一个小橱里放着他的衣服和搜集来的书籍——桌上桌下都放不下了。他在读书时养成了做笔记的习惯，笔记记得太多，若不是在屋里牵了几根洗衣绳把它们全挂了起来，在这有限的空间里他就会容身不下了。即使如此，屋里也太挤，“航行”起来太困难。不关柜橱门就打不开房门，反过来也一样。他无法从任何地方直线穿过屋子。从门口到床头得拐来拐去，很难在黑暗里通过而不碰到东西。在解决了门和门的矛盾之后，他得住右急转，绕开“厨房”。然后又得左拐以免碰上床脚。要是拐得过了分又会撞上桌子脚。等他匆匆一歪一蹶，不再拐弯，便得沿着“运河”再往右弯，“运河”的此岸是床，彼岸是桌子。若是屋里唯一的椅子放在了桌前平常的地点，“运河”航行就会受阻。椅子在不用的时候只好躺在床上，虽然做饭时他有时也坐椅子，一边让水开着一边读书；甚至炸着牛排也能巧妙地读上一两段。构成厨房的那个角落很小，需要什么东西他坐着也能伸手拿到。实际上，坐着做饭反倒方便；要是站着，倒常常会自己挡了自己的路。
他不但有一个无懈可击的胃，什么东西都能消化，而且知道各种既营养又便宜的食物。豌豆汤是他菜谱上的常见莱，还有土豆和蚕豆。蚕豆做成墨西哥口味，大大的，黄褐色。他桌上每天至少有一顿米饭，做法跟美国主妇大不相同，她们也永远学不会。干果要比鲜果便宜，他通常都有一罐，做得好好的，可以随时取用，用它代替黄油涂面包。有时他还买圈牛后腿肉，或是炖汤的骨头给饭桌增添光彩。他每天喝两次咖啡，不加奶油或牛奶，晚上喝代用品茶。咖啡和茶都沏得很美妙。
他需要节省。他的假期差不多花光了在洗衣房挣来的钱。而他距离他的“市场”又很远，他的那些下锅之作希望得到的最早的回音也需要几个礼拜。除了跟露丝见面和去看他姐姐格特露的时间之外，他都过着隐士般的生活，每天至少要完成平常人三天的工作。他只睡短短的五个小时。只有他那种结实得像钢铁一样的人才能有他那种耐力。他每天连续苦读十九个小时，天天如此。他一分一秒也不浪费。镜子上贴着几张发音和定义的单子，刮胡子、穿衣服。或是梳头时都可以默记。煤油炉上方的墙上也钉有类似的单子，做饭或洗碗时一样可以记。不断有新的单子替换旧的。读书时碰见的生词或是不全熟的词都立即记下，积累到一定的数目，就用打字机打出来钉在墙上或贴在镜子上。他甚至把单子塞在口袋里，上街时也抽空复习，在肉店杂货店等着买东西时也复习。
这还不够，他在读成功作家的作品时，总记下他们的每一个成默，分析出他们成功的窍门——叙述的窍门，表达的窍门，风格的窍门，他们的观点，对比手法和警句。把这一切列成单于，加以研究。他并不亦步亦趋，只追求其中的原理。他把有效的、动人的独特格调剂成年干，再把来自诸多作家的独特格调进行归纳，找出一般原则。像这样武装起来之后，他再去寻求自己的独特格调，要与众不同，要新颖出奇，再对它恰当地给以权衡、估量和评价。他也用同样的方法去搜集富有表现力的词语，从生动活泼的语言中出现的词语，能像酸那样咬人。像山那样烧火的词语，或是能在平常语言的荒漠中融融发光、醇厚甘美的词语。他总是寻求着躲在背后和底奥中的原则。他要求知道的是究竟怎么做，以求自己也能做。他不满足于美的漂亮外表。他在他那拥挤的小卧室兼实验室里解剖了美。那屋里炊事的气味跟屋外西尔伐家族疯人院式的吵闹交替出现。在解剖和懂得了美的结构之后，他距离能够创造美自身就近百一步。
只有懂了他才能做，那是他的天性。他不能在黑暗经盲目工作，不知道自己要创造什么，不能碰运气，不能相信自己人才的幸运之星能创造出可取的美好的东西。他对偶然的效果没有耐心。他要求知道原因和做法。他的天才是审慎的创造天才。在他汗始一篇小说或一首诗歌之前，那东西已经活跃在他脑子里。他看得见结尾，心里也明白通向结尾的路。否则那努力就注定了要白费。另一方面他又欣赏轻松自如地出现在他脑子里的字词句的偶然效果。这种效果以后能经得起美和力的种种考验，能产生无法描述的巨大的联想情趣。他可这种现象俯首低头，惊讶莫名。他知道那是任何人所无法有意追求到的。而且无论他为了寻求美的底蕴和使美得以实现的原理曾对美作过多少解剖分析，他也一向明白美的底奥是神秘的，他无法参透，也没有人曾经参透过。通过斯宾塞他懂得人不可能获得对于任何东西的终极知识，美的奥秘并不比生命的奥秘更容易参透——不，更难——美的素质限生命的素质是互相纠结的，他自己也不过是那无法理解的素质的一个部分，是由阳光、星尘和奇迹纠结成的。
事实上他正是在心里充满这种思想时写出了他那篇叫做《星尘》的论文的。在《星尘》里他批评的不是批评的原理而是主要的批评家。这论文精彩、深刻、富于哲理，妙语解颐，能令人哑然失笑。可它没出去历然立即被各家杂志拒绝了。不过在他把这事忘掉之后，又心平气和地前进了。他已养成了这样的习惯，一个问题经过反复思考，逐渐成熟，他便用打字机把它匆匆记下来，并不把没有发表当成多大回事。用打字机写出只是长期心灵活动的结束行为，是对分散的思路的归纳，是对压在心上的种种材料的总结，是一种故意的努力，以便解放心灵，接受新的材料，研究新的问题。那在一定程度上跟普通男女在受到真正的、或是想当然的委屈时候的习惯差不多，他们总要不时地打破长期的沉默，大发牢骚，“畅所欲言”，直到吐尽了苦水为止。
Chapter 24
