Chapter XXVI

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning. Itwas late afternoon before he came out of his delirium and gazedwith aching eyes about the room. Mary, one of the tribe of Silva,eight years old, keeping watch, raised a screech at sight of hisreturning consciousness. Maria hurried into the room from thekitchen. She put her work-calloused hand upon his hot forehead andfelt his pulse."You lika da eat?" she asked.He shook his head. Eating was farthest from his desire, and hewondered that he should ever have been hungry in his life."I'm sick, Maria," he said weakly. "What is it? Do you know?""Grip," she answered. "Two or three days you alla da right.Better you no eat now. Bimeby plenty can eat, to-morrow can eatmaybe."Martin was not used to sickness, and when Maria and her little girlleft him, he essayed to get up and dress. By a supreme exertion ofwill, with rearing brain and eyes that ached so that he could notkeep them open, he managed to get out of bed, only to be leftstranded by his senses upon the table. Half an hour later hemanaged to regain the bed, where he was content to lie with closedeyes and analyze his various pains and weaknesses. Maria came inseveral times to change the cold cloths on his forehead. Otherwiseshe left him in peace, too wise to vex him with chatter. Thismoved him to gratitude, and he murmured to himself, "Maria, yougetta da milka ranch, all righta, all right."Then he remembered his long-buried past of yesterday.It seemed a life-time since he had received that letter from theTranscontinental, a life-time since it was all over and done withand a new page turned. He had shot his bolt, and shot it hard, andnow he was down on his back. If he hadn't starved himself, hewouldn't have been caught by La Grippe. He had been run down, andhe had not had the strength to throw off the germ of disease whichhad invaded his system. This was what resulted."What does it profit a man to write a whole library and lose hisown life?" he demanded aloud. "This is no place for me. No moreliterature in mine. Me for the counting-house and ledger, themonthly salary, and the little home with Ruth."Two days later, having eaten an egg and two slices of toast anddrunk a cup of tea, he asked for his mail, but found his eyes stillhurt too much to permit him to read."You read for me, Maria," he said. "Never mind the big, longletters. Throw them under the table. Read me the small letters.""No can," was the answer. "Teresa, she go to school, she can."So Teresa Silva, aged nine, opened his letters and read them tohim. He listened absently to a long dun from the type-writerpeople, his mind busy with ways and means of finding a job.Suddenly he was shocked back to himself."'We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in your story,'"Teresa slowly spelled out, "'provided you allow us to make thealterations suggested.'""What magazine is that?" Martin shouted. "Here, give it to me!"He could see to read, now, and he was unaware of the pain of theaction. It was the White Mouse that was offering him fortydollars, and the story was "The Whirlpool," another of his earlyhorror stories. He read the letter through again and again. Theeditor told him plainly that he had not handled the idea properly,but that it was the idea they were buying because it was original.If they could cut the story down one-third, they would take it andsend him forty dollars on receipt of his answer.He called for pen and ink, and told the editor he could cut thestory down three-thirds if he wanted to, and to send the fortydollars right along.The letter despatched to the letter-box by Teresa, Martin lay backand thought. It wasn't a lie, after all. The White Mouse paid onacceptance. There were three thousand words in "The Whirlpool."Cut down a third, there would be two thousand. At forty dollarsthat would be two cents a word. Pay on acceptance and two cents aword - the newspapers had told the truth. And he had thought theWhite Mouse a third-rater! It was evident that he did not know themagazines. He had deemed the Transcontinental a first-rater, andit paid a cent for ten words. He had classed the White Mouse as ofno account, and it paid twenty times as much as theTranscontinental and also had paid on acceptance.Well, there was one thing certain: when he got well, he would notgo out looking for a job. There were more stories in his head asgood as "The Whirlpool," and at forty dollars apiece he could earnfar more than in any job or position. Just when he thought thebattle lost, it was won. He had proved for his career. The waywas clear. Beginning with the White Mouse he would add magazineafter magazine to his growing list of patrons. Hack-work could beput aside. For that matter, it had been wasted time, for it hadnot brought him a dollar. He would devote himself to work, goodwork, and he would pour out the best that was in him. He wishedRuth was there to share in his joy, and when he went over theletters left lying on his bed, he found one from her. It wassweetly reproachful, wondering what had kept him away for sodreadful a length of time. He reread the letter adoringly,dwelling over her handwriting, loving each stroke of her pen, andin the end kissing her signature.And when he answered, he told her recklessly that he had not beento see her because his best clothes were in pawn. He told her thathe had been sick, but was once more nearly well, and that insideten