"Wiki-Wiki," his Hawaiian short story, was bought by WARREN'S MONTHLY for two hundred and fifty dollars. THE NORTHERN REVIEW took his essay, "The Cradle of Beauty," and MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE took "The Palmist" - the poem he had written to Marian. The editors and readers were back from their summer vacations, and manuscripts were being handled quickly. But Martin could not puzzle out what strange whim animated them to this general acceptance of the things they had persistently rejected for two years. Nothing of his had been published. He was not known anywhere outside of Oakland, and in Oakland, with the few who thought they knew him, he was notorious as a red-shirt and a socialist. So there was no explaining this sudden acceptability of his wares. It was sheer jugglery of fate.
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. When Martin asked for an advance on royalties, they wrote that such was not their custom, that books of that nature rarely paid for themselves, and that they doubted if his book would sell a thousand copies. Martin figured what the book would earn him on such a sale. Retailed at a dollar, on a royalty of fifteen per cent, it would bring him one hundred and fifty dollars. He decided that if he had it to do over again he would confine himself to fiction. "Adventure," one-fourth as long, had brought him twice as much from THE MILLENNIUM. That newspaper paragraph he had read so long ago had been true, after all. The first-class magazines did not pay on acceptance, and they paid well. Not two cents a word, but four cents a word, had THE MILLENNIUM paid him. And, furthermore, they bought good stuff, too, for were they not buying his? This last thought he accompanied with a grin.
He wrote to Singletree, Darnley & Co., offering to sell out his rights in "The Shame of the Sun" for a hundred dollars, but they did not care to take the risk. In the meantime he was not in need of money, for several of his later stories had been accepted and paid for. He actually opened a bank account, where, without a debt in the world, he had several hundred dollars to his credit. "Overdue," after having been declined by a number of magazines, came to rest at the Meredith-Lowell Company. Martin remembered the five dollars Gertrude had given him, and his resolve to return it to her a hundred times over; so he wrote for an advance on royalties of five hundred dollars. To his surprise a check for that amount, accompanied by a contract, came by return mail. He cashed the check into five-dollar gold pieces and telephoned Gertrude that he wanted to see her.
She arrived at the house panting and short of breath from the haste she had made. Apprehensive of trouble, she had stuffed the few dollars she possessed into her hand-satchel; and so sure was she that disaster had overtaken her brother, that she stumbled forward, sobbing, into his arms, at the same time thrusting the satchel mutely at him.
"I'd have come myself," he said. "But I didn't want a row with Mr. Higginbotham, and that is what would have surely happened."
"He'll be all right after a time," she assured him, while she wondered what the trouble was that Martin was in. "But you'd best get a job first an' steady down. Bernard does like to see a man at honest work. That stuff in the newspapers broke 'm all up. I never saw 'm so mad before."
"I'm not going to get a job," Martin said with a smile. "And you can tell him so from me. I don't need a job, and there's the proof of it."
He emptied the hundred gold pieces into her lap in a glinting, tinkling stream.
"You remember that fiver you gave me the time I didn't have carfare? Well, there it is, with ninety-nine brothers of different ages but all of the same size."
If Gertrude had been frightened when she arrived, she was now in a panic of fear. Her fear was such that it was certitude. She was not suspicious. She was convinced. She looked at Martin in horror, and her heavy limbs shrank under the golden stream as though it were burning her.
"It's yours," he laughed.
She burst into tears, and began to moan, "My poor boy, my poor boy!"
He was puzzled for a moment. Then he divined the cause of her agitation and handed her the Meredith-Lowell letter which had accompanied the check. She stumbled through it, pausing now and again to wipe her eyes, and when she had finished, said:-
"An' does it mean that you come by the money honestly?"
"More honestly than if I'd won it in a lottery. I earned it."
Slowly faith came back to her, and she reread the letter carefully. It took him long to explain to her the nature of the transaction which had put the money into his possession, and longer still to get her to understand that the money was really hers and that he did not need it.
"I'll put it in the bank for you," she said finally.
"You'll do nothing of the sort. It's yours, to do with as you please, and if you won't take it, I'll give it to Maria. She'll know what to do with it. I'd suggest, though, that you hire a servant and take a good long rest."
"I'm goin' to tell Bernard all about it," she announced, when she was leaving.
