Chapter XLI

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　He slept heavily all night, and did not stir until aroused by thepostman on his morning round. Martin felt tired and passive, andwent through his letters aimlessly. One thin envelope, from arobber magazine, contained for twenty-two dollars. He had beendunning for it for a year and a half. He noted its amountapathetically. The old-time thrill at receiving a publisher'scheck was gone. Unlike his earlier checks, this one was notpregnant with promise of great things to come. To him it was acheck for twenty-two dollars, that was all, and it would buy himsomething to eat.Another check was in the same mail, sent from a New York weekly inpayment for some humorous verse which had been accepted monthsbefore. It was for ten dollars. An idea came to him, which hecalmly considered. He did not know what he was going to do, and hefelt in no hurry to do anything. In the meantime he must live.Also he owed numerous debts. Would it not be a paying investmentto put stamps on the huge pile of manuscripts under the table andstart them on their travels again? One or two of them might beaccepted. That would help him to live. He decided on theinvestment, and, after he had cashed the checks at the bank down inOakland, he bought ten dollars' worth of postage stamps. Thethought of going home to cook breakfast in his stuffy little roomwas repulsive to him. For the first time he refused to considerhis debts. He knew that in his room he could manufacture asubstantial breakfast at a cost of from fifteen to twenty cents.But, instead, he went into the Forum Cafe and ordered a breakfastthat cost two dollars. He tipped the waiter a quarter, and spentfifty cents for a package of Egyptian cigarettes. It was the firsttime he had smoked since Ruth had asked him to stop. But he couldsee now no reason why he should not, and besides, he wanted tosmoke. And what did the money matter? For five cents he couldhave bought a package of Durham and brown papers and rolled fortycigarettes - but what of it? Money had no meaning to him nowexcept what it would immediately buy. He was chartless andrudderless, and he had no port to make, while drifting involved theleast living, and it was living that hurt.The days slipped along, and he slept eight hours regularly everynight. Though now, while waiting for more checks, he ate in theJapanese restaurants where meals were served for ten cents, hiswasted body filled out, as did the hollows in his cheeks. He nolonger abused himself with short sleep, overwork, and overstudy.He wrote nothing, and the books were closed. He walked much, outin the hills, and loafed long hours in the quiet parks. He had nofriends nor acquaintances, nor did he make any. He had noinclination. He was waiting for some impulse, from he knew notwhere, to put his stopped life into motion again. In the meantimehis life remained run down, planless, and empty and idle.Once he made a trip to San Francisco to look up the "real dirt."But at the last moment, as he stepped into the upstairs entrance,he recoiled and turned and fled through the swarming ghetto. Hewas frightened at the thought of hearing philosophy discussed, andhe fled furtively, for fear that some one of the "real dirt" mightchance along and recognize him.Sometimes he glanced over the magazines and newspapers to see how"Ephemera" was being maltreated. It had made a hit. But what ahit! Everybody had read it, and everybody was discussing whetheror not it was really poetry. The local papers had taken it up, anddaily there appeared columns of learned criticisms, facetiouseditorials, and serious letters from subscribers. Helen DellaDelmar (proclaimed with a flourish of trumpets and rolling oftomtoms to be the greatest woman poet in the United States) deniedBrissenden a seat beside her on Pegasus and wrote voluminousletters to the public, proving that he was no poet.The Parthenon came out in its next number patting itself on theback for the stir it had made, sneering at Sir John Value, andexploiting Brissenden's death with ruthless commercialism. Anewspaper with a sworn circulation of half a million published anoriginal and spontaneous poem by Helen Della Delmar, in which shegibed and sneered at Brissenden. Also, she was guilty of a secondpoem, in which she parodied him.Martin had many times to be glad that Brissenden was dead. He hadhated the crowd so, and here all that was finest and most sacred ofhim had been thrown to the crowd. Daily the vivisection of Beautywent on. Every nincompoop in the land rushed into free print,floating