Chapter XLIII

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　"The Shame of the Sun" was published in October. As Martin cut thecords of the express package and the half-dozen complimentarycopies from the publishers spilled out on the table, a heavysadness fell upon him. He thought of the wild delight that wouldhave been his had this happened a few short months before, and hecontrasted that delight that should have been with his presentuncaring coldness. His book, his first book, and his pulse had notgone up a fraction of a beat, and he was only sad. It meant littleto him now. The most it meant was that it might bring some money,and little enough did he care for money.He carried a copy out into the kitchen and presented it to Maria."I did it," he explained, in order to clear up her bewilderment."I wrote it in the room there, and I guess some few quarts of yourvegetable soup went into the making of it. Keep it. It's yours.Just to remember me by, you know."He was not bragging, not showing off. His sole motive was to makeher happy, to make her proud of him, to justify her long faith inhim. She put the book in the front room on top of the familyBible. A sacred thing was this book her lodger had made, a fetichof friendship. It softened the blow of his having been alaundryman, and though she could not understand a line of it, sheknew that every line of it was great. She was a simple, practical,hard-working woman, but she possessed faith in large endowment.Just as emotionlessly as he had received "The Shame of the Sun" didhe read the reviews of it that came in weekly from the clippingbureau. The book was making a hit, that was evident. It meantmore gold in the money sack. He could fix up Lizzie, redeem allhis promises, and still have enough left to build his grass-walledcastle.Singletree, Darnley & Co. had cautiously brought out an edition offifteen hundred copies, but the first reviews had started a secondedition of twice the size through the presses; and ere this wasdelivered a third edition of five thousand had been ordered. ALondon firm made arrangements by cable for an English edition, andhot-footed upon this came the news of French, German, andScandinavian translations in progress. The attack upon theMaeterlinck school could not have been made at a more opportunemoment. A fierce controversy was precipitated. Saleeby andHaeckel indorsed and defended "The Shame of the Sun," for oncefinding themselves on the same side of a question. Crookes andWallace ranged up on the opposing side, while Sir Oliver Lodgeattempted to formulate a compromise that would jibe with hisparticular cosmic theories. Maeterlinck's followers rallied aroundthe standard of mysticism. Chesterton set the whole world laughingwith a series of alleged non-partisan essays on the subject, andthe whole affair, controversy and controversialists, was well-nighswept into the pit by a thundering broadside from George BernardShaw. Needless to say the arena was crowded with hosts of lesserlights, and the dust and sweat and din became terrific."It is a most marvellous happening," Singletree, Darnley & Co.wrote Martin, "a critical philosophic essay selling like a novel.You could not have chosen your subject better, and all contributoryfactors have been unwarrantedly propitious. We need scarcely toassure you that we are making hay while the sun shines. Over fortythousand copies have already been sold in the United States andCanada, and a new edition of twenty thousand is on the presses. Weare overworked, trying to supply the demand. Nevertheless we havehelped to create that demand. We have already spent five thousanddollars in advertising. The book is bound to be a record-breaker.""Please find herewith a contract in duplicate for your next bookwhich we have taken the liberty of forwarding to you. You willplease note that we have increased your royalties to twenty percent, which is about as high as a conservative publishing housedares go. If our offer is agreeable to you, please fill in theproper blank space with the title of your book. We make nostipulations concerning its nature. Any book on any subject. Ifyou have one already written, so much the better. Now is the timeto strike. The iron could not be hotter.""On receipt of signed contract we shall be pleased to make you anadvance on royalties of five thousand dollars. You see, we havefaith in you, and we are going in on this thing big. We shouldlike, also, to discuss with you the drawing up of a contract for aterm of years, say ten, during which we shall have the exclusiveright of publishing in book-form all that you produce. But more ofthis anon."Martin laid down the letter and worked a problem in mentalarithmetic, finding the product of fifteen cents times sixtythousand to be nine thousand dollars. He signed the new contract,inserting "The Smoke of Joy" in the blank space, and mailed it backto the publishers along with the twenty storiettes he had writtenin the days before he discovered the formula for the newspaperstoriette. And promptly as the