Chapter XXXVII

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　The first thing Martin did next morning was to go counter both toBrissenden's advice and command. "The Shame of the Sun" he wrappedand mailed to The Acropolis. He believed he could find magazinepublication for it, and he felt that recognition by the magazineswould commend him to the book-publishing houses. "Ephemera" helikewise wrapped and mailed to a magazine. Despite Brissenden'sprejudice against the magazines, which was a pronounced mania withhim, Martin decided that the great poem should see print. He didnot intend, however, to publish it without the other's permission.His plan was to get it accepted by one of the high magazines, and,thus armed, again to wrestle with Brissenden for consent.Martin began, that morning, a story which he had sketched out anumber of weeks before and which ever since had been worrying himwith its insistent clamor to be created. Apparently it was to be arattling sea story, a tale of twentieth-century adventure andromance, handling real characters, in a real world, under realconditions. But beneath the swing and go of the story was to besomething else - something that the superficial reader would neverdiscern and which, on the other hand, would not diminish in any waythe interest and enjoyment for such a reader. It was this, and notthe mere story, that impelled Martin to write it. For that matter,it was always the great, universal motif that suggested plots tohim. After having found such a motif, he cast about for theparticular persons and particular location in time and spacewherewith and wherein to utter the universal thing. "Overdue" wasthe title he had decided for it, and its length he believed wouldnot be more than sixty thousand words - a bagatelle for him withhis splendid vigor of production. On this first day he took holdof it with conscious delight in the mastery of his tools. He nolonger worried for fear that the sharp, cutting edges should slipand mar his work. The long months of intense application and studyhad brought their reward. He could now devote himself with surehand to the larger phases of the thing he shaped; and as he worked,hour after hour, he felt, as never before, the sure and cosmicgrasp with which he held life and the affairs of life. "Overdue"would tell a story that would be true of its particular charactersand its particular events; but it would tell, too, he wasconfident, great vital things that would be true of all time, andall sea, and all life - thanks to Herbert Spencer, he thought,leaning back for a moment from the table. Ay, thanks to HerbertSpencer and to the master-key of life, evolution, which Spencer hadplaced in his hands.He was conscious that it was great stuff he was writing. "It willgo! It will go!" was the refrain that kept, sounding in his ears.Of course it would go. At last he was turning out the thing atwhich the magazines would jump. The whole story worked out beforehim in lightning flashes. He broke off from it long enough towrite a paragraph in his note-book. This would be the lastparagraph in "Overdue"; but so thoroughly was the whole bookalready composed in his brain that he could write, weeks before hehad arrived at the end, the end itself. He compared the tale, asyet unwritten, with the tales of the sea-writers, and he felt it tobe immeasurably superior. "There's only one man who could touchit," he murmured aloud, "and that's Conrad. And it ought to makeeven him sit up and shake hands with me, and say, 'Well done,Martin, my boy.'"He toiled on all day, recollecting, at the last moment, that he wasto have dinner at the Morses'. Thanks to Brissenden, his blacksuit was out of pawn and he was again eligible for dinner parties.Down town he stopped off long enough to run into the library andsearch for Saleeby's books. He drew out 'The Cycle of Life," andon the car turned to the essay Norton had mentioned on Spencer. AsMartin read, he grew angry. His face flushed, his jaw set, andunconsciously his hand clenched, unclenched, and clenched again asif he were taking fresh grips upon some hateful thing out of whichhe was squeezing the life. When he left the car, he strode alongthe sidewalk as a wrathful man will stride, and he rang the Morsebell with such viciousness that it roused him to consciousness ofhis condition, so that he entered in good nature, smiling withamusement at himself. No sooner, however, was he inside than agreat depression descended upon him. He fell from the height wherehe had been up-borne all day on the wings of inspiration."Bourgeois," "trader's