Kabanata Kabanata 31 · Chapter XXXI

. Chapter XXXI

Martin had encountered his sister Gertrude by chance on Broadway—as it

proved, a most propitious yet disconcerting chance. Waiting on the

corner for a car, she had seen him first, and noted the eager, hungry

lines of his face and the desperate, worried look of his eyes. In

truth, he was desperate and worried. He had just come from a fruitless

interview with the pawnbroker, from whom he had tried to wring an

additional loan on his wheel. The muddy fall weather having come on,

Martin had pledged his wheel some time since and retained his black

suit.

“There’s the black suit,” the pawnbroker, who knew his every asset, had

answered. “You needn’t tell me you’ve gone and pledged it with that

Jew, Lipka. Because if you have—”

The man had looked the threat, and Martin hastened to cry:-

“No, no; I’ve got it. But I want to wear it on a matter of business.”

“All right,” the mollified usurer had replied. “And I want it on a

matter of business before I can let you have any more money. You don’t

think I’m in it for my health?”

“But it’s a forty-dollar wheel, in good condition,” Martin had argued.

“And you’ve only let me have seven dollars on it. No, not even seven.

Six and a quarter; you took the interest in advance.”

“If you want some more, bring the suit,” had been the reply that sent

Martin out of the stuffy little den, so desperate at heart as to

reflect it in his face and touch his sister to pity.

Scarcely had they met when the Telegraph Avenue car came along and

stopped to take on a crowd of afternoon shoppers. Mrs. Higginbotham

divined from the grip on her arm as he helped her on, that he was not

going to follow her. She turned on the step and looked down upon him.

His haggard face smote her to the heart again.

“Ain’t you comin’?” she asked

The next moment she had descended to his side.

“I’m walking—exercise, you know,” he explained.

“Then I’ll go along for a few blocks,” she announced. “Mebbe it’ll do

me good. I ain’t ben feelin’ any too spry these last few days.”

Martin glanced at her and verified her statement in her general

slovenly appearance, in the unhealthy fat, in the drooping shoulders,

the tired face with the sagging lines, and in the heavy fall of her

feet, without elasticity—a very caricature of the walk that belongs to

a free and happy body.

“You’d better stop here,” he said, though she had already come to a

halt at the first corner, “and take the next car.”

“My goodness!—if I ain’t all tired a’ready!” she panted. “But I’m just

as able to walk as you in them soles. They’re that thin they’ll bu’st

long before you git out to North Oakland.”

“I’ve a better pair at home,” was the answer.

“Come out to dinner to-morrow,” she invited irrelevantly. “Mr.

Higginbotham won’t be there. He’s goin’ to San Leandro on business.”

Martin shook his head, but he had failed to keep back the wolfish,

hungry look that leapt into his eyes at the suggestion of dinner.

“You haven’t a penny, Mart, and that’s why you’re walkin’. Exercise!”

She tried to sniff contemptuously, but succeeded in producing only a

sniffle. “Here, lemme see.”

And, fumbling in her satchel, she pressed a five-dollar piece into his

hand. “I guess I forgot your last birthday, Mart,” she mumbled lamely.

Martin’s hand instinctively closed on the piece of gold. In the same

instant he knew he ought not to accept, and found himself struggling in

the throes of indecision. That bit of gold meant food, life, and light

in his body and brain, power to go on writing, and—who was to

say?—maybe to write something that would bring in many pieces of gold.

Clear on his vision burned the manuscripts of two essays he had just

completed. He saw them under the table on top of the heap of returned

manuscripts for which he had no stamps, and he saw their titles, just

as he had typed them—“The High Priests of Mystery,” and “The Cradle of

Beauty.” He had never submitted them anywhere. They were as good as

anything he had done in that line. If only he had stamps for them! Then

the certitude of his ultimate success rose up in him, an able ally of

hunger, and with a quick movement he slipped the coin into his pocket.

“I’ll pay you back, Gertrude, a hundred times over,” he gulped out, his

throat painfully contracted and in his eyes a swift hint of moisture.