days or two weeks (as soon as a letter could travel to New YorkCity and return) he would redeem his clothes and be with her.But Ruth did not care to wait ten days or two weeks. Besides, herlover was sick. The next afternoon, accompanied by Arthur, shearrived in the Morse carriage, to the unqualified delight of theSilva tribe and of all the urchins on the street, and to theconsternation of Maria. She boxed the ears of the Silvas whocrowded about the visitors on the tiny front porch, and in morethan usual atrocious English tried to apologize for her appearance.Sleeves rolled up from soap-flecked arms and a wet gunny-sackaround her waist told of the task at which she had been caught. Soflustered was she by two such grand young people asking for herlodger, that she forgot to invite them to sit down in the littleparlor. To enter Martin's room, they passed through the kitchen,warm and moist and steamy from the big washing in progress. Maria,in her excitement, jammed the bedroom and bedroom-closet doorstogether, and for five minutes, through the partly open door,clouds of steam, smelling of soap-suds and dirt, poured into thesick chamber.Ruth succeeded in veering right and left and right again, and inrunning the narrow passage between table and bed to Martin's side;but Arthur veered too wide and fetched up with clatter and bang ofpots and pans in the corner where Martin did his cooking. Arthurdid not linger long. Ruth occupied the only chair, and having donehis duty, he went outside and stood by the gate, the centre ofseven marvelling Silvas, who watched him as they would have watcheda curiosity in a side-show. All about the carriage were gatheredthe children from a dozen blocks, waiting and eager for some tragicand terrible denouement. Carriages were seen on their street onlyfor weddings and funerals. Here was neither marriage nor death:therefore, it was something transcending experience and well worthwaiting for.Martin had been wild to see Ruth. His was essentially a love-nature, and he possessed more than the average man's need forsympathy. He was starving for sympathy, which, with him, meantintelligent understanding; and he had yet to learn that Ruth'ssympathy was largely sentimental and tactful, and that it proceededfrom gentleness of nature rather than from understanding of theobjects of her sympathy. So it was while Martin held her hand andgladly talked, that her love for him prompted her to press his handin return, and that her eyes were moist and luminous at sight ofhis helplessness and of the marks suffering had stamped upon hisface.But while he told her of his two acceptances, of his despair whenhe received the one from the Transcontinental, and of thecorresponding delight with which he received the one from the WhiteMouse, she did not follow him. She heard the words he uttered andunderstood their literal import, but she was not with him in hisdespair and his delight. She could not get out of herself. Shewas not interested in selling stories to magazines. What wasimportant to her was matrimony. She was not aware of it, however,any more than she was aware that her desire that Martin take aposition was the instinctive and preparative impulse of motherhood.She would have blushed had she been told as much in plain, setterms, and next, she might have grown indignant and asserted thather sole interest lay in the man she loved and her desire for himto make the best of himself. So, while Martin poured out his heartto her, elated with the first success his chosen work in the worldhad received, she paid heed to his bare words only, gazing now andagain about the room, shocked by what she saw.For the first time Ruth gazed upon the sordid face of poverty.Starving lovers had always seemed romantic to her, - but she hadhad no idea how starving lovers lived. She had never dreamed itcould be like this. Ever her gaze shifted from the room to him andback again. The steamy smell of dirty clothes, which had enteredwith her from the kitchen, was sickening. Martin must be soakedwith it, Ruth concluded, if that awful woman washed frequently.Such was the contagiousness of degradation. When she looked atMartin, she seemed to see the smirch left upon him by hissurroundings. She had never seen him unshaven, and the three days'growth of beard on his face was repulsive to her. Not alone did itgive him the same dark and murky aspect of the Silva house, insideand out, but it seemed to emphasize that animal-like strength ofhis which she detested. And here he was, being confirmed in hismadness by the two acceptances he took such pride in telling herabout. A little longer and he would have surrendered and gone towork. Now he would continue on in this horrible house, writing andstarving for a few more months."What is that smell?" she asked suddenly."Some of Maria's washing smells, I imagine," was the answer. "I amgrowing quite accustomed to them.""No, no; not that. It is something else. A stale, sickish smell."Martin sampled the air before replying."I can't smell anything else, except stale tobacco smoke," heannounced."That's it. It is terrible. Why do you smoke so much, Martin?""I don't know, except that I smoke more than usual when I amlonely. And then, too, it's such a long-standing habit. I learnedwhen I was only a youngster.""It is not a nice habit, you know," she reproved. "It smells toheaven.""That's the fault of the tobacco. I can afford only the cheapest.But wait