Chapter XXV

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　Maria Silva was poor, and all the ways of poverty were clear toher. Poverty, to Ruth, was a word signifying a not-nice conditionof existence. That was her total knowledge on the subject. Sheknew Martin was poor, and his condition she associated in her mindwith the boyhood of Abraham Lincoln, of Mr. Butler, and of othermen who had become successes. Also, while aware that poverty wasanything but delectable, she had a comfortable middle-class feelingthat poverty was salutary, that it was a sharp spur that urged onto success all men who were not degraded and hopeless drudges. Sothat her knowledge that Martin was so poor that he had pawned hiswatch and overcoat did not disturb her. She even considered it thehopeful side of the situation, believing that sooner or later itwould arouse him and compel him to abandon his writing.Ruth never read hunger in Martin's face, which had grown lean andhad enlarged the slight hollows in the cheeks. In fact, she markedthe change in his face with satisfaction. It seemed to refine him,to remove from him much of the dross of flesh and the too animal-like vigor that lured her while she detested it. Sometimes, whenwith her, she noted an unusual brightness in his eyes, and sheadmired it, for it made him appear more the poet and the scholar -the things he would have liked to be and which she would have likedhim to be. But Maria Silva read a different tale in the hollowcheeks and the burning eyes, and she noted the changes in them fromday to day, by them following the ebb and flow of his fortunes.She saw him leave the house with his overcoat and return withoutit, though the day was chill and raw, and promptly she saw hischeeks fill out slightly and the fire of hunger leave his eyes. Inthe same way she had seen his wheel and watch go, and after eachevent she had seen his vigor bloom again.Likewise she watched his toils, and knew the measure of themidnight oil he burned. Work! She knew that he outdid her, thoughhis work was of a different order. And she was surprised to beholdthat the less food he had, the harder he worked. On occasion, in acasual sort of way, when she thought hunger pinched hardest, shewould send him in a loaf of new baking, awkwardly covering the actwith banter to the effect that it was better than he could bake.And again, she would send one of her toddlers in to him with agreat pitcher of hot soup, debating inwardly the while whether shewas justified in taking it from the mouths of her own flesh andblood. Nor was Martin ungrateful, knowing as he did the lives ofthe poor, and that if ever in the world there was charity, this wasit.On a day when she had filled her brood with what was left in thehouse, Maria invested her last fifteen cents in a gallon of cheapwine. Martin, coming into her kitchen to fetch water, was invitedto sit down and drink. He drank her very-good health, and inreturn she drank his. Then she drank to prosperity in hisundertakings, and he drank to the hope that James Grant would showup and pay her for his washing. James Grant was a journeymencarpenter who did not always pay his bills and who owed Maria threedollars.Both Maria and Martin drank the sour new wine on empty stomachs,and it went swiftly to their heads. Utterly differentiatedcreatures that they were, they were lonely in their misery, andthough the misery was tacitly ignored, it was the bond that drewthem together. Maria was amazed to learn that he had been in theAzores, where she had lived until she was eleven. She was doublyamazed that he had been in the Hawaiian Islands, whither she hadmigrated from the Azores with her people. But her amazement passedall bounds when he told her he had been on Maui, the particularisland whereon she had attained womanhood and married. Kahului,where she had first met her husband, - he, Martin, had been theretwice! Yes, she remembered the sugar steamers, and he had been onthem - well, well, it was a small world. And Wailuku! That place,too! Did he know the head-luna of the plantation? Yes, and hadhad a couple of drinks with him.And so they reminiscenced and drowned their hunger in the raw, sourwine. To Martin the future did not seem so dim. Success trembledjust before him. He was on the verge of clasping it. Then hestudied the deep-lined face of the toil-worn woman before him,remembered her soups and loaves of new baking, and felt spring upin him the warmest gratitude and philanthropy."Maria," he exclaimed suddenly. "What would you like to have?"She looked at him, bepuzzled."What would you like to have now, right now, if you could get it?""Shoe alla da roun' for da childs - seven pairs da shoe.""You shall have them," he announced, while she nodded her headgravely. "But I mean a big wish, something big that you want."Her eyes sparkled