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.Why, man, I couldinsult 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?"Martin Eden 107/161 Martin Eden"On the contrary," Martin considered, "because the incident is not worthy." He broke into a laugh, hearty and wholesome."I confessyou 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 theslave 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 havesince 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 seeingthe 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.CHAPTER XXXIIPromptly, the next afternoon, Maria was excited by Martin's second visitor.But she did not lose her head this time, for she seatedBrissenden 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 youknow 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 thetable."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 hadanother 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 pangthe shoulders, which had once been broad, drawn in now over, the collapsed ruin of the chest.Martin got two tumblers, and fell toreading 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.""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 itout.""Then one can't make a living out of poetry?"Martin's tone and face alike showed his dejection.Martin Eden 108/161 Martin Eden"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 ofall 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 workstands out from the ruck of the contemporary versifiers as a balas ruby among carrots.And the reviews he gets! Damn them, all ofthem, 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 thequantities 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 hisFather Damien letter, analyzing him, weighing him--""Measuring him by the yardstick of their own miserable egos," Martin broke in."Yes, that's it, a good phrase,--mouthing and besliming the True, and Beautiful, and Good, and finally patting him on the back andsaying, '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 onthem--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 tosip 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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Why, man, I couldinsult 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?"Martin Eden 107/161 Martin Eden"On the contrary," Martin considered, "because the incident is not worthy." He broke into a laugh, hearty and wholesome."I confessyou 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 theslave 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 havesince 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 seeingthe 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.CHAPTER XXXIIPromptly, the next afternoon, Maria was excited by Martin's second visitor.But she did not lose her head this time, for she seatedBrissenden 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 youknow 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 thetable."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 hadanother 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 pangthe shoulders, which had once been broad, drawn in now over, the collapsed ruin of the chest.Martin got two tumblers, and fell toreading 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.""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 itout.""Then one can't make a living out of poetry?"Martin's tone and face alike showed his dejection.Martin Eden 108/161 Martin Eden"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 ofall 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 workstands out from the ruck of the contemporary versifiers as a balas ruby among carrots.And the reviews he gets! Damn them, all ofthem, 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 thequantities 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 hisFather Damien letter, analyzing him, weighing him--""Measuring him by the yardstick of their own miserable egos," Martin broke in."Yes, that's it, a good phrase,--mouthing and besliming the True, and Beautiful, and Good, and finally patting him on the back andsaying, '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 onthem--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 tosip 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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]