Chapter XLVI

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　"Say, Joe," was his greeting to his old-time working-mate nextmorning, "there's a Frenchman out on Twenty-eighth Street. He'smade a pot of money, and he's going back to France. It's a dandy,well-appointed, small steam laundry. There's a start for you ifyou want to settle down. Here, take this; buy some clothes with itand be at this man's office by ten o'clock. He looked up thelaundry for me, and he'll take you out and show you around. If youlike it, and think it is worth the price - twelve thousand - let meknow and it is yours. Now run along. I'm busy. I'll see youlater.""Now look here, Mart," the other said slowly, with kindling anger,"I come here this mornin' to see you. Savve? I didn't come hereto get no laundry. I come a here for a talk for old friends' sake,and you shove a laundry at me. I tell you, what you can do. Youcan take that laundry an' go to hell."He was out of the room when Martin caught him and whirled himaround."Now look here, Joe," he said; "if you act that way, I'll punchyour head. An for old friends' sake I'll punch it hard. Savve? -you will, will you?"Joe had clinched and attempted to throw him, and he was twistingand writhing out of the advantage of the other's hold. They reeledabout the room, locked in each other's arms, and came down with acrash across the splintered wreckage of a wicker chair. Joe wasunderneath, with arms spread out and held and with Martin's knee onhis chest. He was panting and gasping for breath when Martinreleased him."Now we'll talk a moment," Martin said. "You can't get fresh withme. I want that laundry business finished first of all. Then youcan come back and we'll talk for old sake's sake. I told you I wasbusy. Look at that."A servant had just come in with the morning mail, a great mass ofletters and magazines."How can I wade through that and talk with you? You go and fix upthat laundry, and then we'll get together.""All right," Joe admitted reluctantly. "I thought you was turnin'me down, but I guess I was mistaken. But you can't lick me, Mart,in a stand-up fight. I've got the reach on you.""We'll put on the gloves sometime and see," Martin said with asmile."Sure; as soon as I get that laundry going." Joe extended his arm."You see that reach? It'll make you go a few."Martin heaved a sigh of relief when the door closed behind thelaundryman. He was becoming anti-social. Daily he found it aseverer strain to be decent with people. Their presence perturbedhim, and the effort of conversation irritated him. They made himrestless, and no sooner was he in contact with them than he wascasting about for excuses to get rid of them.He did not proceed to attack his mail, and for a half hour helolled in his chair, doing nothing, while no more than vague, half-formed thoughts occasionally filtered through his intelligence, orrather, at wide intervals, themselves constituted the flickering ofhis intelligence.He roused himself and began glancing through his mail. There werea dozen requests for autographs - he knew them at sight; there wereprofessional begging letters; and there were letters from cranks,ranging from the man with a working model of perpetual motion, andthe man who demonstrated that the surface of the earth was theinside of a hollow sphere, to the man seeking financial aid topurchase the Peninsula of Lower California for the purpose ofcommunist colonization. There were letters from women seeking toknow him, and over one such he smiled, for enclosed was her receiptfor pew-rent, sent as evidence of her good faith and as proof ofher respectability.Editors and publishers contributed to the daily heap of letters,the former on their knees for his manuscripts, the latter on theirknees for his books - his poor disdained manuscripts that had keptall he possessed in pawn for so many dreary months in order to findthem in postage. There were unexpected checks for English serialrights and for advance payments on foreign translations. HisEnglish agent announced the sale of German translation rights inthree of his books, and informed him that Swedish editions, fromwhich he could expect nothing because Sweden was not a party to theBerne Convention, were already on the market. Then there was anominal request for his permission for a Russian translation, thatcountry being likewise outside the Berne Convention.He turned to the huge bundle of clippings which had come in fromhis press bureau, and read about himself and his vogue, which hadbecome a furore. All his creative output had been flung to thepublic in one magnificent sweep. That seemed to account for it.He had taken the public off its feet, the way