den" - Brissenden's epithets repeatedthemselves in his mind. But what of that? he demanded angrily. Hewas marrying Ruth, not her family.It seemed to him that he had never seen Ruth more beautiful, morespiritual and ethereal and at the same time more healthy. Therewas color in her cheeks, and her eyes drew him again and again -the eyes in which he had first read immortality. He had forgottenimmortality of late, and the trend of his scientific reading hadbeen away from it; but here, in Ruth's eyes, he read an argumentwithout words that transcended all worded arguments. He saw thatin her eyes before which all discussion fled away, for he saw lovethere. And in his own eyes was love; and love was unanswerable.Such was his passionate doctrine.The half hour he had with her, before they went in to dinner, lefthim supremely happy and supremely satisfied with life.Nevertheless, at table, the inevitable reaction and exhaustionconsequent upon the hard day seized hold of him. He was aware thathis eyes were tired and that he was irritable. He remembered itwas at this table, at which he now sneered and was so often bored,that he had first eaten with civilized beings in what he hadimagined was an atmosphere of high culture and refinement. Hecaught a glimpse of that pathetic figure of him, so long ago, aself-conscious savage, sprouting sweat at every pore in an agony ofapprehension, puzzled by the bewildering minutiae of eating-implements, tortured by the ogre of a servant, striving at a leapto live at such dizzy social altitude, and deciding in the end tobe frankly himself, pretending no knowledge and no polish he didnot possess.He glanced at Ruth for reassurance, much in the same manner that apassenger, with sudden panic thought of possible shipwreck, willstrive to locate the life preservers. Well, that much had come outof it - love and Ruth. All the rest had failed to stand the testof the books. But Ruth and love had stood the test; for them hefound a biological sanction. Love was the most exalted expressionof life. Nature had been busy designing him, as she had been busywith all normal men, for the purpose of loving. She had spent tenthousand centuries - ay, a hundred thousand and a million centuries- upon the task, and he was the best she could do. She had madelove the strongest thing in him, increased its power a myriad percent with her gift of imagination, and sent him forth into theephemera to thrill and melt and mate. His hand sought Ruth's handbeside him hidden by the table, and a warm pressure was given andreceived. She looked at him a swift instant, and her eyes wereradiant and melting. So were his in the thrill that pervaded him;nor did he realize how much that was radiant and melting in hereyes had been aroused by what she had seen in his.Across the table from him, cater-cornered, at Mr. Morse's right,sat Judge Blount, a local superior court judge. Martin had met hima number of times and had failed to like him. He and Ruth's fatherwere discussing labor union politics, the local situation, andsocialism, and Mr. Morse was endeavoring to twit Martin on thelatter topic. At last Judge Blount looked across the table withbenignant and fatherly pity. Martin smiled to himself."You'll grow out of it, young man," he said soothingly. "Time isthe best cure for such youthful distempers." He turned to Mr.Morse. "I do not believe discussion is good in such cases. Itmakes the patient obstinate.""That is true," the other assented gravely. "But it is well towarn the patient occasionally of his condition."Martin laughed merrily, but it was with an effort. The day hadbeen too long, the day's effort too intense, and he was deep in thethroes of the reaction."Undoubtedly you are both excellent doctors," he said; "but if youcare a whit for the opinion of the patient, let him tell you thatyou are poor diagnosticians. In fact, you are both suffering fromthe disease you think you find in me. As for me, I am immune. Thesocialist philosophy that riots half-baked in your veins has passedme by.""Clever, clever," murmured the judge. "An excellent ruse incontroversy, to reverse positions.""Out of your mouth." Martin's eyes were sparkling, but he keptcontrol of himself. "You see, Judge, I've heard your campaignspeeches. By some henidical process - henidical, by the way is afavorite word of mine which nobody understands - by some henidicalprocess you persuade yourself that you believe in the competitivesystem and the survival of the strong, and at the same time youindorse with might and main all sorts of measures to shear thestrength from the