Bab Bab 6 · Chapter VI

. Chapter VI

A terrible restlessness that was akin to hunger afflicted Martin Eden.

He was famished for a sight of the girl whose slender hands had gripped

his life with a giant’s grasp. He could not steel himself to call upon

her. He was afraid that he might call too soon, and so be guilty of an

awful breach of that awful thing called etiquette. He spent long hours

in the Oakland and Berkeley libraries, and made out application blanks

for membership for himself, his sisters Gertrude and Marian, and Jim,

the latter’s consent being obtained at the expense of several glasses

of beer. With four cards permitting him to draw books, he burned the

gas late in the servant’s room, and was charged fifty cents a week for

it by Mr. Higginbotham.

The many books he read but served to whet his unrest. Every page of

every book was a peep-hole into the realm of knowledge. His hunger fed

upon what he read, and increased. Also, he did not know where to begin,

and continually suffered from lack of preparation. The commonest

references, that he could see plainly every reader was expected to

know, he did not know. And the same was true of the poetry he read

which maddened him with delight. He read more of Swinburne than was

contained in the volume Ruth had lent him; and “Dolores” he understood

thoroughly. But surely Ruth did not understand it, he concluded. How

could she, living the refined life she did? Then he chanced upon

Kipling’s poems, and was swept away by the lilt and swing and glamour

with which familiar things had been invested. He was amazed at the

man’s sympathy with life and at his incisive psychology. _Psychology_

was a new word in Martin’s vocabulary. He had bought a dictionary,

which deed had decreased his supply of money and brought nearer the day

on which he must sail in search of more. Also, it incensed Mr.

Higginbotham, who would have preferred the money taking the form of

board.

He dared not go near Ruth’s neighborhood in the daytime, but night

found him lurking like a thief around the Morse home, stealing glimpses

at the windows and loving the very walls that sheltered her. Several

times he barely escaped being caught by her brothers, and once he

trailed Mr. Morse down town and studied his face in the lighted

streets, longing all the while for some quick danger of death to

threaten so that he might spring in and save her father. On another

night, his vigil was rewarded by a glimpse of Ruth through a

second-story window. He saw only her head and shoulders, and her arms

raised as she fixed her hair before a mirror. It was only for a moment,

but it was a long moment to him, during which his blood turned to wine

and sang through his veins. Then she pulled down the shade. But it was

her room—he had learned that; and thereafter he strayed there often,

hiding under a dark tree on the opposite side of the street and smoking

countless cigarettes. One afternoon he saw her mother coming out of a

bank, and received another proof of the enormous distance that

separated Ruth from him. She was of the class that dealt with banks. He

had never been inside a bank in his life, and he had an idea that such

institutions were frequented only by the very rich and the very

powerful.

In one way, he had undergone a moral revolution. Her cleanness and

purity had reacted upon him, and he felt in his being a crying need to

be clean. He must be that if he were ever to be worthy of breathing the

same air with her. He washed his teeth, and scrubbed his hands with a

kitchen scrub-brush till he saw a nail-brush in a drug-store window and

divined its use. While purchasing it, the clerk glanced at his nails,

suggested a nail-file, and so he became possessed of an additional

toilet-tool. He ran across a book in the library on the care of the

body, and promptly developed a penchant for a cold-water bath every

morning, much to the amazement of Jim, and to the bewilderment of Mr.

Higginbotham, who was not in sympathy with such high-fangled notions

and who seriously debated whether or not he should charge Martin extra

for the water. Another stride was in the direction of creased trousers.

Now that Martin was aroused in such matters, he swiftly noted the

difference between the baggy knees of the trousers worn by the working

class and the straight line from knee to foot of those worn by the men

above the working class. Also, he learned the reason why, and invaded

his sister’s kitchen in search of irons and ironing-board. He had

misadventures at first, hopelessly burning one pair and buying another,

which expenditure again brought nearer the day on which he must put to

sea.

But the reform went deeper than mere outward appearance. He still

smoked, but he drank no more. Up to that time, drinking had seemed to

him the proper thing for men to do, and he had prided himself on his

strong head which enabled him to drink most men under the table.

Whenever he encountered a chance shipmate, and there were many in San

Francisco, he treated them and was treated in turn, as of old, but he

ordered for himself root beer or ginger ale and good-naturedly endured

their chaffing. And as they waxed maudlin he studied them, watching the

beast rise and master them and thanking God that he was no longer as

they. They had their limitations to forget, and when they were drunk,

their dim, stupid spirits were even as gods, and each ruled in his

heaven of intoxicated desire. With Martin the need for strong drink had

vanished. He was drunken in new and more profound ways—with Ruth, who

had fired him with love and with a glimpse of higher and eternal life;

with books, that had set a myriad maggots of desire gnawing in his

brain; and with the sense of personal cleanliness he was achieving,

that gave him even more superb health than what he had enjoyed and that

made his whole body sing with physical well-being.