Kipling had, thattime when he lay near to death and all the mob, animated by a mob-mind thought, began suddenly to read him. Martin remembered howthat same world-mob, having read him and acclaimed him and notunderstood him in the least, had, abruptly, a few months later,flung itself upon him and torn him to pieces. Martin grinned atthe thought. Who was he that he should not be similarly treated ina few more months? Well, he would fool the mob. He would be away,in the South Seas, building his grass house, trading for pearls andcopra, jumping reefs in frail outriggers, catching sharks andbonitas, hunting wild goats among the cliffs of the valley that laynext to the valley of Taiohae.In the moment of that thought the desperateness of his situationdawned upon him. He saw, cleared eyed, that he was in the Valleyof the Shadow. All the life that was in him was fading, fainting,making toward death.He realized how much he slept, and how much he desired to sleep.Of old, he had hated sleep. It had robbed him of precious momentsof living. Four hours of sleep in the twenty-four had meant beingrobbed of four hours of life. How he had grudged sleep! Now itwas life he grudged. Life was not good; its taste in his mouth waswithout tang, and bitter. This was his peril. Life that did notyearn toward life was in fair way toward ceasing. Some remoteinstinct for preservation stirred in him, and he knew he must getaway. He glanced about the room, and the thought of packing wasburdensome. Perhaps it would be better to leave that to the last.In the meantime he might be getting an outfit.He put on his hat and went out, stopping in at a gun-store, wherehe spent the remainder of the morning buying automatic rifles,ammunition, and fishing tackle. Fashions changed in trading, andhe knew he would have to wait till he reached Tahiti beforeordering his trade-goods. They could come up from Australia,anyway. This solution was a source of pleasure. He had avoideddoing something, and the doing of anything just now was unpleasant.He went back to the hotel gladly, with a feeling of satisfaction inthat the comfortable Morris chair was waiting for him; and hegroaned inwardly, on entering his room, at sight of Joe in theMorris chair.Joe was delighted with the laundry. Everything was settled, and hewould enter into possession next day. Martin lay on the bed, withclosed eyes, while the other talked on. Martin's thoughts were faraway - so far away that he was rarely aware that he was thinking.It was only by an effort that he occasionally responded. And yetthis was Joe, whom he had always liked. But Joe was too keen withlife. The boisterous impact of it on Martin's jaded mind was ahurt. It was an aching probe to his tired sensitiveness. When Joereminded him that sometime in the future they were going to put onthe gloves together, he could almost have screamed."Remember, Joe, you're to run the laundry according to those oldrules you used to lay down at Shelly Hot Springs," he said. "Nooverworking. No working at night. And no children at the mangles.No children anywhere. And a fair wage."Joe nodded and pulled out a note-book."Look at here. I was workin' out them rules before breakfast thisA.M. What d'ye think of them?"He read them aloud, and Martin approved, worrying at the same timeas to when Joe would take himself off.It was late afternoon when he awoke. Slowly the fact of life cameback to him. He glanced about the room. Joe had evidently stolenaway after he had dozed off. That was considerate of Joe, hethought. Then he closed his eyes and slept again.In the days that followed Joe was too busy organizing and takinghold of the laundry to bother him much; and it was not until theday before sailing that the newspapers made the announcement thathe had taken passage on the Mariposa. Once, when the instinct ofpreservation fluttered, he went to a doctor and underwent asearching physical examination. Nothing could be found the matterwith him. His heart and lungs were pronounced magnificent. Everyorgan, so far as the doctor could know, was normal and was workingnormally."There is nothing the matter with you, Mr. Eden," he said,"positively nothing the matter with you. You are in the pink ofcondition. Candidly, I envy you your health. It is superb. Lookat that chest. There, and in your stomach, lies the secret of yourremarkable constitution. Physically, you are a man in a thousand -in ten thousand. Barring accidents, you should live to be ahundred."And Martin knew that Lizzie's diagnosis had been correct.Physically he was all right. It was his "think-machine" that hadgone wrong, and there was no cure for that except to get away tothe South Seas. The