Martin Eden | Page 6

stated it, in his eyes was a rich vision of that hot,
starry night at Salina Cruz, the white strip of beach, the lights of the
sugar steamers in the harbor, the voices of the drunken sailors in the
distance, the jostling stevedores, the flaming passion in the Mexican's
face, the glint of the beast-eyes in the starlight, the sting of the steel in
his neck, and the rush of blood, the crowd and the cries, the two bodies,
his and the Mexican's, locked together, rolling over and over and
tearing up the sand, and from away off somewhere the mellow tinkling
of a guitar. Such was the picture, and he thrilled to the memory of it,
wondering if the man could paint it who had painted the pilot- schooner
on the wall. The white beach, the stars, and the lights of the sugar
steamers would look great, he thought, and midway on the sand the
dark group of figures that surrounded the fighters. The knife occupied a
place in the picture, he decided, and would show well, with a sort of
gleam, in the light of the stars. But of all this no hint had crept into his
speech. "He tried to bite off my nose," he concluded.
"Oh," the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed the shock in her
sensitive face.

He felt a shock himself, and a blush of embarrassment shone faintly on
his sunburned cheeks, though to him it burned as hotly as when his
cheeks had been exposed to the open furnace-door in the fire- room.
Such sordid things as stabbing affrays were evidently not fit subjects
for conversation with a lady. People in the books, in her walk of life,
did not talk about such things - perhaps they did not know about them,
either.
There was a brief pause in the conversation they were trying to get
started. Then she asked tentatively about the scar on his cheek. Even as
she asked, he realized that she was making an effort to talk his talk, and
he resolved to get away from it and talk hers.
"It was just an accident," he said, putting his hand to his cheek. "One
night, in a calm, with a heavy sea running, the main-boom-lift carried
away, an' next the tackle. The lift was wire, an' it was threshin' around
like a snake. The whole watch was tryin' to grab it, an' I rushed in an'
got swatted."
"Oh," she said, this time with an accent of comprehension, though
secretly his speech had been so much Greek to her and she was
wondering what a LIFT was and what SWATTED meant.
"This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan into
execution and pronouncing the I long.
"Who?"
"Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The
poet."
"Swinburne," she corrected.
"Yes, that's the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long
since he died?"
"Why, I haven't heard that he was dead." She looked at him curiously.
"Where did you make his acquaintance?"

"I never clapped eyes on him," was the reply. "But I read some of his
poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How
do you like his poetry?"
And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject he
had suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly from the edge of
the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands, as if it might get
away from him and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in making
her talk her talk, and while she rattled on, he strove to follow her,
marvelling at all the knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty
head of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of her face. Follow her he
did, though bothered by unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips
and by critical phrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his
mind, but that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here
was intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and
wonderful as he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and
stared at her with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win
to, to fight for - ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such
women in the world. She was one of them. She lent wings to his
imagination, and great, luminous canvases spread themselves before
him whereon loomed vague, gigantic figures of love and romance, and
of heroic deeds for woman's sake - for a pale woman, a flower of gold.
And through the swaying, palpitant vision, as through a fairy mirage,
he stared at the real woman, sitting there and talking of literature