Chapter XXXIV

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　Arthur remained at the gate while Ruth climbed Maria's front steps.She heard the rapid click of the type-writer, and when Martin lether in, found him on the last page of a manuscript. She had cometo make certain whether or not he would be at their table forThanksgiving dinner; but before she could broach the subject Martinplunged into the one with which he was full."Here, let me read you this," he cried, separating the carboncopies and running the pages of manuscript into shape. "It's mylatest, and different from anything I've done. It is so altogetherdifferent that I am almost afraid of it, and yet I've a sneakingidea it is good. You be judge. It's an Hawaiian story. I'vecalled it 'Wiki-wiki.'"His face was bright with the creative glow, though she shivered inthe cold room and had been struck by the coldness of his hands atgreeting. She listened closely while he read, and though he fromtime to time had seen only disapprobation in her face, at the closehe asked:-"Frankly, what do you think of it?""I - I don't know," she, answered. "Will it - do you think it willsell?""I'm afraid not," was the confession. "It's too strong for themagazines. But it's true, on my word it's true.""But why do you persist in writing such things when you know theywon't sell?" she went on inexorably. "The reason for your writingis to make a living, isn't it?""Yes, that's right; but the miserable story got away with me. Icouldn't help writing it. It demanded to be written.""But that character, that Wiki-Wiki, why do you make him talk soroughly? Surely it will offend your readers, and surely that iswhy the editors are justified in refusing your work.""Because the real Wiki-Wiki would have talked that way.""But it is not good taste.""It is life," he replied bluntly. "It is real. It is true. And Imust write life as I see it."She made no answer, and for an awkward moment they sat silent. Itwas because he loved her that he did not quite understand her, andshe could not understand him because he was so large that he bulkedbeyond her horizon"Well, I've collected from the Transcontinental," he said in aneffort to shift the conversation to a more comfortable subject.The picture of the bewhiskered trio, as he had last seen them,mulcted of four dollars and ninety cents and a ferry ticket, madehim chuckle."Then you'll come!" she cried joyously. "That was what I came tofind out.""Come?" he muttered absently. "Where?""Why, to dinner to-morrow. You know you said you'd recover yoursuit if you got that money.""I forgot all about it," he said humbly. "You see, this morningthe poundman got Maria's two cows and the baby calf, and - well, ithappened that Maria didn't have any money, and so I had to recoverher cows for her. That's where the Transcontinental fiver went -'The Ring of Bells' went into the poundman's pocket.""Then you won't come?"He looked down at his clothing."I can't."Tears of disappointment and reproach glistened in her blue eyes,but she said nothing."Next Thanksgiving you'll have dinner with me in Delmonico's," hesaid cheerily; "or in London, or Paris, or anywhere you wish. Iknow it.""I saw in the paper a few days ago," she announced abruptly, "thatthere had been several local appointments to the Railway Mail. Youpassed first, didn't you?"He was compelled to admit that the call had come for him, but thathe had declined it. "I was so sure - I am so sure - of myself," heconcluded. "A year from now I'll be earning more than a dozen menin the Railway Mail. You wait and see.""Oh," was all she said, when he finished. She stood up, pulling ather gloves. "I must go, Martin. Arthur is waiting for me."He took her in his arms and kissed her, but she proved a passivesweetheart. There was no tenseness in her body, her arms did notgo around him, and her lips met his without their wonted pressure.She was angry with him, he concluded, as he returned from the gate.But why? It was unfortunate that the poundman had gobbled Maria'scows. But it was only a stroke of fate. Nobody could be blamedfor it. Nor did it enter his head that he could have done aughtotherwise than what he had done. Well, yes, he was to blame alittle, was his next thought, for having refused the call to theRailway Mail. And she had not liked "Wiki-Wiki."He turned at the head of the steps to meet the letter-carrier onhis afternoon round. The ever recurrent fever of expectancyassailed Martin as he took the bundle of long envelopes. One wasnot long. It was short and thin, and outside was printed theaddress of The New York Outview. He paused in the act of tearingthe envelope open. It could not be an acceptance. He had nomanuscripts with that publication. Perhaps - his heart almoststood still at the - wild thought - perhaps they were ordering anarticle from him; but the next instant he dismissed the surmise ashopelessly impossible.It was a short, formal letter, signed by the office editor, merelyinforming him that an anonymous letter which they had received wasenclosed, and that he could rest assured the Outview's staff neverunder any circumstances gave consideration to anonymouscorrespondence.The enclosed letter Martin found to be crudely printed by hand. Itwas a hotchpotch of illiterate abuse of Martin, and of assertionthat the "so-called Martin Eden" who was selling stories tomagazines was no writer at all, and that in reality he was stealingstories from old magazines, typing them, and sending them out ashis own. The envelope was postmarked "San Leandro." Martin didnot require a second thought to discover the author.Higginbotham's grammar, Higginbotham's colloquialisms,Higginbotham's mental quirks and processes, were apparentthroughout. Martin saw in every line, not the fine Italian hand,but the coarse grocer's fist, of his brother-in-law.But why? he vainly questioned. What injury had he done BernardHigginbotham? The thing was so unreasonable, so wanton. There wasno explaining it. In the course of the week a dozen similarletters were forwarded to Martin by the editors of various Easternmagazines. The editors were behaving handsomely, Martin concluded.He was wholly unknown to them, yet some of them had even