Chapter XXVII

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　The sun of Martin's good fortune rose. The day after Ruth's visit,he received a check for three dollars from a New York scandalweekly in payment for three of his triolets. Two days later anewspaper published in Chicago accepted his "Treasure Hunters,"promising to pay ten dollars for it on publication. The price wassmall, but it was the first article he had written, his very firstattempt to express his thought on the printed page. To capeverything, the adventure serial for boys, his second attempt, wasaccepted before the end of the week by a juvenile monthly callingitself Youth and Age. It was true the serial was twenty-onethousand words, and they offered to pay him sixteen dollars onpublication, which was something like seventy-five cents a thousandwords; but it was equally true that it was the second thing he hadattempted to write and that he was himself thoroughly aware of itsclumsy worthlessness.But even his earliest efforts were not marked with the clumsinessof mediocrity. What characterized them was the clumsiness of toogreat strength - the clumsiness which the tyro betrays when hecrushes butterflies with battering rams and hammers out vignetteswith a war-club. So it was that Martin was glad to sell his earlyefforts for songs. He knew them for what they were, and it had nottaken him long to acquire this knowledge. What he pinned his faithto was his later work. He had striven to be something more than amere writer of magazine fiction. He had sought to equip himselfwith the tools of artistry. On the other hand, he had notsacrificed strength. His conscious aim had been to increase hisstrength by avoiding excess of strength. Nor had he departed fromhis love of reality. His work was realism, though he hadendeavored to fuse with it the fancies and beauties of imagination.What he sought was an impassioned realism, shot through with humanaspiration and faith. What he wanted was life as it was, with allits spirit-groping and soul-reaching left in.He had discovered, in the course of his reading, two schools offiction. One treated of man as a god, ignoring his earthly origin;the other treated of man as a clod, ignoring his heaven-sent dreamsand divine possibilities. Both the god and the clod schools erred,in Martin's estimation, and erred through too great singleness ofsight and purpose. There was a compromise that approximated thetruth, though it flattered not the school of god, while itchallenged the brute-savageness of the school of clod. It was hisstory, "Adventure," which had dragged with Ruth, that Martinbelieved had achieved his ideal of the true in fiction; and it wasin an essay, "God and Clod," that he had expressed his views on thewhole general subject.But "Adventure," and all that he deemed his best work, still wentbegging among the editors. His early work counted for nothing inhis eyes except for the money it brought, and his horror stories,two of which he had sold, he did not consider high work nor hisbest work. To him they were frankly imaginative and fantastic,though invested with all the glamour of the real, wherein lay theirpower. This investiture of the grotesque and impossible withreality, he looked upon as a trick - a skilful trick at best.Great literature could not reside in such a field. Their artistrywas high, but he denied the worthwhileness of artistry whendivorced from humanness. The trick had been to fling over the faceof his artistry a mask of humanness, and this he had done in thehalf-dozen or so stories of the horror brand he had written beforehe emerged upon the high peaks of "Adventure," "Joy," "The Pot,"and "The Wine of Life."The three dollars he received for the triolets he used to eke out aprecarious existence against the arrival of the White Mouse check.He cashed the first check with the suspicious Portuguese grocer,paying a dollar on account and dividing the remaining two dollarsbetween the baker and the fruit store. Martin was not yet richenough to afford meat, and he was on slim allowance when the WhiteMouse check arrived. He was divided on the cashing of it. He hadnever been in a bank in his life, much less been in one onbusiness, and he had a naive and childlike desire to walk into oneof the big banks down in Oakland and fling down his indorsed checkfor forty dollars. On the other hand, practical common sense ruledthat he should cash it with his grocer and thereby make animpression that would later result in an increase of credit.Reluctantly Martin yielded to the claims of the grocer, paying hisbill with him in full, and receiving in change a pocketful ofjingling coin. Also, he paid the other tradesmen in