from side to side. He slept thatnight, and did his writing next morning, and then the book temptedhim and he fell, reading all afternoon, oblivious to everything andoblivious to the fact that that was the afternoon Ruth gave to him.His first consciousness of the immediate world about him was whenBernard Higginbotham jerked open the door and demanded to know ifhe thought they were running a restaurant.Martin Eden had been mastered by curiosity all his days. He wantedto know, and it was this desire that had sent him adventuring overthe world. But he was now learning from Spencer that he never hadknown, and that he never could have known had he continued hissailing and wandering forever. He had merely skimmed over thesurface of things, observing detached phenomena, accumulatingfragments of facts, making superficial little generalizations - andall and everything quite unrelated in a capricious and disorderlyworld of whim and chance. The mechanism of the flight of birds hehad watched and reasoned about with understanding; but it had neverentered his head to try to explain the process whereby birds, asorganic flying mechanisms, had been developed. He had neverdreamed there was such a process. That birds should have come tobe, was unguessed. They always had been. They just happened.And as it was with birds, so had it been with everything. Hisignorant 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 ownintellectual powers. In similar manner his attempt to studyevolution had been confined to a hopelessly technical volume byRomanes. He had understood nothing, and the only idea he hadgathered was that evolution was a dry-as-dust theory, of a lot oflittle men possessed of huge and unintelligible vocabularies. Andnow he learned that evolution was no mere theory but an acceptedprocess of development; that scientists no longer disagreed aboutit, their only differences being over the method of evolution.And here was the man Spencer, organizing all knowledge for him,reducing everything to unity, elaborating ultimate realities, andpresenting to his startled gaze a universe so concrete ofrealization that it was like the model of a ship such as sailorsmake and put into glass bottles. There was no caprice, no chance.All was law. It was in obedience to law that the bird flew, and itwas in obedience to the same law that fermenting slime had writhedand squirmed and put out legs and wings and become a bird.Martin had ascended from pitch to pitch of intellectual living, andhere he was at a higher pitch than ever. All the hidden thingswere laying their secrets bare. He was drunken with comprehension.At night, asleep, he lived with the gods in colossal nightmare; andawake, in the day, he went around like a somnambulist, with absentstare, gazing upon the world he had just discovered. At table hefailed to hear the conversation about petty and ignoble things, hiseager mind seeking out and following cause and effect in everythingbefore him. In the meat on the platter he saw the shining sun andtraced its energy back through all its transformations to itssource a hundred million miles away, or traced its energy ahead tothe 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 themeat, until, with inward gaze, he saw the same sun shining in hisbrain. He was entranced by illumination, and did not hear the"Bughouse," whispered by Jim, nor see the anxiety on his sister'sface, nor notice the rotary motion of Bernard Higginbotham'sfinger, whereby he imparted the suggestion of wheels revolving inhis brother-in-law's head.What, in a way, most profoundly impressed Martin, was thecorrelation of knowledge - of all knowledge. He had been curiousto know things, and whatever he acquired he had filed away inseparate memory compartments in his brain. Thus, on the subject ofsailing he had an immense store. On the subject of woman he had afairly large store. But these two subjects had been unrelated.Between the two memory compartments there had been no connection.That, in the fabric of knowledge, there should be any connectionwhatever between a woman with hysterics and a schooner carrying aweather-helm or heaving to in a gale, would have struck him asridiculous and impossible. But Herbert Spencer had shown him notonly that it was not ridiculous, but that it was impossible forthere to be no connection. All things were related to all otherthings from the farthermost star in the wastes of space to themyriads of atoms in the grain of sand under one's foot. This newconcept was a perpetual amazement to Martin, and he found himselfengaged continually in tracing the relationship between all thingsunder the sun and on the other side of the sun. He drew up listsof the most incongruous things and was unhappy until he succeededin establishing kinship between them all - kinship between love,poetry, earthquake, fire, rattlesnakes, rainbows, precious gems,monstrosities, sunsets, the roaring of lions, illuminating gas,cannibalism, beauty, murder, lovers, fulcrums, and tobacco. Thus,he unified the universe and held it up and looked at it, orwandered through its byways and alleys and jungles, not as aterrified traveller in the thick of mysteries seeking an unknowngoal, but observing and charting and becoming familiar with allthere was to know. And the more he knew, the more passionately headmired the universe, and life, and his own life in the midst of itall."You fool!" he cried at his image in the looking-glass. "Youwanted to write, and you tried to write, and you had nothing in youto write about. What did you have in you? - some childish notions,a few half-baked sentiments, a lot of undigested beauty, a greatblack mass of ignorance, a heart filled to bursting with love, andan ambition as big as your love and as futile as your ignorance.And you wanted to write! Why, you're just on the edge of beginningto get something in you to write about. You wanted to createbeauty, but how could you when you knew nothing about the nature