马丁苦笑了一下，接受了邀请，同时也为自己的心安理很感到奇怪。晚宴上有六七个高层人物和他们的女眷。马丁发现自己成了个大红人。布朗特法官私下劝他允许把他的名字列入思提克司俱乐部，这建议得到汉威尔法官的热烈支持。思提克司俱乐部是个非常挑剔的俱乐部，参加的人不但要广有资财，而且要成就卓越。马丁婉言谢绝了，却比任何时候都想不通了。
他忙着处理他那一大堆旧稿。编辑们的稿约使他穷于应付。有人发现他原来是个风格作家，他的风格之中大有文章。《北方评论》在发表了他的《美的摇篮》之后给他写信，要他写半打类似的论文，他正想拿他旧稿堆里的东西去应付时，《伯顿杂志》早抱着投机的态度约过他五篇稿子，每篇五百元。他回信说他可以满足要求，但每篇得要一千元。他记得所有这些稿子都曾为现在吵着要稿子的杂志所拒绝，而且都拒绝得冷酷，机械，官样文章。他们曾经叫他流汗，他也要叫他们流点汗才行。伯顿杂志按照他的价格接受了他的五篇文章，剩下的四篇被《麦金托什月刊》以同样的稿酬抢了去。《奇迹的大祭司》、《奇迹梦想者》、《自我的尺度》、《幻觉的哲学》、《艺术与生物学》、《上帝与土块》、《批评家与试管》、《星尘》和《高利贷的尊严》就是这样与读者见了面的。这些作品引起了风暴、轰动和抱怨，多少日子才平息下来。
编辑们给他写信，让他提出大纲。他提出了大纲，但都是按已写成的作品提的。他坚决拒绝答应写任何新作品。一想到提笔写作他就生气。他曾眼见布里森登被群众撕扯成了碎片。尽管他现在受到欢呼，心里仍有余悸，对群氓仍尊重不起来。他的名声似乎是一种耻辱，是对布里森登的背叛。它叫他想撤离，但他决心继续下去，好把钱袋装满。
他接到的编辑们的来信大体都是这样：“约在一年前本刊曾不幸婉绝先生惠寄之爱情诗集，同人等当时虽有深刻印象，却碍于已有安排，忍痛割爱。目前该稿如仍在先生手中，且愿赏光惠寄，我刊将乐于按先生条件全部发表，并以最优厚稿酬将该稿作诗集出版。”
马丁想起了他的素体诗悲剧，便把它寄去充数。寄出之前他再读了一遍，那剧本的幼稚、浅薄和业余味儿给了他特别深的印象，可他仍然寄了出去。出版之后那编辑后悔了一辈子。读者们义愤填膺，不肯相信，认为那距离马丁的高妙水平太远，不是他的作品，而是那杂志拙劣的仿作，再不然就是马丁·伊登学大仲马，在成功的高峰期请枪手代庖的。但是当马丁解释说那是他写作幼年期的作品、而那家杂志得不到作品总不罢休时，读者便哈哈大笑。那杂志大吃其亏，编辑因而撤职。那悲剧再没有出单行本，虽然马丁已把预支的版税装进了腰包。
《科尔曼周刊》花了差不多三百元给马丁拍来了一封很长的电报，提出要他二十篇稿子，每篇一千元。要他由杂志支付全部费用游历全美，选择任何他乐意的题目写文章。电报的主要内容是提供假定的话题，用以表示他选择题材范围之广泛自由。唯一限制是旅行只在美国国内。马丁拍了电报去表示难以从命，并表示了歉意，电报由收方付费。
《华伦月刊》刊登的《威几威几》立即取得了成功。那书每一页的四边都留了宽阔的空白，还有精美的装饰，在度假期间很走红，像野火一样迅速销售。评论家们一致相信该书将与两个伟大的作家的两本经典著作《瓶中妖魔》和《驴皮记》并驾齐驱。
不过，读者对《欢乐的轻烟》的反应却颇为冷淡，且态度暧昧，因为那些小小说的大胆和反传统精神震撼了资产阶级的道德和偏见；但该书的法文译本随即风靡了巴黎，这时英美两国的读者才又跟了上去，销售量之大，使得马丁在销售他的第三本书时逼迫那谨慎保守的欣格垂、达恩利公司给了他两毛五分的版税，第四本书则要了足足三角。后两部书由他已经写成的全部小说编集而成。那些小说都已经连载过，或正在连载。《钟声激越》和他的恐怖小说集成了一集，另外一集则包括了《冒险》、《罐子》、《生命之酒》、《漩涡》、《扰攘的街道》和其他四个短篇小说。海瑞迪思-罗威尔公司抢走了他的全部论文，马克西米连公司得到了他的《海上抒情诗》和《爱情组诗》，后者还在《女土家庭伴侣》上连载，获得了极优厚的稿酬。
马丁处理完了所有的文稿，长吁了一口气，他如释重负。干草打墙的堡垒和铜皮裹的白色大帆船距离他已经很近了。是的，他无论如何已经明白了布里森登所坚持争辩的道理：有价值的东西进不了杂志。但他的成功却又证明了布里森登的错误。不过说到底他又隐约觉得市里森登也未必错。以书本形式出版的《太阳的耻辱》对他的成功所起的作用要比其他作品大得多，其他作品的作用其实很次要，它们都曾四处碰壁，多次被杂志所拒绝和抛弃。《太阳的耻辱》的出版引起了一场争论，一场于他有利的山崩地裂。没有《太阳的耻辱》就没有山崩地裂。没有《太阳的耻辱》轰动性的畅销，也就没有随后而来的其他的山崩地裂。欣格垂、达恩利公司便是这奇迹的明证。因为担心不好销售，他们第一版只印了一千五百本——他们都是经验丰富的出版人。可随之而来的成功却使他们比谁都更加目瞪口呆。对他们说来那确实是个奇迹，而且他们的奇迹感一直没有消失，他们给他的每一封信都表示对那神秘的初次成功肃然起敬。他们没有设法去解释，事情就是那样发生了，跟他们一切的经验恰好相反。
马丁这样一推理，便怀疑起自己这鼎鼎大名之获得是否应当了。其实，买了他的书，把金币倒进他的钱口袋的就是资产阶级。从他对资产阶级那一点点理解看来，他总是纳闷：他们怎么可能欣赏或是理解他的东西？对于向他欢呼、买他的书的千千万万读者说来，他内在的美与力是没有意义的。那只是他们一时心血来潮而已；他不过是个冒险家，趁着诸神打盹的时候冲上了帕纳萨斯山而已。千千万万的读者读他的书，却带着畜生般的理解向他欢呼，他们跟外向布里森登的《蜉蝣》并把它扯成碎片的是同样的群氓——群狼，只不过他们没有向他露出獠牙，而是向他讨好。獠牙或讨好都出于偶然。有一件事他确信无疑：《蜉蝣》比他的一切的作品都不知道高明多少倍，比他心里所有的一切都不知道高明多少倍。它是一首能彪炳若干世纪的佳作。那么那群氓对他的礼赞也就只能令人遗憾了，因为把布里森登的《蜉蝣》拱到了烂泥里的也是那同样的群氓。他沉重地也满意地叹了一口气。他最后的一篇稿子都已经卖掉，他感到高兴，他马上就要跟这一切断绝关系了。