United States mail could deliverand return, came Singletree, Darnley & Co.'s check for fivethousand dollars."I want you to come down town with me, Maria, this afternoon abouttwo o'clock," Martin said, the morning the check arrived. "Or,better, meet me at Fourteenth and Broadway at two o'clock. I'll belooking out for you."At the appointed time she was there; but shoes was the only clew tothe mystery her mind had been capable of evolving, and she suffereda distinct shock of disappointment when Martin walked her right bya shoe-store and dived into a real estate office. What happenedthereupon resided forever after in her memory as a dream. Finegentlemen smiled at her benevolently as they talked with Martin andone another; a type-writer clicked; signatures were affixed to animposing document; her own landlord was there, too, and affixed hissignature; and when all was over and she was outside on thesidewalk, her landlord spoke to her, saying, "Well, Maria, youwon't have to pay me no seven dollars and a half this month."Maria was too stunned for speech."Or next month, or the next, or the next," her landlord said.She thanked him incoherently, as if for a favor. And it was notuntil she had returned home to North Oakland and conferred with herown kind, and had the Portuguese grocer investigate, that shereally knew that she was the owner of the little house in which shehad lived and for which she had paid rent so long."Why don't you trade with me no more?" the Portuguese grocer askedMartin that evening, stepping out to hail him when he got off thecar; and Martin explained that he wasn't doing his own cooking anymore, and then went in and had a drink of wine on the house. Henoted it was the best wine the grocer had in stock."Maria," Martin announced that night, "I'm going to leave you. Andyou're going to leave here yourself soon. Then you can rent thehouse and be a landlord yourself. You've a brother in San Leandroor Haywards, and he's in the milk business. I want you to send allyour washing back unwashed - understand? - unwashed, and to go outto San Leandro to-morrow, or Haywards, or wherever it is, and seethat brother of yours. Tell him to come to see me. I'll bestopping at the Metropole down in Oakland. He'll know a good milk-ranch when he sees one."And so it was that Maria became a landlord and the sole owner of adairy, with two hired men to do the work for her and a bank accountthat steadily increased despite the fact that her whole brood woreshoes and went to school. Few persons ever meet the fairy princesthey dream about; but Maria, who worked hard and whose head washard, never dreaming about fairy princes, entertained hers in theguise of an ex-laundryman.In the meantime the world had begun to ask: "Who is this MartinEden?" He had declined to give any biographical data to hispublishers, but the newspapers were not to be denied. Oakland washis own town, and the reporters nosed out scores of individuals whocould supply information. All that he was and was not, all that hehad done and most of what he had not done, was spread out for thedelectation of the public, accompanied by snapshots and photographs- the latter procured from the local photographer who had oncetaken Martin's picture and who promptly copyrighted it and put iton the market. At first, so great was his disgust with themagazines and all bourgeois society, Martin fought againstpublicity; but in the end, because it was easier than not to, hesurrendered. He found that he could not refuse himself to thespecial writers who travelled long distances to see him. Thenagain, each day was so many hours long, and, since he no longer wasoccupied with writing and studying, those hours had to be occupiedsomehow; so he yielded to what was to him a whim, permittedinterviews, gave his opinions on literature and philosophy, andeven accepted invitations of the bourgeoisie. He had settled downinto a strange and comfortable state of mind. He no longer cared.He forgave everybody, even the cub reporter who had painted him redand to whom he now granted a full page with specially posedphotographs.He saw Lizzie occasionally, and it was patent that she regrettedthe greatness that had come to him. It widened the space betweenthem. Perhaps it was with the hope of narrowing it that sheyielded to his persuasions to go to night school and businesscollege and to have herself gowned by a wonderful dressmaker whocharged outrageous prices. She improved visibly from day to day,until Martin wondered if he was doing right, for he knew that allher compliance and endeavor was for his sake. She was trying tomake herself of worth in his eyes - of the sort of worth he seemedto value. Yet he gave her no hope, treating her in brotherlyfashion and rarely seeing her."Overdue" was rushed upon the market by the Meredith-Lowell Companyin the height of his popularity, and being fiction, in point ofsales it made even a bigger strike than "The Shame of the Sun."Week after week his was the credit of the unprecedented performanceof having two books at the