Chapter XLII

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　One day Martin became aware that he was lonely. He was healthy andstrong, and had nothing to do. The cessation from writing andstudying, the death of Brissenden, and the estrangement from Ruthhad made a big hole in his life; and his life refused to be pinneddown to good living in cafes and the smoking of Egyptiancigarettes. It was true the South Seas were calling to him, but hehad a feeling that the game was not yet played out in the UnitedStates. Two books were soon to be published, and he had more booksthat might find publication. Money could be made out of them, andhe would wait and take a sackful of it into the South Seas. Heknew a valley and a bay in the Marquesas that he could buy for athousand Chili dollars. The valley ran from the horseshoe, land-locked bay to the tops of the dizzy, cloud-capped peaks andcontained perhaps ten thousand acres. It was filled with tropicalfruits, wild chickens, and wild pigs, with an occasional herd ofwild cattle, while high up among the peaks were herds of wild goatsharried by packs of wild dogs. The whole place was wild. Not ahuman lived in it. And he could buy it and the bay for a thousandChili dollars.The bay, as he remembered it, was magnificent, with water deepenough to accommodate the largest vessel afloat, and so safe thatthe South Pacific Directory recommended it to the best careeningplace for ships for hundreds of miles around. He would buy aschooner - one of those yacht-like, coppered crafts that sailedlike witches - and go trading copra and pearling among the islands.He would make the valley and the bay his headquarters. He wouldbuild a patriarchal grass house like Tati's, and have it and thevalley and the schooner filled with dark-skinned servitors. Hewould entertain there the factor of Taiohae, captains of wanderingtraders, and all the best of the South Pacific riffraff. He wouldkeep open house and entertain like a prince. And he would forgetthe books he had opened and the world that had proved an illusion.To do all this he must wait in California to fill the sack withmoney. Already it was beginning to flow in. If one of the booksmade a strike, it might enable him to sell the whole heap ofmanuscripts. Also he could collect the stories and the poems intobooks, and make sure of the valley and the bay and the schooner.He would never write again. Upon that he was resolved. But in themeantime, awaiting the publication of the books, he must dosomething more than live dazed and stupid in the sort of uncaringtrance into which he had fallen.He noted, one Sunday morning, that the Bricklayers' Picnic tookplace that day at Shell Mound Park, and to Shell Mound Park hewent. He had been to the working-class picnics too often in hisearlier life not to know what they were like, and as he entered thepark he experienced a recrudescence of all the old sensations.After all, they were his kind, these working people. He had beenborn among them, he had lived among them, and though he had strayedfor a time, it was well to come back among them."If it ain't Mart!" he heard some one say, and the next moment ahearty hand was on his shoulder. "Where you ben all the time? Offto sea? Come on an' have a drink."It was the old crowd in which he found himself - the old crowd,with here and there a gap, and here and there a new face. Thefellows were not bricklayers, but, as in the old days, theyattended all Sunday picnics for the dancing, and the fighting, andthe fun. Martin drank with them, and began to feel really humanonce more. He was a fool to have ever left them, he thought; andhe was very certain that his sum of happiness would have beengreater had he remained with them and let alone the books and thepeople who sat in the high places. Yet the beer seemed not so goodas of yore. It didn't taste as it used to taste. Brissenden hadspoiled him for steam beer, he concluded, and wondered if, afterall, the books had spoiled him for companionship with these friendsof his youth. He resolved that he would not be so spoiled, and hewent on to the dancing pavilion. Jimmy, the plumber, he met there,in the company of a tall, blond girl who promptly forsook him forMartin."Gee, it's like old times," Jimmy explained to the gang that gavehim the laugh as Martin and the blonde whirled away in a waltz."An' I don't give a rap. I'm too damned glad to see 'm back.Watch 'm waltz, eh? It's like silk. Who'd blame any girl?"But Martin restored the blonde to Jimmy, and the three of them,with half a dozen friends, watched the revolving couples andlaughed and joked with one another. Everybody was glad to seeMartin back. No