trouble was that now, on the verge ofdeparture, he had no desire to go. The South Seas charmed him nomore than did bourgeois civilization. There was no zest in thethought of departure, while the act of departure appalled him as aweariness of the flesh. He would have felt better if he werealready on board and gone.The last day was a sore trial. Having read of his sailing in themorning papers, Bernard Higginbotham, Gertrude, and all the familycame to say good-by, as did Hermann von Schmidt and Marian. Thenthere was business to be transacted, bills to be paid, andeverlasting reporters to be endured. He said good-by to LizzieConnolly, abruptly, at the entrance to night school, and hurriedaway. At the hotel he found Joe, too busy all day with the laundryto have come to him earlier. It was the last straw, but Martingripped the arms of his chair and talked and listened for half anhour."You know, Joe," he said, "that you are not tied down to thatlaundry. There are no strings on it. You can sell it any time andblow the money. Any time you get sick of it and want to hit theroad, just pull out. Do what will make you the happiest."Joe shook his head."No more road in mine, thank you kindly. Hoboin's all right,exceptin' for one thing - the girls. I can't help it, but I'm aladies' man. I can't get along without 'em, and you've got to getalong without 'em when you're hoboin'. The times I've passed byhouses where dances an' parties was goin' on, an' heard the womenlaugh, an' saw their white dresses and smiling faces through thewindows - Gee! I tell you them moments was plain hell. I likedancin' an' picnics, an' walking in the moonlight, an' all the resttoo well. Me for the laundry, and a good front, with big irondollars clinkin' in my jeans. I seen a girl already, justyesterday, and, d'ye know, I'm feelin' already I'd just as soonmarry her as not. I've ben whistlin' all day at the thought of it.She's a beaut, with the kindest eyes and softest voice you everheard. Me for her, you can stack on that. Say, why don't you getmarried with all this money to burn? You could get the finest girlin the land."Martin shook his head with a smile, but in his secret heart he waswondering why any man wanted to marry. It seemed an amazing andincomprehensible thing.From the deck of the Mariposa, at the sailing hour, he saw LizzieConnolly hiding in the skirts of the crowd on the wharf. Take herwith you, came the thought. It is easy to be kind. She will besupremely happy. It was almost a temptation one moment, and thesucceeding moment it became a terror. He was in a panic at thethought of it. His tired soul cried out in protest. He turnedaway from the rail with a groan, muttering, "Man, you are too sick,you are too sick."He fled to his stateroom, where he lurked until the steamer wasclear of the dock. In the dining saloon, at luncheon, he foundhimself in the place of honor, at the captain's right; and he wasnot long in discovering that he was the great man on board. But nomore unsatisfactory great man ever sailed on a ship. He spent theafternoon in a deck-chair, with closed eyes, dozing brokenly mostof the time, and in the evening went early to bed.After the second day, recovered from seasickness, the fullpassenger list was in evidence, and the more he saw of thepassengers the more he disliked them. Yet he knew that he did theminjustice. They were good and kindly people, he forced himself toacknowledge, and in the moment of acknowledgment he qualified -good and kindly like all the bourgeoisie, with all thepsychological cramp and intellectual futility of their kind, theybored him when they talked with him, their little superficial mindswere so filled with emptiness; while the boisterous high spiritsand the excessive energy of the younger people shocked him. Theywere never quiet, ceaselessly playing deck-quoits, tossing rings,promenading, or rushing to the rail with loud cries to watch theleaping porpoises and the first schools of flying fish.He slept much. After breakfast he sought his deck-chair with amagazine he never finished. The printed pages tired him. Hepuzzled that men found so much to write about, and, puzzling, dozedin his chair. When the gong awoke him for luncheon, he wasirritated that he must awaken. There was no satisfaction in beingawake.Once, he tried to arouse himself from his lethargy, and wentforward into the forecastle with the sailors. But the breed ofsailors seemed to have changed since the days he had lived in theforecastle. He could find no kinship with these stolid-faced, ox-minded bestial creatures. He was in despair. Up above nobody hadwanted Martin Eden for his own sake, and he could not go back tothose of his