Martin winced, then grinned.
"Yes, do," he said. "And then, maybe, he'll invite me to dinner again."
"Yes, he will - I'm sure he will!" she exclaimed fervently, as she drew him to her and kissed and hugged him.
马丁酣睡了一夜，一动不动，直到送早班邮件的邮递员把他惊醒。他感到疲倦，没精打采，只漫无目的地翻着邮件。一家强盗杂志寄来了一个薄薄的信封，里面有一张二十二元的支票。他为这笔钱已经催讨了一年半。他注意到了那个数字，却无动于衷。以前那种发表作品收到支票时的激动已经没有了。这份支票不像以前的支票，其中再没有对远大前程的预告。在他眼里那只不过是二十二元钱的一张支票，可以买一点东西吃，如此而已。
同一批邮件里还有一张支票，是从纽约一家周刊寄来的，是一首幽默诗歌的稿酬，十块钱，几个月以前采用的。一个想法来到他心里，他心平气和地思考着。他不知道以后要做什么，也不急于做什么，但他却非活下去不可，何况他还欠了一大批债。若是把他堆积在桌子底下的那一大堆稿件全部贴上邮票，重新打发出去旅行，会不会得到什么回报呢？其中的一两篇说不定能够被采用，那就可以帮助他生活下去了。他决定作这笔投资。他到奥克兰兑现了支票，买了十块钱邮票。一想起回到那憋气的小屋去做饭吃他就气闷，于是第一次拒绝了考虑欠债的问题。他知道在屋里可以用一毛五到两毛钱做出一顿像样的早饭，但是他却进了论坛咖啡馆，叫了一份两元一客的早餐。他给了传者一个两毛五的硬币，又花了五毛钱买了一包埃及香烟。那是他在露丝要求他戒烟之后第一次抽烟，不过现在他已经找不出理由不抽了，何况他还很想抽。钱算得了什么？他用五分钱就可以买一包度浪牌烟叶和一些卷烟纸，自己卷四十支——可那又怎么样？此刻的钱，除了能够立即买到手的东西以外，对他已经毫无意义。他没有海图，没有船舵，也没有海港可去，而随波逐流意味着不用理会生活——生活只叫他痛苦。
日子一天天默默过去。他每天晚上照例睡八个小时。现在他在坐待更多支票寄来，只到日本料理去吃饭，一餐一毛钱。他消瘦的身子丰满起来了，凹陷的双颊平复了。他不再用短促的睡眠、过度的工作和刻苦的学习来折磨自己了。他什么都不写了，书本全关上了。他常常散步，长时间在山里、在平静的公园里溜达。他没有朋友，没有熟人，也不结交朋友——没有那种要求。他在等待某种冲动出现，好让他停了摆的生活重新启动。他不知道那启动力会从哪儿来；他的生活就一直那么沮丧、空虚、没有计划、无所事事。
有一次他到旧金山去了一趟，去看看那些“草芥之民”，但是在踏上楼梯口的最后一刻他退却了。他转过身子逃进了人烟稠密的犹太贫民区。他一想到听哲学讨论就头疼，他偷偷地溜走了，他生怕出现什么“草芥之民”认出他来。
他有时也读报纸和杂志，想看看《蜉蝣》遭到了什么样的虐待。那诗引起了轰动，可那是什么样的轰动呀！每个人都读了，每个人都在讨论它是否算得上真正的诗。地方报纸讨论了起来；每天都要发表一些渊博的专栏评述，吹毛求疵的社论，和订阅者们一本正经的来信。海伦·德拉·德尔玛（她是以花腔连天的喇叭和震天价响的鼓声被捧上了合众国最伟大的女诗人宝座的）拒绝在她的飞马背上给予布里森登一席之地。她给公众连篇累犊地写信，证明布里森登算不上持人。
《帕提农》在它的下一期为自己所引起的轰动而自鸣得意。它嘲弄约翰·伐流爵士，并用残酷的商业手段开发布里森登之死这个话题。一份自称发行量达到五十万份的报纸发表了海伦·德拉·德尔玛一首情不自禁的别具一格的诗。她挑布里森登的毛病，嘲笑他。然后还毫不内疚地发表了一首对布里森登的诗的讽刺性访作。
马丁曾多次庆幸布里森登已经死去。布里森登是那么仇恨群氓，而此刻他所有的最优秀最神圣的东西却被扔给了群氓，每天诗里的美都遭到宰割；这个国家的每一个蠢材都在借着布里森登的伟大所引起的热潮大写其文章，把自己枯萎渺小的身影硬塞进读者眼里。一家报纸说：“前不久我们收到一位先生寄来的信，他写了一首诗，很像布里森登，只是更加高明。”另一家报纸煞有介事地指责海伦·德拉·德尔玛不该写那首模拟诗，说：“不过德尔玛小姐写那首诗是带着嘲弄的心情，而不是带着伟大的诗人对别人——也许是最伟大的人——应有的尊重。不过，无论德尔玛小姐对创作了《蜉蝣》的人是否出于妒忌，她却肯定是被他的诗迷住了，像千百万读者一样；也许有一天她也会想写出像他那样的诗的。”
