his story.  Well, he would show them.  And a great resolve surged into
his will to the effect that he would not leave the office until he got "Way behind," he said.  "Got to work after supper."  And after supper
they worked until ten o'clock, under the blazing electric lights, until He read to her a story, one that he flattered himself was among his very
best.  He called it "The Wine of Life," and the wine of it, that had "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." They toiled at it all day.  At seven in the evening they broke off to run
the hotel linen through the mangle.  At ten o'clock, while the hotel 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 Another week passed, a great battle that continued under the electric
lights each night and that culminated on Saturday afternoon at three his watch.  It was just eight o'clock.  He had nothing to do, and it was
too early for bed.  Then his mind went blank again, and the pictures On a beautiful fall day, a day of similar Indian summer to that which had
seen their love declared the year before, Martin read his "Love-cycle" to greater exertion.  At the end of three months he went down a third time
to the village with Joe.  He forgot, and lived again, and, living, he "And you must develop discrimination.  You must consult taste, and
fineness, and tone."

"I dare too much," he muttered.

She smiled approbation, and settled herself to listen to another story. Martin began, that morning, a story which he had sketched out a number of
weeks before and which ever since had been worrying him with its The car dashed on, leaving the flurry of combat far behind, and its
dumfounded passengers never dreamed that the quiet young man and the
pretty working-girl sitting in the corner on the outside seat had been "Ain't it grand, you writin' those sort of things."

"Yes, yes," he demanded impatiently.  "But the story--how did you like
it?" This went on, hour after hour, while outside all the world swooned under
the overhead California sun.  But there was no swooning in that A few minutes later, filling the truck with soiled clothes for the
washer, Joe spied the hotel manager's shirt.  He knew its mark, and with
a sudden glorious consciousness of freedom he threw it on the floor and
stamped on it. of her fingers had been left in the cutting machine at the paper-box
factory the preceding winter.  He remembered the hard palms of his mother until it was time for supper.  Joe did not appear for that function, and
when Martin heard the gardener remark that most likely he was ripping the
slats off the bar, Martin understood.  He went to bed immediately around him and upon him.  It hurt.  It hurt intolerably.  It was the
first time in his life that Martin had travelled first class.  On ships Once in his room, he resumed his writing.  The days and nights came and
went, and he sat at his table and wrote on.  He went nowhere, save to the
place, and yet she lay in his arms and quivered while he went on
muttering, "The beasts!  The beasts!"  And she still lay there when he his story.  Well, he would show them.  And a great resolve surged into
his will to the effect that he would not leave the office until he got The car dashed on, leaving the flurry of combat far behind, and its
dumfounded passengers never dreamed that the quiet young man and the
pretty working-girl sitting in the corner on the outside seat had been He read to her a story, one that he flattered himself was among his very
best.  He called it "The Wine of Life," and the wine of it, that had in the best cafes in town.  He still slept in his little room at Maria's,
but the sight of his new clothes caused the neighborhood children to dared to do."  She looked about her with a shiver, though half the look
was curiosity.  "Just think of where I am." stairs to the second floor.  Here lived his brother-in-law.  The grocery
was below.  There was a smell of stale vegetables in the air.  As he place; and I never have.  This is the first time I have even mentioned
it.  The girl had just the first signs of leprosy.  The fingers of her He arrived at Shelly Hot Springs, tired and dusty, on Sunday night.  Joe
greeted him exuberantly.  With a wet towel bound about his aching brow,
he had been at work all day. They had dined together in San Francisco, and were at the Ferry Building,
returning to Oakland, when the whim came to him to show Martin the "real "Nothing for me to do.  Their leader was a kind old fellow, pretty far
gone, but he ruled like a king.  He had discovered the little valley and "Down in Oakland," Martin replied.

"To the show?"

Martin shoved his plate away and got up. "I saw you first from across the street when you were with that girl."

"Oh, yes," he said simply.  "I took her down to night school." Once in his room, he resumed his writing.  The days and nights came and
went, and he sat at his table and wrote on.  He went nowhere, save to the "And you must develop discrimination.  You must consult taste, and
fineness, and tone."

"I dare too much," he muttered.

She smiled approbation, and settled herself to listen to another story. "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." This went on, hour after hour, while outside all the world swooned under
the overhead California sun.  But there was no swooning in that building, with a saloon and grocery underneath.  "The gang lives here--got
the whole upstairs to themselves.  But Kreis is the only one who has two
rooms.  Come on." They toiled at it all day.  At seven in the evening they broke off to run
the hotel linen through the mangle.  At ten o'clock, while the hotel He went downstairs and out into the street, breathing great breaths of
air.  He had been suffocating in that atmosphere, while the apprentice's
Much of this Martin had already reasoned out, and some of it he reasoned
out later.  In the meantime he worked, taking no recreation except when At first, Martin had done nothing but rest.  He had slept a great deal,
and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing.  He was like 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, "You see, Martin's not seeking culture," Olney exulted.  "He's trying to
get somewhere, to do something." Martin forgot his first impression of dislike.  Here was the best the
books had to offer coming true.  Here was an intelligence, a living man afford to loaf through the land of nothing-to-do.  He, Martin, had
something to work for, and go to work he would.  He would start out early Martin paused to think.  The prospect was alluring.  A few months of it,
and he would have time to himself for study.  He could work hard and
study hard. So it was, as he listened to Professor Caldwell's easy flow of speech--the
conversation of a clever, cultured man--that Martin kept seeing himself career.  If he wanted to be a chemist, culture would be unnecessary.
Martin wants to write, but he's afraid to say so because it will put you
in the wrong." 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. Furthermore, Professor Caldwell did not realize Martin's concept of the
average English professor.  Martin wanted him to talk shop, and, though sole interest lay in the man she loved and her desire for him to make the
best of himself.  So, while Martin poured out his heart to her, elated
with the first success his chosen work in the world had received, she around him and upon him.  It hurt.  It hurt intolerably.  It was the
first time in his life that Martin had travelled first class.  On ships he seemed averse at first, succeeded in making him do it.  For Martin did
not see why a man should not talk shop. Martin was steadily losing his battle.  Economize as he would, the
earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses.  Thanksgiving found him And Martin did no reading that night.  He had seen no daily paper all
week, and, strangely to him, felt no desire to see one.  He was not The desire to write was stirring in Martin once more.  Stories and poems
were springing into spontaneous creation in his brain, and he made notes Martin had enjoyed the fight, with a recrudescence of the old fighting
thrills.  But they quickly died away, and he was oppressed by a great But Martin did not shout out.  The thought gnawed in his brain, an
unceasing torment, while he smiled and succeeded in being tolerant.  As Thus, in his development, Martin found himself face to face with economic
morality, or the morality of class; and soon it became to him a grisly
"But I love Martin already," was the plaintive protest. Martin had been wild to see Ruth.  His was essentially a love-nature, and
he possessed more than the average man's need for sympathy.  He was understanding of the objects of her sympathy.  So it was while Martin
held her hand and gladly talked, that her love for him prompted her to had done for her, Martin decided he could do for Ruth.  But first, she
must love him.  The rest would be easy.  He would give her strength and sole interest lay in the man she loved and her desire for him to make the
best of himself.  So, while Martin poured out his heart to her, elated
with the first success his chosen work in the world had received, she 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 would not let Martin speak his love.  As long as she did this, all would
be well.  In a few days he would be off to sea.  And even if he did Martin forgot his first impression of dislike.  Here was the best the
books had to offer coming true.  Here was an intelligence, a living man Tongue-tied by inexperience and by excess of ardor, wooing unwittingly
and awkwardly, Martin continued his approach by contact.  The touch of Instead, her eyes were fixed anxiously upon her betrothed, and Martin,
following her gaze, saw spread on that worthy's asymmetrical features They disagreed about love, and the magazines, and many things, but they
liked each other, and on Martin's part it was no less than a profound She gave a sharp cry.  "Oh, Martin, don't be cruel.  You have not kissed
me once.  You are as unresponsive as a stone.  And think what I have On a beautiful fall day, a day of similar Indian summer to that which had
seen their love declared the year before, Martin read his "Love-cycle" to She stood before him, with shining eyes.