strong.""My young man - ""Remember, I've heard your campaign speeches," Martin warned."It's on record, your position on interstate commerce regulation,on regulation of the railway trust and Standard Oil, on theconservation of the forests, on a thousand and one restrictivemeasures that are nothing else than socialistic.""Do you mean to tell me that you do not believe in regulating thesevarious outrageous exercises of power?""That's not the point. I mean to tell you that you are a poordiagnostician. I mean to tell you that I am not suffering from themicrobe of socialism. I mean to tell you that it is you who aresuffering from the emasculating ravages of that same microbe. Asfor me, I am an inveterate opponent of socialism just as I am aninveterate opponent of your own mongrel democracy that is nothingelse than pseudo-socialism masquerading under a garb of words thatwill not stand the test of the dictionary.""I am a reactionary - so complete a reactionary that my position isincomprehensible to you who live in a veiled lie of socialorganization and whose sight is not keen enough to pierce the veil.You make believe that you believe in the survival of the strong andthe rule of the strong. I believe. That is the difference. WhenI was a trifle younger, - a few months younger, - I believed thesame thing. You see, the ideas of you and yours had impressed me.But merchants and traders are cowardly rulers at best; they gruntand grub all their days in the trough of money-getting, and I haveswung back to aristocracy, if you please. I am the onlyindividualist in this room. I look to the state for nothing. Ilook only to the strong man, the man on horseback, to save thestate from its own rotten futility.""Nietzsche was right. I won't take the time to tell you whoNietzsche was, but he was right. The world belongs to the strong -to the strong who are noble as well and who do not wallow in theswine-trough of trade and exchange. The world belongs to the truenobleman, to the great blond beasts, to the noncompromisers, to the'yes-sayers.' And they will eat you up, you socialists - who areafraid of socialism and who think yourselves individualists. Yourslave-morality of the meek and lowly will never save you. - Oh,it's all Greek, I know, and I won't bother you any more with it.But remember one thing. There aren't half a dozen individualistsin Oakland, but Martin Eden is one of them."He signified that he was done with the discussion, and turned toRuth."I'm wrought up to-day," he said in an undertone. "All I want todo is to love, not talk."He ignored Mr. Morse, who said:-"I am unconvinced. All socialists are Jesuits. That is the way totell them.""We'll make a good Republican out of you yet," said Judge Blount."The man on horseback will arrive before that time," Martinretorted with good humor, and returned to Ruth.But Mr. Morse was not content. He did not like the laziness andthe disinclination for sober, legitimate work of this prospectiveson-in-law of his, for whose ideas he had no respect and of whosenature he had no understanding. So he turned the conversation toHerbert Spencer. Judge Blount ably seconded him, and Martin, whoseears had pricked at the first mention of the philosopher's name,listened to the judge enunciate a grave and complacent diatribeagainst Spencer. From time to time Mr. Morse glanced at Martin, asmuch as to say, "There, my boy, you see.""Chattering daws," Martin muttered under his breath, and went ontalking with Ruth and Arthur.But the long day and the "real dirt" of the night before weretelling upon him; and, besides, still in his burnt mind was whathad made him angry when he read it on the car."What is the matter?" Ruth asked suddenly alarmed by the effort hewas making to contain himself."There is no god but the Unknowable, and Herbert Spencer is itsprophet," Judge Blount was saying at that moment.Martin turned upon him."A cheap judgment," he remarked quietly. "I heard it first in theCity Hall Park, on the lips of a workingman who ought to have knownbetter. I have heard it often since, and each time the clap-trapof it nauseates me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. To hearthat great and noble man's name upon your lips is like finding adew-drop in a cesspool. You are disgusting."It was like a thunderbolt. Judge Blount glared at him withapoplectic countenance, and silence reigned. Mr. Morse wassecretly pleased. He could see that his daughter was shocked. Itwas what he wanted to do - to bring out the innate ruffianism ofthis man he did not like.Ruth's hand sought Martin's beseechingly under the