“Mark my words!” he cried with abrupt positiveness. “Before the year is

out I’ll put an even hundred of those little yellow-boys into your

hand. I don’t ask you to believe me. All you have to do is wait and

see.”

Nor did she believe. Her incredulity made her uncomfortable, and

failing of other expedient, she said:-

“I know you’re hungry, Mart. It’s sticking out all over you. Come in to

meals any time. I’ll send one of the children to tell you when Mr.

Higginbotham ain’t to be there. An’ Mart—”

He waited, though he knew in his secret heart what she was about to

say, so visible was her thought process to him.

“Don’t you think it’s about time you got a job?”

“You don’t think I’ll win out?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Nobody has faith in me, Gertrude, except myself.” His voice was

passionately rebellious. “I’ve done good work already, plenty of it,

and sooner or later it will sell.”

“How do you know it is good?”

“Because—” He faltered as the whole vast field of literature and the

history of literature stirred in his brain and pointed the futility of

his attempting to convey to her the reasons for his faith. “Well,

because it’s better than ninety-nine per cent of what is published in

the magazines.”

“I wish’t you’d listen to reason,” she answered feebly, but with

unwavering belief in the correctness of her diagnosis of what was

ailing him. “I wish’t you’d listen to reason,” she repeated, “an’ come

to dinner to-morrow.”

After Martin had helped her on the car, he hurried to the post-office

and invested three of the five dollars in stamps; and when, later in

the day, on the way to the Morse home, he stopped in at the post-office

to weigh a large number of long, bulky envelopes, he affixed to them

all the stamps save three of the two-cent denomination.

It proved a momentous night for Martin, for after dinner he met Russ

Brissenden. How he chanced to come there, whose friend he was or what

acquaintance brought him, Martin did not know. Nor had he the curiosity

to inquire about him of Ruth. In short, Brissenden struck Martin as

anaemic and feather-brained, and was promptly dismissed from his mind.

An hour later he decided that Brissenden was a boor as well, what of

the way he prowled about from one room to another, staring at the

pictures or poking his nose into books and magazines he picked up from

the table or drew from the shelves. Though a stranger in the house he

finally isolated himself in the midst of the company, huddling into a

capacious Morris chair and reading steadily from a thin volume he had

drawn from his pocket. As he read, he abstractedly ran his fingers,

with a caressing movement, through his hair. Martin noticed him no more

that evening, except once when he observed him chaffing with great

apparent success with several of the young women.

It chanced that when Martin was leaving, he overtook Brissenden already

half down the walk to the street.

“Hello, is that you?” Martin said.

The other replied with an ungracious grunt, but swung alongside. Martin

made no further attempt at conversation, and for several blocks

unbroken silence lay upon them.

“Pompous old ass!”

The suddenness and the virulence of the exclamation startled Martin. He

felt amused, and at the same time was aware of a growing dislike for

the other.

“What do you go to such a place for?” was abruptly flung at him after

another block of silence.

“Why do you?” Martin countered.

“Bless me, I don’t know,” came back. “At least this is my first

indiscretion. There are twenty-four hours in each day, and I must spend

them somehow. Come and have a drink.”

“All right,” Martin answered.

The next moment he was nonplussed by the readiness of his acceptance.

At home was several hours’ hack-work waiting for him before he went to

bed, and after he went to bed there was a volume of Weismann waiting

for him, to say nothing of Herbert Spencer’s Autobiography, which was

as replete for him with romance as any thrilling novel. Why should he

waste any time with this man he did not like? was his thought. And yet,

it was not so much the man nor the drink as was it what was associated

with the drink—the bright lights, the mirrors and dazzling array of

glasses, the warm and glowing faces and the resonant hum of the voices

of men. That was it, it was the voices of men, optimistic men, men who

breathed success and spent their money for drinks like men. He was

lonely, that was what was the matter with him; that was why he had

snapped at the invitation as a bonita strikes at a white rag on a hook.

