Chương Chương 41 · Chapter XLI

. Chapter XLI

He slept heavily all night, and did not stir until aroused by the

postman on his morning round. Martin felt tired and passive, and went

through his letters aimlessly. One thin envelope, from a robber

magazine, contained a check for twenty-two dollars. He had been dunning

for it for a year and a half. He noted its amount apathetically. The

old-time thrill at receiving a publisher’s check was gone. Unlike his

earlier checks, this one was not pregnant with promise of great things

to come. To him it was a check for twenty-two dollars, that was all,

and it would buy him something to eat.

Another check was in the same mail, sent from a New York weekly in

payment for some humorous verse which had been accepted months before.

It was for ten dollars. An idea came to him, which he calmly

considered. He did not know what he was going to do, and he felt in no

hurry to do anything. In the meantime he must live. Also he owed

numerous debts. Would it not be a paying investment to put stamps on

the huge pile of manuscripts under the table and start them on their

travels again? One or two of them might be accepted. That would help

him to live. He decided on the investment, and, after he had cashed the

checks at the bank down in Oakland, he bought ten dollars’ worth of

postage stamps. The thought of going home to cook breakfast in his

stuffy little room was repulsive to him. For the first time he refused

to consider his debts. He knew that in his room he could manufacture a

substantial breakfast at a cost of from fifteen to twenty cents. But,

instead, he went into the Forum Café and ordered a breakfast that cost

two dollars. He tipped the waiter a quarter, and spent fifty cents for

a package of Egyptian cigarettes. It was the first time he had smoked

since Ruth had asked him to stop. But he could see now no reason why he

should not, and besides, he wanted to smoke. And what did the money

matter? For five cents he could have bought a package of Durham and

brown papers and rolled forty cigarettes—but what of it? Money had no

meaning to him now except what it would immediately buy. He was

chartless and rudderless, and he had no port to make, while drifting

involved the least living, and it was living that hurt.

The days slipped along, and he slept eight hours regularly every night.

Though now, while waiting for more checks, he ate in the Japanese

restaurants where meals were served for ten cents, his wasted body

filled out, as did the hollows in his cheeks. He no longer abused

himself with short sleep, overwork, and overstudy. He wrote nothing,

and the books were closed. He walked much, out in the hills, and loafed

long hours in the quiet parks. He had no friends nor acquaintances, nor

did he make any. He had no inclination. He was waiting for some

impulse, from he knew not where, to put his stopped life into motion

again. In the meantime his life remained run down, planless, and empty

and idle.

Once he made a trip to San Francisco to look up the “real dirt.” But at

the last moment, as he stepped into the upstairs entrance, he recoiled

and turned and fled through the swarming ghetto. He was frightened at

the thought of hearing philosophy discussed, and he fled furtively, for

fear that some one of the “real dirt” might chance along and recognize

him.

Sometimes he glanced over the magazines and newspapers to see how

“Ephemera” was being maltreated. It had made a hit. But what a hit!

Everybody had read it, and everybody was discussing whether or not it

was really poetry. The local papers had taken it up, and daily there

appeared columns of learned criticisms, facetious editorials, and

serious letters from subscribers. Helen Della Delmar (proclaimed with a

flourish of trumpets and rolling of tomtoms to be the greatest woman

poet in the United States) denied Brissenden a seat beside her on

Pegasus and wrote voluminous letters to the public, proving that he was

no poet.

_The Parthenon_ came out in its next number patting itself on the back

for the stir it had made, sneering at Sir John Value, and exploiting

Brissenden’s death with ruthless commercialism. A newspaper with a

sworn circulation of half a million published an original and

spontaneous poem by Helen Della Delmar, in which she gibed and sneered

at Brissenden. Also, she was guilty of a second poem, in which she

parodied him.

Martin had many times to be glad that Brissenden was dead. He had hated

the crowd so, and here all that was finest and most sacred of him had

been thrown to the crowd. Daily the vivisection of Beauty went on.

