Once in his room he got into bed and slipped off to sleep as gently as a child. The occurrences of the evening had made no impression on him. His mind was dead to impressions. The glow of warmth with which he met Joe had been most fleeting. The succeeding minute he had been bothered by the ex-laundryman"s presence and by the compulsion of conversation. That in five more days he sailed for his loved South Seas meant nothing to him. So he closed his eyes and slept normally and comfortably for eight uninterrupted hours. He was not restless. He did not change his position, nor did he dream. Sleep had become to him oblivion, and each day that he awoke, he awoke with regret. Life worried and bored him, and time was a vexation.
CHAPTER XLVI
"Say, Joe," was his greeting to his old-time working-mate next morning, "there"s a Frenchman out on Twenty-eighth Street. He"s made a pot of money, and he"s going back to France. It"s a dandy, well-appointed, small steam laundry. There"s a start for you if you want to settle down.
Here, take this; buy some clothes with it and be at this man"s office by ten o"clock. He looked up the laundry for me, and he"ll take you out and show you around. If you like it, and think it is worth the price--twelve thousand--let me know and it is yours. Now run along. I"m busy. I"ll see you later."
"Now look here, Mart," the other said slowly, with kindling anger, "I come here this mornin" to see you. Savve? I didn"t come here to get no laundry. I come a here for a talk for old friends" sake, and you shove a laundry at me. I tell you, what you can do. You can take that laundry an" go to h.e.l.l."
He was out of the room when Martin caught him and whirled him around.
"Now look here, Joe," he said; "if you act that way, I"ll punch your head. An for old friends" sake I"ll punch it hard. Savve?--you will, will you?"
Joe had clinched and attempted to throw him, and he was twisting and writhing out of the advantage of the other"s hold. They reeled about the room, locked in each other"s arms, and came down with a crash across the splintered wreckage of a wicker chair. Joe was underneath, with arms spread out and held and with Martin"s knee on his chest. He was panting and gasping for breath when Martin released him.
"Now we"ll talk a moment," Martin said. "You can"t get fresh with me. I want that laundry business finished first of all. Then you can come back and we"ll talk for old sake"s sake. I told you I was busy. Look at that."
A servant had just come in with the morning mail, a great ma.s.s of letters and magazines.
"How can I wade through that and talk with you? You go and fix up that laundry, and then we"ll get together."
"All right," Joe admitted reluctantly. "I thought you was turnin" me down, but I guess I was mistaken. But you can"t lick me, Mart, in a stand-up fight. I"ve got the reach on you."
"We"ll put on the gloves sometime and see," Martin said with a smile.
"Sure; as soon as I get that laundry going." Joe extended his arm. "You see that reach? It"ll make you go a few."
Martin heaved a sigh of relief when the door closed behind the laundryman. He was becoming anti-social. Daily he found it a severer strain to be decent with people. Their presence perturbed him, and the effort of conversation irritated him. They made him restless, and no sooner was he in contact with them than he was casting about for excuses to get rid of them.
He did not proceed to attack his mail, and for a half hour he lolled in his chair, doing nothing, while no more than vague, half-formed thoughts occasionally filtered through his intelligence, or rather, at wide intervals, themselves const.i.tuted the flickering of his intelligence.
He roused himself and began glancing through his mail. There were a dozen requests for autographs--he knew them at sight; there were professional begging letters; and there were letters from cranks, ranging from the man with a working model of perpetual motion, and the man who demonstrated that the surface of the earth was the inside of a hollow sphere, to the man seeking financial aid to purchase the Peninsula of Lower California for the purpose of communist colonization. There were letters from women seeking to know him, and over one such he smiled, for enclosed was her receipt for pew-rent, sent as evidence of her good faith and as proof of her respectability.
Editors and publishers contributed to the daily heap of letters, the former on their knees for his ma.n.u.scripts, the latter on their knees for his books--his poor disdained ma.n.u.scripts that had kept all he possessed in p.a.w.n for so many dreary months in order to find them in postage. There were unexpected checks for English serial rights and for advance payments on foreign translations. His English agent announced the sale of German translation rights in three of his books, and informed him that Swedish editions, from which he could expect nothing because Sweden was not a party to the Berne Convention, were already on the market. Then there was a nominal request for his permission for a Russian translation, that country being likewise outside the Berne Convention.
He turned to the huge bundle of clippings which had come in from his press bureau, and read about himself and his vogue, which had become a furore. All his creative output had been flung to the public in one magnificent sweep. That seemed to account for it. He had taken the public off its feet, the way Kipling had, that time when he lay near to death and all the mob, animated by a mob-mind thought, began suddenly to read him. Martin remembered how that same world-mob, having read him and acclaimed him and not understood him in the least, had, abruptly, a few months later, flung itself upon him and torn him to pieces. Martin grinned at the thought. Who was he that he should not be similarly treated in a few more months? Well, he would fool the mob. He would be away, in the South Seas, building his gra.s.s house, trading for pearls and copra, jumping reefs in frail outriggers, catching sharks and bonitas, hunting wild goats among the cliffs of the valley that lay next to the valley of Taiohae.