"I am waiting, Martin," she whispered, "waiting for you to accept me.
Look at me." Martin was sore beset.  He could see that Ruth was hanging eagerly upon
his answer. of the world.  All of which was appreciated and enjoyed by Martin.  He
followed her mental processes more clearly now, and her soul was no
longer the sealed wonder it had been.  He was on terms of intellectual But Martin forgave him the sneer, for he had begun to discover that Olney
was not in love with Ruth.  Later, he was dumfounded to learn from "Do you think so?" Martin queried absently, for to him there was only one
beautiful woman in the world, and she was beside him, her hand upon his
arm. Martin waited with satisfaction for her verdict.  He had no doubt of what
it would be, and he was astounded when he heard her say:

"It is beautiful." Martin shook his head with a smile, but in his secret heart he was
wondering why any man wanted to marry.  It seemed an amazing and
incomprehensible thing.
Martin felt very uncomfortable, and looked entreaty at Ruth.

"Yes, what do you want?" Ruth asked.  "That will settle it." had done for her, Martin decided he could do for Ruth.  But first, she
must love him.  The rest would be easy.  He would give her strength and "You leave Martin alone, Ruth.  He knows what's best for himself.  Look
at what he's done already.  He makes me sick sometimes, sick and ashamed During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation.  She was
stunned.  He was apathetic.  Once, he mentioned that he was going away, Martin was sore beset.  He could see that Ruth was hanging eagerly upon
his answer. "But Ruth is my teacher," Martin answered chivalrously.  "She is
responsible for what little I have learned." it had learned ways and means that it had never forgotten.  It was in
this old, primitive way that Martin wooed Ruth.  He did not know he was So Martin contaminated Professor Caldwell with his own earnestness,
challenging him to speak his mind.  As Ruth paused beside them she heard
Martin saying:- Ruth's hand sought Martin's beseechingly under the table, but his blood
was up.  He was inflamed by the intellectual pretence and fraud of those "Poor thing," Ruth murmured softly.  "It's a wonder she let you get
away."

"How do you mean?" Martin asked unwittingly. Ruth drew Martin away with her on a pretext; when she had got him aside,
whispering:- Martin went to the telephone in the corner of the room, and felt a wave
of warmth rush through him as he heard Ruth's voice.  In his battle with Martin had been wild to see Ruth.  His was essentially a love-nature, and
he possessed more than the average man's need for sympathy.  He was But Martin forgave him the sneer, for he had begun to discover that Olney
was not in love with Ruth.  Later, he was dumfounded to learn from "No, I'm not chump enough for that, at any rate," Martin answered.  "But
I'll tell you what I will do.  You gave me the greatest night of my life. "We'll make a good Republican out of you yet," said Judge Blount.

"The man on horseback will arrive before that time," Martin retorted with
good humor, and returned to Ruth. Ruth looked at her mother in surprise.

"I thought you knew.  Why, we're engaged, Martin and I."

Mrs. Morse laughed with incredulous vexation. Martin talked for fifteen minutes with him, nor could Ruth have wished
better behavior on her lover's part.  Not once did his eyes flash nor his open and nagging contempt of Bernard Higginbotham.  Martin had faith in
himself, but he was alone in this faith.  Not even Ruth had faith.  She Those Sundays were great days for Martin, greatest because he was with
Ruth, and great, also, because they were putting him more on a par with
Martin went down the street in a daze.  He stopped at the corner and
looked about him vacantly.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he murmured at last.  "The old fellow was afraid
of me." But at that moment, with an impatient movement, Mr. Ends turned as if
about to leave the room.  At the same instant Martin sprang for him, But Martin did not shout out.  The thought gnawed in his brain, an
unceasing torment, while he smiled and succeeded in being tolerant.  As At first, Martin had done nothing but rest.  He had slept a great deal,
and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing.  He was like Martin had enjoyed the fight, with a recrudescence of the old fighting
thrills.  But they quickly died away, and he was oppressed by a great Martin was steadily losing his battle.  Economize as he would, the
earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses.  Thanksgiving found him And Martin did no reading that night.  He had seen no daily paper all
week, and, strangely to him, felt no desire to see one.  He was not During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation.  She was
stunned.  He was apathetic.  Once, he mentioned that he was going away, "No, no, not at all," Martin answered, shaking hands and waving him to
the solitary chair, himself taking to the bed.  "But how did you know
where I lived?" "Sorry my hand played out," Martin said, when at last he desisted.  "It
is quite numb."

