Martin Eden | Page 4

among
the things he had learned was discipline. Also, that dagger-thrust went
to his pride. He cursed himself for having come, and at the same time
resolved that, happen what would, having come, he would carry it
through. The lines of his face hardened, and into his eyes came a
fighting light. He looked about more unconcernedly, sharply observant,
every detail of the pretty interior registering itself on his brain. His eyes
were wide apart; nothing in their field of vision escaped; and as they
drank in the beauty before them the fighting light died out and a warm
glow took its place. He was responsive to beauty, and here was cause to
respond.
An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy surf thundered and burst
over an outjutting rock; lowering storm-clouds covered the sky; and,
outside the line of surf, a pilot-schooner, close-hauled, heeled over till
every detail of her deck was visible, was surging along against a stormy

sunset sky. There was beauty, and it drew him irresistibly. He forgot
his awkward walk and came closer to the painting, very close. The
beauty faded out of the canvas. His face expressed his bepuzzlement.
He stared at what seemed a careless daub of paint, then stepped away.
Immediately all the beauty flashed back into the canvas. "A trick
picture," was his thought, as he dismissed it, though in the midst of the
multitudinous impressions he was receiving he found time to feel a
prod of indignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed to make a
trick. He did not know painting. He had been brought up on chromos
and lithographs that were always definite and sharp, near or far. He had
seen oil paintings, it was true, in the show windows of shops, but the
glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyes from approaching
too near.
He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and saw the books on
the table. Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as promptly
as the yearning leaps into the eyes of a starving man at sight of food.
An impulsive stride, with one lurch to right and left of the shoulders,
brought him to the table, where he began affectionately handling the
books. He glanced at the titles and the authors' names, read fragments
of text, caressing the volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once,
recognized a book he had read. For the rest, they were strange books
and strange authors. He chanced upon a volume of Swinburne and
began reading steadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing.
Twice he closed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of the
author. Swinburne! he would remember that name. That fellow had
eyes, and he had certainly seen color and flashing light. But who was
Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of the poets?
Or was he alive still, and writing? He turned to the title-page . . . yes,
he had written other books; well, he would go to the free library the
first thing in the morning and try to get hold of some of Swinburne's
stuff. He went back to the text and lost himself. He did not notice that a
young woman had entered the room. The first he knew was when he
heard Arthur's voice saying:-
"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden."

The book was closed on his forefinger, and before he turned he was
thrilling to the first new impression, which was not of the girl, but of
her brother's words. Under that muscled body of his he was a mass of
quivering sensibilities. At the slightest impact of the outside world
upon his consciousness, his thoughts, sympathies, and emotions leapt
and played like lambent flame. He was extraordinarily receptive and
responsive, while his imagination, pitched high, was ever at work
establishing relations of likeness and difference. "Mr. Eden," was what
he had thrilled to - he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden,"
or just "Martin," all his life. And "MISTER!" It was certainly going
some, was his internal comment. His mind seemed to turn, on the
instant, into a vast camera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his
consciousness endless pictures from his life, of stoke-holes and
forecastles, camps and beaches, jails and boozing-kens, fever-hospitals
and slum streets, wherein the thread of association was the fashion in
which he had been addressed in those various situations.
And then he turned and saw the girl. The phantasmagoria of his brain
vanished at sight of her. She was a pale, ethereal creature, with wide,
spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He did not know how
she was dressed, except that the dress was as wonderful as she. He
likened