full, redeemedhis suit and his bicycle, paid one month's rent on the type-writer,and paid Maria the overdue month for his room and a month inadvance. This left him in his pocket, for emergencies, a balanceof nearly three dollars.In itself, this small sum seemed a fortune. Immediately onrecovering his clothes he had gone to see Ruth, and on the way hecould not refrain from jingling the little handful of silver in hispocket. He had been so long without money that, like a rescuedstarving man who cannot let the unconsumed food out of his sight,Martin could not keep his hand off the silver. He was not mean,nor avaricious, but the money meant more than so many dollars andcents. It stood for success, and the eagles stamped upon the coinswere to him so many winged victories.It came to him insensibly that it was a very good world. Itcertainly appeared more beautiful to him. For weeks it had been avery dull and sombre world; but now, with nearly all debts paid,three dollars jingling in his pocket, and in his mind theconsciousness of success, the sun shone bright and warm, and even arain-squall that soaked unprepared pedestrians seemed a merryhappening to him. When he starved, his thoughts had dwelt oftenupon the thousands he knew were starving the world over; but nowthat he was feasted full, the fact of the thousands starving was nolonger pregnant in his brain. He forgot about them, and, being inlove, remembered the countless lovers in the world. Withoutdeliberately thinking about it, motifs for love-lyrics began toagitate his brain. Swept away by the creative impulse, he got offthe electric car, without vexation, two blocks beyond his crossing.He found a number of persons in the Morse home. Ruth's two girl-cousins were visiting her from San Rafael, and Mrs. Morse, underpretext of entertaining them, was pursuing her plan of surroundingRuth with young people. The campaign had begun during Martin'senforced absence, and was already in full swing. She was making apoint of having at the house men who were doing things. Thus, inaddition to the cousins Dorothy and Florence, Martin encounteredtwo university professors, one of Latin, the other of English; ayoung army officer just back from the Philippines, one-time school-mate of Ruth's; a young fellow named Melville, private secretary toJoseph Perkins, head of the San Francisco Trust Company; andfinally of the men, a live bank cashier, Charles Hapgood, ayoungish man of thirty-five, graduate of Stanford University,member of the Nile Club and the Unity Club, and a conservativespeaker for the Republican Party during campaigns - in short, arising young man in every way. Among the women was one who paintedportraits, another who was a professional musician, and stillanother who possessed the degree of Doctor of Sociology and who waslocally famous for her social settlement work in the slums of SanFrancisco. But the women did not count for much in Mrs. Morse'splan. At the best, they were necessary accessories. The men whodid things must be drawn to the house somehow."Don't get excited when you talk," Ruth admonished Martin, beforethe ordeal of introduction began.He bore himself a bit stiffly at first, oppressed by a sense of hisown awkwardness, especially of his shoulders, which were up totheir old trick of threatening destruction to furniture andornaments. Also, he was rendered self-conscious by the company.He had never before been in contact with such exalted beings norwith so many of them. Melville, the bank cashier, fascinated him,and he resolved to investigate him at the first opportunity. Forunderneath Martin's awe lurked his assertive ego, and he felt theurge to measure himself with these men and women and to find outwhat they had learned from the books and life which he had notlearned.Ruth's eyes roved to him frequently to see how he was getting on,and she was surprised and gladdened by the ease with which he gotacquainted with her cousins. He certainly did not grow excited,while being seated removed from him the worry of his shoulders.Ruth knew them for clever girls, superficially brilliant, and shecould scarcely understand their praise of Martin later that nightat going to bed. But he, on the other hand, a wit in his ownclass, a gay quizzer and laughter-maker at dances and Sundaypicnics, had found the making of fun and the breaking of good-natured lances simple enough in this environment. And on thisevening success stood at his back, patting him on the shoulder andtelling him that he was making good, so that he could afford tolaugh and make laughter and remain unabashed.Later, Ruth's anxiety found justification. Martin and ProfessorCaldwell had got together in a conspicuous