until I get that forty-dollar check. I'll use a brandthat is not offensive even to the angels. But that wasn't so bad,was it, two acceptances in three days? That forty-five dollarswill pay about all my debts.""For two years' work?" she queried."No, for less than a week's work. Please pass me that book over onthe far corner of the table, the account book with the gray cover."He opened it and began turning over the pages rapidly. "Yes, I wasright. Four days for 'The Ring of Bells,' two days for 'TheWhirlpool.' That's forty-five dollars for a week's work, onehundred and eighty dollars a month. That beats any salary I cancommand. And, besides, I'm just beginning. A thousand dollars amonth is not too much to buy for you all I want you to have. Asalary of five hundred a month would be too small. That forty-fivedollars is just a starter. Wait till I get my stride. Then watchmy smoke."Ruth misunderstood his slang, and reverted to cigarettes."You smoke more than enough as it is, and the brand of tobacco willmake no difference. It is the smoking itself that is not nice, nomatter what the brand may be. You are a chimney, a living volcano,a perambulating smoke-stack, and you are a perfect disgrace, Martindear, you know you are."She leaned toward him, entreaty in her eyes, and as he looked ather delicate face and into her pure, limpid eyes, as of old he wasstruck with his own unworthiness."I wish you wouldn't smoke any more," she whispered. "Please, for- my sake.""All right, I won't," he cried. "I'll do anything you ask, dearlove, anything; you know that."A great temptation assailed her. In an insistent way she hadcaught glimpses of the large, easy-going side of his nature, andshe felt sure, if she asked him to cease attempting to write, thathe would grant her wish. In the swift instant that elapsed, thewords trembled on her lips. But she did not utter them. She wasnot quite brave enough; she did not quite dare. Instead, sheleaned toward him to meet him, and in his arms murmured:-"You know, it is really not for my sake, Martin, but for your own.I am sure smoking hurts you; and besides, it is not good to be aslave to anything, to a drug least of all.""I shall always be your slave," he smiled."In which case, I shall begin issuing my commands."She looked at him mischievously, though deep down she was alreadyregretting that she had not preferred her largest request."I live but to obey, your majesty.""Well, then, my first commandment is, Thou shalt not omit to shaveevery day. Look how you have scratched my cheek."And so it ended in caresses and love-laughter. But she had madeone point, and she could not expect to make more than one at atime. She felt a woman's pride in that she had made him stopsmoking. Another time she would persuade him to take a position,for had he not said he would do anything she asked?She left his side to explore the room, examining the clothes-linesof notes overhead, learning the mystery of the tackle used forsuspending his wheel under the ceiling, and being saddened by theheap of manuscripts under the table which represented to her justso much wasted time. The oil-stove won her admiration, but oninvestigating the food shelves she found them empty."Why, you haven't anything to eat, you poor dear," she said withtender compassion. "You must be starving.""I store my food in Maria's safe and in her pantry," he lied. "Itkeeps better there. No danger of my starving. Look at that."She had come back to his side, and she saw him double his arm atthe elbow, the biceps crawling under his shirt-sleeve and swellinginto a knot of muscle, heavy and hard. The sight repelled her.Sentimentally, she disliked it. But her pulse, her blood, everyfibre of her, loved it and yearned for it, and, in the old,inexplicable way, she leaned toward him, not away from him. And inthe moment that followed, when he crushed her in his arms, thebrain of her, concerned with the superficial aspects of life, wasin revolt; while the heart of her, the woman of her, concerned withlife itself, exulted triumphantly. It was in moments like thisthat she felt to the uttermost the greatness of her love forMartin, for it was almost a swoon of delight to her to feel hisstrong arms about her, holding her tightly, hurting her with thegrip of their fervor. At such moments she found justification forher treason to her standards, for her violation of her own highideals, and, most of all, for her tacit disobedience to her motherand father. They did not want her to marry this man. It shockedthem that she should love him. It shocked her, too, sometimes,when she was apart from him, a cool and reasoning creature. Withhim, she loved him - in truth, at times a vexed and worried love;but love it was, a love that was stronger than she."This La Grippe is nothing," he was saying. "It hurts a bit, andgives one a nasty headache, but it doesn't compare with break-bonefever.""Have you had that, too?" she queried absently, intent on theheaven-sent justification she was finding in his arms.And so, with absent queries, she led him on, till suddenly hiswords startled her.He had had the fever in a secret colony of thirty lepers on one ofthe Hawaiian Islands."But why did you go there?" she demanded.Such royal carelessness of body seemed criminal."Because I didn't know," he answered. "I never dreamed of lepers.When I deserted the schooner and landed on the beach, I headedinland for some place of hiding. For three