Chapter XXII

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　Mrs. Morse did not require a mother's intuition to read theadvertisement in Ruth's face when she returned home. The flushthat would not leave the cheeks told the simple story, and moreeloquently did the eyes, large and bright, reflecting anunmistakable inward glory."What has happened?" Mrs. Morse asked, having bided her time tillRuth had gone to bed."You know?" Ruth queried, with trembling lips.For reply, her mother's arm went around her, and a hand was softlycaressing her hair."He did not speak," she blurted out. "I did not intend that itshould happen, and I would never have let him speak - only hedidn't speak.""But if he did not speak, then nothing could have happened, couldit?""But it did, just the same.""In the name of goodness, child, what are you babbling about?" Mrs.Morse was bewildered. "I don't think know what happened, afterall. What did happen?"Ruth looked at her mother in surprise."I thought you knew. Why, we're engaged, Martin and I."Mrs. Morse laughed with incredulous vexation."No, he didn't speak," Ruth explained. "He just loved me, that wasall. I was as surprised as you are. He didn't say a word. Hejust put his arm around me. And - and I was not myself. And hekissed me, and I kissed him. I couldn't help it. I just had to.And then I knew I loved him."She paused, waiting with expectancy the benediction of her mother'skiss, but Mrs. Morse was coldly silent."It is a dreadful accident, I know," Ruth recommenced with asinking voice. "And I don't know how you will ever forgive me.But I couldn't help it. I did not dream that I loved him untilthat moment. And you must tell father for me.""Would it not be better not to tell your father? Let me see MartinEden, and talk with him, and explain. He will understand andrelease you.""No! no!" Ruth cried, starting up. "I do not want to be released.I love him, and love is very sweet. I am going to marry him - ofcourse, if you will let me.""We have other plans for you, Ruth, dear, your father and I - oh,no, no; no man picked out for you, or anything like that. Ourplans go no farther than your marrying some man in your own stationin life, a good and honorable gentleman, whom you will selectyourself, when you love him.""But I love Martin already," was the plaintive protest."We would not influence your choice in any way; but you are ourdaughter, and we could not bear to see you make a marriage such asthis. He has nothing but roughness and coarseness to offer you inexchange for all that is refined and delicate in you. He is nomatch for you in any way. He could not support you. We have nofoolish ideas about wealth, but comfort is another matter, and ourdaughter should at least marry a man who can give her that - andnot a penniless adventurer, a sailor, a cowboy, a smuggler, andHeaven knows what else, who, in addition to everything, is hare-brained and irresponsible."Ruth was silent. Every word she recognized as true."He wastes his time over his writing, trying to accomplish whatgeniuses and rare men with college educations sometimes accomplish.A man thinking of marriage should be preparing for marriage. Butnot he. As I have said, and I know you agree with me, he isirresponsible. And why should he not be? It is the way ofsailors. He has never learned to be economical or temperate. Thespendthrift years have marked him. It is not his fault, of course,but that does not alter his nature. And have you thought of theyears of licentiousness he inevitably has lived? Have you thoughtof that, daughter? You know what marriage means."Ruth shuddered and clung close to her mother."I have thought." Ruth waited a long time for the thought to frameitself. "And it is terrible. It sickens me to think of it. Itold you it was a dreadful accident, my loving him; but I can'thelp myself. Could you help loving father? Then it is the samewith me. There is something in me, in him - I never knew it wasthere until to-day - but it is there, and it makes me love him. Inever thought to love him, but, you see, I do," she concluded, acertain faint triumph in her voice.They talked long, and to little purpose, in conclusion agreeing towait an indeterminate time without doing anything.The same conclusion was reached, a little later that night, betweenMrs. Morse and her husband, after she had made due confession ofthe miscarriage of her plans."It could hardly have come otherwise," was Mr. Morse's judgment."This sailor-fellow has been the only man she was in touch with.Sooner or later she was going to awaken anyway; and she did awaken,and lo! here was this sailor-fellow, the only accessible man at themoment, and of course she promptly loved him, or thought she did,which amounts to the same thing."Mrs. Morse took it upon herself to work slowly and indirectly uponRuth, rather than to combat her. There would be plenty of time forthis, for Martin was not in position to marry."Let her see all she wants of him," was Mr. Morse's advice. "Themore she knows him, the less she'll love him, I wager. And giveher plenty of contrast. Make a point of having young people at thehouse. Young women and young men, all sorts of young men, clevermen, men who have done something or who are doing things, men ofher own class, gentlemen. She can gauge him by them. They willshow him up for what he is. And after all, he is a mere boy oftwenty-one. Ruth is no more than a child. It is calf love withthe pair of them, and they will grow out of it."So the matter rested. Within the family it was accepted that Ruthand Martin were engaged, but no announcement was made. The familydid not think it would ever be necessary. Also, it was tacitlyunderstood that it was to be a long engagement. They did not askMartin to go to work, nor to cease writing. They did not intend toencourage him to mend himself. And he aided and abetted them intheir unfriendly designs, for going to work was farthest from histhoughts."I wonder if you'll like what I have done!" he said to Ruth severaldays later. "I've decided that boarding with my sister is tooexpensive, and I am going to board myself. I've rented a littleroom out in North Oakland, retired neighborhood and all the rest,you know, and I've bought an oil-burner on which to cook."Ruth was overjoyed. The oil-burner especially pleased her."That was the way Mr. Butler began his start," she said.Martin frowned inwardly at the citation of that worthy gentleman,and went on: "I put stamps on all my manuscripts and started themoff to the editors again. Then to-day I moved in, and to-morrow Istart to work.""A position!" she cried, betraying the gladness of her surprise inall her body, nestling closer to him, pressing