good-naturedly. He was choosing to make fun withher, Maria, with whom few made fun these days."Think hard," he cautioned, just as she was opening her mouth tospeak."Alla right," she answered. "I thinka da hard. I lika da house,dis house - all mine, no paya da rent, seven dollar da month.""You shall have it," he granted, "and in a short time. Now wishthe great wish. Make believe I am God, and I say to you anythingyou want you can have. Then you wish that thing, and I listen."Maria considered solemnly for a space."You no 'fraid?" she asked warningly."No, no," he laughed, "I'm not afraid. Go ahead.""Most verra big," she warned again."All right. Fire away.""Well, den - " She drew a big breath like a child, as she voicedto the uttermost all she cared to demand of life. "I lika da haveone milka ranch - good milka ranch. Plenty cow, plenty land,plenty grass. I lika da have near San Le-an; my sister liva dere.I sella da milk in Oakland. I maka da plentee mon. Joe an' Nickno runna da cow. Dey go-a to school. Bimeby maka da goodengineer, worka da railroad. Yes, I lika da milka ranch."She paused and regarded Martin with twinkling eyes."You shall have it," he answered promptly.She nodded her head and touched her lips courteously to the wine-glass and to the giver of the gift she knew would never be given.His heart was right, and in her own heart she appreciated hisintention as much as if the gift had gone with it."No, Maria," he went on; "Nick and Joe won't have to peddle milk,and all the kids can go to school and wear shoes the whole yearround. It will be a first-class milk ranch - everything complete.There will be a house to live in and a stable for the horses, andcow-barns, of course. There will be chickens, pigs, vegetables,fruit trees, and everything like that; and there will be enoughcows to pay for a hired man or two. Then you won't have anythingto do but take care of the children. For that matter, if you finda good man, you can marry and take it easy while he runs theranch."And from such largess, dispensed from his future, Martin turned andtook his one good suit of clothes to the pawnshop. His plight wasdesperate for him to do this, for it cut him off from Ruth. He hadno second-best suit that was presentable, and though he could go tothe butcher and the baker, and even on occasion to his sister's, itwas beyond all daring to dream of entering the Morse home sodisreputably apparelled.He toiled on, miserable and well-nigh hopeless. It began to appearto him that the second battle was lost and that he would have to goto work. In doing this he would satisfy everybody - the grocer,his sister, Ruth, and even Maria, to whom he owed a month's roomrent. He was two months behind with his type-writer, and theagency was clamoring for payment or for the return of the machine.In desperation, all but ready to surrender, to make a truce withfate until he could get a fresh start, he took the civil serviceexaminations for the Railway Mail. To his surprise, he passedfirst. The job was assured, though when the call would come toenter upon his duties nobody knew.It was at this time, at the lowest ebb, that the smooth-runningeditorial machine broke down. A cog must have slipped or an oil-cup run dry, for the postman brought him one morning a short, thinenvelope. Martin glanced at the upper left-hand corner and readthe name and address of the Transcontinental Monthly. His heartgave a great leap, and he suddenly felt faint, the sinking feelingaccompanied by a strange trembling of the knees. He staggered intohis room and sat down on the bed, the envelope still unopened, andin that moment came understanding to him how people suddenly falldead upon receipt of extraordinarily good news.Of course this was good news. There was no manuscript in that thinenvelope, therefore it was an acceptance. He knew the story in thehands of the Transcontinental. It was "The Ring of Bells," one ofhis horror stories, and it was an even five thousand words. And,since first-class magazines always paid on acceptance, there was acheck inside. Two cents a word - twenty dollars a thousand; thecheck must be a hundred dollars. One hundred dollars! As he torethe envelope open, every item of all his debts surged in his brain- $3.85 to the grocer; butcher $4.00 flat; baker, $2.00; fruitstore, $5.00; total, $14.85. Then there was room rent, $2.50;another month in advance, $2.50; two months' type-writer, $8.00; amonth in advance, $4.00; total, $31.85. And finally to be added,his pledges, plus interest, with the pawnbroker - watch, $5.50;overcoat, $5.50; wheel, $7.75; suit of clothes, $5.50 (60 %interest, but what did it matter?) - grand total, $56.10. He saw,as if visible in the air before him, in illuminated figures, thewhole sum, and the subtraction that followed and that gave aremainder of $43.90. When