Chapter XXXV

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　Brissenden gave no explanation of his long absence, nor did Martinpry into it. He was content to see his friend's cadaverous faceopposite him through the steam rising from a tumbler of toddy."I, too, have not been idle," Brissenden proclaimed, after hearingMartin's account of the work he had accomplished.He pulled a manuscript from his inside coat pocket and passed it toMartin, who looked at the title and glanced up curiously."Yes, that's it," Brissenden laughed. "Pretty good title, eh?'Ephemera' - it is the one word. And you're responsible for it,what of your man, who is always the erected, the vitalizedinorganic, the latest of the ephemera, the creature of temperaturestrutting his little space on the thermometer. It got into my headand I had to write it to get rid of it. Tell me what you think ofit."Martin's face, flushed at first, paled as he read on. It wasperfect art. Form triumphed over substance, if triumph it could becalled where the last conceivable atom of substance had foundexpression in so perfect construction as to make Martin's head swimwith delight, to put passionate tears into his eyes, and to sendchills creeping up and down his back. It was a long poem of six orseven hundred lines, and it was a fantastic, amazing, unearthlything. It was terrific, impossible; and yet there it was, scrawledin black ink across the sheets of paper. It dealt with man and hissoul-gropings in their ultimate terms, plumbing the abysses ofspace for the testimony of remotest suns and rainbow spectrums. Itwas a mad orgy of imagination, wassailing in the skull of a dyingman who half sobbed under his breath and was quick with the wildflutter of fading heart-beats. The poem swung in majestic rhythmto the cool tumult of interstellar conflict, to the onset of starryhosts, to the impact of cold suns and the flaming up of nebular inthe darkened void; and through it all, unceasing and faint, like asilver shuttle, ran the frail, piping voice of man, a querulouschirp amid the screaming of planets and the crash of systems."There is nothing like it in literature," Martin said, when at lasthe was able to speak. "It's wonderful! - wonderful! It has goneto my head. I am drunken with it. That great, infinitesimalquestion - I can't shake it out of my thoughts. That questing,eternal, ever recurring, thin little wailing voice of man is stillringing in my ears. It is like the dead-march of a gnat amid thetrumpeting of elephants and the roaring of lions. It is insatiablewith microscopic desire. I now I'm making a fool of myself, butthe thing has obsessed me. You are - I don't know what you are -you are wonderful, that's all. But how do you do it? How do youdo it?"Martin paused from his rhapsody, only to break out afresh."I shall never write again. I am a dauber in clay. You have shownme the work of the real artificer-artisan. Genius! This issomething more than genius. It transcends genius. It is truthgone mad. It is true, man, every line of it. I wonder if yourealize that, you dogmatist. Science cannot give you the lie. Itis the truth of the sneer, stamped out from the black iron of theCosmos and interwoven with mighty rhythms of sound into a fabric ofsplendor and beauty. And now I won't say another word. I amoverwhelmed, crushed. Yes, I will, too. Let me market it foryou."Brissenden grinned. "There's not a magazine in Christendom thatwould dare to publish it - you know that.""I know nothing of the sort. I know there's not a magazine inChristendom that wouldn't jump at it. They don't get things likethat every day. That's no mere poem of the year. It's the poem ofthe century.""I'd like to take you up on the proposition.""Now don't get cynical," Martin exhorted. "The magazine editorsare not wholly fatuous. I know that. And I'll close with you onthe bet. I'll wager anything you want that 'Ephemera' is acceptedeither on the first or second offering.""There's just one thing that prevents me from taking you."Brissenden waited a moment. "The thing is big - the biggest I'veever done. I know that. It's my swan song. I am almighty proudof it. I worship it. It's better than whiskey. It is what Idreamed of - the great and perfect thing - when I was a simpleyoung man, with sweet illusions and clean ideals. And I've got it,now, in my last grasp, and I'll not have it pawed over and soiledby a lot of swine. No, I won't take the bet. It's mine. I madeit, and I've shared it with you.""But think of the rest of the world," Martin protested. "Thefunction of beauty is joy-making.""It's my beauty.""Don't be selfish.""I'm not selfish." Brissenden grinned soberly in the way he hadwhen pleased by the thing his thin lips