Добавил:
ivanov666
Опубликованный материал нарушает ваши авторские права? Сообщите нам.
Вуз:
Предмет:
Файл:Martin Eden
.pdf
MARTIN EDEN
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
331
JACK LONDON
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
332
MARTIN EDEN
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 in-
333
JACK LONDON
sulted 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.”
334
MARTIN EDEN
“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.
335
CHAPTER XXXII
Promptly, the next afternoon, Maria was excited by Martin’s
second visitor. But she did not lose her head this time, for she
seated Brissenden in her parlor’s grandeur of respectability.
“Hope you don’t mind my coming?” Brissenden began.
“No, no, not at all,” Martin answered, shaking hands
and waving him to the solitary chair, himself taking to the
bed. “But how did you know where I lived?”
“Called up the Morses. Miss Morse answered the ’phone.
And here I am.” He tugged at his coat pocket and flung a thin
volume on the table. “There’s a book, by a poet. Read it and
keep it.” And then, in reply to Martin’s protest: “What have I to
do with books? I had another hemorrhage this morning. Got
any whiskey? No, of course not. Wait a minute.”
He was off and away. Martin watched his long figure go
down the outside steps, and, on turning to close the gate, noted with a pang the shoulders, which had once been broad,
drawn in now over, the collapsed ruin of the chest. Martin got
two tumblers, and fell to reading the book of verse, Henry
Vaughn Marlow’s latest collection.
“No Scotch,” Brissenden announced on his return. “The
beggar sells nothing but American whiskey. But here’s a quart
of it.”
336
MARTIN EDEN
“I’ll send one of the youngsters for lemons, and we’ll make
a toddy,” Martin offered.
“I wonder what a book like that will earn Marlow?” he
went on, holding up the volume in question.
“Possibly fifty dollars,” came the answer. “Though he’s lucky
if he pulls even on it, or if he can inveigle a publisher to risk
bringing it out.”
“Then one can’t make a living out of poetry?” Martin’s tone
and face alike showed his dejection.
“Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming,
yes. There’s Bruce, and Virginia Spring, and Sedgwick. They do
very nicely. But poetry – do you know how Vaughn Marlow
makes his living? – teaching in a boys’ cramming-joint down
in Pennsylvania, and of all private little hells such a billet is the
limit. I wouldn’t trade places with him if he had fifty years of
life before him. And yet his work stands out from the ruck
of the contemporary versifiers as a balas ruby among carrots.
And the reviews he gets! Damn them, all of them, the crass
manikins!”
“Too much is written by the men who can’t write about
the men who do write,” Martin concurred. “Why, I was appalled at the quantities of rubbish written about Stevenson
and his work.”
“Ghouls and harpies!” Brissenden snapped out with clicking teeth. “Yes, I know the spawn – complacently pecking
at him for his Father Damien letter, analyzing him, weighing
him – ”
“Measuring him by the yardstick of their own miserable
egos,” Martin broke in.
337
JACK LONDON
“Yes, that’s it, a good phrase, – mouthing and besliming
the True, and Beautiful, and Good, and finally patting him on
the back and saying, ‘Good dog, Fido.’ Faugh! ‘The little chattering daws of men,’ Richard Realf called them the night he
died.”
“Pecking at star-dust,” Martin took up the strain warmly;
“at the meteoric flight of the master-men. I once wrote a
squib on them – the critics, or the reviewers, rather.”
“Let’s see it,” Brissenden begged eagerly.
So Martin unearthed a carbon copy of “Star-dust,” and during the reading of it Brissenden chuckled, rubbed his hands,
and forgot to sip his toddy.
“Strikes me you’re a bit of star-dust yourself, flung into a
world of cowled gnomes who cannot see,” was his comment at
the end of it. “Of course it was snapped up by the first magazine?”
Martin ran over the pages of his manuscript book. “It has
been refused by twenty-seven of them.” Brissenden essayed a
long and hearty laugh, but broke down in a fit of coughing.
“Say, you needn’t tell me you haven’t tackled poetry,”
he gasped. “Let me see some of it.”
“Don’t read it now,” Martin pleaded. “I want to talk with you.
I’ll make up a bundle and you can take it home.”
Brissenden departed with the “Love-cycle,” and “The Peri
and the Pearl,” returning next day to greet Martin with:-
“I want more.”
Not only did he assure Martin that he was a poet, but Martin learned that Brissenden also was one. He was swept off his
feet by the other’s work, and astounded that no attempt had
been made to publish it.
338
MARTIN EDEN
“A plague on all their houses!” was Brissenden’s answer to
Martin’s volunteering to market his work for him. “Love Beauty for its own sake,” was his counsel, “and leave the magazines
alone. Back to your ships and your sea – that’s my advice to you,
Martin Eden. What do you want in these sick and rotten cities of men? You are cutting your throat every day you waste
in them trying to prostitute beauty to the needs of magazinedom. What was it you quoted me the other day? – Oh, yes, ‘Man,
the latest of the ephemera.’ Well, what do you, the latest of the
ephemera, want with fame? If you got it, it would be poison to
you. You are too simple, too elemental, and too rational, by my
faith, to prosper on such pap. I hope you never do sell a line
to the magazines. Beauty is the only master to serve. Serve her
and damn the multitude! Success! What in hell’s success if it
isn’t right there in your Stevenson sonnet, which outranks
Henley’s ‘Apparition,’ in that ‘Love-cycle,’ in those sea-poems?
“It is not in what you succeed in doing that you get your
joy, but in the doing of it. You can’t tell me. I know it. You know it.
Beauty hurts you. It is an everlasting pain in you, a wound that
does not heal, a knife of flame. Why should you palter with
magazines? Let beauty be your end. Why should you mint
beauty into gold? Anyway, you can’t; so there’s no use in my
getting excited over it. You can read the magazines for a thousand years and you won’t find the value of one line of Keats.
Leave fame and coin alone, sign away on a ship to-morrow, and
go back to your sea.”
“Not for fame, but for love,” Martin laughed. “Love seems
to have no place in your Cosmos; in mine, Beauty is the handmaiden of Love.”
339
JACK LONDON
Brissenden looked at him pityingly and admiringly. “You
are so young, Martin boy, so young. You will flutter high, but
your wings are of the finest gauze, dusted with the fairest pigments. Do not scorch them. But of course you have scorched
them already. It required some glorified petticoat to account
for that ‘Love-cycle,’ and that’s the shame of it.”
“It glorifies love as well as the petticoat,” Martin laughed.
“The philosophy of madness,” was the retort. “So have I assured myself when wandering in hasheesh dreams. But beware. These bourgeois cities will kill you. Look at that den
of traitors where I met you. Dry rot is no name for it. One can’t
keep his sanity in such an atmosphere. It’s degrading. There’s
not one of them who is not degrading, man and woman, all of
them animated stomachs guided by the high intellectual and
artistic impulses of clams – ”
He broke off suddenly and regarded Martin. Then, with
a flash of divination, he saw the situation. The expression on
his face turned to wondering horror.
“And you wrote that tremendous ‘Love-cycle’ to her – that
pale, shrivelled, female thing!”
The next instant Martin’s right hand had shot to a throttling clutch on his throat, and he was being shaken
till his teeth rattled. But Martin, looking into his eyes, saw no
fear there, – naught but a curious and mocking devil. Martin
remembered himself, and flung Brissenden, by the neck, sidelong upon the bed, at the same moment releasing his hold.
Brissenden panted and gasped painfully for a moment,
then began to chuckle.
“You had made me eternally your debtor had you shaken
out the flame,” he said.
340
Соседние файлы в предмете [НЕСОРТИРОВАННОЕ]