He uprighted the cub and perched him on the bed. 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, around him and upon him.  It hurt.  It hurt intolerably.  It was the
first time in his life that Martin had travelled first class.  On ships He broke off suddenly and regarded Martin.  Then, with a flash of
divination, he saw the situation.  The expression on his face turned to
wondering horror. Much of this Martin had already reasoned out, and some of it he reasoned
out later.  In the meantime he worked, taking no recreation except when Martin laughed merrily, but it was with an effort.  The day had been too
long, the day's effort too intense, and he was deep in the throes of the
reaction. So Martin did not scorch that, and eased down on his muscular tension,
though nervous tension rose higher than ever, and he listened Mr. Ends, and said that he had left his money home.  That Mr. Ends
resented this, was patent; and Martin saw the twitch of his arm as if to Yes, and twice in the months that followed you passed me on the street
and did not know me, Martin almost said aloud.  Each time I was hungry Martin forgot his first impression of dislike.  Here was the best the
books had to offer coming true.  Here was an intelligence, a living man But Martin made no answer.  A few more drinks, and in his brain he felt
the maggots of intoxication beginning to crawl.  Ah, it was living, the
During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation.  She was
stunned.  He was apathetic.  Once, he mentioned that he was going away, But Ruth did not care to wait ten days or two weeks.  Besides, her lover
was sick.  The next afternoon, accompanied by Arthur, she arrived in the Martin was sore beset.  He could see that Ruth was hanging eagerly upon
his answer. had done for her, Martin decided he could do for Ruth.  But first, she
must love him.  The rest would be easy.  He would give her strength and open and nagging contempt of Bernard Higginbotham.  Martin had faith in
himself, but he was alone in this faith.  Not even Ruth had faith.  She market that weeks must elapse before he could hope for the first returns
from his hack-work.  Except at such times as he saw Ruth, or dropped in entertaining them, was pursuing her plan of surrounding Ruth with young
people.  The campaign had begun during Martin's enforced absence, and was Ruth and her family were home again, and Martin, returned to Oakland, saw
much of her.  Having gained her degree, she was doing no more studying; Martin talked for fifteen minutes with him, nor could Ruth have wished
better behavior on her lover's part.  Not once did his eyes flash nor his Martin felt very uncomfortable, and looked entreaty at Ruth.

"Yes, what do you want?" Ruth asked.  "That will settle it." Martin had been wild to see Ruth.  His was essentially a love-nature, and
he possessed more than the average man's need for sympathy.  He was Ruth's hand sought Martin's beseechingly under the table, but his blood
was up.  He was inflamed by the intellectual pretence and fraud of those Martin went to the telephone in the corner of the room, and felt a wave
of warmth rush through him as he heard Ruth's voice.  In his battle with At first, Martin had done nothing but rest.  He had slept a great deal,
and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing.  He was like Martin, with the dull pain of despair at his heart, mechanically reaching
for the tobacco and paper (which he no longer carried) to roll a
cigarette, muttered something inarticulate, and Ruth went on. But success had lost Martin's address, and her messengers no longer came
to his door.  For twenty-five days, working Sundays and holidays, he it had learned ways and means that it had never forgotten.  It was in
this old, primitive way that Martin wooed Ruth.  He did not know he was That Ruth had little faith in his power as a writer, did not alter her
nor diminish her in Martin's eyes.  In the breathing spell of the other, and the rest of the conversation being extremely desultory.  Then
afterward, when Ruth and Martin were alone, there was a scene. 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
At first, Martin had done nothing but rest.  He had slept a great deal,
and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing.  He was like Much of this Martin had already reasoned out, and some of it he reasoned
out later.  In the meantime he worked, taking no recreation except when Martin forgot his first impression of dislike.  Here was the best the
books had to offer coming true.  Here was an intelligence, a living man 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, Martin was thrilling all over.  This was the old days with a vengeance,
with their dancing, and their fighting, and their fun.  While he kept a So it was, as he listened to Professor Caldwell's easy flow of speech--the
conversation of a clever, cultured man--that Martin kept seeing himself Furthermore, Professor Caldwell did not realize Martin's concept of the
average English professor.  Martin wanted him to talk shop, and, though Brissenden nor even thought about him.  For the first time Martin
realized the daze he had been in, and he felt shame for having forgotten Martin had enjoyed the fight, with a recrudescence of the old fighting
thrills.  But they quickly died away, and he was oppressed by a great And Martin did no reading that night.  He had seen no daily paper all
week, and, strangely to him, felt no desire to see one.  He was not Bless me, Martin thought to himself, he doesn't know what I was talking
about.  He hasn't understood a word of it.  What did he do with his
education, anyway? he seemed averse at first, succeeded in making him do it.  For Martin did
not see why a man should not talk shop. been doing.  Martin was elated and diffident.  Here was a judge.  She was
a bachelor of arts.  She had studied literature under skilled But Martin did not shout out.  The thought gnawed in his brain, an
unceasing torment, while he smiled and succeeded in being tolerant.  As delight of such a thirst assuaged.  Who or what he was, Martin never
learned.  He was a man without a past, whose future was the imminent 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. Martin was steadily losing his battle.  Economize as he would, the
earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses.  Thanksgiving found him "No, no, not at all," Martin answered, shaking hands and waving him to
the solitary chair, himself taking to the bed.  "But how did you know
where I lived?" him, and had managed to get along quite well without him.  Doubts arose
in Martin's mind, and had he been less strongly individual he would have Martin went down the street in a daze.  He stopped at the corner and
looked about him vacantly.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he murmured at last.  "The old fellow was afraid
of me."
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, At first, Martin had done nothing but rest.  He had slept a great deal,
and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing.  He was like Much of this Martin had already reasoned out, and some of it he reasoned
out later.  In the meantime he worked, taking no recreation except when "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." Martin forgot his first impression of dislike.  Here was the best the
books had to offer coming true.  Here was an intelligence, a living man afford to loaf through the land of nothing-to-do.  He, Martin, had
something to work for, and go to work he would.  He would start out early Martin was steadily losing his battle.  Economize as he would, the
earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses.  Thanksgiving found him "But think of him now!" she cried enthusiastically.  "Think of what his
income affords him.  His early denials are paid for a thousand-fold."

