الفصل الفصل 25 · Chapter XXV

. Chapter XXV

Maria Silva was poor, and all the ways of poverty were clear to her.

Poverty, to Ruth, was a word signifying a not-nice condition of

existence. That was her total knowledge on the subject. She knew Martin

was poor, and his condition she associated in her mind with the boyhood

of Abraham Lincoln, of Mr. Butler, and of other men who had become

successes. Also, while aware that poverty was anything but delectable,

she had a comfortable middle-class feeling that poverty was salutary,

that it was a sharp spur that urged on to success all men who were not

degraded and hopeless drudges. So that her knowledge that Martin was so

poor that he had pawned his watch and overcoat did not disturb her. She

even considered it the hopeful side of the situation, believing that

sooner or later it would arouse him and compel him to abandon his

writing.

Ruth never read hunger in Martin’s face, which had grown lean and had

enlarged the slight hollows in the cheeks. In fact, she marked the

change in his face with satisfaction. It seemed to refine him, to

remove from him much of the dross of flesh and the too animal-like

vigor that lured her while she detested it. Sometimes, when with her,

she noted an unusual brightness in his eyes, and she admired it, for it

made him appear more the poet and the scholar—the things he would have

liked to be and which she would have liked him to be. But Maria Silva

read a different tale in the hollow cheeks and the burning eyes, and

she noted the changes in them from day to day, by them following the

ebb and flow of his fortunes. She saw him leave the house with his

overcoat and return without it, though the day was chill and raw, and

promptly she saw his cheeks fill out slightly and the fire of hunger

leave his eyes. In the same way she had seen his wheel and watch go,

and after each event she had seen his vigor bloom again.

Likewise she watched his toils, and knew the measure of the midnight

oil he burned. Work! She knew that he outdid her, though his work was

of a different order. And she was surprised to behold that the less

food he had, the harder he worked. On occasion, in a casual sort of

way, when she thought hunger pinched hardest, she would send him in a

loaf of new baking, awkwardly covering the act with banter to the

effect that it was better than he could bake. And again, she would send

one of her toddlers in to him with a great pitcher of hot soup,

debating inwardly the while whether she was justified in taking it from

the mouths of her own flesh and blood. Nor was Martin ungrateful,

knowing as he did the lives of the poor, and that if ever in the world

there was charity, this was it.

On a day when she had filled her brood with what was left in the house,

Maria invested her last fifteen cents in a gallon of cheap wine.

Martin, coming into her kitchen to fetch water, was invited to sit down

and drink. He drank her very-good health, and in return she drank his.

Then she drank to prosperity in his undertakings, and he drank to the

hope that James Grant would show up and pay her for his washing. James

Grant was a journeymen carpenter who did not always pay his bills and

who owed Maria three dollars.

Both Maria and Martin drank the sour new wine on empty stomachs, and it

went swiftly to their heads. Utterly differentiated creatures that they

were, they were lonely in their misery, and though the misery was

tacitly ignored, it was the bond that drew them together. Maria was

amazed to learn that he had been in the Azores, where she had lived

until she was eleven. She was doubly amazed that he had been in the

Hawaiian Islands, whither she had migrated from the Azores with her

people. But her amazement passed all bounds when he told her he had

been on Maui, the particular island whereon she had attained womanhood

and married. Kahului, where she had first met her husband,—he, Martin,

had been there twice! Yes, she remembered the sugar steamers, and he

had been on them—well, well, it was a small world. And Wailuku! That

place, too! Did he know the head-luna of the plantation? Yes, and had

had a couple of drinks with him.

And so they reminiscenced and drowned their hunger in the raw, sour

wine. To Martin the future did not seem so dim. Success trembled just

before him. He was on the verge of clasping it. Then he studied the

deep-lined face of the toil-worn woman before him, remembered her soups

and loaves of new baking, and felt spring up in him the warmest

gratitude and philanthropy.

“Maria,” he exclaimed suddenly. “What would you like to have?”

She looked at him, bepuzzled.

“What would you like to have now, right now, if you could get it?”

“Shoe alla da roun’ for da childs—seven pairs da shoe.”

“You shall have them,” he announced, while she nodded her head gravely.

“But I mean a big wish, something big that you want.”

