Chapter XXX

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　On a beautiful fall day, a day of similar Indian summer to thatwhich had seen their love declared the year before, Martin read his"Love-cycle" to Ruth. It was in the afternoon, and, as before,they had ridden out to their favorite knoll in the hills. Now andagain she had interrupted his reading with exclamations ofpleasure, and now, as he laid the last sheet of manuscript with itsfellows, he waited her judgment.She delayed to speak, and at last she spoke haltingly, hesitatingto frame in words the harshness of her thought."I think they are beautiful, very beautiful," she said; "but youcan't sell them, can you? You see what I mean," she said, almostpleaded. "This writing of yours is not practical. Something isthe matter - maybe it is with the market - that prevents you fromearning a living by it. And please, dear, don't misunderstand me.I am flattered, and made proud, and all that - I could not be atrue woman were it otherwise - that you should write these poems tome. But they do not make our marriage possible. Don't you see,Martin? Don't think me mercenary. It is love, the thought of ourfuture, with which I am burdened. A whole year has gone by sincewe learned we loved each other, and our wedding day is no nearer.Don't think me immodest in thus talking about our wedding, forreally I have my heart, all that I am, at stake. Why don't you tryto get work on a newspaper, if you are so bound up in your writing?Why not become a reporter? - for a while, at least?""It would spoil my style," was his answer, in a low, monotonousvoice. "You have no idea how I've worked for style.""But those storiettes," she argued. "You called them hack-work.You wrote many of them. Didn't they spoil your style?""No, the cases are different. The storiettes were ground out,jaded, at the end of a long day of application to style. But areporter's work is all hack from morning till night, is the oneparamount thing of life. And it is a whirlwind life, the life ofthe moment, with neither past nor future, and certainly withoutthought of any style but reportorial style, and that certainly isnot literature. To become a reporter now, just as my style istaking form, crystallizing, would be to commit literary suicide.As it is, every storiette, every word of every storiette, was aviolation of myself, of my self-respect, of my respect for beauty.I tell you it was sickening. I was guilty of sin. And I wassecretly glad when the markets failed, even if my clothes did gointo pawn. But the joy of writing the 'Love-cycle'! The creativejoy in its noblest form! That was compensation for everything."Martin did not know that Ruth was unsympathetic concerning thecreative joy. She used the phrase - it was on her lips he hadfirst heard it. She had read about it, studied about it, in theuniversity in the course of earning her Bachelorship of Arts; butshe was not original, not creative, and all manifestations ofculture on her part were but harpings of the harpings of others."May not the editor have been right in his revision of your 'SeaLyrics'?" she questioned. "Remember, an editor must have provedqualifications or else he would not be an editor.""That's in line with the persistence of the established," herejoined, his heat against the editor-folk getting the better ofhim. "What is, is not only right, but is the best possible. Theexistence of anything is sufficient vindication of its fitness toexist - to exist, mark you, as the average person unconsciouslybelieves, not merely in present conditions, but in all conditions.It is their ignorance, of course, that makes them believe such rot- their ignorance, which is nothing more nor less than thehenidical mental process described by Weininger. They think theythink, and such thinkless creatures are the arbiters of the livesof the few who really think."He paused, overcome by the consciousness that he had been talkingover Ruth's head."I'm sure I don't know who this Weininger is," she retorted. "Andyou are so dreadfully general that I fail to follow you. What Iwas speaking of was the qualification of editors - ""And I'll tell you," he interrupted. "The chief qualification ofninety-nine per cent of all editors is failure. They have failedas writers. Don't think they prefer the drudgery of the desk andthe slavery to their circulation and to the business manager to thejoy of writing. They have tried to write, and they have failed.And right there is the cursed paradox of it. Every portal tosuccess in literature is guarded by those watch-dogs, the failuresin literature. The editors, sub-editors, associate editors, mostof them, and the manuscript-readers for the magazines and book-publishers, most of them, nearly all of them, are men who wanted towrite and who have failed. And yet they, of all creatures underthe sun the most unfit, are the very creatures who decide whatshall and what shall not find its way into print - they, who haveproved themselves not original, who have demonstrated that theylack the divine fire, sit in judgment upon originality and genius.And after them come the reviewers, just so many more failures.Don't tell me that they have not dreamed the dream and attempted towrite poetry or fiction; for they have, and they have failed. Why,the average review is more nauseating than cod-liver oil. But youknow my opinion on the reviewers and the alleged critics. Thereare great critics, but they are as rare as comets. If I fail as awriter, I shall have proved for the career of editorship. There'sbread and butter and jam, at any rate."Ruth's mind was quick, and her disapproval