closed eyes, and did not think at all, while the daze or stupor
slowly welled up, saturating his consciousness. Half in delirium,
he began muttering aloud the lines of an anonymous poem Brissenden
had been fond of quoting to him. Maria, listening anxiously
outside his door, was perturbed by his monotonous utterance. The
words in themselves were not significant to her, but the fact that
he was saying them was. “I have done,” was the burden of the poem.
“‘I have done –
Put by the lute.
Song and singing soon are over
As the airy shades that hover
In among the purple clover.
I have done –
Put by the lute.
Once I sang as early thrushes
Sing among the dewy bushes;
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Now I’m mute.
I am like a weary linnet,
For my throat has no song in it;
I have had my singing minute.
I have done.
Put by the lute.'”
Maria could stand it no longer, and hurried away to the stove,
where she filled a quart-bowl with soup, putting into it the lion’s
share of chopped meat and vegetables which her ladle scraped from
the bottom of the pot. Martin roused himself and sat up and began
to eat, between spoonfuls reassuring Maria that he had not been
talking in his sleep and that he did not have any fever.
After she left him he sat drearily, with drooping shoulders, on the
edge of the bed, gazing about him with lack-lustre eyes that saw
nothing until the torn wrapper of a magazine, which had come in the
morning’s mail and which lay unopened, shot a gleam of light into
his darkened brain. It is THE PARTHENON, he thought, the August
PARTHENON, and it must contain “Ephemera.” If only Brissenden were
here to see!
He was turning the pages of the magazine, when suddenly he stopped.
“Ephemera” had been featured, with gorgeous head-piece and
Beardsley-like margin decorations. On one side of the head-piece
was Brissenden’s photograph, on the other side was the photograph
of Sir John Value, the British Ambassador. A preliminary editorial
note quoted Sir John Value as saying that there were no poets in
America, and the publication of “Ephemera” was THE PARTHENON’S.
“There, take that, Sir John Value!” Cartwright Bruce was described
as the greatest critic in America, and he was quoted as saying that
“Ephemera” was the greatest poem ever written in America. And
finally, the editor’s foreword ended with: “We have not yet made
up our minds entirely as to the merits of “Ephemera”; perhaps we
shall never be able to do so. But we have read it often, wondering
at the words and their arrangement, wondering where Mr. Brissenden
got them, and how he could fasten them together.” Then followed
the poem.
“Pretty good thing you died, Briss, old man,” Martin murmured,
letting the magazine slip between his knees to the floor.
The cheapness and vulgarity of it was nauseating, and Martin noted
apathetically that he was not nauseated very much. He wished he
could get angry, but did not have energy enough to try. He was too
numb. His blood was too congealed to accelerate to the swift tidal
flow of indignation. After all, what did it matter? It was on a
par with all the rest that Brissenden had condemned in bourgeois
society.
“Poor Briss,” Martin communed; “he would never have forgiven me.”
Rousing himself with an effort, he possessed himself of a box which
had once contained type-writer paper. Going through its contents,
he drew forth eleven poems which his friend had written. These he
tore lengthwise and crosswise and dropped into the waste basket.
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He did it languidly, and, when he had finished, sat on the edge of
the bed staring blankly before him.
How long he sat there he did not know, until, suddenly, across his
sightless vision he saw form a long horizontal line of white. It
was curious. But as he watched it grow in definiteness he saw that
it was a coral reef smoking in the white Pacific surges. Next, in
the line of breakers he made out a small canoe, an outrigger canoe.
In the stern he saw a young bronzed god in scarlet hip-cloth
dipping a flashing paddle. He recognized him. He was Moti, the
youngest son of Tati, the chief, and this was Tahiti, and beyond
that smoking reef lay the sweet land of Papara and the chief’s
grass house by the river’s mouth. It was the end of the day, and
Moti was coming home from the fishing. He was waiting for the rush
of a big breaker whereon to jump the reef. Then he saw himself,
sitting forward in the canoe as he had often sat in the past,
dipping a paddle that waited Moti’s word to dig in like mad when
the turquoise wall of the great breaker rose behind them. Next, he
was no longer an onlooker but was himself in the canoe, Moti was
crying out, they were both thrusting hard with their paddles,
racing on the steep face of the flying turquoise. Under the bow
the water was hissing as from a steam jet, the air was filled with
driven spray, there was a rush and rumble and long-echoing roar,
and the canoe floated on the placid water of the lagoon. Moti
laughed and shook the salt water from his eyes, and together they
paddled in to the pounded-coral beach where Tati’s grass walls
through the cocoanut-palms showed golden in the setting sun.
The picture faded, and before his eyes stretched the disorder of
his squalid room. He strove in vain to see Tahiti again. He knew
there was singing among the trees and that the maidens were dancing
in the moonlight, but he could not see them. He could see only the
littered writing-table, the empty space where the type-writer had
stood, and the unwashed window-pane. He closed his eyes with a
groan, and slept.
CHAPTER XLI
He slept heavily all night, and did not stir until aroused by the
postman on his morning round. Martin felt tired and passive, and
went through his letters aimlessly. One thin envelope, from a
robber magazine, contained for twenty-two dollars. He had been
dunning for it for a year and a half. He noted its amount
apathetically. The old-time thrill at receiving a publisher’s
check was gone. Unlike his earlier checks, this one was not
pregnant with promise of great things to come. To him it was a
check for twenty-two dollars, that was all, and it would buy him
something to eat.
Another check was in the same mail, sent from a New York weekly in
payment for some humorous verse which had been accepted months
before. It was for ten dollars. An idea came to him, which he
calmly considered. He did not know what he was going to do, and he
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230
felt in no hurry to do anything. In the meantime he must live.
Also he owed numerous debts. Would it not be a paying investment
to put stamps on the huge pile of manuscripts under the table and
start them on their travels again? One or two of them might be
accepted. That would help him to live. He decided on the
investment, and, after he had cashed the checks at the bank down in
Oakland, he bought ten dollars’ worth of postage stamps. The
thought of going home to cook breakfast in his stuffy little room
was repulsive to him. For the first time he refused to consider
his debts. He knew that in his room he could manufacture a
substantial breakfast at a cost of from fifteen to twenty cents.
But, instead, he went into the Forum Cafe and ordered a breakfast
that cost two dollars. He tipped the waiter a quarter, and spent
fifty cents for a package of Egyptian cigarettes. It was the first
time he had smoked since Ruth had asked him to stop. But he could
see now no reason why he should not, and besides, he wanted to
smoke. And what did the money matter? For five cents he could
have bought a package of Durham and brown papers and rolled forty
cigarettes – but what of it? Money had no meaning to him now
except what it would immediately buy. He was chartless and
rudderless, and he had no port to make, while drifting involved the
least living, and it was living that hurt.
The days slipped along, and he slept eight hours regularly every
night. Though now, while waiting for more checks, he ate in the
Japanese restaurants where meals were served for ten cents, his
wasted body filled out, as did the hollows in his cheeks. He no
longer abused himself with short sleep, overwork, and overstudy.
He wrote nothing, and the books were closed. He walked much, out
in the hills, and loafed long hours in the quiet parks. He had no
friends nor acquaintances, nor did he make any. He had no