Her eyes sparkled good-naturedly. He was choosing to make fun with her,

Maria, with whom few made fun these days.

“Think hard,” he cautioned, just as she was opening her mouth to speak.

“Alla right,” she answered. “I thinka da hard. I lika da house, dis

house—all mine, no paya da rent, seven dollar da month.”

“You shall have it,” he granted, “and in a short time. Now wish the

great wish. Make believe I am God, and I say to you anything you want

you can have. Then you wish that thing, and I listen.”

Maria considered solemnly for a space.

“You no ’fraid?” she asked warningly.

“No, no,” he laughed, “I’m not afraid. Go ahead.”

“Most verra big,” she warned again.

“All right. Fire away.”

“Well, den—” She drew a big breath like a child, as she voiced to the

uttermost all she cared to demand of life. “I lika da have one milka

ranch—good milka ranch. Plenty cow, plenty land, plenty grass. I lika

da have near San Le-an; my sister liva dere. I sella da milk in

Oakland. I maka da plentee mon. Joe an’ Nick no runna da cow. Dey go-a

to school. Bimeby maka da good engineer, worka da railroad. Yes, I lika

da milka ranch.”

She paused and regarded Martin with twinkling eyes.

“You shall have it,” he answered promptly.

She nodded her head and touched her lips courteously to the wine-glass

and to the giver of the gift she knew would never be given. His heart

was right, and in her own heart she appreciated his intention as much

as if the gift had gone with it.

“No, Maria,” he went on; “Nick and Joe won’t have to peddle milk, and

all the kids can go to school and wear shoes the whole year round. It

will be a first-class milk ranch—everything complete. There will be a

house to live in and a stable for the horses, and cow-barns, of course.

There will be chickens, pigs, vegetables, fruit trees, and everything

like that; and there will be enough cows to pay for a hired man or two.

Then you won’t have anything to do but take care of the children. For

that matter, if you find a good man, you can marry and take it easy

while he runs the ranch.”

And from such largess, dispensed from his future, Martin turned and

took his one good suit of clothes to the pawnshop. His plight was

desperate for him to do this, for it cut him off from Ruth. He had no

second-best suit that was presentable, and though he could go to the

butcher and the baker, and even on occasion to his sister’s, it was

beyond all daring to dream of entering the Morse home so disreputably

apparelled.

He toiled on, miserable and well-nigh hopeless. It began to appear to

him that the second battle was lost and that he would have to go to

work. In doing this he would satisfy everybody—the grocer, his sister,

Ruth, and even Maria, to whom he owed a month’s room rent. He was two

months behind with his type-writer, and the agency was clamoring for

payment or for the return of the machine. In desperation, all but ready

to surrender, to make a truce with fate until he could get a fresh

start, he took the civil service examinations for the Railway Mail. To

his surprise, he passed first. The job was assured, though when the

call would come to enter upon his duties nobody knew.

It was at this time, at the lowest ebb, that the smooth-running

editorial machine broke down. A cog must have slipped or an oil-cup run

dry, for the postman brought him one morning a short, thin envelope.

Martin glanced at the upper left-hand corner and read the name and

address of the _Transcontinental Monthly_. His heart gave a great leap,

and he suddenly felt faint, the sinking feeling accompanied by a

strange trembling of the knees. He staggered into his room and sat down

on the bed, the envelope still unopened, and in that moment came

understanding to him how people suddenly fall dead upon receipt of

extraordinarily good news.

Of course this was good news. There was no manuscript in that thin

envelope, therefore it was an acceptance. He knew the story in the

hands of the _Transcontinental_. It was “The Ring of Bells,” one of his

horror stories, and it was an even five thousand words. And, since

first-class magazines always paid on acceptance, there was a check

inside. Two cents a word—twenty dollars a thousand; the check must be a

hundred dollars. One hundred dollars! As he tore the envelope open,

every item of all his debts surged in his brain—$3.85 to the grocer;

butcher $4.00 flat; baker, $2.00; fruit store, $5.00; total, $14.85.

Then there was room rent, $2.50; another month in advance, $2.50; two

months’ type-writer, $8.00; a month in advance, $4.00; total, $31.85.