his hand, smiling."And you never told me! What is it?"He shook his head."I meant that I was going to work at my writing." Her face fell,and he went on hastily. "Don't misjudge me. I am not going inthis time with any iridescent ideas. It is to be a cold, prosaic,matter-of-fact business proposition. It is better than going tosea again, and I shall earn more money than any position in Oaklandcan bring an unskilled man.""You see, this vacation I have taken has given me perspective. Ihaven't been working the life out of my body, and I haven't beenwriting, at least not for publication. All I've done has been tolove you and to think. I've read some, too, but it has been partof my thinking, and I have read principally magazines. I havegeneralized about myself, and the world, my place in it, and mychance to win to a place that will be fit for you. Also, I've beenreading Spencer's 'Philosophy of Style,' and found out a lot ofwhat was the matter with me - or my writing, rather; and for thatmatter with most of the writing that is published every month inthe magazines.""But the upshot of it all - of my thinking and reading and loving -is that I am going to move to Grub Street. I shall leavemasterpieces alone and do hack-work - jokes, paragraphs, featurearticles, humorous verse, and society verse - all the rot for whichthere seems so much demand. Then there are the newspapersyndicates, and the newspaper short-story syndicates, and thesyndicates for the Sunday supplements. I can go ahead and hammerout the stuff they want, and earn the equivalent of a good salaryby it. There are free-lances, you know, who earn as much as fouror five hundred a month. I don't care to become as they; but I'llearn a good living, and have plenty of time to myself, which Iwouldn't have in any position.""Then, I'll have my spare time for study and for real work. Inbetween the grind I'll try my hand at masterpieces, and I'll studyand prepare myself for the writing of masterpieces. Why, I amamazed at the distance I have come already. When I first tried towrite, I had nothing to write about except a few paltry experienceswhich I neither understood nor appreciated. But I had no thoughts.I really didn't. I didn't even have the words with which to think.My experiences were so many meaningless pictures. But as I beganto add to my knowledge, and to my vocabulary, I saw something morein my experiences than mere pictures. I retained the pictures andI found their interpretation. That was when I began to do goodwork, when I wrote 'Adventure,' 'Joy,' 'The Pot,' 'The Wine ofLife,' 'The Jostling Street,' the 'Love-cycle,' and the 'SeaLyrics.' I shall write more like them, and better; but I shall doit in my spare time. My feet are on the solid earth, now. Hack-work and income first, masterpieces afterward. Just to show you, Iwrote half a dozen jokes last night for the comic weeklies; andjust as I was going to bed, the thought struck me to try my hand ata triolet - a humorous one; and inside an hour I had written four.They ought to be worth a dollar apiece. Four dollars right therefor a few afterthoughts on the way to bed.""Of course it's all valueless, just so much dull and sordidplodding; but it is no more dull and sordid than keeping books atsixty dollars a month, adding up endless columns of meaninglessfigures until one dies. And furthermore, the hack-work keeps me intouch with things literary and gives me time to try bigger things.""But what good are these bigger-things, these masterpieces?" Ruthdemanded. "You can't sell them.""Oh, yes, I can," he began; but she interrupted."All those you named, and which you say yourself are good - youhave not sold any of them. We can't get married on masterpiecesthat won't sell.""Then we'll get married on triolets that will sell," he assertedstoutly, putting his arm around her and drawing a very unresponsivesweetheart toward him."Listen to this," he went on in attempted gayety. "It's not art,but it's a dollar."He came inWhen I was out,To borrow some tinWas why he came in,And he went without;So I was inAnd he was out."The merry lilt with which he had invested the jingle was atvariance with the dejection that came into his face as he finished.He had drawn no smile from Ruth. She was looking at him in anearnest and troubled way."It may be a dollar," she said, "but it is a jester's dollar, thefee of a clown. Don't you see, Martin, the whole thing islowering. I want the man I love and honor to be something finerand higher than a perpetrator of jokes and doggerel.""You want him to be like - say Mr. Butler?" he suggested."I know you don't like Mr. Butler," she began."Mr. Butler's all right," he interrupted. "It's only hisindigestion I find fault with. But to save me I can't see anydifference between writing jokes or comic verse and running a type-writer, taking dictation, or keeping sets of books. It is all ameans to an end. Your theory is for me to begin with keeping booksin order to become a successful lawyer or man of business. Mine isto begin with hack-work and develop into an able author.""There is a difference," she insisted."What is it?""Why, your good work, what you yourself call good, you can't sell.You have tried, you know that, - but the editors won't buy it.""Give me time, dear," he pleaded. "The hack-work is onlymakeshift, and I don't take it seriously. Give me two years. Ishall succeed in that time, and the editors will be glad to buy mygood work. I know what I am saying; I have faith in myself. Iknow what I have in me; I know what literature is, now; I know theaverage rot that is poured out by a lot of little men; and I knowthat at the end of two years I shall be on the highroad to success.As for business, I shall never succeed at it. I am not in sympathywith it. It strikes me as dull, and stupid, and mercenary, andtricky. Anyway I am not adapted for it. I'd never get beyond aclerkship, and how could you and I be happy on the paltry earningsof a clerk? I want the best of everything in the world for you,and the only time when I won't want it will be when there issomething better. And I'm going to get it, going to get all of it.The income of a successful author makes Mr. Butler look cheap. A'best-seller' will earn anywhere between fifty and a hundredthousand dollars - sometimes more and sometimes less; but, as arule, pretty close to those figures."She remained silent; her disappointment was apparent."Well?" he asked."I had hoped and planned otherwise. I had thought, and I stillthink, that the best thing for you would be to study shorthand -you already know type-writing - and go into father's office. Youhave a good mind, and I am confident you would succeed as alawyer."