of her lover's views wasbuttressed by the contradiction she found in his contention."But, Martin, if that be so, if all the doors are closed as youhave shown so conclusively, how is it possible that any of thegreat writers ever arrived?""They arrived by achieving the impossible," he answered. "They didsuch blazing, glorious work as to burn to ashes those that opposedthem. They arrived by course of miracle, by winning a thousand-to-one wager against them. They arrived because they were Carlyle'sbattle-scarred giants who will not be kept down. And that is whatI must do; I must achieve the impossible.""But if you fail? You must consider me as well, Martin.""If I fail?" He regarded her for a moment as though the thoughtshe had uttered was unthinkable. Then intelligence illumined hiseyes. "If I fail, I shall become an editor, and you will be aneditor's wife."She frowned at his facetiousness - a pretty, adorable frown thatmade him put his arm around her and kiss it away."There, that's enough," she urged, by an effort of will withdrawingherself from the fascination of his strength. "I have talked withfather and mother. I never before asserted myself so against them.I demanded to be heard. I was very undutiful. They are againstyou, you know; but I assured them over and over of my abiding lovefor you, and at last father agreed that if you wanted to, you couldbegin right away in his office. And then, of his own accord, hesaid he would pay you enough at the start so that we could getmarried and have a little cottage somewhere. Which I think wasvery fine of him - don't you?"Martin, with the dull pain of despair at his heart, mechanicallyreaching for the tobacco and paper (which he no longer carried) toroll a cigarette, muttered something inarticulate, and Ruth wenton."Frankly, though, and don't let it hurt you - I tell you, to showyou precisely how you stand with him - he doesn't like your radicalviews, and he thinks you are lazy. Of course I know you are not.I know you work hard."How hard, even she did not know, was the thought in Martin's mind."Well, then," he said, "how about my views? Do you think they areso radical?"He held her eyes and waited the answer."I think them, well, very disconcerting," she replied.The question was answered for him, and so oppressed was he by thegrayness of life that he forgot the tentative proposition she hadmade for him to go to work. And she, having gone as far as shedared, was willing to wait the answer till she should bring thequestion up again.She had not long to wait. Martin had a question of his own topropound to her. He wanted to ascertain the measure of her faithin him, and within the week each was answered. Martin precipitatedit by reading to her his "The Shame of the Sun.""Why don't you become a reporter?" she asked when he had finished."You love writing so, and I am sure you would succeed. You couldrise in journalism and make a name for yourself. There are anumber of great special correspondents. Their salaries are large,and their field is the world. They are sent everywhere, to theheart of Africa, like Stanley, or to interview the Pope, or toexplore unknown Thibet.""Then you don't like my essay?" he rejoined. "You believe that Ihave some show in journalism but none in literature?""No, no; I do like it. It reads well. But I am afraid it's overthe heads of your readers. At least it is over mine. It soundsbeautiful, but I don't understand it. Your scientific slang isbeyond me. You are an extremist, you know, dear, and what may beintelligible to you may not be intelligible to the rest of us.""I imagine it's the philosophic slang that bothers you," was all hecould say.He was flaming from the fresh reading of the ripest thought he hadexpressed, and her verdict stunned him."No matter how poorly it is done," he persisted, "don't you seeanything in it? - in the thought of it, I mean?"She shook her head."No, it is so different from anything I have read. I readMaeterlinck and understand him - ""His mysticism, you understand that?" Martin flashed out."Yes, but this of yours, which is supposed to be an attack uponhim, I don't understand. Of course, if originality counts - "He stopped her with an impatient gesture that was not followed byspeech. He became suddenly aware that she was speaking and thatshe had been speaking for some time."After all, your writing has been a toy to you," she was saying."Surely you have played with it long enough. It is time to take uplife seriously - our life, Martin. Hitherto you have lived solelyyour own.""You want me to go to work?" he asked."Yes. Father has offered - ""I understand all that," he broke in; "but what I want to know iswhether or not you have lost faith in me?"She pressed his hand mutely, her eyes dim."In your writing, dear," she admitted in a half-whisper."You've read lots of my stuff," he went on brutally. "What do youthink of it? Is it utterly hopeless? How does it compare withother men's work?""But they sell theirs, and you - don't.""That doesn't answer my question. Do you think that literature isnot at all my vocation?""Then I will answer." She steeled herself to do it. "I don'tthink you were made to write. Forgive me, dear. You compel me tosay it; and you know I know more about literature than you do.""Yes, you are a Bachelor of Arts," he said meditatively; "and youought to know.""But there is more to be said," he continued, after a pause painfulto both. "I know what I have in me. No one knows that so well asI. I know I shall succeed. I will not be kept down. I am afirewith what I have to say in verse, and fiction, and essay. I do notask you to have