Not since with Joe, at Shelly Hot Springs, with the one exception of

the wine he took with the Portuguese grocer, had Martin had a drink at

a public bar. Mental exhaustion did not produce a craving for liquor

such as physical exhaustion did, and he had felt no need for it. But

just now he felt desire for the drink, or, rather, for the atmosphere

wherein drinks were dispensed and disposed of. Such a place was the

Grotto, where Brissenden and he lounged in capacious leather chairs and

drank Scotch and soda.

They talked. They talked about many things, and now Brissenden and now

Martin took turn in ordering Scotch and soda. Martin, who was extremely

strong-headed, marvelled at the other’s capacity for liquor, and ever

and anon broke off to marvel at the other’s conversation. He was not

long in assuming that Brissenden knew everything, and in deciding that

here was the second intellectual man he had met. But he noted that

Brissenden had what Professor Caldwell lacked—namely, fire, the

flashing insight and perception, the flaming uncontrol of genius.

Living language flowed from him. His thin lips, like the dies of a

machine, stamped out phrases that cut and stung; or again, pursing

caressingly about the inchoate sound they articulated, the thin lips

shaped soft and velvety things, mellow phrases of glow and glory, of

haunting beauty, reverberant of the mystery and inscrutableness of

life; and yet again the thin lips were like a bugle, from which rang

the crash and tumult of cosmic strife, phrases that sounded clear as

silver, that were luminous as starry spaces, that epitomized the final

word of science and yet said something more—the poet’s word, the

transcendental truth, elusive and without words which could express,

and which none the less found expression in the subtle and all but

ungraspable connotations of common words. He, by some wonder of vision,

saw beyond the farthest outpost of empiricism, where was no language

for narration, and yet, by some golden miracle of speech, investing

known words with unknown significances, he conveyed to Martin’s

consciousness messages that were incommunicable to ordinary souls.

Martin forgot his first impression of dislike. Here was the best the

books had to offer coming true. Here was an intelligence, a living man

for him to look up to. “I am down in the dirt at your feet,” Martin

repeated to himself again and again.

“You’ve studied biology,” he said aloud, in significant allusion.

To his surprise Brissenden shook his head.

“But you are stating truths that are substantiated only by biology,”

Martin insisted, and was rewarded by a blank stare. “Your conclusions

are in line with the books which you must have read.”

“I am glad to hear it,” was the answer. “That my smattering of

knowledge should enable me to short-cut my way to truth is most

reassuring. As for myself, I never bother to find out if I am right or

not. It is all valueless anyway. Man can never know the ultimate

verities.”

“You are a disciple of Spencer!” Martin cried triumphantly.

“I haven’t read him since adolescence, and all I read then was his

‘Education.’”

“I wish I could gather knowledge as carelessly,” Martin broke out half

an hour later. He had been closely analyzing Brissenden’s mental

equipment. “You are a sheer dogmatist, and that’s what makes it so

marvellous. You state dogmatically the latest facts which science has

been able to establish only by _à posteriori_ reasoning. You jump at

correct conclusions. You certainly short-cut with a vengeance. You feel

your way with the speed of light, by some hyperrational process, to

truth.”

“Yes, that was what used to bother Father Joseph, and Brother Dutton,”

Brissenden replied. “Oh, no,” he added; “I am not anything. It was a

lucky trick of fate that sent me to a Catholic college for my

education. Where did you pick up what you know?”

And while Martin told him, he was busy studying Brissenden, ranging

from a long, lean, aristocratic face and drooping shoulders to the

overcoat on a neighboring chair, its pockets sagged and bulged by the

freightage of many books. Brissenden’s face and long, slender hands

were browned by the sun—excessively browned, Martin thought. This

sunburn bothered Martin. It was patent that Brissenden was no outdoor

man. Then how had he been ravaged by the sun? Something morbid and

significant attached to that sunburn, was Martin’s thought as he

returned to a study of the face, narrow, with high cheek-bones and

cavernous hollows, and graced with as delicate and fine an aquiline

nose as Martin had ever seen. There was nothing remarkable about the

size of the eyes. They were neither large nor small, while their color

was a nondescript brown; but in them smouldered a fire, or, rather,

lurked an expression dual and strangely contradictory. Defiant,

indomitable, even harsh to excess, they at the same time aroused pity.