table, but hisblood was up. He was inflamed by the intellectual pretence andfraud of those who sat in the high places. A Superior Court Judge!It was only several years before that he had looked up from themire at such glorious entities and deemed them gods.Judge Blount recovered himself and attempted to go on, addressinghimself to Martin with an assumption of politeness that the latterunderstood was for the benefit of the ladies. Even this added tohis anger. Was there no honesty in the world?"You can't discuss Spencer with me," he cried. "You do not knowany more about Spencer than do his own countrymen. But it is nofault of yours, I grant. It is just a phase of the contemptibleignorance of the times. I ran across a sample of it on my way herethis evening. I was reading an essay by Saleeby on Spencer. Youshould read it. It is accessible to all men. You can buy it inany book-store or draw it from the public library. You would feelashamed of your paucity of abuse and ignorance of that noble mancompared with what Saleeby has collected on the subject. It is arecord of shame that would shame your shame.""'The philosopher of the half-educated,' he was called by anacademic Philosopher who was not worthy to pollute the atmospherehe breathed. I don't think you have read ten pages of Spencer, butthere have been critics, assumably more intelligent than you, whohave read no more than you of Spencer, who publicly challenged hisfollowers to adduce one single idea from all his writings - fromHerbert Spencer's writings, the man who has impressed the stamp ofhis genius over the whole field of scientific research and modernthought; the father of psychology; the man who revolutionizedpedagogy, so that to-day the child of the French peasant is taughtthe three R's according to principles laid down by him. And thelittle gnats of men sting his memory when they get their very breadand butter from the technical application of his ideas. Whatlittle of worth resides in their brains is largely due to him. Itis certain that had he never lived, most of what is correct intheir parrot-learned knowledge would be absent.""And yet a man like Principal Fairbanks of Oxford - a man who sitsin an even higher place than you, Judge Blount - has said thatSpencer will be dismissed by posterity as a poet and dreamer ratherthan a thinker. Yappers and blatherskites, the whole brood ofthem! '"First Principles" is not wholly destitute of a certainliterary power,' said one of them. And others of them have saidthat he was an industrious plodder rather than an original thinker.Yappers and blatherskites! Yappers and blatherskites!"Martin ceased abruptly, in a dead silence. Everybody in Ruth'sfamily looked up to Judge Blount as a man of power and achievement,and they were horrified at Martin's outbreak. The remainder of thedinner passed like a funeral, the judge and Mr. Morse confiningtheir talk to each other, and the rest of the conversation beingextremely desultory. Then afterward, when Ruth and Martin werealone, there was a scene."You are unbearable," she wept.But his anger still smouldered, and he kept muttering, "The beasts!The beasts!"When she averred he had insulted the judge, he retorted:-"By telling the truth about him?""I don't care whether it was true or not," she insisted. "Thereare certain bounds of decency, and you had no license to insultanybody.""Then where did Judge Blount get the license to assault truth?"Martin demanded. "Surely to assault truth is a more seriousmisdemeanor than to insult a pygmy personality such as the judge's.He did worse than that. He blackened the name of a great, nobleman who is dead. Oh, the beasts! The beasts!"His complex anger flamed afresh, and Ruth was in terror of him.Never had she seen him so angry, and it was all mystified andunreasonable to her comprehension. And yet, through her veryterror ran the fibres of fascination that had drawn and that stilldrew her to him - that had compelled her to lean towards him, and,in that mad, culminating moment, lay her hands upon his neck. Shewas hurt and outraged by what had taken place, and yet she lay inhis arms and quivered while he went on muttering, "The beasts! Thebeasts!" And she still lay there when he said: "I'll not botheryour table again, dear. They do not like me, and it is wrong of meto thrust my objectionable presence upon them. Besides, they arejust as objectionable to me. Faugh! They are sickening. And tothink of it, I dreamed in my innocence that the persons who sat inthe high places, who lived in fine houses and had educations andbank accounts, were worth while!