faith in that, though. I do not ask you to havefaith in me, nor in my writing. What I do ask of you is to love meand have faith in love.""A year ago I believed for two years. One of those years is yet torun. And I do believe, upon my honor and my soul, that before thatyear is run I shall have succeeded. You remember what you told melong ago, that I must serve my apprenticeship to writing. Well, Ihave served it. I have crammed it and telescoped it. With you atthe end awaiting me, I have never shirked. Do you know, I haveforgotten what it is to fall peacefully asleep. A few millionyears ago I knew what it was to sleep my fill and to awakenaturally from very glut of sleep. I am awakened always now by analarm clock. If I fall asleep early or late, I set the alarmaccordingly; and this, and the putting out of the lamp, are my lastconscious actions.""When I begin to feel drowsy, I change the heavy book I am readingfor a lighter one. And when I doze over that, I beat my head withmy knuckles in order to drive sleep away. Somewhere I read of aman who was afraid to sleep. Kipling wrote the story. This manarranged a spur so that when unconsciousness came, his naked bodypressed against the iron teeth. Well, I've done the same. I lookat the time, and I resolve that not until midnight, or not untilone o'clock, or two o'clock, or three o'clock, shall the spur beremoved. And so it rowels me awake until the appointed time. Thatspur has been my bed-mate for months. I have grown so desperatethat five and a half hours of sleep is an extravagance. I sleepfour hours now. I am starved for sleep. There are times when I amlight-headed from want of sleep, times when death, with its restand sleep, is a positive lure to me, times when I am haunted byLongfellow's lines:"'The sea is still and deep;All things within its bosom sleep;A single step and all is o'er,A plunge, a bubble, and no more.'"Of course, this is sheer nonsense. It comes from nervousness,from an overwrought mind. But the point is: Why have I done this?For you. To shorten my apprenticeship. To compel Success tohasten. And my apprenticeship is now served. I know my equipment.I swear that I learn more each month than the average college manlearns in a year. I know it, I tell you. But were my need for youto understand not so desperate I should not tell you. It is notboasting. I measure the results by the books. Your brothers, to-day, are ignorant barbarians compared with me and the knowledge Ihave wrung from the books in the hours they were sleeping. Longago I wanted to be famous. I care very little for fame now. WhatI want is you; I am more hungry for you than for food, or clothing,or recognition. I have a dream of laying my head on your breastand sleeping an aeon or so, and the dream will come true ereanother year is gone."His power beat against her, wave upon wave; and in the moment hiswill opposed hers most she felt herself most strongly drawn towardhim. The strength that had always poured out from him to her wasnow flowering in his impassioned voice, his flashing eyes, and thevigor of life and intellect surging in him. And in that moment,and for the moment, she was aware of a rift that showed in hercertitude - a rift through which she caught sight of the realMartin Eden, splendid and invincible; and as animal-trainers havetheir moments of doubt, so she, for the instant, seemed to doubther power to tame this wild spirit of a man."And another thing," he swept on. "You love me. But why do youlove me? The thing in me that compels me to write is the verything that draws your love. You love me because I am somehowdifferent from the men you have known and might have loved. I wasnot made for the desk and counting-house, for petty businesssquabbling, and legal jangling. Make me do such things, make melike those other men, doing the work they do, breathing the airthey breathe, developing the point of view they have developed, andyou have destroyed the difference, destroyed me, destroyed thething you love. My desire to write is the most vital thing in me.Had I been a mere clod, neither would I have desired to write, norwould you have desired me for a husband.""But you forget," she interrupted, the quick surface of her mindglimpsing a parallel. "There have been eccentric inventors,starving their families while they sought such chimeras asperpetual motion. Doubtless their wives loved them, and sufferedwith them and for them, not because of but in spite of theirinfatuation for perpetual motion.""True," was the reply. "But there have been inventors who were noteccentric and who starved while they sought to invent practicalthings; and sometimes, it is recorded, they succeeded. Certainly Ido not seek any impossibilities - ""You have called it 'achieving the impossible,'" she interpolated."I spoke figuratively. I seek to do what men have done before me -to write and to live by my writing."Her silence spurred him on."To you, then, my goal is as much a chimera as perpetual motion?"he demanded.He read her answer in the pressure of her hand on his - the pityingmother-hand for the hurt child. And to her, just then, he was thehurt child, the infatuated man striving to achieve the impossible.Toward the close of their talk she warned him again of theantagonism of her father and mother."But you love me?" he asked."I do! I do!" she cried."And I love you, not them, and nothing they do can hurt me."Triumph sounded in his voice. "For I have faith in your love, notfear of their enmity. All things may go astray in this world, butnot love. Love cannot go wrong unless it be a weakling that faintsand stumbles by the way."