were about to shape. "I'mas unselfish as a famished hog."In vain Martin strove to shake him from his decision. Martin toldhim that his hatred of the magazines was rabid, fanatical, and thathis conduct was a thousand times more despicable than that of theyouth who burned the temple of Diana at Ephesus. Under the stormof denunciation Brissenden complacently sipped his toddy andaffirmed that everything the other said was quite true, with theexception of the magazine editors. His hatred of them knew nobounds, and he excelled Martin in denunciation when he turned uponthem."I wish you'd type it for me," he said. "You know how a thousandtimes better than any stenographer. And now I want to give yousome advice." He drew a bulky manuscript from his outside coatpocket. "Here's your 'Shame of the Sun.' I've read it not once,but twice and three times - the highest compliment I can pay you.After what you've said about 'Ephemera' I must be silent. But thisI will say: when 'The Shame of the Sun' is published, it will makea hit. It will start a controversy that will be worth thousands toyou just in advertising."Martin laughed. "I suppose your next advice will be to submit itto the magazines.""By all means no - that is, if you want to see it in print. Offerit to the first-class houses. Some publisher's reader may be madenough or drunk enough to report favorably on it. You've read thebooks. The meat of them has been transmuted in the alembic ofMartin Eden's mind and poured into 'The Shame of the Sun,' and oneday Martin Eden will be famous, and not the least of his fame willrest upon that work. So you must get a publisher for it - thesooner the better."Brissenden went home late that night; and just as he mounted thefirst step of the car, he swung suddenly back on Martin and thrustinto his hand a small, tightly crumpled wad of paper."Here, take this," he said. "I was out to the races to-day, and Ihad the right dope."The bell clanged and the car pulled out, leaving Martin wonderingas to the nature of the crinkly, greasy wad he clutched in hishand. Back in his room he unrolled it and found a hundred-dollarbill.He did not scruple to use it. He knew his friend had always plentyof money, and he knew also, with profound certitude, that hissuccess would enable him to repay it. In the morning he paid everybill, gave Maria three months' advance on the room, and redeemedevery pledge at the pawnshop. Next he bought Marian's weddingpresent, and simpler presents, suitable to Christmas, for Ruth andGertrude. And finally, on the balance remaining to him, he herdedthe whole Silva tribe down into Oakland. He was a winter late inredeeming his promise, but redeemed it was, for the last, leastSilva got a pair of shoes, as well as Maria herself. Also, therewere horns, and dolls, and toys of various sorts, and parcels andbundles of candies and nuts that filled the arms of all the Silvasto overflowing.It was with this extraordinary procession trooping at his andMaria's heels into a confectioner's in quest if the biggest candy-cane ever made, that he encountered Ruth and her mother. Mrs.Morse was shocked. Even Ruth was hurt, for she had some regard forappearances, and her lover, cheek by jowl with Maria, at the headof that army of Portuguese ragamuffins, was not a pretty sight.But it was not that which hurt so much as what she took to be hislack of pride and self-respect. Further, and keenest of all, sheread into the incident the impossibility of his living down hisworking-class origin. There was stigma enough in the fact of it,but shamelessly to flaunt it in the face of the world - her world -was going too far. Though her engagement to Martin had been keptsecret, their long intimacy had not been unproductive of gossip;and in the shop, glancing covertly at her lover and his following,had been several of her acquaintances. She lacked the easylargeness of Martin and could not rise superior to her environment.She had been hurt to the quick, and her sensitive nature wasquivering with the shame of it. So it was, when Martin arrivedlater in the day, that he kept her present in his breast-pocket,deferring the giving of it to a more propitious occasion. Ruth intears - passionate, angry tears - was a revelation to him. Thespectacle of her suffering convinced him that he had been a brute,yet in the soul of him he could not see how nor why. It neverentered his head to be ashamed of those he knew, and to take theSilvas out to a Christmas treat could in no way, so it seemed tohim, show lack of consideration for Ruth. On the other hand, hedid see Ruth's point of view, after she had explained it; and helooked upon it as a feminine weakness, such as afflicted all womenand the best of women.