|
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 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 Cafe 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 cafes 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. 马丁酣睡了一夜，一动不动，直到送早班邮件的邮递员把他惊醒。他感到疲倦，没精打采，只漫无目的地翻着邮件。一家强盗杂志寄来了一个薄薄的信封，里面有一张二十二元的支票。他为这笔钱已经催讨了一年半。他注意到了那个数字，却无动于衷。以前那种发表作品收到支票时的激动已经没有了。这份支票不像以前的支票，其中再没有对远大前程的预告。在他眼里那只不过是二十二元钱的一张支票，可以买一点东西吃，如此而已。 同一批邮件里还有一张支票，是从纽约一家周刊寄来的，是一首幽默诗歌的稿酬，十块钱，几个月以前采用的。一个想法来到他心里，他心平气和地思考着。他不知道以后要做什么，也不急于做什么，但他却非活下去不可，何况他还欠了一大批债。若是把他堆积在桌子底下的那一大堆稿件全部贴上邮票，重新打发出去旅行，会不会得到什么回报呢？其中的一两篇说不定能够被采用，那就可以帮助他生活下去了。他决定作这笔投资。他到奥克兰兑现了支票，买了十块钱邮票。一想起回到那憋气的小屋去做饭吃他就气闷，于是第一次拒绝了考虑欠债的问题。他知道在屋里可以用一毛五到两毛钱做出一顿像样的早饭，但是他却进了论坛咖啡馆，叫了一份两元一客的早餐。他给了传者一个两毛五的硬币，又花了五毛钱买了一包埃及香烟。那是他在露丝要求他戒烟之后第一次抽烟，不过现在他已经找不出理由不抽了，何况他还很想抽。钱算得了什么？他用五分钱就可以买一包度浪牌烟叶和一些卷烟纸，自己卷四十支——可那又怎么样？此刻的钱，除了能够立即买到手的东西以外，对他已经毫无意义。他没有海图，没有船舵，也没有海港可去，而随波逐流意味着不用理会生活——生活只叫他痛苦。 日子一天天默默过去。他每天晚上照例睡八个小时。现在他在坐待更多支票寄来，只到日本料理去吃饭，一餐一毛钱。他消瘦的身子丰满起来了，凹陷的双颊平复了。他不再用短促的睡眠、过度的工作和刻苦的学习来折磨自己了。他什么都不写了，书本全关上了。他常常散步，长时间在山里、在平静的公园里溜达。他没有朋友，没有熟人，也不结交朋友——没有那种要求。他在等待某种冲动出现，好让他停了摆的生活重新启动。他不知道那启动力会从哪儿来；他的生活就一直那么沮丧、空虚、没有计划、无所事事。 有一次他到旧金山去了一趟，去看看那些“草芥之民”，但是在踏上楼梯口的最后一刻他退却了。他转过身子逃进了人烟稠密的犹太贫民区。他一想到听哲学讨论就头疼，他偷偷地溜走了，他生怕出现什么“草芥之民”认出他来。 他有时也读报纸和杂志，想看看《蜉蝣》遭到了什么样的虐待。那诗引起了轰动，可那是什么样的轰动呀！每个人都读了，每个人都在讨论它是否算得上真正的诗。地方报纸讨论了起来；每天都要发表一些渊博的专栏评述，吹毛求疵的社论，和订阅者们一本正经的来信。海伦·德拉·德尔玛（她是以花腔连天的喇叭和震天价响的鼓声被捧上了合众国最伟大的女诗人宝座的）拒绝在她的飞马背上给予布里森登一席之地。她给公众连篇累犊地写信，证明布里森登算不上持人。 《帕提农》在它的下一期为自己所引起的轰动而自鸣得意。它嘲弄约翰·伐流爵士，并用残酷的商业手段开发布里森登之死这个话题。