own class who had wanted him in the past. He did notwant them. He could not stand them any more than he could standthe stupid first-cabin passengers and the riotous young people.Life was to him like strong, white light that hurts the tired eyesof a sick person. During every conscious moment life blazed in araw glare around him and upon him. It hurt. It hurt intolerably.It was the first time in his life that Martin had travelled firstclass. On ships at sea he had always been in the forecastle, thesteerage, or in the black depths of the coal-hold, passing coal.In those days, climbing up the iron ladders out the pit of stiflingheat, he had often caught glimpses of the passengers, in coolwhite, doing nothing but enjoy themselves, under awnings spread tokeep the sun and wind away from them, with subservient stewardstaking care of their every want and whim, and it had seemed to himthat the realm in which they moved and had their being was nothingelse than paradise. Well, here he was, the great man on board, inthe midmost centre of it, sitting at the captain's right hand, andyet vainly harking back to forecastle and stoke-hole in quest ofthe Paradise he had lost. He had found no new one, and now hecould not find the old one.He strove to stir himself and find something to interest him. Heventured the petty officers' mess, and was glad to get away. Hetalked with a quartermaster off duty, an intelligent man whopromptly prodded him with the socialist propaganda and forced intohis hands a bunch of leaflets and pamphlets. He listened to theman expounding the slave-morality, and as he listened, he thoughtlanguidly of his own Nietzsche philosophy. But what was it worth,after all? He remembered one of Nietzsche's mad utterances whereinthat madman had doubted truth. And who was to say? PerhapsNietzsche had been right. Perhaps there was no truth in anything,no truth in truth - no such thing as truth. But his mind weariedquickly, and he was content to go back to his chair and doze.Miserable as he was on the steamer, a new misery came upon him.What when the steamer reached Tahiti? He would have to go ashore.He would have to order his trade-goods, to find a passage on aschooner to the Marquesas, to do a thousand and one things thatwere awful to contemplate. Whenever he steeled himselfdeliberately to think, he could see the desperate peril in which hestood. In all truth, he was in the Valley of the Shadow, and hisdanger lay in that he was not afraid. If he were only afraid, hewould make toward life. Being unafraid, he was drifting deeperinto the shadow. He found no delight in the old familiar things oflife. The Mariposa was now in the northeast trades, and this wineof wind, surging against him, irritated him. He had his chairmoved to escape the embrace of this lusty comrade of old days andnights.The day the Mariposa entered the doldrums, Martin was moremiserable than ever. He could no longer sleep. He was soaked withsleep, and perforce he must now stay awake and endure the whiteglare of life. He moved about restlessly. The air was sticky andhumid, and the rain-squalls were unrefreshing. He ached with life.He walked around the deck until that hurt too much, then sat in hischair until he was compelled to walk again. He forced himself atlast to finish the magazine, and from the steamer library he culledseveral volumes of poetry. But they could not hold him, and oncemore he took to walking.He stayed late on deck, after dinner, but that did not help him,for when he went below, he could not sleep. This surcease fromlife had failed him. It was too much. He turned on the electriclight and tried to read. One of the volumes was a Swinburne. Helay in bed, glancing through its pages, until suddenly he becameaware that he was reading with interest. He finished the stanza,attempted to read on, then came back to it. He rested the bookface downward on his breast and fell to thinking. That was it.The very thing. Strange that it had never come to him before.That was the meaning of it all; he had been drifting that way allthe time, and now Swinburne showed him that it was the happy wayout. He wanted rest, and here was rest awaiting him. He glancedat the open port-hole. Yes, it was large enough. For the firsttime in weeks he felt happy. At last he had discovered the cure ofhis ill. He picked up the book and read the stanza slowly aloud:-"'From too much love of living,From hope and fear set free,We thank with brief thanksgivingWhatever gods may beThat no life lives forever;That dead men rise up never;That even the weariest riverWinds somewhere safe to sea.'"He looked again at the open port. Swinburne had furnished the key.Life was