The weeks passed. Martin ran out of money, and publishers' checks were far away as ever. All his important manuscripts had come back and been started out again, and his hack-work fared no better. His little kitchen was no longer graced with a variety of foods. Caught in the pinch with a part sack of rice and a few pounds of dried apricots, rice and apricots was his menu three times a day for five days hand-running. Then he startled to realize on his credit. The Portuguese grocer, to whom he had hitherto paid cash, called a halt when Martin's bill reached the magnificent total of three dollars and eighty-five cents.
"For you see," said the grocer, "you no catcha da work, I losa da mon'."
And Martin could reply nothing. There was no way of explaining. It was not true business principle to allow credit to a strong- bodied young fellow of the working-class who was too lazy to work.
"You catcha da job, I let you have mora da grub," the grocer assured Martin. "No job, no grub. Thata da business." And then, to show that it was purely business foresight and not prejudice, "Hava da drink on da house - good friends justa da same."
So Martin drank, in his easy way, to show that he was good friends with the house, and then went supperless to bed.
The fruit store, where Martin had bought his vegetables, was run by an American whose business principles were so weak that he let Martin run a bill of five dollars before stopping his credit. The baker stopped at two dollars, and the butcher at four dollars. Martin added his debts and found that he was possessed of a total credit in all the world of fourteen dollars and eighty-five cents. He was up with his type-writer rent, but he estimated that he could get two months' credit on that, which would be eight dollars. When that occurred, he would have exhausted all possible credit.
The last purchase from the fruit store had been a sack of potatoes, and for a week he had potatoes, and nothing but potatoes, three times a day. An occasional dinner at Ruth's helped to keep strength in his body, though he found it tantalizing enough to refuse further helping when his appetite was raging at sight of so much food spread before it. Now and again, though afflicted with secret shame, he dropped in at his sister's at meal-time and ate as much as he dared - more than he dared at the Morse table.
