Martin Eden by Jack London

through the sky. It banished sordid fact, flooded his mind with

beauty, loosed romance and to its heels added wings. He did not

understand the music she played. It was different from the dance-

hall piano-banging and blatant brass bands he had heard. But he

had caught hints of such music from the books, and he accepted her

playing largely on faith, patiently waiting, at first, for the

lifting measures of pronounced and simple rhythm, puzzled because

those measures were not long continued. Just as he caught the

swing of them and started, his imagination attuned in flight,

always they vanished away in a chaotic scramble of sounds that was

meaningless to him, and that dropped his imagination, an inert

weight, back to earth.

Once, it entered his mind that there was a deliberate rebuff in all

this. He caught her spirit of antagonism and strove to divine the

message that her hands pronounced upon the keys. Then he dismissed

the thought as unworthy and impossible, and yielded himself more

freely to the music. The old delightful condition began to be

induced. His feet were no longer clay, and his flesh became

spirit; before his eyes and behind his eyes shone a great glory;

and then the scene before him vanished and he was away, rocking

over the world that was to him a very dear world. The known and

the unknown were commingled in the dream-pageant that thronged his

vision. He entered strange ports of sun-washed lands, and trod

market-places among barbaric peoples that no man had ever seen.

The scent of the spice islands was in his nostrils as he had known

it on warm, breathless nights at sea, or he beat up against the

southeast trades through long tropic days, sinking palm-tufted

coral islets in the turquoise sea behind and lifting palm-tufted

coral islets in the turquoise sea ahead. Swift as thought the

pictures came and went. One instant he was astride a broncho and

flying through the fairy-colored Painted Desert country; the next

instant he was gazing down through shimmering heat into the whited

sepulchre of Death Valley, or pulling an oar on a freezing ocean

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where great ice islands towered and glistened in the sun. He lay

on a coral beach where the cocoanuts grew down to the mellow-

sounding surf. The hulk of an ancient wreck burned with blue

fires, in the light of which danced the HULA dancers to the

barbaric love-calls of the singers, who chanted to tinkling

UKULELES and rumbling tom-toms. It was a sensuous, tropic night.

In the background a volcano crater was silhouetted against the

stars. Overhead drifted a pale crescent moon, and the Southern

Cross burned low in the sky.

He was a harp; all life that he had known and that was his

consciousness was the strings; and the flood of music was a wind

that poured against those strings and set them vibrating with

memories and dreams. He did not merely feel. Sensation invested

itself in form and color and radiance, and what his imagination

dared, it objectified in some sublimated and magic way. Past,

present, and future mingled; and he went on oscillating across the

broad, warm world, through high adventure and noble deeds to Her –

ay, and with her, winning her, his arm about her, and carrying her

on in flight through the empery of his mind.

And she, glancing at him across her shoulder, saw something of all

this in his face. It was a transfigured face, with great shining

eyes that gazed beyond the veil of sound and saw behind it the leap

and pulse of life and the gigantic phantoms of the spirit. She was

startled. The raw, stumbling lout was gone. The ill-fitting

clothes, battered hands, and sunburned face remained; but these

seemed the prison-bars through which she saw a great soul looking

forth, inarticulate and dumb because of those feeble lips that

would not give it speech. Only for a flashing moment did she see

this, then she saw the lout returned, and she laughed at the whim

of her fancy. But the impression of that fleeting glimpse

lingered, and when the time came for him to beat a stumbling

retreat and go, she lent him the volume of Swinburne, and another

of Browning – she was studying Browning in one of her English

courses. He seemed such a boy, as he stood blushing and stammering

his thanks, that a wave of pity, maternal in its prompting, welled

up in her. She did not remember the lout, nor the imprisoned soul,

nor the man who had stared at her in all masculineness and

delighted and frightened her. She saw before her only a boy, who

was shaking her hand with a hand so calloused that it felt like a

nutmeg-grater and rasped her skin, and who was saying jerkily:-

“The greatest time of my life. You see, I ain’t used to things. .

. ” He looked about him helplessly. “To people and houses like

this. It’s all new to me, and I like it.”

“I hope you’ll call again,” she said, as he was saying good night

to her brothers.

He pulled on his cap, lurched desperately through the doorway, and

was gone.

“Well, what do you think of him?” Arthur demanded.

“He is most interesting, a whiff of ozone,” she answered. “How old

is he?”

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“Twenty – almost twenty-one. I asked him this afternoon. I didn’t

think he was that young.”

And I am three years older, was the thought in her mind as she

kissed her brothers goodnight.

CHAPTER III

As Martin Eden went down the steps, his hand dropped into his coat

pocket. It came out with a brown rice paper and a pinch of Mexican

tobacco, which were deftly rolled together into a cigarette. He

drew the first whiff of smoke deep into his lungs and expelled it

in a long and lingering exhalation. “By God!” he said aloud, in a

voice of awe and wonder. “By God!” he repeated. And yet again he

murmured, “By God!” Then his hand went to his collar, which he

ripped out of the shirt and stuffed into his pocket. A cold

drizzle was falling, but he bared his head to it and unbuttoned his

vest, swinging along in splendid unconcern. He was only dimly

aware that it was raining. He was in an ecstasy, dreaming dreams

and reconstructing the scenes just past.

He had met the woman at last – the woman that he had thought little

about, not being given to thinking about women, but whom he had

expected, in a remote way, he would sometime meet. He had sat next

to her at table. He had felt her hand in his, he had looked into

her eyes and caught a vision of a beautiful spirit; – but no more

beautiful than the eyes through which it shone, nor than the flesh

that gave it expression and form. He did not think of her flesh as

flesh, – which was new to him; for of the women he had known that

was the only way he thought. Her flesh was somehow different. He

did not conceive of her body as a body, subject to the ills and

frailties of bodies. Her body was more than the garb of her

spirit. It was an emanation of her spirit, a pure and gracious

crystallization of her divine essence. This feeling of the divine

startled him. It shocked him from his dreams to sober thought. No

word, no clew, no hint, of the divine had ever reached him before.

He had never believed in the divine. He had always been

irreligious, scoffing good-naturedly at the sky-pilots and their

immortality of the soul. There was no life beyond, he had

contended; it was here and now, then darkness everlasting. But

what he had seen in her eyes was soul – immortal soul that could

never die. No man he had known, nor any woman, had given him the

message of immortality. But she had. She had whispered it to him

the first moment she looked at him. Her face shimmered before his

eyes as he walked along, – pale and serious, sweet and sensitive,

smiling with pity and tenderness as only a spirit could smile, and

pure as he had never dreamed purity could be. Her purity smote him

like a blow. It startled him. He had known good and bad; but

purity, as an attribute of existence, had never entered his mind.

And now, in her, he conceived purity to be the superlative of

goodness and of cleanness, the sum of which constituted eternal

life.

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And promptly urged his ambition to grasp at eternal life. He was

not fit to carry water for her – he knew that; it was a miracle of

luck and a fantastic stroke that had enabled him to see her and be

with her and talk with her that night. It was accidental. There

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