In the moment of that thought the desperateness of his situation dawned upon him. He saw, cleared eyed, that he was in the Valley of the Shadow.
All the life that was in him was fading, fainting, making toward death.
He realized how much he slept, and how much he desired to sleep. Of old, he had hated sleep. It had robbed him of precious moments of living.
Four hours of sleep in the twenty-four had meant being robbed of four hours of life. How he had grudged sleep! Now it was life he grudged.
Life was not good; its taste in his mouth was without tang, and bitter.
This was his peril. Life that did not yearn toward life was in fair way toward ceasing. Some remote instinct for preservation stirred in him, and he knew he must get away. He glanced about the room, and the thought of packing was burdensome. Perhaps it would be better to leave that to the last. In the meantime he might be getting an outfit.
He put on his hat and went out, stopping in at a gun-store, where he spent the remainder of the morning buying automatic rifles, ammunition, and fishing tackle. Fashions changed in trading, and he knew he would have to wait till he reached Tahiti before ordering his trade-goods. They could come up from Australia, anyway. This solution was a source of pleasure. He had avoided doing something, and the doing of anything just now was unpleasant. He went back to the hotel gladly, with a feeling of satisfaction in that the comfortable Morris chair was waiting for him; and he groaned inwardly, on entering his room, at sight of Joe in the Morris chair.
Joe was delighted with the laundry. Everything was settled, and he would enter into possession next day. Martin lay on the bed, with closed eyes, while the other talked on. Martin"s thoughts were far away--so far away that he was rarely aware that he was thinking. It was only by an effort that he occasionally responded. And yet this was Joe, whom he had always liked. But Joe was too keen with life. The boisterous impact of it on Martin"s jaded mind was a hurt. It was an aching probe to his tired sensitiveness. When Joe reminded him that sometime in the future they were going to put on the gloves together, he could almost have screamed.
"Remember, Joe, you"re to run the laundry according to those old rules you used to lay down at Sh.e.l.ly Hot Springs," he said. "No overworking.
No working at night. And no children at the mangles. No children anywhere. And a fair wage."
Joe nodded and pulled out a note-book.
"Look at here. I was workin" out them rules before breakfast this A.M.
What d"ye think of them?"
He read them aloud, and Martin approved, worrying at the same time as to when Joe would take himself off.
It was late afternoon when he awoke. Slowly the fact of life came back to him. He glanced about the room. Joe had evidently stolen away after he had dozed off. That was considerate of Joe, he thought. Then he closed his eyes and slept again.
In the days that followed Joe was too busy organizing and taking hold of the laundry to bother him much; and it was not until the day before sailing that the newspapers made the announcement that he had taken pa.s.sage on the Mariposa. Once, when the instinct of preservation fluttered, he went to a doctor and underwent a searching physical examination. Nothing could be found the matter with him. His heart and lungs were p.r.o.nounced magnificent. Every organ, so far as the doctor could know, was normal and was working normally.
"There is nothing the matter with you, Mr. Eden," he said, "positively nothing the matter with you. You are in the pink of condition. Candidly, I envy you your health. It is superb. Look at that chest. There, and in your stomach, lies the secret of your remarkable const.i.tution.
Physically, you are a man in a thousand--in ten thousand. Barring accidents, you should live to be a hundred."
And Martin knew that Lizzie"s diagnosis had been correct. Physically he was all right. It was his "think-machine" that had gone wrong, and there was no cure for that except to get away to the South Seas. The trouble was that now, on the verge of departure, he had no desire to go. The South Seas charmed him no more than did bourgeois civilization. There was no zest in the thought of departure, while the act of departure appalled him as a weariness of the flesh. He would have felt better if he were already on board and gone.
The last day was a sore trial. Having read of his sailing in the morning papers, Bernard Higginbotham, Gertrude, and all the family came to say good-by, as did Hermann von Schmidt and Marian. Then there was business to be transacted, bills to be paid, and everlasting reporters to be endured. He said good-by to Lizzie Connolly, abruptly, at the entrance to night school, and hurried away. At the hotel he found Joe, too busy all day with the laundry to have come to him earlier. It was the last straw, but Martin gripped the arms of his chair and talked and listened for half an hour.
"You know, Joe," he said, "that you are not tied down to that laundry.
There are no strings on it. You can sell it any time and blow the money.
Any time you get sick of it and want to hit the road, just pull out. Do what will make you the happiest."
Joe shook his head.