One night he went to the theatre, on the blind chance that he might see

her there, and from the second balcony he did see her. He saw her come

down the aisle, with Arthur and a strange young man with a football mop

of hair and eyeglasses, the sight of whom spurred him to instant

apprehension and jealousy. He saw her take her seat in the orchestra

circle, and little else than her did he see that night—a pair of

slender white shoulders and a mass of pale gold hair, dim with

distance. But there were others who saw, and now and again, glancing at

those about him, he noted two young girls who looked back from the row

in front, a dozen seats along, and who smiled at him with bold eyes. He

had always been easy-going. It was not in his nature to give rebuff. In

the old days he would have smiled back, and gone further and encouraged

smiling. But now it was different. He did smile back, then looked away,

and looked no more deliberately. But several times, forgetting the

existence of the two girls, his eyes caught their smiles. He could not

re-thumb himself in a day, nor could he violate the intrinsic

kindliness of his nature; so, at such moments, he smiled at the girls

in warm human friendliness. It was nothing new to him. He knew they

were reaching out their woman’s hands to him. But it was different now.

Far down there in the orchestra circle was the one woman in all the

world, so different, so terrifically different, from these two girls of

his class, that he could feel for them only pity and sorrow. He had it

in his heart to wish that they could possess, in some small measure,

her goodness and glory. And not for the world could he hurt them

because of their outreaching. He was not flattered by it; he even felt

a slight shame at his lowliness that permitted it. He knew, did he

belong in Ruth’s class, that there would be no overtures from these

girls; and with each glance of theirs he felt the fingers of his own

class clutching at him to hold him down.

He left his seat before the curtain went down on the last act, intent

on seeing Her as she passed out. There were always numbers of men who

stood on the sidewalk outside, and he could pull his cap down over his

eyes and screen himself behind some one’s shoulder so that she should

not see him. He emerged from the theatre with the first of the crowd;

but scarcely had he taken his position on the edge of the sidewalk when

the two girls appeared. They were looking for him, he knew; and for the

moment he could have cursed that in him which drew women. Their casual

edging across the sidewalk to the curb, as they drew near, apprised him

of discovery. They slowed down, and were in the thick of the crowd as

they came up with him. One of them brushed against him and apparently

for the first time noticed him. She was a slender, dark girl, with

black, defiant eyes. But they smiled at him, and he smiled back.

“Hello,” he said.

It was automatic; he had said it so often before under similar

circumstances of first meetings. Besides, he could do no less. There

was that large tolerance and sympathy in his nature that would permit

him to do no less. The black-eyed girl smiled gratification and

greeting, and showed signs of stopping, while her companion, arm linked

in arm, giggled and likewise showed signs of halting. He thought

quickly. It would never do for Her to come out and see him talking

there with them. Quite naturally, as a matter of course, he swung in

along-side the dark-eyed one and walked with her. There was no

awkwardness on his part, no numb tongue. He was at home here, and he

held his own royally in the badinage, bristling with slang and

sharpness, that was always the preliminary to getting acquainted in

these swift-moving affairs. At the corner where the main stream of

people flowed onward, he started to edge out into the cross street. But

the girl with the black eyes caught his arm, following him and dragging

her companion after her, as she cried:

“Hold on, Bill! What’s yer rush? You’re not goin’ to shake us so sudden

as all that?”

He halted with a laugh, and turned, facing them. Across their shoulders

he could see the moving throng passing under the street lamps. Where he

stood it was not so light, and, unseen, he would be able to see Her as

she passed by. She would certainly pass by, for that way led home.

“What’s her name?” he asked of the giggling girl, nodding at the

dark-eyed one.

“You ask her,” was the convulsed response.

“Well, what is it?” he demanded, turning squarely on the girl in

question.

“You ain’t told me yours, yet,” she retorted.

“You never asked it,” he smiled. “Besides, you guessed the first

rattle. It’s Bill, all right, all right.”

“Aw, go ’long with you.” She looked him in the eyes, her own sharply

passionate and inviting. “What is it, honest?”

Again she looked. All the centuries of woman since sex began were

eloquent in her eyes. And he measured her in a careless way, and knew,

bold now, that she would begin to retreat, coyly and delicately, as he

pursued, ever ready to reverse the game should he turn fainthearted.