牧师们开始布道，反对《蜉蝣》，有一个牧师因为坚决维护那诗的内容，竟被以异端罪逐出了教会。那伟大的诗篇也给了人们笑料。俏皮诗和漫画作者发出尖利的笑声抓住了它，社会新闻周刊的人物专栏也拿那诗说笑话，大意是：查理·福雷山姆私下告诉阿齐·简宁斯，五行《蜉蝣》就足以让人去殴打残疾人，十行《蜉蝣》就可以让他跳河自杀。
马丁笑不出来，却也没有气得咬牙。此事在他身上的效果是无边的悲凉。他的整个世界都崩溃了，爱情在它的顶尖。和这一比，杂志王国和亲爱的读者群的崩溃的确不算得什么。布里森登对杂志世界的判断完全没有错；而他马丁却花了好多年艰苦的徒劳的努力才明白过来。杂志正是布里森登所说的样子，甚至更为严重。好了，他的歌已经唱完了，他安慰自己，他赶了自己的马车去追求一颗星星，却落进了疫病蒸腾的泥沼里。塔希提的幻觉——美妙的、一尘不染的塔希提——越来越频繁地出现在他心里。那儿有保莫图思那样的低矮的岛子，有马奎撒思那样的高峻的岛子，现在他常发现自己驾着做生意的大帆船或是脆弱的独桅快艇在黎明时分穿过帕皮提的环礁，开始远航，经过产珍珠的珊瑚礁，驶往努卡西瓦和泰欧黑，他知道塔马瑞会在那儿杀猪欢迎他，而塔马瑞的围着花环的女儿们会抓住他的手，欢笑着，唱着歌给他戴上花环。南海在召唤着他，他知道自己早晚是会响应召唤到那儿去的。
现在他过着随波逐流的生活。经历了在知识天他的长期磨难之后他休息着，恢复着健康。在《帕提农》那三百五十元寄给他之后，他把它转给了当地那位处理布里森登事务的律师，让他转给了他的家里。马丁得到了一张收到支票的收据，同时自己也写了一张他欠布里森登一百元的收据寄去。
不久以后马丁就停止上日本料理了。他放弃了战斗，却时来运转了，虽然来得太迟。他打开了一个《千年盛世》寄来的薄信封，看了看支票的三百元的票面，发现那是接受了《冒险》的报酬。他在世界上欠下的每一笔帐，包括高利贷的当铺债务，加在一起也不到一百元。他偿还了每一笔债，从布里森登的律师那儿赎回了那张借据，口袋里还剩下了一百多块钱。他在裁缝铺定做了一套衣服，在城里最好的餐厅用餐。他仍然在玛利亚家的小屋子里睡觉，但是那一身新衣服却使附近的孩子们停止了躲在柴房顶上或骑在后门栅栏上叫他“二流子”或“瘪三”了。
《华伦月刊》用二百五十块钱买了他的夏威夷短篇小说《威几威几》；《北方评论》采用了他的论文《美的摇篮》；《麦金托什杂志》采用了他为茉莉安写的诗《手相家》。编辑和读者都已经度完暑假回来，稿件的处理快了起来。但是马丁不明白他们害了什么怪病，突然一哄而上，采用起他们两年来一直拒绝的稿子来。那以前他什么东西都没有发表过；除了在奥克兰谁也不认识他，而在奥克兰认识他的人都把他看作赤色分子，社会主义者。他那些货品为什么突然有了销路，他无法解释。只能说是命运的播弄。
在他多次遭到杂志拒绝之后，他接受了过去不肯接受的布里森登的意见，开始让《太阳的耻辱》去拜访一家家的出版社。在受到几次拒绝之后，那稿子为欣格垂、达思利公司采用了，他们答应秋天出版那本书。马丁要求预支版税，对方回答他们无此成冽，像那种性质的书一般入不敷出，他们怀疑他的书是否能销到一千册。马丁便按这个标准估计了一下那书所能带给他的收入：若是一元钱一本，版税算一毛五，那么那书就能给他带来一百五十元。他决定若是再要写作他就只写小说。只有它四分之一长的《冒险》却从《千年盛世》得到了两倍的收入。他很久以前在报上读到的那一段话毕竟没有错：第一流的杂志的确是一经采用立即付酬的，而且稿酬从优。《千年盛世》给他的稿费不是每字两分，而是每字四分。而且还采用优秀的作品，这不就是么？他的作品就被采用了。这最后的念头一出现，他不禁笑了。
他给欣格垂、达恩利公司写了信，建议把他的《太阳的耻辱》以一百元卖断，可是他们不肯冒这个险。而此时他也不缺钱用，因为他晚期的几篇小说又已被采用，得到了稿酬。实际上他还开了一个银行户头，在那里他不仅不欠分文，而且有好几百元存款。《过期》在被几家杂志拒绝之后在梅瑞迪思一罗威尔公司落了脚。马丁还记得格特露给他的那五块钱和自己还她一百倍的决心。因此他写信要求预支五百元版税。出乎他意料之外，寄回了一张五百元的支票和一纸合同。他把支票全兑换成五元一个的金币，给格特露打电话，说要见她。
格特露来得匆忙，气喘吁吁地进了屋子。她担心又出了麻烦，已经把手边的几块钱塞进了提包。她一心以为她弟弟遭到了灾难，一见他便跌跌撞撞扑到他的怀里，泪流满面，一言不发把提包塞进弟弟手里。
“我本想自己去的，”他说，“但是我怕跟希金波坦先生闹得不愉快——肯定是会干起来的。”