their wizened little egos into the public eye on the surgeof Brissenden's greatness. Quoth one paper: "We have received aletter from a gentleman who wrote a poem just like it, only better,some time ago." Another paper, in deadly seriousness, reprovingHelen Della Delmar for her parody, said: "But unquestionably MissDelmar wrote it in a moment of badinage and not quite with therespect that one great poet should show to another and perhaps tothe greatest. However, whether Miss Delmar be jealous or not ofthe man who invented 'Ephemera,' it is certain that she, likethousands of others, is fascinated by his work, and that the daymay come when she will try to write lines like his."Ministers began to preach sermons against "Ephemera," and one, whotoo stoutly stood for much of its content, was expelled for heresy.The great poem contributed to the gayety of the world. The comicverse-writers and the cartoonists took hold of it with screaminglaughter, and in the personal columns of society weeklies jokeswere perpetrated on it to the effect that Charley Frensham toldArchie Jennings, in confidence, that five lines of "Ephemera" woulddrive a man to beat a cripple, and that ten lines would send him tothe bottom of the river.Martin did not laugh; nor did he grit his teeth in anger. Theeffect produced upon him was one of great sadness. In the crash ofhis whole world, with love on the pinnacle, the crash ofmagazinedom and the dear public was a small crash indeed.Brissenden had been wholly right in his judgment of the magazines,and he, Martin, had spent arduous and futile years in order to findit out for himself. The magazines were all Brissenden had saidthey were and more. Well, he was done, he solaced himself. He hadhitched his wagon to a star and been landed in a pestiferous marsh.The visions of Tahiti - clean, sweet Tahiti - were coming to himmore frequently. And there were the low Paumotus, and the highMarquesas; he saw himself often, now, on board trading schooners orfrail little cutters, slipping out at dawn through the reef atPapeete and beginning the long beat through the pearl-atolls toNukahiva and the Bay of Taiohae, where Tamari, he knew, would killa pig in honor of his coming, and where Tamari's flower-garlandeddaughters would seize his hands and with song and laughter garlandhim with flowers. The South Seas were calling, and he knew thatsooner or later he would answer the call.In the meantime he drifted, resting and recuperating after the longtraverse he had made through the realm of knowledge. When TheParthenon check of three hundred and fifty dollars was forwarded tohim, he turned it over to the local lawyer who had attended toBrissenden's affairs for his family. Martin took a receipt for thecheck, and at the same time gave a note for the hundred dollarsBrissenden had let him have.The time was not long when Martin ceased patronizing the Japaneserestaurants. At the very moment when he had abandoned the fight,the tide turned. But it had turned too late. Without a thrill heopened a thick envelope from The Millennium, scanned the face of acheck that represented three hundred dollars, and noted that it wasthe payment on acceptance for "Adventure." Every debt he owed inthe world, including the pawnshop, with its usurious interest,amounted to less than a hundred dollars. And when he had paideverything, and lifted the hundred-dollar note with Brissenden'slawyer, he still had over a hundred dollars in pocket. He ordereda suit of clothes from the tailor and ate his meals in the bestcafes in town. He still slept in his little room at Maria's, butthe sight of his new clothes caused the neighborhood children tocease from calling him "hobo" and "tramp" from the roofs ofwoodsheds and over back fences."Wiki-Wiki," his Hawaiian short story, was bought by Warren'sMonthly for two hundred and fifty dollars. The Northern Reviewtook his essay, "The Cradle of Beauty," and Mackintosh's Magazinetook "The Palmist" - the poem he had written to Marian. Theeditors and readers were back from their summer vacations, andmanuscripts were being handled quickly. But Martin could notpuzzle out what strange whim animated them to this generalacceptance of the things they had persistently rejected for twoyears. Nothing of his had been published. He was not knownanywhere outside of Oakland, and in Oakland, with the few whothought they knew him, he was notorious as a red-shirt and asocialist. So there was no explaining this sudden acceptability ofhis wares. It was sheer jugglery of fate.After it had been refused by a number of magazines, he