And, too, he was human, and could feel the draw of her, while his ego

could not but appreciate the flattery of her kindness. Oh, he knew it

all, and knew them well, from A to Z. Good, as goodness might be

measured in their particular class, hard-working for meagre wages and

scorning the sale of self for easier ways, nervously desirous for some

small pinch of happiness in the desert of existence, and facing a

future that was a gamble between the ugliness of unending toil and the

black pit of more terrible wretchedness, the way whereto being briefer

though better paid.

“Bill,” he answered, nodding his head. “Sure, Pete, Bill an’ no other.”

“No joshin’?” she queried.

“It ain’t Bill at all,” the other broke in.

“How do you know?” he demanded. “You never laid eyes on me before.”

“No need to, to know you’re lyin’,” was the retort.

“Straight, Bill, what is it?” the first girl asked.

“Bill’ll do,” he confessed.

She reached out to his arm and shook him playfully. “I knew you was

lyin’, but you look good to me just the same.”

He captured the hand that invited, and felt on the palm familiar

markings and distortions.

“When’d you chuck the cannery?” he asked.

“How’d yeh know?” and, “My, ain’t cheh a mind-reader!” the girls

chorussed.

And while he exchanged the stupidities of stupid minds with them,

before his inner sight towered the book-shelves of the library, filled

with the wisdom of the ages. He smiled bitterly at the incongruity of

it, and was assailed by doubts. But between inner vision and outward

pleasantry he found time to watch the theatre crowd streaming by. And

then he saw Her, under the lights, between her brother and the strange

young man with glasses, and his heart seemed to stand still. He had

waited long for this moment. He had time to note the light, fluffy

something that hid her queenly head, the tasteful lines of her wrapped

figure, the gracefulness of her carriage and of the hand that caught up

her skirts; and then she was gone and he was left staring at the two

girls of the cannery, at their tawdry attempts at prettiness of dress,

their tragic efforts to be clean and trim, the cheap cloth, the cheap

ribbons, and the cheap rings on the fingers. He felt a tug at his arm,

and heard a voice saying:-

“Wake up, Bill! What’s the matter with you?”

“What was you sayin’?” he asked.

“Oh, nothin’,” the dark girl answered, with a toss of her head. “I was

only remarkin’—”

“What?”

“Well, I was whisperin’ it’d be a good idea if you could dig up a

gentleman friend—for her” (indicating her companion), “and then, we

could go off an’ have ice-cream soda somewhere, or coffee, or

anything.”

He was afflicted by a sudden spiritual nausea. The transition from Ruth

to this had been too abrupt. Ranged side by side with the bold, defiant

eyes of the girl before him, he saw Ruth’s clear, luminous eyes, like a

saint’s, gazing at him out of unplumbed depths of purity. And, somehow,

he felt within him a stir of power. He was better than this. Life meant

more to him than it meant to these two girls whose thoughts did not go

beyond ice-cream and a gentleman friend. He remembered that he had led

always a secret life in his thoughts. These thoughts he had tried to

share, but never had he found a woman capable of understanding—nor a

man. He had tried, at times, but had only puzzled his listeners. And as

his thoughts had been beyond them, so, he argued now, he must be beyond

them. He felt power move in him, and clenched his fists. If life meant

more to him, then it was for him to demand more from life, but he could

not demand it from such companionship as this. Those bold black eyes

had nothing to offer. He knew the thoughts behind them—of ice-cream and

of something else. But those saint’s eyes alongside—they offered all he

knew and more than he could guess. They offered books and painting,

beauty and repose, and all the fine elegance of higher existence.

Behind those black eyes he knew every thought process. It was like

clockwork. He could watch every wheel go around. Their bid was low

pleasure, narrow as the grave, that palled, and the grave was at the

end of it. But the bid of the saint’s eyes was mystery, and wonder

unthinkable, and eternal life. He had caught glimpses of the soul in

them, and glimpses of his own soul, too.

“There’s only one thing wrong with the programme,” he said aloud. “I’ve

got a date already.”

The girl’s eyes blazed her disappointment.

“To sit up with a sick friend, I suppose?” she sneered.

“No, a real, honest date with—” he faltered, “with a girl.”

“You’re not stringin’ me?” she asked earnestly.

He looked her in the eyes and answered: “It’s straight, all right. But

why can’t we meet some other time? You ain’t told me your name yet. An’

where d’ye live?”

“Lizzie,” she replied, softening toward him, her hand pressing his arm,

while her body leaned against his. “Lizzie Connolly. And I live at

Fifth an’ Market.”

He talked on a few minutes before saying good night. He did not go home

immediately; and under the tree where he kept his vigils he looked up

at a window and murmured: “That date was with you, Ruth. I kept it for

you.”