ill, or, rather, it had become ill - an unbearable thing."That dead men rise up never!" That line stirred him with aprofound feeling of gratitude. It was the one beneficent thing inthe universe. When life became an aching weariness, death wasready to soothe away to everlasting sleep. But what was he waitingfor? It was time to go.He arose and thrust his head out the port-hole, looking down intothe milky wash. The Mariposa was deeply loaded, and, hanging byhis hands, his feet would be in the water. He could slip innoiselessly. No one would hear. A smother of spray dashed up,wetting his face. It tasted salt on his lips, and the taste wasgood. He wondered if he ought to write a swan-song, but laughedthe thought away. There was no time. He was too impatient to begone.Turning off the light in his room so that it might not betray him,he went out the port-hole feet first. His shoulders stuck, and heforced himself back so as to try it with one arm down by his side.A roll of the steamer aided him, and he was through, hanging by hishands. When his feet touched the sea, he let go. He was in amilky froth of water. The side of the Mariposa rushed past himlike a dark wall, broken here and there by lighted ports. She wascertainly making time. Almost before he knew it, he was astern,swimming gently on the foam-crackling surface.A bonita struck at his white body, and he laughed aloud. It hadtaken a piece out, and the sting of it reminded him of why he wasthere. In the work to do he had forgotten the purpose of it. Thelights of the Mariposa were growing dim in the distance, and therehe was, swimming confidently, as though it were his intention tomake for the nearest land a thousand miles or so away.It was the automatic instinct to live. He ceased swimming, but themoment he felt the water rising above his mouth the hands struckout sharply with a lifting movement. The will to live, was histhought, and the thought was accompanied by a sneer. Well, he hadwill, - ay, will strong enough that with one last exertion it coulddestroy itself and cease to be.He changed his position to a vertical one. He glanced up at thequiet stars, at the same time emptying his lungs of air. Withswift, vigorous propulsion of hands and feet, he lifted hisshoulders and half his chest out of water. This was to gainimpetus for the descent. Then he let himself go and sank withoutmovement, a white statue, into the sea. He breathed in the waterdeeply, deliberately, after the manner of a man taking ananaesthetic. When he strangled, quite involuntarily his arms andlegs clawed the water and drove him up to the surface and into theclear sight of the stars.The will to live, he thought disdainfully, vainly endeavoring notto breathe the air into his bursting lungs. Well, he would have totry a new way. He filled his lungs with air, filled them full.This supply would take him far down. He turned over and went downhead first, swimming with all his strength and all his will.Deeper and deeper he went. His eyes were open, and he watched theghostly, phosphorescent trails of the darting bonita. As he swam,he hoped that they would not strike at him, for it might snap thetension of his will. But they did not strike, and he found time tobe grateful for this last kindness of life.Down, down, he swam till his arms and leg grew tired and hardlymoved. He knew that he was deep. The pressure on his ear-drumswas a pain, and there was a buzzing in his head. His endurance wasfaltering, but he compelled his arms and legs to drive him deeperuntil his will snapped and the air drove from his lungs in a greatexplosive rush. The bubbles rubbed and bounded like tiny balloonsagainst his cheeks and eyes as they took their upward flight. Thencame pain and strangulation. This hurt was not death, was thethought that oscillated through his reeling consciousness. Deathdid not hurt. It was life, the pangs of life, this awful,suffocating feeling; it was the last blow life could deal him.His wilful hands and feet began to beat and churn about,spasmodically and feebly. But he had fooled them and the will tolive that made them beat and churn. He was too deep down. Theycould never bring him to the surface. He seemed floating languidlyin a sea of dreamy vision. Colors and radiances surrounded him andbathed him and pervaded him. What was that? It seemed alighthouse; but it was inside his brain - a flashing, bright whitelight. It flashed swifter and swifter. There was a long rumble ofsound, and it seemed to him that he was falling down a vast andinterminable stairway. And somewhere at the bottom he fell intodarkness. That much he knew. He had fallen into darkness. And atthe instant he knew, he ceased to know.