corner, and thoughMartin no longer wove the air with his hands, to Ruth's criticaleye he permitted his own eyes to flash and glitter too frequently,talked too rapidly and warmly, grew too intense, and allowed hisaroused blood to redden his cheeks too much. He lacked decorum andcontrol, and was in decided contrast to the young professor ofEnglish with whom he talked.But Martin was not concerned with appearances! He had been swiftto note the other's trained mind and to appreciate his command ofknowledge. Furthermore, Professor Caldwell did not realizeMartin's concept of the average English professor. Martin wantedhim to talk shop, and, though he seemed averse at first, succeededin making him do it. For Martin did not see why a man should nottalk shop."It's absurd and unfair," he had told Ruth weeks before, "thisobjection to talking shop. For what reason under the sun do menand women come together if not for the exchange of the best that isin them? And the best that is in them is what they are interestedin, the thing by which they make their living, the thing they'vespecialized on and sat up days and nights over, and even dreamedabout. Imagine Mr. Butler living up to social etiquette andenunciating his views on Paul Verlaine or the German drama or thenovels of D'Annunzio. We'd be bored to death. I, for one, if Imust listen to Mr. Butler, prefer to hear him talk about his law.It's the best that is in him, and life is so short that I want thebest of every man and woman I meet.""But," Ruth had objected, "there are the topics of general interestto all.""There, you mistake," he had rushed on. "All persons in society,all cliques in society - or, rather, nearly all persons and cliques- ape their betters. Now, who are the best betters? The idlers,the wealthy idlers. They do not know, as a rule, the things knownby the persons who are doing something in the world. To listen toconversation about such things would mean to be bored, whereforethe idlers decree that such things are shop and must not be talkedabout. Likewise they decree the things that are not shop and whichmay be talked about, and those things are the latest operas, latestnovels, cards, billiards, cocktails, automobiles, horse shows,trout fishing, tuna-fishing, big-game shooting, yacht sailing, andso forth - and mark you, these are the things the idlers know. Inall truth, they constitute the shop-talk of the idlers. And thefunniest part of it is that many of the clever people, and all thewould-be clever people, allow the idlers so to impose upon them.As for me, I want the best a man's got in him, call it shopvulgarity or anything you please."And Ruth had not understood. This attack of his on the establishedhad seemed to her just so much wilfulness of opinion.So Martin contaminated Professor Caldwell with his own earnestness,challenging him to speak his mind. As Ruth paused beside them sheheard Martin saying:-"You surely don't pronounce such heresies in the University ofCalifornia?"Professor Caldwell shrugged his shoulders. "The honest taxpayerand the politician, you know. Sacramento gives us ourappropriations and therefore we kowtow to Sacramento, and to theBoard of Regents, and to the party press, or to the press of bothparties.""Yes, that's clear; but how about you?" Martin urged. "You must bea fish out of the water.""Few like me, I imagine, in the university pond. Sometimes I amfairly sure I am out of water, and that I should belong in Paris,in Grub Street, in a hermit's cave, or in some sadly wild Bohemiancrowd, drinking claret, - dago-red they call it in San Francisco, -dining in cheap restaurants in the Latin Quarter, and expressingvociferously radical views upon all creation. Really, I amfrequently almost sure that I was cut out to be a radical. Butthen, there are so many questions on which I am not sure. I growtimid when I am face to face with my human frailty, which everprevents me from grasping all the factors in any problem - human,vital problems, you know."And as he talked on, Martin became aware that to his own lips hadcome the "Song of the Trade Wind":-"I am strongest at noon,But under the moonI stiffen the bunt of the sail."He was almost humming the words, and it dawned upon him that theother reminded him of the trade wind, of the Northeast Trade,steady, and cool, and strong. He was equable, he was to be reliedupon, and withal there was a certain bafflement about him. Martinhad the feeling that he never spoke his full mind, just as he hadoften had the feeling that the trades never blew their strongestbut always held reserves of strength that were never used.Martin's trick of visioning was active as ever. His brain was amost accessible storehouse of