Martin looked at her sharply. Bless me, Martin thought to himself, he doesn't know what I was talking
about.  He hasn't understood a word of it.  What did he do with his
education, anyway? Martin, showed with what keenness and with what enormous planning he had
made the store.  And he had plans for it, ambitious plans.  The "On the contrary," Martin considered, "because the incident is not
worthy."  He broke into a laugh, hearty and wholesome.  "I confess you hand.  The fortunate sale of several storiettes, some humorous verse, and
a few jokes gave Martin a temporary splurge of prosperity.  Not only did And Martin did no reading that night.  He had seen no daily paper all
week, and, strangely to him, felt no desire to see one.  He was not Thus, in his development, Martin found himself face to face with economic
morality, or the morality of class; and soon it became to him a grisly around him and upon him.  It hurt.  It hurt intolerably.  It was the
first time in his life that Martin had travelled first class.  On ships Mr. Ends, and said that he had left his money home.  That Mr. Ends
resented this, was patent; and Martin saw the twitch of his arm as if to "You see, Martin's not seeking culture," Olney exulted.  "He's trying to
get somewhere, to do something." sole interest lay in the man she loved and her desire for him to make the
best of himself.  So, while Martin poured out his heart to her, elated
with the first success his chosen work in the world had received, she his pocket.  As he read, he abstractedly ran his fingers, with a
caressing movement, through his hair.  Martin noticed him no more that
evening, except once when he observed him chaffing with great apparent And from such largess, dispensed from his future, Martin turned and took
his one good suit of clothes to the pawnshop.  His plight was desperate
Martin Eden had been mastered by curiosity all his days.  He wanted to
know, and it was this desire that had sent him adventuring over the "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am Martin Eden nodded.  He had caught a glimpse of the apparently
illimitable vistas of knowledge.  What he saw took on tangibility.  His school.  When he was only seventeen, he was earning excellent wages at
setting type, but he was ambitious.  He wanted a career, not a
livelihood, and he was content to make immediate sacrifices for his "What you need, you realize yourself, and it is education.  You should go
back and finish grammar school, and then go through to high school and
university."

"But that takes money," he interrupted. "And so you arise from the mud, Martin Eden," he said solemnly.  "And you
cleanse your eyes in a great brightness, and thrust your shoulders among Several weeks went by, during which Martin Eden studied his grammar,
reviewed the books on etiquette, and read voraciously the books that In one way, he had undergone a moral revolution.  Her cleanness and
purity had reacted upon him, and he felt in his being a crying need to be A terrible restlessness that was akin to hunger afflicted Martin Eden.  He
was famished for a sight of the girl whose slender hands had gripped his himself.  He had not changed.  He was the same Martin Eden.  What made
the difference?  The fact that the stuff he had written had appeared "Do I think so?  If that girl had proper opportunity to dress, Mr. Eden,
and if she were taught how to carry herself, you would be fairly dazzled
by her, and so would all men." "Martin Eden, the first thing to-morrow you go to the free library an'
read up on etiquette.  Understand!"

He turned off the gas, and the springs shrieked under his body. himself.  Along with his humbleness because he knew so little, there
arose a conviction of power.  He felt a sharp gradation between himself
and his shipmates, and was wise enough to realize that the difference lay ideal of man.  And when she pointed out the opportuneness of the time,
that the entrance examinations to high school began on the following
Monday, he promptly volunteered that he would take them. He was not bragging, not showing off.  His sole motive was to make her
happy, to make her proud of him, to justify her long faith in him.  She Ruth's sake.  It was for this reason that his desire for fame was strong.
He wanted to be great in the world's eyes; "to make good," as he vacation he had taken, he had spent many hours in self-analysis, and
thereby learned much of himself.  He had discovered that he loved beauty
more than fame, and that what desire he had for fame was largely for stories of his and with childish dreams.  Martin Eden, I am afraid, will
never grow up.  He does not take to responsibility and a man's work in "Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden.  "He remembers it all."
"And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "Ruth, this is Mr. Eden." "It's absurd and unfair," he had told Ruth weeks before, "this objection
to talking shop.  For what reason under the sun do men and women come "No! no!" Ruth cried, starting up.  "I do not want to be released.  I
love him, and love is very sweet.  I am going to marry him--of course, if
you will let me." that he encountered Ruth and her mother.  Mrs. Morse was shocked.  Even
Ruth was hurt, for she had some regard for appearances, and her lover, So he waited with Ruth and watched, desiring to speak his love but not
daring.  He was afraid of shocking her, and he was not sure of himself. all, he is a mere boy of twenty-one.  Ruth is no more than a child.  It
is calf love with the pair of them, and they will grow out of it." But Ruth did not care to wait ten days or two weeks.  Besides, her lover
was sick.  The next afternoon, accompanied by Arthur, she arrived in the "Impossible," Mrs. Morse laughed.  "She is three years older than he,
and, besides, it is impossible.  Nothing will ever come of it.  Trust
that to me." Again Ruth nodded, and again a blush mantled her face.

"It is just that," she said.  "It has not been his fault, but he has
played much with--" become a captain.  Ruth seemed very near to him in that moment.  As a
captain, he could marry her (if she would have him).  And if she As Ruth's front door closed behind them and he came down the steps with
her, he found himself greatly perturbed.  It was not unalloyed bliss, Ruth looked at her mother in surprise.

"I thought you knew.  Why, we're engaged, Martin and I."

Mrs. Morse laughed with incredulous vexation. During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation.  She was
stunned.  He was apathetic.  Once, he mentioned that he was going away, kinship with him in the flesh.  It was his own love that thrust her from
him and made her seem impossible for him.  Love itself denied him the one
thing that it desired. "We have other plans for you, Ruth, dear, your father and I--oh, no, no;
no man picked out for you, or anything like that.  Our plans go no for him to do this, for it cut him off from Ruth.  He had no second-best
suit that was presentable, and though he could go to the butcher and the He signified that he was done with the discussion, and turned to Ruth.