Chapter 44
Mr. Morse met Martin in the office of the Hotel Metropole. Whether he had happened there just casually, intent on other affairs, or whether he had come there for the direct purpose of inviting him to dinner, Martin never could quite make up his mind, though he inclined toward the second hypothesis. At any rate, invited to dinner he was by Mr. Morse - Ruth's father, who had forbidden him the house and broken off the engagement.
Martin was not angry. He was not even on his dignity. He tolerated Mr. Morse, wondering the while how it felt to eat such humble pie. He did not decline the invitation. Instead, he put it off with vagueness and indefiniteness and inquired after the family, particularly after Mrs. Morse and Ruth. He spoke her name without hesitancy, naturally, though secretly surprised that he had had no inward quiver, no old, familiar increase of pulse and warm surge of blood.
He had many invitations to dinner, some of which he accepted. Persons got themselves introduced to him in order to invite him to dinner. And he went on puzzling over the little thing that was becoming a great thing. Bernard Higginbotham invited him to dinner. He puzzled the harder. He remembered the days of his desperate starvation when no one invited him to dinner. That was the time he needed dinners, and went weak and faint for lack of them and lost weight from sheer famine. That was the paradox of it. When he wanted dinners, no one gave them to him, and now that he could buy a hundred thousand dinners and was losing his appetite, dinners were thrust upon him right and left. But why? There was no justice in it, no merit on his part. He was no different. All the work he had done was even at that time work performed. Mr. and Mrs. Morse had condemned him for an idler and a shirk and through Ruth had urged that he take a clerk's position in an office. Furthermore, they had been aware of his work performed. Manuscript after manuscript of his had been turned over to them by Ruth. They had read them. It was the very same work that had put his name in all the papers, and, it was his name being in all the papers that led them to invite him.