ofbeauty? You wanted to write about life when you knew nothing ofthe essential characteristics of life. You wanted to write aboutthe world and the scheme of existence when the world was a Chinesepuzzle to you and all that you could have written would have beenabout what you did not know of the scheme of existence. But cheerup, Martin, my boy. You'll write yet. You know a little, a verylittle, and you're on the right road now to know more. Some day,if you're lucky, you may come pretty close to knowing all that maybe known. Then you will write."He brought his great discovery to Ruth, sharing with her all hisjoy and wonder in it. But she did not seem to be so enthusiasticover it. She tacitly accepted it and, in a way, seemed aware of itfrom her own studies. It did not stir her deeply, as it did him,and he would have been surprised had he not reasoned it out that itwas not new and fresh to her as it was to him. Arthur and Norman,he found, believed in evolution and had read Spencer, though it didnot seem to have made any vital impression upon them, while theyoung fellow with the glasses and the mop of hair, Will Olney,sneered disagreeably at Spencer and repeated the epigram, "There isno god but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is his prophet."But Martin forgave him the sneer, for he had begun to discover thatOlney was not in love with Ruth. Later, he was dumfounded to learnfrom various little happenings not only that Olney did not care forRuth, but that he had a positive dislike for her. Martin could notunderstand this. It was a bit of phenomena that he could notcorrelate with all the rest of the phenomena in the universe. Butnevertheless he felt sorry for the young fellow because of thegreat lack in his nature that prevented him from a properappreciation of Ruth's fineness and beauty. They rode out into thehills several Sundays on their wheels, and Martin had ampleopportunity to observe the armed truce that existed between Ruthand Olney. The latter chummed with Norman, throwing Arthur andMartin into company with Ruth, for which Martin was duly grateful.Those Sundays were great days for Martin, greatest because he waswith Ruth, and great, also, because they were putting him more on apar with the young men of her class. In spite of their long yearsof disciplined education, he was finding himself their intellectualequal, and the hours spent with them in conversation was so muchpractice for him in the use of the grammar he had studied so hard.He had abandoned the etiquette books, falling back upon observationto show him the right things to do. Except when carried away byhis enthusiasm, he was always on guard, keenly watchful of theiractions and learning their little courtesies and refinements ofconduct.The fact that Spencer was very little read was for some time asource of surprise to Martin. "Herbert Spencer," said the man atthe desk in the library, "oh, yes, a great mind." But the man didnot seem to know anything of the content of that great mind. Oneevening, at dinner, when Mr. Butler was there, Martin turned theconversation upon Spencer. Mr. Morse bitterly arraigned theEnglish philosopher's agnosticism, but confessed that he had notread "First Principles"; while Mr. Butler stated that he had nopatience with Spencer, had never read a line of him, and hadmanaged to get along quite well without him. Doubts arose inMartin's mind, and had he been less strongly individual he wouldhave accepted the general opinion and given Herbert Spencer up. Asit was, he found Spencer's explanation of things convincing; and,as he phrased it to himself, to give up Spencer would be equivalentto a navigator throwing the compass and chronometer overboard. SoMartin went on into a thorough study of evolution, mastering moreand more the subject himself, and being convinced by thecorroborative testimony of a thousand independent writers. Themore he studied, the more vistas he caught of fields of knowledgeyet unexplored, and the regret that days were only twenty-fourhours long became a chronic complaint with him.One day, because the days were so short, he decided to give upalgebra and geometry. Trigonometry he had not even attempted.Then he cut chemistry from his study-list, retaining only physics."I am not a specialist," he said, in defence, to Ruth. "Nor am Igoing to try to be a specialist. There are too many special fieldsfor any one man, in a whole lifetime, to master a tithe of them. Imust pursue general knowledge. When I need the work ofspecialists, I shall refer to their books.""But that is not like having the knowledge yourself," sheprotested."But it is unnecessary to have it. We profit from the work of thespecialists. That's what they are for. When I came in, I noticedthe chimney-sweeps at work. They're specialists, and when they getdone, you will enjoy clean chimneys without knowing anything aboutthe construction of chimneys.""That's far-fetched, I am afraid."She looked at him curiously, and he felt a reproach in her gaze andmanner. 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. Hegeneralized upon the findings of thousands of investigators. Hewould have had to live a thousand lives in order to do it allhimself. And so with Darwin. He took advantage of all that hadbeen 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 herselfeven."" - Oh, yes," Olney rushed on, heading off her objection, "I knowyou call it general culture. But it doesn't matter what you studyif you want general culture. You can study French, or you canstudy German, or cut them both out and study Esperanto, you'll getthe 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. Itwill be culture, though. Why, Ruth studied Saxon, became clever init, - that was two years ago, - and all that she remembers of itnow is 'Whan that sweet Aprile with his schowers soote' - isn'tthat 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 flashing, and in her cheeks were twospots 