remembered fact and fancy, and itscontents seemed ever ordered and spread for his inspection.Whatever occurred in the instant present, Martin's mind immediatelypresented associated antithesis or similitude which ordinarilyexpressed themselves to him in vision. It was sheerly automatic,and his visioning was an unfailing accompaniment to the livingpresent. Just as Ruth's face, in a momentary jealousy had calledbefore his eyes a forgotten moonlight gale, and as ProfessorCaldwell made him see again the Northeast Trade herding the whitebillows across the purple sea, so, from moment to moment, notdisconcerting but rather identifying and classifying, new memory-visions rose before him, or spread under his eyelids, or werethrown upon the screen of his consciousness. These visions cameout of the actions and sensations of the past, out of things andevents and books of yesterday and last week - a countless host ofapparitions that, waking or sleeping, forever thronged his mind.So it was, as he listened to Professor Caldwell's easy flow ofspeech - the conversation of a clever, cultured man - that Martinkept seeing himself down all his past. He saw himself when he hadbeen quite the hoodlum, wearing a "stiff-rim" Stetson hat and asquare-cut, double-breasted coat, with a certain swagger to theshoulders and possessing the ideal of being as tough as the policepermitted. He did not disguise it to himself, nor attempt topalliate it. At one time in his life he had been just a commonhoodlum, the leader of a gang that worried the police andterrorized honest, working-class householders. But his ideals hadchanged. He glanced about him at the well-bred, well-dressed menand women, and breathed into his lungs the atmosphere of cultureand refinement, and at the same moment the ghost of his earlyyouth, in stiff-rim and square-cut, with swagger and toughness,stalked across the room. This figure, of the corner hoodlum, hesaw merge into himself, sitting and talking with an actualuniversity professor.For, after all, he had never found his permanent abiding place. Hehad fitted in wherever he found himself, been a favorite always andeverywhere by virtue of holding his own at work and at play and byhis willingness and ability to fight for his rights and commandrespect. But he had never taken root. He had fitted insufficiently to satisfy his fellows but not to satisfy himself. Hehad been perturbed always by a feeling of unrest, had heard alwaysthe call of something from beyond, and had wandered on through lifeseeking it until he found books and art and love. And here he was,in the midst of all this, the only one of all the comrades he hadadventured with who could have made themselves eligible for theinside of the Morse home.But such thoughts and visions did not prevent him from followingProfessor Caldwell closely. And as he followed, comprehendinglyand critically, he noted the unbroken field of the other'sknowledge. As for himself, from moment to moment the conversationshowed him gaps and open stretches, whole subjects with which hewas unfamiliar. Nevertheless, thanks to his Spencer, he saw thathe possessed the outlines of the field of knowledge. It was amatter only of time, when he would fill in the outline. Then watchout, he thought - 'ware shoal, everybody! He felt like sitting atthe feet of the professor, worshipful and absorbent; but, as helistened, he began to discern a weakness in the other's judgments -a weakness so stray and elusive that he might not have caught ithad it not been ever present. And when he did catch it, he leaptto equality at once.Ruth came up to them a second time, just as Martin began to speak."I'll tell you where you are wrong, or, rather, what weakens yourjudgments," he said. "You lack biology. It has no place in yourscheme of things. - Oh, I mean the real interpretative biology,from the ground up, from the laboratory and the test-tube and thevitalized inorganic right on up to the widest aesthetic andsociological generalizations."Ruth was appalled. She had sat two lecture courses under ProfessorCaldwell and looked up to him as the living repository of allknowledge."I scarcely follow you," he said dubiously.Martin was not so sure but what he had followed him."Then I'll try to explain," he said. "I remember reading inEgyptian history something to the effect that understanding couldnot be had of Egyptian art without first studying the landquestion.""Quite right," the professor nodded."And it seems to me," Martin continued, "that knowledge of the landquestion, in turn, of all questions, for that matter, cannot be hadwithout previous knowledge of the stuff and the constitution oflife. How can we understand laws and