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He fell from the height where he had been up-borne all day on the wings of inspiration. "Bourgeois," "trader's den" Brissenden's epithets repeated themselves in his mind. But what of that? he demanded angrily. He was marrying Ruth, not her family. It seemed to him that he had never seen Ruth more beautiful, more spiritual and ethereal and at the same time more healthy.
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.
The hundreds of thousands read him and acclaimed him with the same brute non-understanding with which they had flung themselves on Brissenden's "Ephemera" and torn it to pieces a wolf-rabble that fawned on him instead of fanging him. Fawn or fang, it was all a matter of chance. One thing he knew with absolute certitude: "Ephemera" was infinitely greater than anything he had done.
If only Brissenden were here to see! He was turning the pages of the magazine, when suddenly he stopped. "Ephemera" had been featured, with gorgeous head-piece and Beardsley-like margin decorations. On one side of the head-piece was Brissenden's photograph, on the other side was the photograph of Sir John Value, the British Ambassador.
"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?
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.
"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.
He remembered Brissenden's warning and laughed again. The women would never destroy him, that much was certain. He had gone past that stage. Once, walking with Lizzie toward night school, she caught a glance directed toward him by a well-gowned, handsome woman of the bourgeoisie. The glance was a trifle too long, a shade too considerative.
All this life through which the electric car whirred seemed remote and unreal, and he would have experienced little interest and less shook if the great stone steeple of the church he passed had suddenly crumbled to mortar-dust upon his head. At the hotel he hurried up to Brissenden's room, and hurried down again. The room was empty. All luggage was gone. "Did Mr.
If our honorarium is unsatisfactory, kindly telegraph us at once and state what you consider a fair price." Since the honorarium they had offered was three hundred and fifty dollars, Martin thought it not worth while to telegraph. Then, too, there was Brissenden's consent to be gained. Well, he had been right, after all. Here was one magazine editor who knew real poetry when he saw it.
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