一份自称发行量达到五十万份的报纸发表了海伦·德拉·德尔玛一首情不自禁的别具一格的诗。她挑布里森登的毛病，嘲笑他。然后还毫不内疚地发表了一首对布里森登的诗的讽刺性访作。 马丁曾多次庆幸布里森登已经死去。布里森登是那么仇恨群氓，而此刻他所有的最优秀最神圣的东西却被扔给了群氓，每天诗里的美都遭到宰割；这个国家的每一个蠢材都在借着布里森登的伟大所引起的热潮大写其文章，把自己枯萎渺小的身影硬塞进读者眼里。一家报纸说：“前不久我们收到一位先生寄来的信，他写了一首诗，很像布里森登，只是更加高明。”另一家报纸煞有介事地指责海伦·德拉·德尔玛不该写那首模拟诗，说：“不过德尔玛小姐写那首诗是带着嘲弄的心情，而不是带着伟大的诗人对别人——也许是最伟大的人——应有的尊重。不过，无论德尔玛小姐对创作了《蜉蝣》的人是否出于妒忌，她却肯定是被他的诗迷住了，像千百万读者一样；也许有一天她也会想写出像他那样的诗的。” 牧师们开始布道，反对《蜉蝣》，有一个牧师因为坚决维护那诗的内容，竟被以异端罪逐出了教会。那伟大的诗篇也给了人们笑料。俏皮诗和漫画作者发出尖利的笑声抓住了它，社会新闻周刊的人物专栏也拿那诗说笑话，大意是：查理·福雷山姆私下告诉阿齐·简宁斯，五行《蜉蝣》就足以让人去殴打残疾人，十行《蜉蝣》就可以让他跳河自杀。 马丁笑不出来，却也没有气得咬牙。此事在他身上的效果是无边的悲凉。他的整个世界都崩溃了，爱情在它的顶尖。和这一比，杂志王国和亲爱的读者群的崩溃的确不算得什么。布里森登对杂志世界的判断完全没有错；而他马丁却花了好多年艰苦的徒劳的努力才明白过来。杂志正是布里森登所说的样子，甚至更为严重。好了，他的歌已经唱完了，他安慰自己，他赶了自己的马车去追求一颗星星，却落进了疫病蒸腾的泥沼里。塔希提的幻觉——美妙的、一尘不染的塔希提——越来越频繁地出现在他心里。那儿有保莫图思那样的低矮的岛子，有马奎撒思那样的高峻的岛子，现在他常发现自己驾着做生意的大帆船或是脆弱的独桅快艇在黎明时分穿过帕皮提的环礁，开始远航，经过产珍珠的珊瑚礁，驶往努卡西瓦和泰欧黑，他知道塔马瑞会在那儿杀猪欢迎他，而塔马瑞的围着花环的女儿们会抓住他的手，欢笑着，唱着歌给他戴上花环。南海在召唤着他，他知道自己早晚是会响应召唤到那儿去的。 现在他过着随波逐流的生活。经历了在知识天他的长期磨难之后他休息着，恢复着健康。在《帕提农》那三百五十元寄给他之后，他把它转给了当地那位处理布里森登事务的律师，让他转给了他的家里。马丁得到了一张收到支票的收据，同时自己也写了一张他欠布里森登一百元的收据寄去。 不久以后马丁就停止上日本料理了。他放弃了战斗，却时来运转了，虽然来得太迟。他打开了一个《千年盛世》寄来的薄信封，看了看支票的三百元的票面，发现那是接受了《冒险》的报酬。他在世界上欠下的每一笔帐，包括高利贷的当铺债务，加在一起也不到一百元。他偿还了每一笔债，从布里森登的律师那儿赎回了那张借据，口袋里还剩下了一百多块钱。他在裁缝铺定做了一套衣服，在城里最好的餐厅用餐。他仍然在玛利亚家的小屋子里睡觉，但是那一身新衣服却使附近的孩子们停止了躲在柴房顶上或骑在后门栅栏上叫他“二流子”或“瘪三”了。 《华伦月刊》用二百五十块钱买了他的夏威夷短篇小说《威几威几》；《北方评论》采用了他的论文《美的摇篮》；《麦金托什杂志》采用了他为茉莉安写的诗《手相家》。编辑和读者都已经度完暑假回来，稿件的处理快了起来。但是马丁不明白他们害了什么怪病，突然一哄而上，采用起他们两年来一直拒绝的稿子来。那以前他什么东西都没有发表过；除了在奥克兰谁也不认识他，而在奥克兰认识他的人都把他看作赤色分子，社会主义者。