book of his been published; he carried nofictitious value in their eyes. They liked him for himself. Hefelt like a prince returned from excile, and his lonely heartburgeoned in the geniality in which it bathed. He made a mad dayof it, and was at his best. Also, he had money in his pockets,and, as in the old days when he returned from sea with a pay-day,he made the money fly.Once, on the dancing-floor, he saw Lizzie Connolly go by in thearms of a young workingman; and, later, when he made the round ofthe pavilion, he came upon her sitting by a refreshment table.Surprise and greetings over, he led her away into the grounds,where they could talk without shouting down the music. From theinstant he spoke to her, she was his. He knew it. She showed itin the proud humility of her eyes, in every caressing movement ofher proudly carried body, and in the way she hung upon his speech.She was not the young girl as he had known her. She was a woman,now, and Martin noted that her wild, defiant beauty had improved,losing none of its wildness, while the defiance and the fire seemedmore in control. "A beauty, a perfect beauty," he murmuredadmiringly under his breath. And he knew she was his, that all hehad to do was to say "Come," and she would go with him over theworld wherever he led.Even as the thought flashed through his brain he received a heavyblow on the side of his head that nearly knocked him down. It wasa man's fist, directed by a man so angry and in such haste that thefist had missed the jaw for which it was aimed. Martin turned ashe staggered, and saw the fist coming at him in a wild swing.Quite as a matter of course he ducked, and the fist flew harmlesslypast, pivoting the man who had driven it. Martin hooked with hisleft, landing on the pivoting man with the weight of his bodybehind the blow. The man went to the ground sidewise, leaped tohis feet, and made a mad rush. Martin saw his passion-distortedface and wondered what could be the cause of the fellow's anger.But while he wondered, he shot in a straight left, the weight ofhis body behind the blow. The man went over backward and fell in acrumpled heap. Jimmy and others of the gang were running towardthem.Martin was thrilling all over. This was the old days with avengeance, with their dancing, and their fighting, and their fun.While he kept a wary eye on his antagonist, he glanced at Lizzie.Usually the girls screamed when the fellows got to scrapping, butshe had not screamed. She was looking on with bated breath,leaning slightly forward, so keen was her interest, one handpressed to her breast, her cheek flushed, and in her eyes a greatand amazed admiration.The man had gained his feet and was struggling to escape therestraining arms that were laid on him."She was waitin' for me to come back!" he was proclaiming to alland sundry. "She was waitin' for me to come back, an' then thatfresh guy comes buttin' in. Let go o' me, I tell yeh. I'm goin'to fix 'm.""What's eatin' yer?" Jimmy was demanding, as he helped hold theyoung fellow back. "That guy's Mart Eden. He's nifty with hismits, lemme tell you that, an' he'll eat you alive if you monkeywith 'm.""He can't steal her on me that way," the other interjected."He licked the Flyin' Dutchman, an' you know him," Jimmy went onexpostulating. "An' he did it in five rounds. You couldn't last aminute against him. See?"This information seemed to have a mollifying effect, and the irateyoung man favored Martin with a measuring stare."He don't look it," he sneered; but the sneer was without passion."That's what the Flyin' Dutchman thought," Jimmy assured him."Come on, now, let's get outa this. There's lots of other girls.Come on."The young fellow allowed himself to be led away toward thepavilion, and the gang followed after him."Who is he?" Martin asked Lizzie. "And what's it all about,anyway?"Already the zest of combat, which of old had been so keen andlasting, had died down, and he discovered that he was self-analytical, too much so to live, single heart and single hand, soprimitive an existence.Lizzie tossed her head."Oh, he's nobody," she said. "He's just ben keepin' company withme.""I had to, you see," she explained after a pause. "I was gettin'pretty lonesome. But I never forgot." Her voice sank lower, andshe looked straight before her. "I'd throw 'm down for you anytime."Martin looking at her averted face, knowing that all he had to dowas to reach out his hand and pluck her, fell to pondering whether,after all, there was any real worth in refined, grammaticalEnglish, and, so, forgot to reply to her."You put it all over him," she said tentatively, with a laugh."He's a husky young fellow, though," he