Martin found himself pitying him he knew not why, though he was soon to

learn.

“Oh, I’m a lunger,” Brissenden announced, offhand, a little later,

having already stated that he came from Arizona. “I’ve been down there

a couple of years living on the climate.”

“Aren’t you afraid to venture it up in this climate?”

“Afraid?”

There was no special emphasis of his repetition of Martin’s word. But

Martin saw in that ascetic face the advertisement that there was

nothing of which it was afraid. The eyes had narrowed till they were

eagle-like, and Martin almost caught his breath as he noted the eagle

beak with its dilated nostrils, defiant, assertive, aggressive.

Magnificent, was what he commented to himself, his blood thrilling at

the sight. Aloud, he quoted:-

“‘Under the bludgeoning of Chance

My head is bloody but unbowed.’”

“You like Henley,” Brissenden said, his expression changing swiftly to

large graciousness and tenderness. “Of course, I couldn’t have expected

anything else of you. Ah, Henley! A brave soul. He stands out among

contemporary rhymesters—magazine rhymesters—as a gladiator stands out

in the midst of a band of eunuchs.”

“You don’t like the magazines,” Martin softly impeached.

“Do you?” was snarled back at him so savagely as to startle him.

“I—I write, or, rather, try to write, for the magazines,” Martin

faltered.

“That’s better,” was the mollified rejoinder. “You try to write, but

you don’t succeed. I respect and admire your failure. I know what you

write. I can see it with half an eye, and there’s one ingredient in it

that shuts it out of the magazines. It’s guts, and magazines have no

use for that particular commodity. What they want is wish-wash and

slush, and God knows they get it, but not from you.”

“I’m not above hack-work,” Martin contended.

“On the contrary—” Brissenden paused and ran an insolent eye over

Martin’s objective poverty, passing from the well-worn tie and the

saw-edged collar to the shiny sleeves of the coat and on to the slight

fray of one cuff, winding up and dwelling upon Martin’s sunken cheeks.

“On the contrary, hack-work is above you, so far above you that you can

never hope to rise to it. Why, man, I could insult you by asking you to

have something to eat.”

Martin felt the heat in his face of the involuntary blood, and

Brissenden laughed triumphantly.

“A full man is not insulted by such an invitation,” he concluded.

“You are a devil,” Martin cried irritably.

“Anyway, I didn’t ask you.”

“You didn’t dare.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I invite you now.”

Brissenden half rose from his chair as he spoke, as if with the

intention of departing to the restaurant forthwith.

Martin’s fists were tight-clenched, and his blood was drumming in his

temples.

“Bosco! He eats ’em alive! Eats ’em alive!” Brissenden exclaimed,

imitating the _spieler_ of a locally famous snake-eater.

“I could certainly eat you alive,” Martin said, in turn running

insolent eyes over the other’s disease-ravaged frame.

“Only I’m not worthy of it?”

“On the contrary,” Martin considered, “because the incident is not

worthy.” He broke into a laugh, hearty and wholesome. “I confess you

made a fool of me, Brissenden. That I am hungry and you are aware of it

are only ordinary phenomena, and there’s no disgrace. You see, I laugh

at the conventional little moralities of the herd; then you drift by,

say a sharp, true word, and immediately I am the slave of the same

little moralities.”

“You were insulted,” Brissenden affirmed.

“I certainly was, a moment ago. The prejudice of early youth, you know.

I learned such things then, and they cheapen what I have since learned.

They are the skeletons in my particular closet.”

“But you’ve got the door shut on them now?”

“I certainly have.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“Then let’s go and get something to eat.”

“I’ll go you,” Martin answered, attempting to pay for the current

Scotch and soda with the last change from his two dollars and seeing

the waiter bullied by Brissenden into putting that change back on the

table.

Martin pocketed it with a grimace, and felt for a moment the kindly

weight of Brissenden’s hand upon his shoulder.