had takenBrissenden's rejected advice and started, "The Shame of the Sun" onthe round of publishers. After several refusals, Singletree,Darnley & Co. accepted it, promising fall publication. When Martinasked for an advance on royalties, they wrote that such was nottheir custom, that books of that nature rarely paid for themselves,and that they doubted if his book would sell a thousand copies.Martin figured what the book would earn him on such a sale.Retailed at a dollar, on a royalty of fifteen per cent, it wouldbring him one hundred and fifty dollars. He decided that if he hadit to do over again he would confine himself to fiction."Adventure," one-fourth as long, had brought him twice as much fromThe Millennium. That newspaper paragraph he had read so long agohad been true, after all. The first-class magazines did not pay onacceptance, and they paid well. Not two cents a word, but fourcents a word, had The Millennium paid him. And, furthermore, theybought good stuff, too, for were they not buying his? This lastthought he accompanied with a grin.He wrote to Singletree, Darnley & Co., offering to sell out hisrights in "The Shame of the Sun" for a hundred dollars, but theydid not care to take the risk. In the meantime he was not in needof money, for several of his later stories had been accepted andpaid for. He actually opened a bank account, where, without a debtin the world, he had several hundred dollars to his credit."Overdue," after having been declined by a number of magazines,came to rest at the Meredith-Lowell Company. Martin remembered thefive dollars Gertrude had given him, and his resolve to return itto her a hundred times over; so he wrote for an advance onroyalties of five hundred dollars. To his surprise a check forthat amount, accompanied by a contract, came by return mail. Hecashed the check into five-dollar gold pieces and telephonedGertrude that he wanted to see her.She arrived at the house panting and short of breath from the hasteshe had made. Apprehensive of trouble, she had stuffed the fewdollars she possessed into her hand-satchel; and so sure was shethat disaster had overtaken her brother, that she stumbled forward,sobbing, into his arms, at the same time thrusting the satchelmutely at him."I'd have come myself," he said. "But I didn't want a row with Mr.Higginbotham, and that is what would have surely happened.""He'll be all right after a time," she assured him, while shewondered what the trouble was that Martin was in. "But you'd bestget a job first an' steady down. Bernard does like to see a man athonest work. That stuff in the newspapers broke 'm all up. Inever saw 'm so mad before.""I'm not going to get a job," Martin said with a smile. "And youcan tell him so from me. I don't need a job, and there's the proofof it."He emptied the hundred gold pieces into her lap in a glinting,tinkling stream."You remember that fiver you gave me the time I didn't havecarfare? Well, there it is, with ninety-nine brothers of differentages but all of the same size."If Gertrude had been frightened when she arrived, she was now in apanic of fear. Her fear was such that it was certitude. She wasnot suspicious. She was convinced. She looked at Martin inhorror, and her heavy limbs shrank under the golden stream asthough it were burning her."It's yours," he laughed.She burst into tears, and began to moan, "My poor boy, my poorboy!"He was puzzled for a moment. Then he divined the cause of heragitation and handed her the Meredith-Lowell letter which hadaccompanied the check. She stumbled through it, pausing now andagain to wipe her eyes, and when she had finished, said:-"An' does it mean that you come by the money honestly?""More honestly than if I'd won it in a lottery. I earned it."Slowly faith came back to her, and she reread the letter carefully.It took him long to explain to her the nature of the transactionwhich had put the money into his possession, and longer still toget her to understand that the money was really hers and that hedid not need it."I'll put it in the bank for you," she said finally."You'll do nothing of the sort. It's yours, to do with as youplease, and if you won't take it, I'll give it to Maria. She'llknow what to do with it. I'd suggest, though, that you hire aservant and take a good long rest.""I'm goin' to tell Bernard all about it," she announced, when shewas leaving.Martin winced, then grinned."Yes, do," he said. "And then, maybe, he'll invite me to dinneragain.""Yes, he will - I'm sure he will!" she exclaimed fervently, as shedrew him to her and kissed and hugged him.