“过些日子他就会好的，”她向他保证，同时在猜测着马丁出了什么事。“但是你最好还是找个工作，安定下来。伯纳德喜欢看见别人规规矩矩地干活。报上那些东西叫他受不了，我以前还没有见过他发那么大的脾气。”
“我不打算找工作，”马丁笑嘻嘻地说，“你可以把我这话转告给他，我并不需要工作，这就是证明。”他把那一百枚金币倒进了格特露的裙兜里，金币闪闪发亮，发出叮叮当当的脆响。
“你还记得我没有车费时你给我的那五块钱么？喏，这就是那五块，带上了九十九个弟兄，年龄不同，大小可一样。”
如果说格特露到来时心里害怕的话，此刻她已是胆战心惊，不知所措了。她从担心变成了确信，她没有怀疑，她相信自己。她满脸恐怖地望着马丁，沉重的两腿在金币的重负下软瘫了，好像遭到了火烧。
“这钱是你的了，”他笑了起来。
她大哭起来，开始嚎叫：“我可怜的弟弟，我可怜的弟弟。”
马丁一时很觉莫名其妙，然后明白了她难过的原因，便把梅瑞迪思一罗威尔公司防支票寄来的信递给了她。她磕磕绊绊读着信，不时停下来抹眼泪，读完说道：
“这是不是说你这钱来得正当呢？”
“比中彩票还正当，是挣来的。”
信任慢慢回到她心里，她又把信仔仔细细读了一次。马万花了不少功夫才向她解释清楚使他获得那收入的是一笔什么性质的交易，又花了更多的功夫才让她明白了那钱真是她的——他不需要钱。
“我给你存在银行里，”最后她说。
“你别那么做，这钱是你的，你想怎么花就怎么花，你要是不收我就给茉莉安了，她会知道怎么花的。我倒是建议你请一个用人，好好作一个长时间的休息。”
“我要把这一切都告诉伯纳德，”她临走时宣布。
马丁眨了眨眼，笑了。
“好的，告诉他，”他说，“那时候他也许又会请我去吃饭的。”
“对，他会的，我相信他会的。”她热情地叫了起来，把他拉到身边，亲他，拥抱他。
Chapter 42
One day Martin became aware that he was lonely. He was healthy and strong, and had nothing to do. The cessation from writing and studying, the death of Brissenden, and the estrangement from Ruth had made a big hole in his life; and his life refused to be pinned down to good living in cafes and the smoking of Egyptian cigarettes. It was true the South Seas were calling to him, but he had a feeling that the game was not yet played out in the United States. Two books were soon to be published, and he had more books that might find publication. Money could be made out of them, and he would wait and take a sackful of it into the South Seas. He knew a valley and a bay in the Marquesas that he could buy for a thousand Chili dollars. The valley ran from the horseshoe, land- locked bay to the tops of the dizzy, cloud-capped peaks and contained perhaps ten thousand acres. It was filled with tropical fruits, wild chickens, and wild pigs, with an occasional herd of wild cattle, while high up among the peaks were herds of wild goats harried by packs of wild dogs. The whole place was wild. Not a human lived in it. And he could buy it and the bay for a thousand Chili dollars.