head of the list of best-sellers. Notonly did the story take with the fiction-readers, but those whoread "The Shame of the Sun" with avidity were likewise attracted tothe sea-story by the cosmic grasp of mastery with which he hadhandled it. First he had attacked the literature of mysticism, andhad done it exceeding well; and, next, he had successfully suppliedthe very literature he had exposited, thus proving himself to bethat rare genius, a critic and a creator in one.Money poured in on him, fame poured in on him; he flashed, comet-like, through the world of literature, and he was more amused thaninterested by the stir he was making. One thing was puzzling him,a little thing that would have puzzled the world had it known. Butthe world would have puzzled over his bepuzzlement rather than overthe little thing that to him loomed gigantic. Judge Blount invitedhim to dinner. That was the little thing, or the beginning of thelittle thing, that was soon to become the big thing. He hadinsulted Judge Blount, treated him abominably, and Judge Blount,meeting him on the street, invited him to dinner. Martin bethoughthimself of the numerous occasions on which he had met Judge Blountat the Morses' and when Judge Blount had not invited him to dinner.Why had he not invited him to dinner then? he asked himself. Hehad not changed. He was the same Martin Eden. What made thedifference? The fact that the stuff he had written had appearedinside the covers of books? But it was work performed. It was notsomething he had done since. It was achievement accomplished atthe very time Judge Blount was sharing this general view andsneering at his Spencer and his intellect. Therefore it was notfor any real value, but for a purely fictitious value that JudgeBlount invited him to dinner.Martin grinned and accepted the invitation, marvelling the while athis complacence. And at the dinner, where, with their womankind,were half a dozen of those that sat in high places, and whereMartin found himself quite the lion, Judge Blount, warmly secondedby Judge Hanwell, urged privately that Martin should permit hisname to be put up for the Styx - the ultra-select club to whichbelonged, not the mere men of wealth, but the men of attainment.And Martin declined, and was more puzzled than ever.He was kept busy disposing of his heap of manuscripts. He wasoverwhelmed by requests from editors. It had been discovered thathe was a stylist, with meat under his style. The Northern Review,after publishing "The Cradle of Beauty," had written him for half adozen similar essays, which would have been supplied out of theheap, had not Burton's Magazine, in a speculative mood, offered himfive hundred dollars each for five essays. He wrote back that hewould supply the demand, but at a thousand dollars an essay. Heremembered that all these manuscripts had been refused by the verymagazines that were now clamoring for them. And their refusals hadbeen cold-blooded, automatic, stereotyped. They had made himsweat, and now he intended to make them sweat. Burton's Magazinepaid his price for five essays, and the remaining four, at the samerate, were snapped up by Mackintosh's Monthly, The Northern Reviewbeing too poor to stand the pace. Thus went out to the world "TheHigh Priests of Mystery," "The Wonder-Dreamers," "The Yardstick ofthe Ego," "Philosophy of Illusion," "God and Clod," "Art andBiology," "Critics and Test-tubes," "Star-dust," and "The Dignityof Usury," - to raise storms and rumblings and mutterings that weremany a day in dying down.Editors wrote to him telling him to name his own terms, which hedid, but it was always for work performed. He refused resolutelyto pledge himself to any new thing. The thought of again settingpen to paper maddened him. He had seen Brissenden torn to piecesby the crowd, and despite the fact that him the crowd acclaimed, hecould not get over the shock nor gather any respect for the crowd.His very popularity seemed a disgrace and a treason to Brissenden.It made him wince, but he made up his mind to go on and fill themoney-bag.He received letters from editors like the following: "About a yearago we were unfortunate enough to refuse your collection of love-poems. We were greatly impressed by them at the time, but certainarrangements already entered into prevented our taking them. Ifyou still have them, and if you will be kind enough to forwardthem, we shall be glad to publish the entire collection on your ownterms. We are also prepared to make a most advantageous offer forbringing them out in book-form."Martin recollected his blank-verse tragedy, and sent it instead.He read it over before mailing, and was particularly impressed byits sophomoric amateurishness and general worthlessness. But hesent it; and it was published, to the everlasting regret of theeditor. The public was indignant and incredulous. It was too fara cry from Martin Eden's high standard to that serious bosh. Itwas asserted that he had never written it, that the magazine hadfaked it very clumsily, or that Martin Eden was emulating