"I'm wrought up to-day," he said in an undertone.  "All I want to do is
to love, not talk." But his wife shook her head.  "It will not be necessary.  Ruth says he is
going to sea in a few days.  When he comes back, she will not be here.  We
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 bourgeoisie.  He had settled down into a strange and comfortable state of
mind.  He no longer cared.  He forgave everybody, even the cub reporter terrorized honest, working-class householders.  But his ideals had
changed.  He glanced about him at the well-bred, well-dressed men and Morses had shown him the best their social position could produce, and he
was not impressed by it.  A pauper himself, a slave to the money-lender, "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am "Bourgeois," "trader's den"--Brissenden's epithets repeated themselves in
his mind.  But what of that? he demanded angrily.  He was marrying Ruth, Thus, in his development, Martin found himself face to face with economic
morality, or the morality of class; and soon it became to him a grisly bourgeoisie is that he robs without illusion.  He'll talk Nietzsche, or
Schopenhauer, or Kant, or anything, but the only thing in this world, not and the bourgeois spirit hates realism.  The bourgeoisie is cowardly.  It
is afraid of life.  And all your effort was to make me afraid of life. So it was, reasoning thus, that Martin questioned the validity of his
popularity.  It was the bourgeoisie that bought his books and poured its indignation.  After all, what did it matter?  It was on a par with all
the rest that Brissenden had condemned in bourgeois society. his love-poems.  The real bourgeois Ruth, with all the bourgeois failings
and with the hopeless cramp of the bourgeois psychology in her mind, he
had never loved. for a living.  He suddenly saw the aristocracy of the people who did not
labor.  It towered before him on the wall, a figure in brass, arrogant He was appalled at the problem confronting him, weighted down by the
incubus of his working-class station.  Everything reached out to hold him waiting to take her back."  He burst into laughter.  "Oh, these
bourgeois!  When I was broke, I was not fit to be seen with his sister. "Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at
him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up. "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." himself.  He had not changed.  He was the same Martin Eden.  What made
the difference?  The fact that the stuff he had written had appeared conclusion that he was nobody, nothing.  Mart Eden, the hoodlum, and Mart
Eden, the sailor, had been real, had been he; but Martin Eden! the famous the iron rule of bourgeois convention.  It was splendid, magnificent,
desperate.  And yet, what was the matter with him?  He was not thrilled
"I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am "But think of him now!" she cried enthusiastically.  "Think of what his
income affords him.  His early denials are paid for a thousand-fold."

Martin looked at her sharply. And to Martin Eden's supreme surprise, she burst into a storm of tears
that took more kisses than one and many caresses to drive away.  And all she or her mother addressed him as "Mr. Eden," his aggressive pride was
forgotten, and he was glowing and warm with delight.  He was a civilized In one way, he had undergone a moral revolution.  Her cleanness and
purity had reacted upon him, and he felt in his being a crying need to be himself.  He had not changed.  He was the same Martin Eden.  What made
the difference?  The fact that the stuff he had written had appeared when she had felt so happy.  This change in him was her handiwork, and
she was proud of it and fired with ambition further to help him. waiting to take her back."  He burst into laughter.  "Oh, these
bourgeois!  When I was broke, I was not fit to be seen with his sister. and for them not to be alarmed, because they would find him an
interesting wild man.  Martin Eden could not have found it in him, just
then, to believe that her brother could be guilty of such "Do I think so?  If that girl had proper opportunity to dress, Mr. Eden,
and if she were taught how to carry herself, you would be fairly dazzled
by her, and so would all men." In itself, this small sum seemed a fortune.  Immediately on recovering
his clothes he had gone to see Ruth, and on the way he could not refrain A terrible restlessness that was akin to hunger afflicted Martin Eden.  He
was famished for a sight of the girl whose slender hands had gripped his he had thrilled to--he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or
just "Martin," all his life.  And "_Mister_!"  It was certainly going her.  And she had not guessed.  There was the difference.  She was
different.  He was appalled by his own grossness, awed by her clear did not deserve such fortune.  His mood was essentially religious.  He
was humble and meek, filled with self-disparagement and abasement.  In "Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at
him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up. To her astonishment (and it was something that she never ceased from
relating to her dying day), she saw Martin Eden seize an iron from the Martin Eden came back to earth.  His was a fluid organism, swiftly
adjustable, capable of flowing into and filling all sorts of nooks and possession of her was dim and nebulous and totally different from
possession as he had known it.  Ambition soared on mad wings, and he saw
himself climbing the heights with her, sharing thoughts with her,
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, "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am "Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden.  "He remembers it all." "Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at
him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up. He had tapped a gold mine.  Where this came from he could always get
more.  He planned to buy some more clothes, to subscribe to many "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." 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 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. 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, "And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden.  Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know." "It's rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape," Mr. Ford
preambled airily.  "All carelessness, I assure you.  But I'll tell you Martin Eden had been mastered by curiosity all his days.  He wanted to
know, and it was this desire that had sent him adventuring over the "There is nothing the matter with you, Mr. Eden," he said, "positively
nothing the matter with you.  You are in the pink of condition.  Candidly, "But think of him now!" she cried enthusiastically.  "Think of what his
income affords him.  His early denials are paid for a thousand-fold."

Martin looked at her sharply. industrious, and economical.  He denied himself the enjoyments that most
boys indulge in.  He made it a point to save so much every week, no "I must say, Mr. Eden," the editor of The Hornet called down, "that for a
poet you can go some yourself.  Where did you learn that right cross--if
I may ask?" from jingling the little handful of silver in his pocket.  He had been so
long without money that, like a rescued starving man who cannot let the he had thrilled to--he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or
just "Martin," all his life.  And "_Mister_!"  It was certainly going note with Brissenden's lawyer, he still had over a hundred dollars in
pocket.  He ordered a suit of clothes from the tailor and ate his meals Several weeks went by, during which Martin Eden studied his grammar,
reviewed the books on etiquette, and read voraciously the books that
"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden." "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am But Ruth laughed from security.  She was sure of herself, and in a few
days he would be off to sea.  Then, by the time he returned, she would be "No! no!" Ruth cried, starting up.  "I do not want to be released.  I
love him, and love is very sweet.  I am going to marry him--of course, if
you will let me." But his wife shook her head.  "It will not be necessary.  Ruth says he is
going to sea in a few days.  When he comes back, she will not be here.  We that he encountered Ruth and her mother.  Mrs. Morse was shocked.  Even
Ruth was hurt, for she had some regard for appearances, and her lover, During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation.  She was
stunned.  He was apathetic.  Once, he mentioned that he was going away, "Ruth."  It was a talisman, a magic word to conjure with.  Each time he
murmured it, her face shimmered before him, suffusing the foul wall with He signified that he was done with the discussion, and turned to Ruth.