institutions, religions andcustoms, without understanding, not merely the nature of thecreatures that made them, but the nature of the stuff out of whichthe creatures are made? Is literature less human than thearchitecture and sculpture of Egypt? Is there one thing in theknown universe that is not subject to the law of evolution? - Oh, Iknow there is an elaborate evolution of the various arts laid down,but it seems to me to be too mechanical. The human himself is leftout. The evolution of the tool, of the harp, of music and song anddance, are all beautifully elaborated; but how about the evolutionof the human himself, the development of the basic and intrinsicparts that were in him before he made his first tool or gibberedhis first chant? It is that which you do not consider, and which Icall biology. It is biology in its largest aspects."I know I express myself incoherently, but I've tried to hammer outthe idea. It came to me as you were talking, so I was not primedand ready to deliver it. You spoke yourself of the human frailtythat prevented one from taking all the factors into consideration.And you, in turn, - or so it seems to me, - leave out thebiological factor, the very stuff out of which has been spun thefabric of all the arts, the warp and the woof of all human actionsand achievements."To Ruth's amazement, Martin was not immediately crushed, and thatthe professor replied in the way he did struck her as forbearancefor Martin's youth. Professor Caldwell sat for a full minute,silent and fingering his watch chain."Do you know," he said at last, "I've had that same criticismpassed on me once before - by a very great man, a scientist andevolutionist, Joseph Le Conte. But he is dead, and I thought toremain undetected; and now you come along and expose me.Seriously, though - and this is confession - I think there issomething in your contention - a great deal, in fact. I am tooclassical, not enough up-to-date in the interpretative branches ofscience, and I can only plead the disadvantages of my education anda temperamental slothfulness that prevents me from doing the work.I wonder if you'll believe that I've never been inside a physics orchemistry laboratory? It is true, nevertheless. Le Conte wasright, and so are you, Mr. Eden, at least to an extent - how much Ido not know."Ruth drew Martin away with her on a pretext; when she had got himaside, whispering:-"You shouldn't have monopolized Professor Caldwell that way. Theremay be others who want to talk with him.""My mistake," Martin admitted contritely. "But I'd got him stirredup, and he was so interesting that I did not think. Do you know,he is the brightest, the most intellectual, man I have ever talkedwith. And I'll tell you something else. I once thought thateverybody who went to universities, or who sat in the high placesin society, was just as brilliant and intelligent as he.""He's an exception," she answered."I should say so. Whom do you want me to talk to now? - Oh, say,bring me up against that cashier-fellow."Martin talked for fifteen minutes with him, nor could Ruth havewished better behavior on her lover's part. Not once did his eyesflash nor his cheeks flush, while the calmness and poise with whichhe talked surprised her. But in Martin's estimation the wholetribe of bank cashiers fell a few hundred per cent, and for therest of the evening he labored under the impression that bankcashiers and talkers of platitudes were synonymous phrases. Thearmy officer he found good-natured and simple, a healthy, wholesomeyoung fellow, content to occupy the place in life into which birthand luck had flung him. On learning that he had completed twoyears in the university, Martin was puzzled to know where he hadstored it away. Nevertheless Martin liked him better than theplatitudinous bank cashier."I really don't object to platitudes," he told Ruth later; "butwhat worries me into nervousness is the pompous, smugly complacent,superior certitude with which they are uttered and the time takento do it. Why, I could give that man the whole history of theReformation in the time he took to tell me that the Union-LaborParty had fused with the Democrats. Do you know, he skins hiswords as a professional poker-player skins the cards that are dealtout to him. Some day I'll show you what I mean.""I'm sorry you don't like him," was her reply. "He's a favorite ofMr. Butler's. Mr. Butler says he is safe and honest - calls himthe Rock, Peter, and says that upon him any banking institution canwell be built.""I don't doubt it - from the little I saw of him and the less Iheard from him; but I don't think so much of banks as I did. Youdon't mind my speaking my mind this way, dear?""No, no; it is