The bay, as he remembered it, was magnificent, with water deep enough to accommodate the largest vessel afloat, and so safe that the South Pacific Directory recommended it to the best careening place for ships for hundreds of miles around. He would buy a schooner - one of those yacht-like, coppered crafts that sailed like witches - and go trading copra and pearling among the islands. He would make the valley and the bay his headquarters. He would build a patriarchal grass house like Tati's, and have it and the valley and the schooner filled with dark-skinned servitors. He would entertain there the factor of Taiohae, captains of wandering traders, and all the best of the South Pacific riffraff. He would keep open house and entertain like a prince. And he would forget the books he had opened and the world that had proved an illusion.
To do all this he must wait in California to fill the sack with money. Already it was beginning to flow in. If one of the books made a strike, it might enable him to sell the whole heap of manuscripts. Also he could collect the stories and the poems into books, and make sure of the valley and the bay and the schooner. He would never write again. Upon that he was resolved. But in the meantime, awaiting the publication of the books, he must do something more than live dazed and stupid in the sort of uncaring trance into which he had fallen.
He noted, one Sunday morning, that the Bricklayers' Picnic took place that day at Shell Mound Park, and to Shell Mound Park he went. He had been to the working-class picnics too often in his earlier life not to know what they were like, and as he entered the park he experienced a recrudescence of all the old sensations. After all, they were his kind, these working people. He had been born among them, he had lived among them, and though he had strayed for a time, it was well to come back among them.
"If it ain't Mart!" he heard some one say, and the next moment a hearty hand was on his shoulder. "Where you ben all the time? Off to sea? Come on an' have a drink."
It was the old crowd in which he found himself - the old crowd, with here and there a gap, and here and there a new face. The fellows were not bricklayers, but, as in the old days, they attended all Sunday picnics for the dancing, and the fighting, and the fun. Martin drank with them, and began to feel really human once more. He was a fool to have ever left them, he thought; and he was very certain that his sum of happiness would have been greater had he remained with them and let alone the books and the people who sat in the high places. Yet the beer seemed not so good as of yore. It didn't taste as it used to taste. Brissenden had spoiled him for steam beer, he concluded, and wondered if, after all, the books had spoiled him for companionship with these friends of his youth. He resolved that he would not be so spoiled, and he went on to the dancing pavilion. Jimmy, the plumber, he met there, in the company of a tall, blond girl who promptly forsook him for Martin.
"Gee, it's like old times," Jimmy explained to the gang that gave him the laugh as Martin and the blonde whirled away in a waltz. "An' I don't give a rap. I'm too damned glad to see 'm back. Watch 'm waltz, eh? It's like silk. Who'd blame any girl?"
But Martin restored the blonde to Jimmy, and the three of them, with half a dozen friends, watched the revolving couples and laughed and joked with one another. Everybody was glad to see Martin back. No book of his been published; he carried no fictitious value in their eyes. They liked him for himself. He felt like a prince returned from excile, and his lonely heart burgeoned in the geniality in which it bathed. He made a mad day of it, and was at his best. Also, he had money in his pockets, and, as in the old days when he returned from sea with a pay-day, he made the money fly.