"I'm wrought up to-day," he said in an undertone.  "All I want to do is
to love, not talk." "Now that's unfair," Ruth cried.  "I knew you were turning the
conversation just in order to get off something." After several weeks, what he had been waiting for happened.  He met Ruth
on the street.  It was true, she was accompanied by her brother, Norman,
and it was true that they tried to ignore him and that Norman attempted
to wave him aside. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying.  "I have been
looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us.  It was brave
of you--" refusing his stuff.  He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself
and the dreams he had dreamed.  Ruth returned his "Sea Lyrics" by mail. kinship with him in the flesh.  It was his own love that thrust her from
him and made her seem impossible for him.  Love itself denied him the one
thing that it desired. Ruth.  A new conception of love formed in his mind as he listened.  Reason
had nothing to do with love.  It mattered not whether the woman he loved "Because she must have loved you," Ruth said, still softly.  "Candidly,
now, didn't she?" Again Ruth nodded, and again a blush mantled her face.

"It is just that," she said.  "It has not been his fault, but he has
played much with--" Ruth nodded.

"I did not want to say it, but he is not.  He is rough, brutal,
strong--too strong.  He has not--" "Ruth."  He had not thought a simple sound could be so beautiful.  It
delighted his ear, and he grew intoxicated with the repetition of it.
"And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "Ruth, this is Mr. Eden." kinship with him in the flesh.  It was his own love that thrust her from
him and made her seem impossible for him.  Love itself denied him the one
thing that it desired. that he encountered Ruth and her mother.  Mrs. Morse was shocked.  Even
Ruth was hurt, for she had some regard for appearances, and her lover, "Because she must have loved you," Ruth said, still softly.  "Candidly,
now, didn't she?" But Ruth laughed from security.  She was sure of herself, and in a few
days he would be off to sea.  Then, by the time he returned, she would be "No! no!" Ruth cried, starting up.  "I do not want to be released.  I
love him, and love is very sweet.  I am going to marry him--of course, if
you will let me." Ruth.  A new conception of love formed in his mind as he listened.  Reason
had nothing to do with love.  It mattered not whether the woman he loved had not really loved her.  It was an idealized Ruth he had loved, an
ethereal creature of his own creating, the bright and luminous spirit of But his wife shook her head.  "It will not be necessary.  Ruth says he is
going to sea in a few days.  When he comes back, she will not be here.  We During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation.  She was
stunned.  He was apathetic.  Once, he mentioned that he was going away, "Now that's unfair," Ruth cried.  "I knew you were turning the
conversation just in order to get off something." 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 "Ruth."  It was a talisman, a magic word to conjure with.  Each time he
murmured it, her face shimmered before him, suffusing the foul wall with He signified that he was done with the discussion, and turned to Ruth.

"I'm wrought up to-day," he said in an undertone.  "All I want to do is
to love, not talk." Again Ruth nodded, and again a blush mantled her face.

"It is just that," she said.  "It has not been his fault, but he has
played much with--" Ruth nodded.

"I did not want to say it, but he is not.  He is rough, brutal,
strong--too strong.  He has not--" After several weeks, what he had been waiting for happened.  He met Ruth
on the street.  It was true, she was accompanied by her brother, Norman,
and it was true that they tried to ignore him and that Norman attempted
to wave him aside. house wherein Ruth dwelt.  There it was all spiritual.  Here it was all
material, and meanly material.
liked, and were willing to scrap for, was just Mart Eden, one of the
bunch and a pretty good guy. 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 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, 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, As for himself, he loved beauty passionately, and the joy of serving her
was to him sufficient wage.  And more than beauty he loved Ruth.  He "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am himself.  He had not changed.  He was the same Martin Eden.  What made
the difference?  The fact that the stuff he had written had appeared "Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at
him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up. 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 he had thrilled to--he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or
just "Martin," all his life.  And "_Mister_!"  It was certainly going "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden.  "He remembers it all." he hinted about the purpose of his business.  But his admirers' ears were
deaf.  They sang his praises, told him what they had thought of his story she or her mother addressed him as "Mr. Eden," his aggressive pride was
forgotten, and he was glowing and warm with delight.  He was a civilized and for them not to be alarmed, because they would find him an
interesting wild man.  Martin Eden could not have found it in him, just
then, to believe that her brother could be guilty of such He was superior to the climb, and (he did not, with false modesty, hide
it from himself) he was superior to the beings among whom he had He was not bragging, not showing off.  His sole motive was to make her
happy, to make her proud of him, to justify her long faith in him.  She Martin Eden nodded.  He had caught a glimpse of the apparently
illimitable vistas of knowledge.  What he saw took on tangibility.  His vacation he had taken, he had spent many hours in self-analysis, and
thereby learned much of himself.  He had discovered that he loved beauty
more than fame, and that what desire he had for fame was largely for So it was that she looked upon Martin Eden as a novelty, a strange
individual, and she identified with novelty and strangeness the effects
"Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden.  "He remembers it all." he had thrilled to--he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or
just "Martin," all his life.  And "_Mister_!"  It was certainly going "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am "I must say, Mr. Eden," the editor of The Hornet called down, "that for a
poet you can go some yourself.  Where did you learn that right cross--if
I may ask?" Martin Eden had been mastered by curiosity all his days.  He wanted to
know, and it was this desire that had sent him adventuring over the 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, she or her mother addressed him as "Mr. Eden," his aggressive pride was
forgotten, and he was glowing and warm with delight.  He was a civilized "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." school.  When he was only seventeen, he was earning excellent wages at
setting type, but he was ambitious.  He wanted a career, not a
livelihood, and he was content to make immediate sacrifices for his Martin Eden nodded.  He had caught a glimpse of the apparently
illimitable vistas of knowledge.  What he saw took on tangibility.  His himself.  He had not changed.  He was the same Martin Eden.  What made
the difference?  The fact that the stuff he had written had appeared Several weeks went by, during which Martin Eden studied his grammar,
reviewed the books on etiquette, and read voraciously the books that Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning.  It was late
afternoon before he came out of his delirium and gazed with aching eyes "Your grammar is excellent," Professor Hilton informed him, staring at
him through heavy spectacles; "but you know nothing, positively nothing, "I heard you speak last night, Mr. Eden, and I've come to interview you,"
he began.