Day by day he worked on, and day by day the postman delivered to him rejected manuscripts. He had no money for stamps, so the manuscripts accumulated in a heap under the table. Came a day when for forty hours he had not tasted food. He could not hope for a meal at Ruth's, for she was away to San Rafael on a two weeks' visit; and for very shame's sake he could not go to his sister's. To cap misfortune, the postman, in his afternoon round, brought him five returned manuscripts. Then it was that Martin wore his overcoat down into Oakland, and came back without it, but with five dollars tinkling in his pocket. He paid a dollar each on account to the four tradesmen, and in his kitchen fried steak and onions, made coffee, and stewed a large pot of prunes. And having dined, he sat down at his table-desk and completed before midnight an essay which he entitled "The Dignity of Usury." Having typed it out, he flung it under the table, for there had been nothing left from the five dollars with which to buy stamps.
Later on he pawned his watch, and still later his wheel, reducing the amount available for food by putting stamps on all his manuscripts and sending them out. He was disappointed with his hack-work. Nobody cared to buy. He compared it with what he found in the newspapers, weeklies, and cheap magazines, and decided that his was better, far better, than the average; yet it would not sell. Then he discovered that most of the newspapers printed a great deal of what was called "plate" stuff, and he got the address of the association that furnished it. His own work that he sent in was returned, along with a stereotyped slip informing him that the staff supplied all the copy that was needed.
In one of the great juvenile periodicals he noted whole columns of incident and anecdote. Here was a chance. His paragraphs were returned, and though he tried repeatedly he never succeeded in placing one. Later on, when it no longer mattered, he learned that the associate editors and sub-editors augmented their salaries by supplying those paragraphs themselves. The comic weeklies returned his jokes and humorous verse, and the light society verse he wrote for the large magazines found no abiding-place. Then there was the newspaper storiette. He knew that he could write better ones than were published. Managing to obtain the addresses of two newspaper syndicates, he deluged them with storiettes. When he had written twenty and failed to place one of them, he ceased. And yet, from day to day, he read storiettes in the dailies and weeklies, scores and scores of storiettes, not one of which would compare with his. In his despondency, he concluded that he had no judgment whatever, that he was hypnotized by what he wrote, and that he was a self- deluded pretender.
The inhuman editorial machine ran smoothly as ever. He folded the stamps in with his manuscript, dropped it into the letter-box, and from three weeks to a month afterward the postman came up the steps and handed him the manuscript. Surely there were no live, warm editors at the other end. It was all wheels and cogs and oil-cups - a clever mechanism operated by automatons. He reached stages of despair wherein he doubted if editors existed at all. He had never received a sign of the existence of one, and from absence of judgment in rejecting all he wrote it seemed plausible that editors were myths, manufactured and maintained by office boys, typesetters, and pressmen.
The hours he spent with Ruth were the only happy ones he had, and they were not all happy. He was afflicted always with a gnawing restlessness, more tantalizing than in the old days before he possessed her love; for now that he did possess her love, the possession of her was far away as ever. He had asked for two years; time was flying, and he was achieving nothing. Again, he was always conscious of the fact that she did not approve what he was doing. She did not say so directly. Yet indirectly she let him understand it as clearly and definitely as she could have spoken it. It was not resentment with her, but disapproval; though less sweet-natured women might have resented where she was no more than disappointed. Her disappointment lay in that this man she had taken to mould, refused to be moulded. To a certain extent she had found his clay plastic, then it had developed stubbornness, declining to be shaped in the image of her father or of Mr. Butler.
What was great and strong in him, she missed, or, worse yet, misunderstood. This man, whose clay was so plastic that he could live in any number of pigeonholes of human existence, she thought wilful and most obstinate because she could not shape him to live in her pigeonhole, which was the only one she knew. She could not follow the flights of his mind, and when his brain got beyond her, she deemed him erratic. Nobody else's brain ever got beyond her. She could always follow her father and mother, her brothers and Olney; wherefore, when she could not follow Martin, she believed the fault lay with him. It was the old tragedy of insularity trying to serve as mentor to the universal.