most interesting.""Yes," Martin went on heartily, "I'm no more than a barbariangetting my first impressions of civilization. Such impressionsmust be entertainingly novel to the civilized person.""What did you think of my cousins?" Ruth queried."I liked them better than the other women. There's plenty of funin them along with paucity of pretence.""Then you did like the other women?"He shook his head."That social-settlement woman is no more than a sociological poll-parrot. I swear, if you winnowed her out between the stars, likeTomlinson, there would be found in her not one original thought.As for the portrait-painter, she was a positive bore. She'd make agood wife for the cashier. And the musician woman! I don't carehow nimble her fingers are, how perfect her technique, howwonderful her expression - the fact is, she knows nothing aboutmusic.""She plays beautifully," Ruth protested."Yes, she's undoubtedly gymnastic in the externals of music, butthe intrinsic spirit of music is unguessed by her. I asked herwhat music meant to her - you know I'm always curious to know thatparticular thing; and she did not know what it meant to her, exceptthat she adored it, that it was the greatest of the arts, and thatit meant more than life to her.""You were making them talk shop," Ruth charged him."I confess it. And if they were failures on shop, imagine mysufferings if they had discoursed on other subjects. Why, I usedto think that up here, where all the advantages of culture wereenjoyed - " He paused for a moment, and watched the youthful shadeof himself, in stiff-rim and square-cut, enter the door and swaggeracross the room. "As I was saying, up here I thought all men andwomen were brilliant and radiant. But now, from what little I'veseen of them, they strike me as a pack of ninnies, most of them,and ninety percent of the remainder as bores. Now there'sProfessor Caldwell - he's different. He's a man, every inch of himand every atom of his gray matter."Ruth's face brightened."Tell me about him," she urged. "Not what is large and brilliant -I know those qualities; but whatever you feel is adverse. I ammost curious to know.""Perhaps I'll get myself in a pickle." Martin debated humorouslyfor a moment. "Suppose you tell me first. Or maybe you find inhim nothing less than the best.""I attended two lecture courses under him, and I have known him fortwo years; that is why I am anxious for your first impression.""Bad impression, you mean? Well, here goes. He is all the finethings you think about him, I guess. At least, he is the finestspecimen of intellectual man I have met; but he is a man with asecret shame.""Oh, no, no!" he hastened to cry. "Nothing paltry nor vulgar.What I mean is that he strikes me as a man who has gone to thebottom of things, and is so afraid of what he saw that he makesbelieve to himself that he never saw it. Perhaps that's not theclearest way to express it. Here's another way. A man who hasfound the path to the hidden temple but has not followed it; whohas, perhaps, caught glimpses of the temple and striven afterwardto convince himself that it was only a mirage of foliage. Yetanother way. A man who could have done things but who placed novalue on the doing, and who, all the time, in his innermost heart,is regretting that he has not done them; who has secretly laughedat the rewards for doing, and yet, still more secretly, has yearnedfor the rewards and for the joy of doing.""I don't read him that way," she said. "And for that matter, Idon't see just what you mean.""It is only a vague feeling on my part," Martin temporized. "Ihave no reason for it. It is only a feeling, and most likely it iswrong. You certainly should know him better than I."From the evening at Ruth's Martin brought away with him strangeconfusions and conflicting feelings. He was disappointed in hisgoal, in the persons he had climbed to be with. On the other hand,he was encouraged with his success. The climb had been easier thanhe expected. He was superior to the climb, and (he did not, withfalse modesty, hide it from himself) he was superior to the beingsamong whom he had climbed - with the exception, of course, ofProfessor Caldwell. About life and the books he knew more thanthey, and he wondered into what nooks and crannies they had castaside their educations. He did not know that he was himselfpossessed of unusual brain vigor; nor did he know that the personswho were given to probing the depths and to thinking ultimatethoughts were not to be found in the drawing rooms of the world'sMorses; nor did he dream that such persons were as lonely eaglessailing solitary in the azure sky far above the earth and itsswarming freight of gregarious life.