Every nincompoop in the land rushed into free print, floating their

wizened little egos into the public eye on the surge of Brissenden’s

greatness. Quoth one paper: “We have received a letter from a gentleman

who wrote a poem just like it, only better, some time ago.” Another

paper, in deadly seriousness, reproving Helen Della Delmar for her

parody, said: “But unquestionably Miss Delmar wrote it in a moment of

badinage and not quite with the respect that one great poet should show

to another and perhaps to the greatest. However, whether Miss Delmar be

jealous or not of the man who invented ‘Ephemera,’ it is certain that

she, like thousands of others, is fascinated by his work, and that the

day may come when she will try to write lines like his.”

Ministers began to preach sermons against “Ephemera,” and one, who too

stoutly stood for much of its content, was expelled for heresy. The

great poem contributed to the gayety of the world. The comic

verse-writers and the cartoonists took hold of it with screaming

laughter, and in the personal columns of society weeklies jokes were

perpetrated on it to the effect that Charley Frensham told Archie

Jennings, in confidence, that five lines of “Ephemera” would drive a

man to beat a cripple, and that ten lines would send him to the bottom

of the river.

Martin did not laugh; nor did he grit his teeth in anger. The effect

produced upon him was one of great sadness. In the crash of his whole

world, with love on the pinnacle, the crash of magazinedom and the dear

public was a small crash indeed. Brissenden had been wholly right in

his judgment of the magazines, and he, Martin, had spent arduous and

futile years in order to find it out for himself. The magazines were

all Brissenden had said they were and more. Well, he was done, he

solaced himself. He had hitched his wagon to a star and been landed in

a pestiferous marsh. The visions of Tahiti—clean, sweet Tahiti—were

coming to him more frequently. And there were the low Paumotus, and the

high Marquesas; he saw himself often, now, on board trading schooners

or frail little cutters, slipping out at dawn through the reef at

Papeete and beginning the long beat through the pearl-atolls to

Nukahiva and the Bay of Taiohae, where Tamari, he knew, would kill a

pig in honor of his coming, and where Tamari’s flower-garlanded

daughters would seize his hands and with song and laughter garland him

with flowers. The South Seas were calling, and he knew that sooner or

later he would answer the call.

In the meantime he drifted, resting and recuperating after the long

traverse he had made through the realm of knowledge. When _The

Parthenon_ check of three hundred and fifty dollars was forwarded to

him, he turned it over to the local lawyer who had attended to

Brissenden’s affairs for his family. Martin took a receipt for the

check, and at the same time gave a note for the hundred dollars

Brissenden had let him have.

The time was not long when Martin ceased patronizing the Japanese

restaurants. At the very moment when he had abandoned the fight, the

tide turned. But it had turned too late. Without a thrill he opened a

thick envelope from _The Millennium_, scanned the face of a check that

represented three hundred dollars, and noted that it was the payment on

acceptance for “Adventure.” Every debt he owed in the world, including

the pawnshop, with its usurious interest, amounted to less than a

hundred dollars. And when he had paid everything, and lifted the

hundred-dollar note with Brissenden’s lawyer, he still had over a

hundred dollars in pocket. He ordered a suit of clothes from the tailor

and ate his meals in the best cafés in town. He still slept in his

little room at Maria’s, but the sight of his new clothes caused the

neighborhood children to cease from calling him “hobo” and “tramp” from

the roofs of woodsheds and over back fences.

“Wiki-Wiki,” his Hawaiian short story, was bought by _Warren’s Monthly_

for two hundred and fifty dollars. _The Northern Review_ took his

essay, “The Cradle of Beauty,” and _Mackintosh’s Magazine_ took “The

Palmist”—the poem he had written to Marian. The editors and readers

were back from their summer vacations, and manuscripts were being

handled quickly. But Martin could not puzzle out what strange whim

animated them to this general acceptance of the things they had

persistently rejected for two years. Nothing of his had been published.

He was not known anywhere outside of Oakland, and in Oakland, with the

few who thought they knew him, he was notorious as a red-shirt and a

socialist. So there was no explaining this sudden acceptability of his

wares. It was sheer jugglery of fate.