he had squared every debt, redeemedevery pledge, he would still have jingling in his pockets aprincely $43.90. And on top of that he would have a month's rentpaid in advance on the type-writer and on the room.By this time he had drawn the single sheet of type-written letterout and spread it open. There was no check. He peered into theenvelope, held it to the light, but could not trust his eyes, andin trembling haste tore the envelope apart. There was no check.He read the letter, skimming it line by line, dashing through theeditor's praise of his story to the meat of the letter, thestatement why the check had not been sent. He found no suchstatement, but he did find that which made him suddenly wilt. Theletter slid from his hand. His eyes went lack-lustre, and he layback on the pillow, pulling the blanket about him and up to hischin.Five dollars for "The Ring of Bells" - five dollars for fivethousand words! Instead of two cents a word, ten words for a cent!And the editor had praised it, too. And he would receive the checkwhen the story was published. Then it was all poppycock, two centsa word for minimum rate and payment upon acceptance. It was a lie,and it had led him astray. He would never have attempted to writehad he known that. He would have gone to work - to work for Ruth.He went back to the day he first attempted to write, and wasappalled at the enormous waste of time - and all for ten words fora cent. And the other high rewards of writers, that he had readabout, must be lies, too. His second-hand ideas of authorship werewrong, for here was the proof of it.The Transcontinental sold for twenty-five cents, and its dignifiedand artistic cover proclaimed it as among the first-classmagazines. It was a staid, respectable magazine, and it had beenpublished continuously since long before he was born. Why, on theoutside cover were printed every month the words of one of theworld's great writers, words proclaiming the inspired mission ofthe Transcontinental by a star of literature whose firstcoruscations had appeared inside those self-same covers. And thehigh and lofty, heaven-inspired Transcontinental paid five dollarsfor five thousand words! The great writer had recently died in aforeign land - in dire poverty, Martin remembered, which was not tobe wondered at, considering the magnificent pay authors receive.Well, he had taken the bait, the newspaper lies about writers andtheir pay, and he had wasted two years over it. But he woulddisgorge the bait now. Not another line would he ever write. Hewould do what Ruth wanted him to do, what everybody wanted him todo - get a job. The thought of going to work reminded him of Joe -Joe, tramping through the land of nothing-to-do. Martin heaved agreat sigh of envy. The reaction of nineteen hours a day for manydays was strong upon him. But then, Joe was not in love, had noneof the responsibilities of love, and he could afford to loafthrough the land of nothing-to-do. He, Martin, had something towork for, and go to work he would. He would start out early nextmorning to hunt a job. And he would let Ruth know, too, that hehad mended his ways and was willing to go into her father's office.Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, themarket price for art. The disappointment of it, the lie of it, theinfamy of it, were uppermost in his thoughts; and under his closedeyelids, in fiery figures, burned the "$3.85" he owed the grocer.He shivered, and was aware of an aching in his bones. The small ofhis back ached especially. His head ached, the top of it ached,the back of it ached, the brains inside of it ached and seemed tobe swelling, while the ache over his brows was intolerable. Andbeneath the brows, planted under his lids, was the merciless"$3.85." He opened his eyes to escape it, but the white light ofthe room seemed to sear the balls and forced him to close his eyes,when the "$3.85" confronted him again.Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent - thatparticular thought took up its residence in his brain, and he couldno more escape it than he could the "$3.85" under his eyelids. Achange seemed to come over the latter, and he watched curiously,till "$2.00" burned in its stead. Ah, he thought, that was thebaker. The next sum that appeared was "$2.50." It puzzled him,and he pondered it as if life and death hung on the solution. Heowed somebody two dollars and a half, that was certain, but who wasit? To find it was the task set him by an imperious and malignantuniverse, and he wandered through the endless corridors of hismind, opening all manner of lumber rooms and chambers stored withodds and ends of memories and knowledge as he vainly sought theanswer. After several centuries it came to him, easily, withouteffort, that it was Maria. With a great relief he turned his soulto the screen of