beensympathetic. It was evident that they detested anonymity. He sawthat the malicious attempt to hurt him had failed. In fact, ifanything came of it, it was bound to be good, for at least his namehad been called to the attention of a number of editors. Sometime,perhaps, reading a submitted manuscript of his, they might rememberhim as the fellow about whom they had received an anonymous letter.And who was to say that such a remembrance might not sway thebalance of their judgment just a trifle in his favor?It was about this time that Martin took a great slump in Maria'sestimation. He found her in the kitchen one morning groaning withpain, tears of weakness running down her cheeks, vainly endeavoringto put through a large ironing. He promptly diagnosed heraffliction as La Grippe, dosed her with hot whiskey (the remnantsin the bottles for which Brissenden was responsible), and orderedher to bed. But Maria was refractory. The ironing had to be done,she protested, and delivered that night, or else there would be nofood on the morrow for the seven small and hungry Silvas.To her astonishment (and it was something that she never ceasedfrom relating to her dying day), she saw Martin Eden seize an ironfrom the stove and throw a fancy shirt-waist on the ironing-board.It was Kate Flanagan's best Sunday waist, than whom there was nomore exacting and fastidiously dressed woman in Maria's world.Also, Miss Flanagan had sent special instruction that said waistmust be delivered by that night. As every one knew, she waskeeping company with John Collins, the blacksmith, and, as Mariaknew privily, Miss Flanagan and Mr. Collins were going next day toGolden Gate Park. Vain was Maria's attempt to rescue the garment.Martin guided her tottering footsteps to a chair, from where shewatched him with bulging eyes. In a quarter of the time it wouldhave taken her she saw the shirt-waist safely ironed, and ironed aswell as she could have done it, as Martin made her grant."I could work faster," he explained, "if your irons were onlyhotter."To her, the irons he swung were much hotter than she ever dared touse."Your sprinkling is all wrong," he complained next. "Here, let meteach you how to sprinkle. Pressure is what's wanted. Sprinkleunder pressure if you want to iron fast."He procured a packing-case from the woodpile in the cellar, fitteda cover to it, and raided the scrap-iron the Silva tribe wascollecting for the junkman. With fresh-sprinkled garments in thebox, covered with the board and pressed by the iron, the device wascomplete and in operation."Now you watch me, Maria," he said, stripping off to his undershirtand gripping an iron that was what he called "really hot.""An' when he feenish da iron' he washa da wools," as she describedit afterward. "He say, 'Maria, you are da greata fool. I showayou how to washa da wools,' an' he shows me, too. Ten minutes hemaka da machine - one barrel, one wheel-hub, two poles, justa likedat."Martin had learned the contrivance from Joe at the Shelly HotSprings. The old wheel-hub, fixed on the end of the upright pole,constituted the plunger. Making this, in turn, fast to the spring-pole attached to the kitchen rafters, so that the hub played uponthe woollens in the barrel, he was able, with one hand, thoroughlyto pound them."No more Maria washa da wools," her story always ended. "I maka dakids worka da pole an' da hub an' da barrel. Him da smarta man,Mister Eden."Nevertheless, by his masterly operation and improvement of herkitchen-laundry he fell an immense distance in her regard. Theglamour of romance with which her imagination had invested himfaded away in the cold light of fact that he was an ex-laundryman.All his books, and his grand friends who visited him in carriagesor with countless bottles of whiskey, went for naught. He was,after all, a mere workingman, a member of her own class and caste.He was more human and approachable, but, he was no longer mystery.Martin's alienation from his family continued. Following upon Mr.Higginbotham's unprovoked attack, Mr. Hermann von Schmidt showedhis hand. The fortunate sale of several storiettes, some humorousverse, and a few jokes gave Martin a temporary splurge ofprosperity. Not only did he partially pay up his bills, but he hadsufficient balance left to redeem his black suit and wheel. Thelatter, by virtue of a twisted crank-hanger, required repairing,and, as a matter of friendliness with his future brother-in-law, hesent it to Von Schmidt's shop.The afternoon of the same day Martin was pleased by the wheel beingdelivered by a small boy. Von Schmidt was also inclined to befriendly, was Martin's conclusion from this unusual favor.Repaired wheels usually had to be called for. But when he examinedthe wheel, he discovered no repairs had been made. A little laterin the day he telephoned his sister's betrothed, and learned thatthat person didn't want anything to do with him in "any shape,manner, or form.""Hermann von Schmidt," Martin answered cheerfully, "I've a goodmind to come over and punch that Dutch nose of yours.""You come to my shop," came the reply, "an' I'll send for thepolice. An' I'll put you through, too. Oh, I know you, but youcan't make no rough-house with me. I don't want nothin' to do withthe likes of you. You're a loafer, that's what, an' I ain'tasleep. You ain't goin' to do no spongin' off me just because I'mmarryin' your sister. Why don't you go to work an' earn an honestlivin', eh? Answer me that."Martin's philosophy asserted itself, dissipating his anger, and hehung up the receiver with a long whistle of incredulous amusement.But after the amusement came the reaction, and he was oppressed byhis loneliness. Nobody understood him, nobody seemed to have anyuse for him, except Brissenden, and Brissenden had disappeared, Godalone knew where.Twilight was falling as Martin left the fruit store and turnedhomeward, his marketing on his arm. At the corner an electric carhad stopped, and at sight of a lean, familiar figure alighting, hisheart leapt with joy. It was Brissenden, and in the fleetingglimpse, ere the car started up, Martin noted the overcoat pockets,one bulging with books, the other bulging with a quart bottle ofwhiskey.