After it had been refused by a number of magazines, he had taken

Brissenden’s rejected advice and started “The Shame of the Sun” on the

round of publishers. After several refusals, Singletree, Darnley & Co.

accepted it, promising fall publication. When Martin asked for an

advance on royalties, they wrote that such was not their custom, that

books of that nature rarely paid for themselves, and that they doubted

if his book would sell a thousand copies. Martin figured what the book

would earn him on such a sale. Retailed at a dollar, on a royalty of

fifteen per cent, it would bring him one hundred and fifty dollars. He

decided that if he had it to do over again he would confine himself to

fiction. “Adventure,” one-fourth as long, had brought him twice as much

from _The Millennium_. That newspaper paragraph he had read so long ago

had been true, after all. The first-class magazines did not pay on

acceptance, and they paid well. Not two cents a word, but four cents a

word, had _The Millennium_ paid him. And, furthermore, they bought good

stuff, too, for were they not buying his? This last thought he

accompanied with a grin.

He wrote to Singletree, Darnley & Co., offering to sell out his rights

in “The Shame of the Sun” for a hundred dollars, but they did not care

to take the risk. In the meantime he was not in need of money, for

several of his later stories had been accepted and paid for. He

actually opened a bank account, where, without a debt in the world, he

had several hundred dollars to his credit. “Overdue,” after having been

declined by a number of magazines, came to rest at the Meredith-Lowell

Company. Martin remembered the five dollars Gertrude had given him, and

his resolve to return it to her a hundred times over; so he wrote for

an advance on royalties of five hundred dollars. To his surprise a

check for that amount, accompanied by a contract, came by return mail.

He cashed the check into five-dollar gold pieces and telephoned

Gertrude that he wanted to see her.

She arrived at the house panting and short of breath from the haste she

had made. Apprehensive of trouble, she had stuffed the few dollars she

possessed into her hand-satchel; and so sure was she that disaster had

overtaken her brother, that she stumbled forward, sobbing, into his

arms, at the same time thrusting the satchel mutely at him.

“I’d have come myself,” he said. “But I didn’t want a row with Mr.

Higginbotham, and that is what would have surely happened.”

“He’ll be all right after a time,” she assured him, while she wondered

what the trouble was that Martin was in. “But you’d best get a job

first an’ steady down. Bernard does like to see a man at honest work.

That stuff in the newspapers broke ’m all up. I never saw ’m so mad

before.”

“I’m not going to get a job,” Martin said with a smile. “And you can

tell him so from me. I don’t need a job, and there’s the proof of it.”

He emptied the hundred gold pieces into her lap in a glinting, tinkling

stream.

“You remember that fiver you gave me the time I didn’t have carfare?

Well, there it is, with ninety-nine brothers of different ages but all

of the same size.”

If Gertrude had been frightened when she arrived, she was now in a

panic of fear. Her fear was such that it was certitude. She was not

suspicious. She was convinced. She looked at Martin in horror, and her

heavy limbs shrank under the golden stream as though it were burning

her.

“It’s yours,” he laughed.

She burst into tears, and began to moan, “My poor boy, my poor boy!”

He was puzzled for a moment. Then he divined the cause of her agitation

and handed her the Meredith-Lowell letter which had accompanied the

check. She stumbled through it, pausing now and again to wipe her eyes,

and when she had finished, said:-

“An’ does it mean that you come by the money honestly?”

“More honestly than if I’d won it in a lottery. I earned it.”

Slowly faith came back to her, and she reread the letter carefully. It

took him long to explain to her the nature of the transaction which had

put the money into his possession, and longer still to get her to

understand that the money was really hers and that he did not need it.

“I’ll put it in the bank for you,” she said finally.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. It’s yours, to do with as you please,

and if you won’t take it, I’ll give it to Maria. She’ll know what to do

with it. I’d suggest, though, that you hire a servant and take a good

long rest.”

“I’m goin’ to tell Bernard all about it,” she announced, when she was

leaving.

Martin winced, then grinned.

“Yes, do,” he said. “And then, maybe, he’ll invite me to dinner again.”

“Yes, he will—I’m sure he will!” she exclaimed fervently, as she drew

him to her and kissed and hugged him.