One thing was certain: the Morses had not cared to have him for himself or for his work. Therefore they could not want him now for himself or for his work, but for the fame that was his, because he was somebody amongst men, and - why not? - because he had a hundred thousand dollars or so. That was the way bourgeois society valued a man, and who was he to expect it otherwise? But he was proud. He disdained such valuation. He desired to be valued for himself, or for his work, which, after all, was an expression of himself. That was the way Lizzie valued him. The work, with her, did not even count. She valued him, himself. That was the way Jimmy, the plumber, and all the old gang valued him. That had been proved often enough in the days when he ran with them; it had been proved that Sunday at Shell Mound Park. His work could go hang. What they liked, and were willing to scrap for, was just Mart Eden, one of the bunch and a pretty good guy.
Then there was Ruth. She had liked him for himself, that was indisputable. And yet, much as she had liked him she had liked the bourgeois standard of valuation more. She had opposed his writing, and principally, it seemed to him, because it did not earn money. That had been her criticism of his "Love-cycle." She, too, had urged him to get a job. It was true, she refined it to "position," but it meant the same thing, and in his own mind the old nomenclature stuck. He had read her all that he wrote - poems, stories, essays - "Wiki-Wiki," "The Shame of the Sun," everything. And she had always and consistently urged him to get a job, to go to work - good God! - as if he hadn't been working, robbing sleep, exhausting life, in order to be worthy of her.
So the little thing grew bigger. He was healthy and normal, ate regularly, slept long hours, and yet the growing little thing was becoming an obsession. WORK PERFORMED. The phrase haunted his brain. He sat opposite Bernard Higginbotham at a heavy Sunday dinner over Higginbotham's Cash Store, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from shouting out:-
"It was work performed! And now you feed me, when then you let me starve, forbade me your house, and damned me because I wouldn't get a job. And the work was already done, all done. And now, when I speak, you check the thought unuttered on your lips and hang on my lips and pay respectful attention to whatever I choose to say. I tell you your party is rotten and filled with grafters, and instead of flying into a rage you hum and haw and admit there is a great deal in what I say. And why? Because I'm famous; because I've a lot of money. Not because I'm Martin Eden, a pretty good fellow and not particularly a fool. I could tell you the moon is made of green cheese and you would subscribe to the notion, at least you would not repudiate it, because I've got dollars, mountains of them. And it was all done long ago; it was work performed, I tell you, when you spat upon me as the dirt under your feet."
But Martin did not shout out. The thought gnawed in his brain, an unceasing torment, while he smiled and succeeded in being tolerant. As he grew silent, Bernard Higginbotham got the reins and did the talking. He was a success himself, and proud of it. He was self- made. No one had helped him. He owed no man. He was fulfilling his duty as a citizen and bringing up a large family. And there was Higginbotham's Cash Store, that monument of his own industry and ability. He loved Higginbotham's Cash Store as some men loved their wives. He opened up his heart to Martin, showed with what keenness and with what enormous planning he had made the store. And he had plans for it, ambitious plans. The neighborhood was growing up fast. The store was really too small. If he had more room, he would be able to put in a score of labor-saving and money- saving improvements. And he would do it yet. He was straining every effort for the day when he could buy the adjoining lot and put up another two-story frame building. The upstairs he could rent, and the whole ground-floor of both buildings would be Higginbotham's Cash Store. His eyes glistened when he spoke of the new sign that would stretch clear across both buildings.
Martin forgot to listen. The refrain of "Work performed," in his own brain, was drowning the other's clatter. The refrain maddened him, and he tried to escape from it.
"How much did you say it would cost?" he asked suddenly.
His brother-in-law paused in the middle of an expatiation on the business opportunities of the neighborhood. He hadn't said how much it would cost. But he knew. He had figured it out a score of times.
"At the way lumber is now," he said, "four thousand could do it."
"Including the sign?"
"I didn't count on that. It'd just have to come, onc't the buildin' was there."
"And the ground?"
"Three thousand more."
He leaned forward, licking his lips, nervously spreading and closing his fingers, while he watched Martin write a check. When it was passed over to him, he glanced at the amount-seven thousand dollars.
"I - I can't afford to pay more than six per cent," he said huskily.
Martin wanted to laugh, but, instead, demanded:-
"How much would that be?"
"Lemme see. Six per cent - six times seven - four hundred an' twenty."
"That would be thirty-five dollars a month, wouldn't it?"
Higginbotham nodded.