admitted generously. "Ifthey hadn't taken him away, he might have given me my hands full.""Who was that lady friend I seen you with that night?" she askedabruptly."Oh, just a lady friend," was his answer."It was a long time ago," she murmured contemplatively. "It seemslike a thousand years."But Martin went no further into the matter. He led theconversation off into other channels. They had lunch in therestaurant, where he ordered wine and expensive delicacies andafterward he danced with her and with no one but her, till she wastired. He was a good dancer, and she whirled around and aroundwith him in a heaven of delight, her head against his shoulder,wishing that it could last forever. Later in the afternoon theystrayed off among the trees, where, in the good old fashion, shesat down while he sprawled on his back, his head in her lap. Helay and dozed, while she fondled his hair, looked down on hisclosed eyes, and loved him without reserve. Looking up suddenly,he read the tender advertisement in her face. Her eyes fluttereddown, then they opened and looked into his with soft defiance."I've kept straight all these years," she said, her voice so lowthat it was almost a whisper.In his heart Martin knew that it was the miraculous truth. And athis heart pleaded a great temptation. It was in his power to makeher happy. Denied happiness himself, why should he deny happinessto her? He could marry her and take her down with him to dwell inthe grass-walled castle in the Marquesas. The desire to do it wasstrong, but stronger still was the imperative command of his naturenot to do it. In spite of himself he was still faithful to Love.The old days of license and easy living were gone. He could notbring them back, nor could he go back to them. He was changed -how changed he had not realized until now."I am not a marrying man, Lizzie," he said lightly.The hand caressing his hair paused perceptibly, then went on withthe same gentle stroke. He noticed her face harden, but it waswith the hardness of resolution, for still the soft color was inher cheeks and she was all glowing and melting."I did not mean that - " she began, then faltered. "Or anyway Idon't care.""I don't care," she repeated. "I'm proud to be your friend. I'ddo anything for you. I'm made that way, I guess."Martin sat up. He took her hand in his. He did it deliberately,with warmth but without passion; and such warmth chilled her."Don't let's talk about it," she said."You are a great and noble woman," he said. "And it is I whoshould be proud to know you. And I am, I am. You are a ray oflight to me in a very dark world, and I've got to be straight withyou, just as straight as you have been.""I don't care whether you're straight with me or not. You could doanything with me. You could throw me in the dirt an' walk on me.An' you're the only man in the world that can," she added with adefiant flash. "I ain't taken care of myself ever since I was akid for nothin'.""And it's just because of that that I'm not going to," he saidgently. "You are so big and generous that you challenge me toequal generousness. I'm not marrying, and I'm not - well, lovingwithout marrying, though I've done my share of that in the past.I'm sorry I came here to-day and met you. But it can't be helpednow, and I never expected it would turn out this way.""But look here, Lizzie. I can't begin to tell you how much I likeyou. I do more than like you. I admire and respect you. You aremagnificent, and you are magnificently good. But what's the use ofwords? Yet there's something I'd like to do. You've had a hardlife; let me make it easy for you." (A joyous light welled intoher eyes, then faded out again.) "I'm pretty sure of getting holdof some money soon - lots of it."In that moment he abandoned the idea of the valley and the bay, thegrass-walled castle and the trim, white schooner. After all, whatdid it matter? He could go away, as he had done so often, beforethe mast, on any ship bound anywhere."I'd like to turn it over to you. There must be something you want- to go to school or business college. You might like to study andbe a stenographer. I could fix it for you. Or maybe your fatherand mother are living - I could set them up in a grocery store orsomething. Anything you want, just name it, and I can fix it foryou."She made no reply, but sat, gazing straight before her, dry-eyedand motionless, but with an ache in the throat which Martin divinedso strongly that it made his own throat ache. He regretted that hehad spoken. It seemed so tawdry what he had offered her - meremoney - compared with what she offered him. He offered her anextraneous thing with which he could