"No more road in mine, thank you kindly. Hoboin"s all right, exceptin"
for one thing--the girls. I can"t help it, but I"m a ladies" man. I can"t get along without "em, and you"ve got to get along without "em when you"re hoboin". The times I"ve pa.s.sed by houses where dances an" parties was goin" on, an" heard the women laugh, an" saw their white dresses and smiling faces through the windows--Gee! I tell you them moments was plain h.e.l.l. I like dancin" an" picnics, an" walking in the moonlight, an" all the rest too well. Me for the laundry, and a good front, with big iron dollars clinkin" in my jeans. I seen a girl already, just yesterday, and, d"ye know, I"m feelin" already I"d just as soon marry her as not. I"ve ben whistlin" all day at the thought of it. She"s a beaut, with the kindest eyes and softest voice you ever heard. Me for her, you can stack on that. Say, why don"t you get married with all this money to burn? You could get the finest girl in the land."
Martin shook his head with a smile, but in his secret heart he was wondering why any man wanted to marry. It seemed an amazing and incomprehensible thing.
From the deck of the Mariposa, at the sailing hour, he saw Lizzie Connolly hiding in the skirts of the crowd on the wharf. Take her with you, came the thought. It is easy to be kind. She will be supremely happy. It was almost a temptation one moment, and the succeeding moment it became a terror. He was in a panic at the thought of it. His tired soul cried out in protest. He turned away from the rail with a groan, muttering, "Man, you are too sick, you are too sick."
He fled to his stateroom, where he lurked until the steamer was clear of the dock. In the dining saloon, at luncheon, he found himself in the place of honor, at the captain"s right; and he was not long in discovering that he was the great man on board. But no more unsatisfactory great man ever sailed on a ship. He spent the afternoon in a deck-chair, with closed eyes, dozing brokenly most of the time, and in the evening went early to bed.
After the second day, recovered from seasickness, the full pa.s.senger list was in evidence, and the more he saw of the pa.s.sengers the more he disliked them. Yet he knew that he did them injustice. They were good and kindly people, he forced himself to acknowledge, and in the moment of acknowledgment he qualified--good and kindly like all the bourgeoisie, with all the psychological cramp and intellectual futility of their kind, they bored him when they talked with him, their little superficial minds were so filled with emptiness; while the boisterous high spirits and the excessive energy of the younger people shocked him. They were never quiet, ceaselessly playing deck-quoits, tossing rings, promenading, or rushing to the rail with loud cries to watch the leaping porpoises and the first schools of flying fish.
He slept much. After breakfast he sought his deck-chair with a magazine he never finished. The printed pages tired him. He puzzled that men found so much to write about, and, puzzling, dozed in his chair. When the gong awoke him for luncheon, he was irritated that he must awaken.
There was no satisfaction in being awake.
Once, he tried to arouse himself from his lethargy, and went forward into the forecastle with the sailors. But the breed of sailors seemed to have changed since the days he had lived in the forecastle. He could find no kinship with these stolid-faced, ox-minded b.e.s.t.i.a.l creatures. He was in despair. Up above n.o.body had wanted Martin Eden for his own sake, and he could not go back to those of his own cla.s.s who had wanted him in the past. He did not want them. He could not stand them any more than he could stand the stupid first-cabin pa.s.sengers and the riotous young people.
Life was to him like strong, white light that hurts the tired eyes of a sick person. During every conscious moment life blazed in a raw glare around him and upon him. It hurt. It hurt intolerably. It was the first time in his life that Martin had travelled first cla.s.s. On ships at sea he had always been in the forecastle, the steerage, or in the black depths of the coal-hold, pa.s.sing coal. In those days, climbing up the iron ladders out the pit of stifling heat, he had often caught glimpses of the pa.s.sengers, in cool white, doing nothing but enjoy themselves, under awnings spread to keep the sun and wind away from them, with subservient stewards taking care of their every want and whim, and it had seemed to him that the realm in which they moved and had their being was nothing else than paradise. Well, here he was, the great man on board, in the midmost centre of it, sitting at the captain"s right hand, and yet vainly harking back to forecastle and stoke-hole in quest of the Paradise he had lost. He had found no new one, and now he could not find the old one.
He strove to stir himself and find something to interest him. He ventured the petty officers" mess, and was glad to get away. He talked with a quartermaster off duty, an intelligent man who promptly prodded him with the socialist propaganda and forced into his hands a bunch of leaflets and pamphlets. He listened to the man expounding the slave-morality, and as he listened, he thought languidly of his own Nietzsche philosophy. But what was it worth, after all? He remembered one of Nietzsche"s mad utterances wherein that madman had doubted truth.
And who was to say? Perhaps Nietzsche had been right. Perhaps there was no truth in anything, no truth in truth--no such thing as truth. But his mind wearied quickly, and he was content to go back to his chair and doze.