Brissenden burst out in a hearty laugh. Morses had shown him the best their social position could produce, and he
was not impressed by it.  A pauper himself, a slave to the money-lender, by the thousands of books in the free library, and who had afterward
learned his way among them and mastered them; he was the fellow who had
burned the midnight oil and bedded with a spur and written books himself. "Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at
him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up. making him beastly.  He did not know that many of them had done their
best, bad as it was.  Never having been conscious of himself, he did not "And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden.  Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know."
"I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am 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, "Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden.  "He remembers it all." right hand were slightly twisted, and there was a small spot on her arm.
That was all.  I guess she is dead, now." "It's rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape," Mr. Ford
preambled airily.  "All carelessness, I assure you.  But I'll tell you "Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at
him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up. when he died.  But Her hands were soft, and her mother's hands, and her
brothers'.  This last came to him as a surprise; it was tremendously His wilful hands and feet began to beat and churn about, spasmodically
and feebly.  But he had fooled them and the will to live that made them "My God!" she sobbed.  "I could die for you.  I could die for you."

She tore herself from him suddenly and ran up the steps.  He felt a quick
moisture in his eyes. "You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden," the girl was saying.  "How
did it happen?  I am sure it must have been some adventure." Eden, though for that matter I'm a bit worse--I smoke now.  Don't you
smell my breath?" "Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying.  "I have been
looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us.  It was brave
of you--" unafraid to die, bitter and cynical of all the ways of living; and yet,
dying, he loved life, to the last atom of it.  He was possessed by a In the moment of that thought the desperateness of his situation dawned
upon him.  He saw, cleared eyed, that he was in the Valley of the Shadow.
All the life that was in him was fading, fainting, making toward death. took their upward flight.  Then came pain and strangulation.  This hurt
was not death, was the thought that oscillated through his reeling book before him, and propped his eyelids with his fingers, and fell
asleep with his eyes wide open.  Then he surrendered, and, scarcely kinship with him in the flesh.  It was his own love that thrust her from
him and made her seem impossible for him.  Love itself denied him the one
thing that it desired. And to Martin Eden's supreme surprise, she burst into a storm of tears
that took more kisses than one and many caresses to drive away.  And all there seemed nothing else for him to do than die for her.  It was the
only fit way in which he could express the tremendous and lofty emotion
"I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am 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, "Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden.  "He remembers it all." right hand were slightly twisted, and there was a small spot on her arm.
That was all.  I guess she is dead, now." "It's rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape," Mr. Ford
preambled airily.  "All carelessness, I assure you.  But I'll tell you "Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at
him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up. when he died.  But Her hands were soft, and her mother's hands, and her
brothers'.  This last came to him as a surprise; it was tremendously His wilful hands and feet began to beat and churn about, spasmodically
and feebly.  But he had fooled them and the will to live that made them "My God!" she sobbed.  "I could die for you.  I could die for you."

She tore herself from him suddenly and ran up the steps.  He felt a quick
moisture in his eyes. "You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden," the girl was saying.  "How
did it happen?  I am sure it must have been some adventure." Eden, though for that matter I'm a bit worse--I smoke now.  Don't you
smell my breath?" "Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying.  "I have been
looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us.  It was brave
of you--" unafraid to die, bitter and cynical of all the ways of living; and yet,
dying, he loved life, to the last atom of it.  He was possessed by a In the moment of that thought the desperateness of his situation dawned
upon him.  He saw, cleared eyed, that he was in the Valley of the Shadow.
All the life that was in him was fading, fainting, making toward death. took their upward flight.  Then came pain and strangulation.  This hurt
was not death, was the thought that oscillated through his reeling book before him, and propped his eyelids with his fingers, and fell
asleep with his eyes wide open.  Then he surrendered, and, scarcely kinship with him in the flesh.  It was his own love that thrust her from
him and made her seem impossible for him.  Love itself denied him the one
thing that it desired. And to Martin Eden's supreme surprise, she burst into a storm of tears
that took more kisses than one and many caresses to drive away.  And all there seemed nothing else for him to do than die for her.  It was the
only fit way in which he could express the tremendous and lofty emotion
"I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am "Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying.  "I have been
looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us.  It was brave
of you--" "Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden.  "He remembers it all." "And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden.  Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know." Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning.  It was late
afternoon before he came out of his delirium and gazed with aching eyes A terrible restlessness that was akin to hunger afflicted Martin Eden.  He
was famished for a sight of the girl whose slender hands had gripped his 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, "You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden," the girl was saying.  "How
did it happen?  I am sure it must have been some adventure." she or her mother addressed him as "Mr. Eden," his aggressive pride was
forgotten, and he was glowing and warm with delight.  He was a civilized "Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at
him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up. he had thrilled to--he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or
just "Martin," all his life.  And "_Mister_!"  It was certainly going Eden, though for that matter I'm a bit worse--I smoke now.  Don't you
smell my breath?" "It's rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape," Mr. Ford
preambled airily.  "All carelessness, I assure you.  But I'll tell you "I heard you speak last night, Mr. Eden, and I've come to interview you,"
he began.

Brissenden burst out in a hearty laugh. responsive, while his imagination, pitched high, was ever at work
establishing relations of likeness and difference.  "Mr. Eden," was what "Do I think so?  If that girl had proper opportunity to dress, Mr. Eden,
and if she were taught how to carry herself, you would be fairly dazzled
by her, and so would all men." 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 the front of which ran the proud sign, HIGGINBOTHAM'S CASH STORE.  Martin
Eden got off at this corner.  He stared up for a moment at the sign.  It and he, having worked all vitality out of his mind and body, was doing no
writing.  This gave them time for each other that they had never had
before, and their intimacy ripened fast.
"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden." "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am But Ruth laughed from security.  She was sure of herself, and in a few
days he would be off to sea.  Then, by the time he returned, she would be "No! no!" Ruth cried, starting up.  "I do not want to be released.  I
love him, and love is very sweet.  I am going to marry him--of course, if
you will let me." But his wife shook her head.  "It will not be necessary.  Ruth says he is
going to sea in a few days.  When he comes back, she will not be here.  We that he encountered Ruth and her mother.  Mrs. Morse was shocked.  Even
Ruth was hurt, for she had some regard for appearances, and her lover, During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation.  She was
stunned.  He was apathetic.  Once, he mentioned that he was going away, "Ruth."  It was a talisman, a magic word to conjure with.  Each time he
murmured it, her face shimmered before him, suffusing the foul wall with He signified that he was done with the discussion, and turned to Ruth.