part without a pang, while sheoffered him herself, along with disgrace and shame, and sin, andall her hopes of heaven."Don't let's talk about it," she said with a catch in her voicethat she changed to a cough. She stood up. "Come on, let's gohome. I'm all tired out."The day was done, and the merrymakers had nearly all departed. Butas Martin and Lizzie emerged from the trees they found the gangwaiting for them. Martin knew immediately the meaning of it.Trouble was brewing. The gang was his body-guard. They passed outthrough the gates of the park with, straggling in the rear, asecond gang, the friends that Lizzie's young man had collected toavenge the loss of his lady. Several constables and special policeofficers, anticipating trouble, trailed along to prevent it, andherded the two gangs separately aboard the train for San Francisco.Martin told Jimmy that he would get off at Sixteenth Street Stationand catch the electric car into Oakland. Lizzie was very quiet andwithout interest in what was impending. The train pulled in toSixteenth Street Station, and the waiting electric car could beseen, the conductor of which was impatiently clanging the gong."There she is," Jimmy counselled. "Make a run for it, an' we'llhold 'em back. Now you go! Hit her up!"The hostile gang was temporarily disconcerted by the manoeuvre,then it dashed from the train in pursuit. The staid and soberOakland folk who sat upon the car scarcely noted the young fellowand the girl who ran for it and found a seat in front on theoutside. They did not connect the couple with Jimmy, who sprang onthe steps, crying to the motorman:-"Slam on the juice, old man, and beat it outa here!"The next moment Jimmy whirled about, and the passengers saw himland his fist on the face of a running man who was trying to boardthe car. But fists were landing on faces the whole length of thecar. Thus, Jimmy and his gang, strung out on the long, lowersteps, met the attacking gang. The car started with a greatclanging of its gong, and, as Jimmy's gang drove off the lastassailants, they, too, jumped off to finish the job. The cardashed on, leaving the flurry of combat far behind, and itsdumfounded passengers never dreamed that the quiet young man andthe pretty working-girl sitting in the corner on the outside seathad been the cause of the row.Martin had enjoyed the fight, with a recrudescence of the oldfighting thrills. But they quickly died away, and he was oppressedby a great sadness. He felt very old - centuries older than thosecareless, care-free young companions of his others days. He hadtravelled far, too far to go back. Their mode of life, which hadonce been his, was now distasteful to him. He was disappointed init all. He had developed into an alien. As the steam beer hadtasted raw, so their companionship seemed raw to him. He was toofar removed. Too many thousands of opened books yawned betweenthem and him. He had exiled himself. He had travelled in the vastrealm of intellect until he could no longer return home. On theother hand, he was human, and his gregarious need for companionshipremained unsatisfied. He had found no new home. As the gang couldnot understand him, as his own family could not understand him, asthe bourgeoisie could not understand him, so this girl beside him,whom he honored high, could not understand him nor the honor hepaid her. His sadness was not untouched with bitterness as hethought it over."Make it up with him," he advised Lizzie, at parting, as they stoodin front of the workingman's shack in which she lived, near Sixthand Market. He referred to the young fellow whose place he hadusurped that day."I can't - now," she said."Oh, go on," he said jovially. "All you have to do is whistle andhe'll come running.""I didn't mean that," she said simply.And he knew what she had meant.She leaned toward him as he was about to say good night. But sheleaned not imperatively, not seductively, but wistfully and humbly.He was touched to the heart. His large tolerance rose up in him.He put his arms around her, and kissed her, and knew that upon hisown lips rested as true a kiss as man ever received."My God!" she sobbed. "I could die for you. I could die for you."She tore herself from him suddenly and ran up the steps. He felt aquick moisture in his eyes."Martin Eden," he communed. "You're not a brute, and you're a damnpoor Nietzscheman. You'd marry her if you could and fill herquivering heart full with happiness. But you can't, you can't.And it's a damn shame.""'A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers,'" he muttered,remembering his Henly. "'Life is, I think, a blunder and a shame.'It is - a blunder and a shame."