the elderDumas and at the height of success was hiring his writing done forhim. But when he explained that the tragedy was an early effort ofhis literary childhood, and that the magazine had refused to behappy unless it got it, a great laugh went up at the magazine'sexpense and a change in the editorship followed. The tragedy wasnever brought out in book-form, though Martin pocketed the advanceroyalties that had been paid.Coleman's Weekly sent Martin a lengthy telegram, costing nearlythree hundred dollars, offering him a thousand dollars an articlefor twenty articles. He was to travel over the United States, withall expenses paid, and select whatever topics interested him. Thebody of the telegram was devoted to hypothetical topics in order toshow him the freedom of range that was to be his. The onlyrestriction placed upon him was that he must confine himself to theUnited States. Martin sent his inability to accept and his regretsby wire "collect.""Wiki-Wiki," published in Warren's Monthly, was an instantaneoussuccess. It was brought out forward in a wide-margined,beautifully decorated volume that struck the holiday trade and soldlike wildfire. The critics were unanimous in the belief that itwould take its place with those two classics by two great writers,"The Bottle Imp" and "The Magic Skin."The public, however, received the "Smoke of Joy" collection ratherdubiously and coldly. The audacity and unconventionality of thestoriettes was a shock to bourgeois morality and prejudice; butwhen Paris went mad over the immediate translation that was made,the American and English reading public followed suit and bought somany copies that Martin compelled the conservative house ofSingletree, Darnley & Co. to pay a flat royalty of twenty-five percent for a third book, and thirty per cent flat for a fourth.These two volumes comprised all the short stories he had writtenand which had received, or were receiving, serial publication."The Ring of Bells" and his horror stories constituted onecollection; the other collection was composed of "Adventure," "ThePot," "The Wine of Life," "The Whirlpool," "The Jostling Street,"and four other stories. The Lowell-Meredith Company captured thecollection of all his essays, and the Maxmillian Company got his"Sea Lyrics" and the "Love-cycle," the latter receiving serialpublication in the Ladies' Home Companion after the payment of anextortionate price.Martin heaved a sigh of relief when he had disposed of the lastmanuscript. The grass-walled castle and the white, copperedschooner were very near to him. Well, at any rate he haddiscovered Brissenden's contention that nothing of merit found itsway into the magazines. His own success demonstrated thatBrissenden had been wrong.And yet, somehow, he had a feeling that Brissenden had been right,after all. "The Shame of the Sun" had been the cause of hissuccess more than the stuff he had written. That stuff had beenmerely incidental. It had been rejected right and left by themagazines. The publication of "The Shame of the Sun" had started acontroversy and precipitated the landslide in his favor. Had therebeen no "Shame of the Sun" there would have been no landslide, andhad there been no miracle in the go of "The Shame of the Sun" therewould have been no landslide. Singletree, Darnley & Co. attestedthat miracle. They had brought out a first edition of fifteenhundred copies and been dubious of selling it. They wereexperienced publishers and no one had been more astounded than theyat the success which had followed. To them it had been in truth amiracle. They never got over it, and every letter they wrote himreflected their reverent awe of that first mysterious happening.They did not attempt to explain it. There was no explaining it.It had happened. In the face of all experience to the contrary, ithad happened.So it was, reasoning thus, that Martin questioned the validity ofhis popularity. It was the bourgeoisie that bought his books andpoured its gold into his money-sack, and from what little he knewof the bourgeoisie it was not clear to him how it could possiblyappreciate or comprehend what he had written. His intrinsic beautyand power meant nothing to the hundreds of thousands who wereacclaiming him and buying his books. He was the fad of the hour,the adventurer who had stormed Parnassus while the gods nodded.The hundreds of thousands read him and acclaimed him with the samebrute non-understanding with which they had flung themselves onBrissenden's "Ephemera" and torn it to pieces - a wolf-rabble thatfawned on him instead of fanging him. Fawn or fang, it was all amatter of chance. One thing he knew with absolute certitude:"Ephemera" was infinitely greater than anything he had done. Itwas infinitely greater than anything he had in him. It was a poemof centuries. Then the tribute the mob paid him was a sorrytribute indeed, for that same mob had wallowed "Ephemera" into themire. He sighed heavily and with satisfaction. He was glad thelast manuscript was sold and that he would soon be done with itall.