他那些货品为什么突然有了销路，他无法解释。只能说是命运的播弄。 在他多次遭到杂志拒绝之后，他接受了过去不肯接受的布里森登的意见，开始让《太阳的耻辱》去拜访一家家的出版社。在受到几次拒绝之后，那稿子为欣格垂、达思利公司采用了，他们答应秋天出版那本书。马丁要求预支版税，对方回答他们无此成冽，像那种性质的书一般入不敷出，他们怀疑他的书是否能销到一千册。马丁便按这个标准估计了一下那书所能带给他的收入：若是一元钱一本，版税算一毛五，那么那书就能给他带来一百五十元。他决定若是再要写作他就只写小说。只有它四分之一长的《冒险》却从《千年盛世》得到了两倍的收入。他很久以前在报上读到的那一段话毕竟没有错：第一流的杂志的确是一经采用立即付酬的，而且稿酬从优。《千年盛世》给他的稿费不是每字两分，而是每字四分。而且还采用优秀的作品，这不就是么？他的作品就被采用了。这最后的念头一出现，他不禁笑了。 他给欣格垂、达恩利公司写了信，建议把他的《太阳的耻辱》以一百元卖断，可是他们不肯冒这个险。而此时他也不缺钱用，因为他晚期的几篇小说又已被采用，得到了稿酬。实际上他还开了一个银行户头，在那里他不仅不欠分文，而且有好几百元存款。《过期》在被几家杂志拒绝之后在梅瑞迪思一罗威尔公司落了脚。马丁还记得格特露给他的那五块钱和自己还她一百倍的决心。因此他写信要求预支五百元版税。出乎他意料之外，寄回了一张五百元的支票和一纸合同。他把支票全兑换成五元一个的金币，给格特露打电话，说要见她。 格特露来得匆忙，气喘吁吁地进了屋子。她担心又出了麻烦，已经把手边的几块钱塞进了提包。她一心以为她弟弟遭到了灾难，一见他便跌跌撞撞扑到他的怀里，泪流满面，一言不发把提包塞进弟弟手里。 “我本想自己去的，”他说，“但是我怕跟希金波坦先生闹得不愉快——肯定是会干起来的。” “过些日子他就会好的，”她向他保证，同时在猜测着马丁出了什么事。“但是你最好还是找个工作，安定下来。伯纳德喜欢看见别人规规矩矩地干活。报上那些东西叫他受不了，我以前还没有见过他发那么大的脾气。” “我不打算找工作，”马丁笑嘻嘻地说，“你可以把我这话转告给他，我并不需要工作，这就是证明。”他把那一百枚金币倒进了格特露的裙兜里，金币闪闪发亮，发出叮叮当当的脆响。 “你还记得我没有车费时你给我的那五块钱么？喏，这就是那五块，带上了九十九个弟兄，年龄不同，大小可一样。” 如果说格特露到来时心里害怕的话，此刻她已是胆战心惊，不知所措了。她从担心变成了确信，她没有怀疑，她相信自己。她满脸恐怖地望着马丁，沉重的两腿在金币的重负下软瘫了，好像遭到了火烧。 “这钱是你的了，”他笑了起来。 她大哭起来，开始嚎叫：“我可怜的弟弟，我可怜的弟弟。” 马丁一时很觉莫名其妙，然后明白了她难过的原因，便把梅瑞迪思一罗威尔公司防支票寄来的信递给了她。她磕磕绊绊读着信，不时停下来抹眼泪，读完说道： “这是不是说你这钱来得正当呢？” “比中彩票还正当，是挣来的。” 信任慢慢回到她心里，她又把信仔仔细细读了一次。马万花了不少功夫才向她解释清楚使他获得那收入的是一笔什么性质的交易，又花了更多的功夫才让她明白了那钱真是她的——他不需要钱。 “我给你存在银行里，”最后她说。 “你别那么做，这钱是你的，你想怎么花就怎么花，你要是不收我就给茉莉安了，她会知道怎么花的。我倒是建议你请一个用人，好好作一个长时间的休息。” “我要把这一切都告诉伯纳德，”她临走时宣布。 马丁眨了眨眼，笑了。 “好的，告诉他，”他说，“那时候他也许又会请我去吃饭的。” “对，他会的，我相信他会的。”她热情地叫了起来，把他拉到身边，亲他，拥抱他。 |