"You worship at the shrine of the established," he told her once, in a discussion they had over Praps and Vanderwater. "I grant that as authorities to quote they are most excellent - the two foremost literary critics in the United States. Every school teacher in the land looks up to Vanderwater as the Dean of American criticism. Yet I read his stuff, and it seems to me the perfection of the felicitous expression of the inane. Why, he is no more than a ponderous bromide, thanks to Gelett Burgess. And Praps is no better. His 'Hemlock Mosses,' for instance is beautifully written. Not a comma is out of place; and the tone - ah! - is lofty, so lofty. He is the best-paid critic in the United States. Though, Heaven forbid! he's not a critic at all. They do criticism better in England.
"But the point is, they sound the popular note, and they sound it so beautifully and morally and contentedly. Their reviews remind me of a British Sunday. They are the popular mouthpieces. They back up your professors of English, and your professors of English back them up. And there isn't an original idea in any of their skulls. They know only the established, - in fact, they are the established. They are weak minded, and the established impresses itself upon them as easily as the name of the brewery is impressed on a beer bottle. And their function is to catch all the young fellows attending the university, to drive out of their minds any glimmering originality that may chance to be there, and to put upon them the stamp of the established."
"I think I am nearer the truth," she replied, "when I stand by the established, than you are, raging around like an iconoclastic South Sea Islander."
"It was the missionary who did the image breaking," he laughed. "And unfortunately, all the missionaries are off among the heathen, so there are none left at home to break those old images, Mr. Vanderwater and Mr. Praps."
"And the college professors, as well," she added.
He shook his head emphatically. "No; the science professors should live. They're really great. But it would be a good deed to break the heads of nine-tenths of the English professors - little, microscopic-minded parrots!"
Which was rather severe on the professors, but which to Ruth was blasphemy. She could not help but measure the professors, neat, scholarly, in fitting clothes, speaking in well-modulated voices, breathing of culture and refinement, with this almost indescribable young fellow whom somehow she loved, whose clothes never would fit him, whose heavy muscles told of damning toil, who grew excited when he talked, substituting abuse for calm statement and passionate utterance for cool self-possession. They at least earned good salaries and were - yes, she compelled herself to face it - were gentlemen; while he could not earn a penny, and he was not as they.
She did not weigh Martin's words nor judge his argument by them. Her conclusion that his argument was wrong was reached - unconsciously, it is true - by a comparison of externals. They, the professors, were right in their literary judgments because they were successes. Martin's literary judgments were wrong because he could not sell his wares. To use his own phrase, they made good, and he did not make good. And besides, it did not seem reasonable that he should be right - he who had stood, so short a time before, in that same living room, blushing and awkward, acknowledging his introduction, looking fearfully about him at the bric-a-brac his swinging shoulders threatened to break, asking how long since Swinburne died, and boastfully announcing that he had read "Excelsior" and the "Psalm of Life."
Unwittingly, Ruth herself proved his point that she worshipped the established. Martin followed the processes of her thoughts, but forbore to go farther. He did not love her for what she thought of Praps and Vanderwater and English professors, and he was coming to realize, with increasing conviction, that he possessed brain-areas and stretches of knowledge which she could never comprehend nor know existed.
In music she thought him unreasonable, and in the matter of opera not only unreasonable but wilfully perverse.
"How did you like it?" she asked him one night, on the way home from the opera.
It was a night when he had taken her at the expense of a month's rigid economizing on food. After vainly waiting for him to speak about it, herself still tremulous and stirred by what she had just seen and heard, she had asked the question.
"I liked the overture," was his answer. "It was splendid."
"Yes, but the opera itself?"
"That was splendid too; that is, the orchestra was, though I'd have enjoyed it more if those jumping-jacks had kept quiet or gone off the stage."
Ruth was aghast.
"You don't mean Tetralani or Barillo?" she queried.
"All of them - the whole kit and crew."
"But they are great artists," she protested.
"They spoiled the music just the same, with their antics and unrealities."
"But don't you like Barillo's voice?" Ruth asked. "He is next to Caruso, they say."
"Of course I liked him, and I liked Tetralani even better. Her voice is exquisite - or at least I think so."