"Then, if you've no objection, well arrange it this way." Martin glanced at Gertrude. "You can have the principal to keep for yourself, if you'll use the thirty-five dollars a month for cooking and washing and scrubbing. The seven thousand is yours if you'll guarantee that Gertrude does no more drudgery. Is it a go?"
Mr. Higginbotham swallowed hard. That his wife should do no more housework was an affront to his thrifty soul. The magnificent present was the coating of a pill, a bitter pill. That his wife should not work! It gagged him.
"All right, then," Martin said. "I'll pay the thirty-five a month, and - "
He reached across the table for the check. But Bernard Higginbotham got his hand on it first, crying:
"I accept! I accept!"
When Martin got on the electric car, he was very sick and tired. He looked up at the assertive sign.
"The swine," he groaned. "The swine, the swine."
When MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE published "The Palmist," featuring it with decorations by Berthier and with two pictures by Wenn, Hermann von Schmidt forgot that he had called the verses obscene. He announced that his wife had inspired the poem, saw to it that the news reached the ears of a reporter, and submitted to an interview by a staff writer who was accompanied by a staff photographer and a staff artist. The result was a full page in a Sunday supplement, filled with photographs and idealized drawings of Marian, with many intimate details of Martin Eden and his family, and with the full text of "The Palmist" in large type, and republished by special permission of MACKINTOSH'S MAGAZINE. It caused quite a stir in the neighborhood, and good housewives were proud to have the acquaintances of the great writer's sister, while those who had not made haste to cultivate it. Hermann von Schmidt chuckled in his little repair shop and decided to order a new lathe. "Better than advertising," he told Marian, "and it costs nothing."
"We'd better have him to dinner," she suggested.
And to dinner Martin came, making himself agreeable with the fat wholesale butcher and his fatter wife - important folk, they, likely to be of use to a rising young man like Hermann Yon Schmidt. No less a bait, however, had been required to draw them to his house than his great brother-in-law. Another man at table who had swallowed the same bait was the superintendent of the Pacific Coast agencies for the Asa Bicycle Company. Him Von Schmidt desired to please and propitiate because from him could be obtained the Oakland agency for the bicycle. So Hermann von Schmidt found it a goodly asset to have Martin for a brother-in-law, but in his heart of hearts he couldn't understand where it all came in. In the silent watches of the night, while his wife slept, he had floundered through Martin's books and poems, and decided that the world was a fool to buy them.
And in his heart of hearts Martin understood the situation only too well, as he leaned back and gloated at Von Schmidt's head, in fancy punching it well-nigh off of him, sending blow after blow home just right - the chuckle-headed Dutchman! One thing he did like about him, however. Poor as he was, and determined to rise as he was, he nevertheless hired one servant to take the heavy work off of Marian's hands. Martin talked with the superintendent of the Asa agencies, and after dinner he drew him aside with Hermann, whom he backed financially for the best bicycle store with fittings in Oakland. He went further, and in a private talk with Hermann told him to keep his eyes open for an automobile agency and garage, for there was no reason that he should not be able to run both establishments successfully.
With tears in her eyes and her arms around his neck, Marian, at parting, told Martin how much she loved him and always had loved him. It was true, there was a perceptible halt midway in her assertion, which she glossed over with more tears and kisses and incoherent stammerings, and which Martin inferred to be her appeal for forgiveness for the time she had lacked faith in him and insisted on his getting a job.
"He can't never keep his money, that's sure," Hermann von Schmidt confided to his wife. "He got mad when I spoke of interest, an' he said damn the principal and if I mentioned it again, he'd punch my Dutch head off. That's what he said - my Dutch head. But he's all right, even if he ain't no business man. He's given me my chance, an' he's all right."
Invitations to dinner poured in on Martin; and the more they poured, the more he puzzled. He sat, the guest of honor, at an Arden Club banquet, with men of note whom he had heard about and read about all his life; and they told him how, when they had read "The Ring of Bells" in the TRANSCONTINENTAL, and "The Peri and the Pearl" in THE HORNET, they had immediately picked him for a winner. My God! and I was hungry and in rags, he thought to himself. Why didn't you give me a dinner then? Then was the time. It was work performed. If you are feeding me now for work performed, why did you not feed me then when I needed it? Not one word in "The Ring of Bells," nor in "The Peri and the Pearl" has been changed. No; you're not feeding me now for work performed. You are feeding me because everybody else is feeding me and because it is an honor to feed me. You are feeding me now because you are herd animals; because you are part of the mob; because the one blind, automatic thought in the mob-mind just now is to feed me. And where does Martin Eden and the work Martin Eden performed come in in all this? he asked himself plaintively, then arose to respond cleverly and wittily to a clever and witty toast.