days I lived offguavas, Ohia-apples, and bananas, all of which grew wild in thejungle. On the fourth day I found the trail - a mere foot-trail.It led inland, and it led up. It was the way I wanted to go, andit showed signs of recent travel. At one place it ran along thecrest of a ridge that was no more than a knife-edge. The trailwasn't three feet wide on the crest, and on either side the ridgefell away in precipices hundreds of feet deep. One man, withplenty of ammunition, could have held it against a hundredthousand."It was the only way in to the hiding-place. Three hours after Ifound the trail I was there, in a little mountain valley, a pocketin the midst of lava peaks. The whole place was terraced for taro-patches, fruit trees grew there, and there were eight or ten grasshuts. But as soon as I saw the inhabitants I knew what I'd struck.One sight of them was enough.""What did you do?" Ruth demanded breathlessly, listening, like anyDesdemona, appalled and fascinated."Nothing for me to do. Their leader was a kind old fellow, prettyfar gone, but he ruled like a king. He had discovered the littlevalley and founded the settlement - all of which was against thelaw. But he had guns, plenty of ammunition, and those Kanakas,trained to the shooting of wild cattle and wild pig, were deadshots. No, there wasn't any running away for Martin Eden. Hestayed - for three months.""But how did you escape?""I'd have been there yet, if it hadn't been for a girl there, ahalf-Chinese, quarter-white, and quarter-Hawaiian. She was abeauty, poor thing, and well educated. Her mother, in Honolulu,was worth a million or so. Well, this girl got me away at last.Her mother financed the settlement, you see, so the girl wasn'tafraid of being punished for letting me go. But she made me swear,first, never to reveal the hiding-place; and I never have. This isthe first time I have even mentioned it. The girl had just thefirst signs of leprosy. The fingers of her right hand wereslightly twisted, and there was a small spot on her arm. That wasall. I guess she is dead, now.""But weren't you frightened? And weren't you glad to get awaywithout catching that dreadful disease?""Well," he confessed, "I was a bit shivery at first; but I got usedto it. I used to feel sorry for that poor girl, though. That mademe forget to be afraid. She was such a beauty, in spirit as wellas in appearance, and she was only slightly touched; yet she wasdoomed to lie there, living the life of a primitive savage androtting slowly away. Leprosy is far more terrible than you canimagine it.""Poor thing," Ruth murmured softly. "It's a wonder she let you getaway.""How do you mean?" Martin asked unwittingly."Because she must have loved you," Ruth said, still softly."Candidly, now, didn't she?"Martin's sunburn had been bleached by his work in the laundry andby the indoor life he was living, while the hunger and the sicknesshad made his face even pale; and across this pallor flowed the slowwave of a blush. He was opening his mouth to speak, but Ruth shuthim off."Never mind, don't answer; it's not necessary," she laughed.But it seemed to him there was something metallic in her laughter,and that the light in her eyes was cold. On the spur of the momentit reminded him of a gale he had once experienced in the NorthPacific. And for the moment the apparition of the gale rose beforehis eyes - a gale at night, with a clear sky and under a full moon,the huge seas glinting coldly in the moonlight. Next, he saw thegirl in the leper refuge and remembered it was for love of him thatshe had let him go."She was noble," he said simply. "She gave me life."That was all of the incident, but he heard Ruth muffle a dry sob inher throat, and noticed that she turned her face away to gaze outof the window. When she turned it back to him, it was composed,and there was no hint of the gale in her eyes."I'm such a silly," she said plaintively. "But I can't help it. Ido so love you, Martin, I do, I do. I shall grow more catholic intime, but at present I can't help being jealous of those ghosts ofthe past, and you know your past is full of ghosts.""It must be," she silenced his protest. "It could not beotherwise. And there's poor Arthur motioning me to come. He'stired waiting. And now good-by, dear.""There's some kind of a mixture, put up by the druggists, thathelps men to stop the use of tobacco," she called back from thedoor, "and I am going to send you some."The door closed, but opened again."I do, I do," she whispered to him; and this time she was reallygone.Maria, with worshipful eyes that none the less were keen to notethe texture of Ruth's garments and the cut of them (a cut unknownthat produced an effect mysteriously beautiful), saw her to thecarriage. The crowd of disappointed urchins stared till thecarriage disappeared from view, then transferred their stare toMaria, who had abruptly become the most important person on thestreet. But it was one of her progeny who blasted Maria'sreputation by announcing that the grand visitors had been for herlodger. After that Maria dropped back into her old obscurity andMartin began to notice the respectful manner in which he wasregarded by the small fry of the neighborhood. As for Maria,Martin rose in her estimation a full hundred per cent, and had thePortuguese grocer witnessed that afternoon carriage-call he wouldhave allowed Martin an additional three-dollars-and-eighty-five-cents' worth of credit.