And finally to be added, his pledges, plus interest, with the

pawnbroker—watch, $5.50; overcoat, $5.50; wheel, $7.75; suit of

clothes, $5.50 (60 % interest, but what did it matter?)—grand total,

$56.10. He saw, as if visible in the air before him, in illuminated

figures, the whole sum, and the subtraction that followed and that gave

a remainder of $43.90. When he had squared every debt, redeemed every

pledge, he would still have jingling in his pockets a princely $43.90.

And on top of that he would have a month’s rent paid in advance on the

type-writer and on the room.

By this time he had drawn the single sheet of type-written letter out

and spread it open. There was no check. He peered into the envelope,

held it to the light, but could not trust his eyes, and in trembling

haste tore the envelope apart. There was no check. He read the letter,

skimming it line by line, dashing through the editor’s praise of his

story to the meat of the letter, the statement why the check had not

been sent. He found no such statement, but he did find that which made

him suddenly wilt. The letter slid from his hand. His eyes went

lack-lustre, and he lay back on the pillow, pulling the blanket about

him and up to his chin.

Five dollars for “The Ring of Bells”—five dollars for five thousand

words! Instead of two cents a word, ten words for a cent! And the

editor had praised it, too. And he would receive the check when the

story was published. Then it was all poppycock, two cents a word for

minimum rate and payment upon acceptance. It was a lie, and it had led

him astray. He would never have attempted to write had he known that.

He would have gone to work—to work for Ruth. He went back to the day he

first attempted to write, and was appalled at the enormous waste of

time—and all for ten words for a cent. And the other high rewards of

writers, that he had read about, must be lies, too. His second-hand

ideas of authorship were wrong, for here was the proof of it.

The _Transcontinental_ sold for twenty-five cents, and its dignified

and artistic cover proclaimed it as among the first-class magazines. It

was a staid, respectable magazine, and it had been published

continuously since long before he was born. Why, on the outside cover

were printed every month the words of one of the world’s great writers,

words proclaiming the inspired mission of the _Transcontinental_ by a

star of literature whose first coruscations had appeared inside those

self-same covers. And the high and lofty, heaven-inspired

_Transcontinental_ paid five dollars for five thousand words! The great

writer had recently died in a foreign land—in dire poverty, Martin

remembered, which was not to be wondered at, considering the

magnificent pay authors receive.

Well, he had taken the bait, the newspaper lies about writers and their

pay, and he had wasted two years over it. But he would disgorge the

bait now. Not another line would he ever write. He would do what Ruth

wanted him to do, what everybody wanted him to do—get a job. The

thought of going to work reminded him of Joe—Joe, tramping through the

land of nothing-to-do. Martin heaved a great sigh of envy. The reaction

of nineteen hours a day for many days was strong upon him. But then,

Joe was not in love, had none of the responsibilities of love, and he

could afford to loaf through the land of nothing-to-do. He, Martin, had

something to work for, and go to work he would. He would start out

early next morning to hunt a job. And he would let Ruth know, too, that

he had mended his ways and was willing to go into her father’s office.

Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, the market

price for art. The disappointment of it, the lie of it, the infamy of

it, were uppermost in his thoughts; and under his closed eyelids, in

fiery figures, burned the “$3.85” he owed the grocer. He shivered, and

was aware of an aching in his bones. The small of his back ached

especially. His head ached, the top of it ached, the back of it ached,

the brains inside of it ached and seemed to be swelling, while the ache

over his brows was intolerable. And beneath the brows, planted under

his lids, was the merciless “$3.85.” He opened his eyes to escape it,

but the white light of the room seemed to sear the balls and forced him

to close his eyes, when the “$3.85” confronted him again.

Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent—that

particular thought took up its residence in his brain, and he could no

more escape it than he could the “$3.85” under his eyelids. A change

seemed to come over the latter, and he watched curiously, till “$2.00”

burned in its stead. Ah, he thought, that was the baker. The next sum

that appeared was “$2.50.” It puzzled him, and he pondered it as if

life and death hung on the solution. He owed somebody two dollars and a

half, that was certain, but who was it? To find it was the task set him

by an imperious and malignant universe, and he wandered through the

endless corridors of his mind, opening all manner of lumber rooms and

chambers stored with odds and ends of memories and knowledge as he

vainly sought the answer. After several centuries it came to him,

easily, without effort, that it was Maria. With a great relief he

turned his soul to the screen of torment under his lids. He had solved

the problem; now he could rest. But no, the “$2.50” faded away, and in

its place burned “$8.00.” Who was that? He must go the dreary round of

his mind again and find out.