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 demanded, turning squarely uponhim.Martin felt very uncomfortable, and 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 ofbeauty."She nodded her head and looked triumph."Rot, and you know it," was Olney's comment. "Martin's aftercareer, not culture. It just happens that culture, in his case, isincidental to career. If he wanted to be a chemist, culture wouldbe unnecessary. Martin wants to write, but he's afraid to say sobecause it will put you in the wrong.""And why does Martin want to write?" he went on. "Because he isn'trolling in wealth. Why do you fill your head with Saxon andgeneral culture? Because you don't have to make your way in theworld. Your father sees to that. He buys your clothes for you,and all the rest. What rotten good is our education, yours andmine and Arthur's and Norman's? We're soaked in general culture,and if our daddies went broke to-day, we'd be falling down to-morrow on teachers' examinations. The best job you could get,Ruth, would 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 crammingjoint - I say might, mind you, and I might be chucked out at theend of the week for sheer inability."Martin followed the discussion closely, and while he was convincedthat Olney was right, he resented the rather cavalier treatment heaccorded Ruth. A new conception of love formed in his mind as helistened. Reason had nothing to do with love. It mattered notwhether the woman he loved reasoned correctly or incorrectly. Lovewas above reason. If it just happened that she did not fullyappreciate his necessity for a career, that did not make her a bitless lovable. She was all lovable, and what she thought hadnothing to do with her lovableness."What's that?" he replied to a question from Olney that broke inupon his train of thought."I was saying that I hoped you wouldn't be fool enough to tackleLatin.""But Latin is more than culture," Ruth broke in. "It isequipment.""Well, are you going to tackle it?" Olney persisted.Martin was sore beset. He could see that Ruth was hanging eagerlyupon 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'strying to get somewhere, to do something.""Oh, but it's mental training. It's mind discipline. It's whatmakes disciplined minds." Ruth looked expectantly at Martin, as ifwaiting for him to change his judgment. "You know, the foot-ballplayers have to train before the big game. And that is what Latindoes for the thinker. It trains.""Rot and bosh! That's what they told us when we were kids. Butthere is one thing they didn't tell us then. They let us find itout for ourselves afterwards." Olney paused for effect, thenadded, "And what they didn't tell us was that every gentlemanshould have studied Latin, but that no gentleman should knowLatin.""Now that's unfair," Ruth cried. "I knew you were turning theconversation just in order to get off something.""It's clever all right," was the retort, "but it's fair, too. Theonly men who know their Latin are the apothecaries, the lawyers,and the Latin professors. And if Martin wants to be one of them, Imiss my guess. But what's all that got to do with Herbert Spenceranyway? Martin's just discovered Spencer, and he's wild over him.Why? Because Spencer is taking him somewhere. Spencer couldn'ttake me anywhere, nor you. We haven't got anywhere to go. You'llget married some day, and I'll have nothing to do but keep track ofthe lawyers and business agents who will take care of the money myfather's going to leave me."Onley got up to go, but turned at the door and delivered a partingshot."You leave Martin alone, Ruth. He knows what's best for himself.Look at what he's done already. He makes me sick sometimes, sickand ashamed of myself. He knows more now about the world, andlife, and man's place, and all the rest, than Arthur, or Norman, orI, or you, too, for that matter, and in spite of all our Latin, andFrench, and Saxon, and culture.""But Ruth is my teacher," Martin answered chivalrously. "She isresponsible for what little I have learned.""Rats!" Olney looked at Ruth, and his expression was malicious."I suppose you'll be telling me next that you read Spencer on herrecommendation - only you didn't. And she doesn't know anythingmore about Darwin and evolution than I do about King Solomon'smines. What's that jawbreaker definition about something or other,of Spencer's, that you sprang on us the other day - thatindefinite, incoherent homogeneity thing? Spring it on her, andsee 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 anyrespect for you."And all the while, interested in the discussion, Martin had beenaware of an irk in it as well. It was about studies and lessons,dealing with the rudiments of knowledge, and the schoolboyish toneof it conflicted with the big things that were stirring in him -with the grip upon life that was even then crooking his fingerslike eagle's talons, with the cosmic thrills that made him ache,and with the inchoate consciousness of mastery of it all. Helikened himself to a poet, wrecked on the shores of a strange land,filled with power of beauty, stumbling and stammering and vainlytrying to sing in the rough, barbaric tongue of his brethren in thenew land. And so with him. He was alive, painfully alive, to thegreat universal things, and yet he was compelled to potter andgrope among schoolboy topics and debate whether or not he shouldstudy Latin."What in hell has Latin to do with it?" he demanded before hismirror that night. "I wish dead people would stay dead. Whyshould I and the beauty in me be ruled by the dead? Beauty isalive and everlasting. Languages come and go. They are the dustof the dead."And his next thought was that he had been phrasing his ideas verywell, and he went to bed wondering why he could not talk in similarfashion when he was with Ruth. He was only a schoolboy, with aschoolboy's tongue, when he was in her presence."Give me time," he said aloud. "Only give me time."Time! Time! Time! was his unending plaint.