torment under his lids. He had solved theproblem; now he could rest. But no, the "$2.50" faded away, and inits place burned "$8.00." Who was that? He must go the drearyround of his mind again and find out.How long he was gone on this quest he did not know, but after whatseemed an enormous lapse of time, he was called back to himself bya knock at the door, and by Maria's asking if he was sick. Hereplied in a muffled voice he did not recognize, saying that he wasmerely taking a nap. He was surprised when he noted the darknessof night in the room. He had received the letter at two in theafternoon, and he realized that he was sick.Then the "$8.00" began to smoulder under his lids again, and hereturned himself to servitude. But he grew cunning. There was noneed for him to wander through his mind. He had been a fool. Hepulled a lever and made his mind revolve about him, a monstrouswheel of fortune, a merry-go-round of memory, a revolving sphere ofwisdom. Faster and faster it revolved, until its vortex sucked himin and he was flung whirling through black chaos.Quite naturally he found himself at a mangle, feeding starchedcuffs. But as he fed he noticed figures printed in the cuffs. Itwas a new way of marking linen, he thought, until, looking closer,he saw "$3.85" on one of the cuffs. Then it came to him that itwas the grocer's bill, and that these were his bills flying aroundon the drum of the mangle. A crafty idea came to him. He wouldthrow the bills on the floor and so escape paying them. No soonerthought than done, and he crumpled the cuffs spitefully as he flungthem upon an unusually dirty floor. Ever the heap grew, and thougheach bill was duplicated a thousand times, he found only one fortwo dollars and a half, which was what he owed Maria. That meantthat Maria would not press for payment, and he resolved generouslythat it would be the only one he would pay; so he began searchingthrough the cast-out heap for hers. He sought it desperately, forages, and was still searching when the manager of the hotelentered, the fat Dutchman. His face blazed with wrath, and heshouted in stentorian tones that echoed down the universe, "I shalldeduct the cost of those cuffs from your wages!" The pile of cuffsgrew into a mountain, and Martin knew that he was doomed to toilfor a thousand years to pay for them. Well, there was nothing leftto do but kill the manager and burn down the laundry. But the bigDutchman frustrated him, seizing him by the nape of the neck anddancing him up and down. He danced him over the ironing tables,the stove, and the mangles, and out into the wash-room and over thewringer and washer. Martin was danced until his teeth rattled andhis head ached, and he marvelled that the Dutchman was so strong.And then he found himself before the mangle, this time receivingthe cuffs an editor of a magazine was feeding from the other side.Each cuff was a check, and Martin went over them anxiously, in afever of expectation, but they were all blanks. He stood there andreceived the blanks for a million years or so, never letting one goby for fear it might be filled out. At last he found it. Withtrembling fingers he held it to the light. It was for fivedollars. "Ha! Ha!" laughed the editor across the mangle. "Well,then, I shall kill you," Martin said. He went out into the wash-room to get the axe, and found Joe starching manuscripts. He triedto make him desist, then swung the axe for him. But the weaponremained poised in mid-air, for Martin found himself back in theironing room in the midst of a snow-storm. No, it was not snowthat was falling, but checks of large denomination, the smallestnot less than a thousand dollars. He began to collect them andsort them out, in packages of a hundred, tying each packagesecurely with twine.He looked up from his task and saw Joe standing before him jugglingflat-irons, starched shirts, and manuscripts. Now and again hereached out and added a bundle of checks to the flying miscellanythat soared through the roof and out of sight in a tremendouscircle. Martin struck at him, but he seized the axe and added itto the flying circle. Then he plucked Martin and added him.Martin went up through the roof, clutching at manuscripts, so thatby the time he came down he had a large armful. But no sooner downthan up again, and a second and a third time and countless times heflew around the circle. From far off he could hear a childishtreble singing: "Waltz me around again, Willie, around, around,around."He recovered the axe in the midst of the Milky Way of checks,starched shirts, and manuscripts, and prepared, when he came down,to kill Joe. But he did not come down. Instead, at two in themorning, Maria, having heard his groans through the thin partition,came into his room, to put hot flat-irons against his body and dampcloths upon his aching eyes.