How long he was gone on this quest he did not know, but after what

seemed an enormous lapse of time, he was called back to himself by a

knock at the door, and by Maria’s asking if he was sick. He replied in

a muffled voice he did not recognize, saying that he was merely taking

a nap. He was surprised when he noted the darkness of night in the

room. He had received the letter at two in the afternoon, and he

realized that he was sick.

Then the “$8.00” began to smoulder under his lids again, and he

returned himself to servitude. But he grew cunning. There was no need

for him to wander through his mind. He had been a fool. He pulled a

lever and made his mind revolve about him, a monstrous wheel of

fortune, a merry-go-round of memory, a revolving sphere of wisdom.

Faster and faster it revolved, until its vortex sucked him in and he

was flung whirling through black chaos.

Quite naturally he found himself at a mangle, feeding starched cuffs.

But as he fed he noticed figures printed in the cuffs. It was a new way

of marking linen, he thought, until, looking closer, he saw “$3.85” on

one of the cuffs. Then it came to him that it was the grocer’s bill,

and that these were his bills flying around on the drum of the mangle.

A crafty idea came to him. He would throw the bills on the floor and so

escape paying them. No sooner thought than done, and he crumpled the

cuffs spitefully as he flung them upon an unusually dirty floor. Ever

the heap grew, and though each bill was duplicated a thousand times, he

found only one for two dollars and a half, which was what he owed

Maria. That meant that Maria would not press for payment, and he

resolved generously that it would be the only one he would pay; so he

began searching through the cast-out heap for hers. He sought it

desperately, for ages, and was still searching when the manager of the

hotel entered, the fat Dutchman. His face blazed with wrath, and he

shouted in stentorian tones that echoed down the universe, “I shall

deduct the cost of those cuffs from your wages!” The pile of cuffs grew

into a mountain, and Martin knew that he was doomed to toil for a

thousand years to pay for them. Well, there was nothing left to do but

kill the manager and burn down the laundry. But the big Dutchman

frustrated him, seizing him by the nape of the neck and dancing him up

and down. He danced him over the ironing tables, the stove, and the

mangles, and out into the wash-room and over the wringer and washer.

Martin was danced until his teeth rattled and his head ached, and he

marvelled that the Dutchman was so strong.

And then he found himself before the mangle, this time receiving the

cuffs an editor of a magazine was feeding from the other side. Each

cuff was a check, and Martin went over them anxiously, in a fever of

expectation, but they were all blanks. He stood there and received the

blanks for a million years or so, never letting one go by for fear it

might be filled out. At last he found it. With trembling fingers he

held it to the light. It was for five dollars. “Ha! Ha!” laughed the

editor across the mangle. “Well, then, I shall kill you,” Martin said.

He went out into the wash-room to get the axe, and found Joe starching

manuscripts. He tried to make him desist, then swung the axe for him.

But the weapon remained poised in mid-air, for Martin found himself

back in the ironing room in the midst of a snow-storm. No, it was not

snow that was falling, but checks of large denomination, the smallest

not less than a thousand dollars. He began to collect them and sort

them out, in packages of a hundred, tying each package securely with

twine.

He looked up from his task and saw Joe standing before him juggling

flat-irons, starched shirts, and manuscripts. Now and again he reached

out and added a bundle of checks to the flying miscellany that soared

through the roof and out of sight in a tremendous circle. Martin struck

at him, but he seized the axe and added it to the flying circle. Then

he plucked Martin and added him. Martin went up through the roof,

clutching at manuscripts, so that by the time he came down he had a

large armful. But no sooner down than up again, and a second and a

third time and countless times he flew around the circle. From far off

he could hear a childish treble singing: “Waltz me around again,

Willie, around, around, around.”

He recovered the axe in the midst of the Milky Way of checks, starched

shirts, and manuscripts, and prepared, when he came down, to kill Joe.

But he did not come down. Instead, at two in the morning, Maria, having

heard his groans through the thin partition, came into his room, to put

hot flat-irons against his body and damp cloths upon his aching eyes.