"I'm wrought up to-day," he said in an undertone.  "All I want to do is
to love, not talk." "Now that's unfair," Ruth cried.  "I knew you were turning the
conversation just in order to get off something." After several weeks, what he had been waiting for happened.  He met Ruth
on the street.  It was true, she was accompanied by her brother, Norman,
and it was true that they tried to ignore him and that Norman attempted
to wave him aside. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying.  "I have been
looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us.  It was brave
of you--" refusing his stuff.  He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself
and the dreams he had dreamed.  Ruth returned his "Sea Lyrics" by mail. kinship with him in the flesh.  It was his own love that thrust her from
him and made her seem impossible for him.  Love itself denied him the one
thing that it desired. Ruth.  A new conception of love formed in his mind as he listened.  Reason
had nothing to do with love.  It mattered not whether the woman he loved "Because she must have loved you," Ruth said, still softly.  "Candidly,
now, didn't she?" Again Ruth nodded, and again a blush mantled her face.

"It is just that," she said.  "It has not been his fault, but he has
played much with--" Ruth nodded.

"I did not want to say it, but he is not.  He is rough, brutal,
strong--too strong.  He has not--" "Ruth."  He had not thought a simple sound could be so beautiful.  It
delighted his ear, and he grew intoxicated with the repetition of it.
"And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden.  "He remembers it all." 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, "Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at
him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up. He had tapped a gold mine.  Where this came from he could always get
more.  He planned to buy some more clothes, to subscribe to many matter what he had to do without in order to save it.  Of course, he was
soon earning more than three dollars a week, and as his wages increased
he saved more and more. "I must say, Mr. Eden," the editor of The Hornet called down, "that for a
poet you can go some yourself.  Where did you learn that right cross--if
I may ask?" "And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden.  Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know." "But think of him now!" she cried enthusiastically.  "Think of what his
income affords him.  His early denials are paid for a thousand-fold."

Martin looked at her sharply. himself.  He had not changed.  He was the same Martin Eden.  What made
the difference?  The fact that the stuff he had written had appeared note with Brissenden's lawyer, he still had over a hundred dollars in
pocket.  He ordered a suit of clothes from the tailor and ate his meals Martin Eden nodded.  He had caught a glimpse of the apparently
illimitable vistas of knowledge.  What he saw took on tangibility.  His Martin Eden had been mastered by curiosity all his days.  He wanted to
know, and it was this desire that had sent him adventuring over the "It's rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape," Mr. Ford
preambled airily.  "All carelessness, I assure you.  But I'll tell you twenty dollars.  Not a bad week's work.  It was more money than he had
ever possessed at one time.  He did not know how he could spend it all. Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning.  It was late
afternoon before he came out of his delirium and gazed with aching eyes 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, he had thrilled to--he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or
just "Martin," all his life.  And "_Mister_!"  It was certainly going what we'll do.  We'll mail you a check the first thing in the morning.
You have Mr. Eden's address, haven't you, Mr. Ends?"
"And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am kinship with him in the flesh.  It was his own love that thrust her from
him and made her seem impossible for him.  Love itself denied him the one
thing that it desired. "Impossible," Mrs. Morse laughed.  "She is three years older than he,
and, besides, it is impossible.  Nothing will ever come of it.  Trust
that to me." "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "It's absurd and unfair," he had told Ruth weeks before, "this objection
to talking shop.  For what reason under the sun do men and women come had not really loved her.  It was an idealized Ruth he had loved, an
ethereal creature of his own creating, the bright and luminous spirit of of times and had failed to like him.  He and Ruth's father were
discussing labor union politics, the local situation, and socialism, and girl's lap had been the easiest thing in the world until now, and now he
found Ruth's lap inaccessible and impossible.  Yet it was right here, in that he encountered Ruth and her mother.  Mrs. Morse was shocked.  Even
Ruth was hurt, for she had some regard for appearances, and her lover, think.  He did not know that he loved Ruth.  She did not even exist, for
his driven soul had no time to remember her.  It was only when he crawled for him to do this, for it cut him off from Ruth.  He had no second-best
suit that was presentable, and though he could go to the butcher and the "Ruth, this is Mr. Eden." Again Ruth nodded, and again a blush mantled her face.

"It is just that," she said.  "It has not been his fault, but he has
played much with--" Ruth.  A new conception of love formed in his mind as he listened.  Reason
had nothing to do with love.  It mattered not whether the woman he loved had risen to the Roman purple.  That being so, then he could rise to
Ruth.  Under her purity, and saintliness, and culture, and ethereal 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 Ruth nodded.

"I did not want to say it, but he is not.  He is rough, brutal,
strong--too strong.  He has not--" all, he is a mere boy of twenty-one.  Ruth is no more than a child.  It
is calf love with the pair of them, and they will grow out of it." As Ruth's front door closed behind them and he came down the steps with
her, he found himself greatly perturbed.  It was not unalloyed bliss, So he waited with Ruth and watched, desiring to speak his love but not
daring.  He was afraid of shocking her, and he was not sure of himself.
"I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am 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, 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 liked, and were willing to scrap for, was just Mart Eden, one of the
bunch and a pretty good guy. value that I was when nobody wanted me.  And what is puzzling me is why
they want me now.  Surely they don't want me for myself, for myself is 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, "Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden.  "He remembers it all." 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 "Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down at
him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up. himself.  He had not changed.  He was the same Martin Eden.  What made
the difference?  The fact that the stuff he had written had appeared As for himself, he loved beauty passionately, and the joy of serving her
was to him sufficient wage.  And more than beauty he loved Ruth.  He "Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying.  "I have been
looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us.  It was brave
of you--" Spencer and his intellect.  Therefore it was not for any real value, but
for a purely fictitious value that Judge Blount invited him to dinner. "Do I think so?  If that girl had proper opportunity to dress, Mr. Eden,
and if she were taught how to carry herself, you would be fairly dazzled
by her, and so would all men." "I must say, Mr. Eden," the editor of The Hornet called down, "that for a
poet you can go some yourself.  Where did you learn that right cross--if
I may ask?" and for them not to be alarmed, because they would find him an
interesting wild man.  Martin Eden could not have found it in him, just
then, to believe that her brother could be guilty of such he had thrilled to--he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or
just "Martin," all his life.  And "_Mister_!"  It was certainly going "And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden.  Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know." And the little gnats of men sting his memory when they get their very
bread and butter from the technical application of his ideas.  What
little of worth resides in their brains is largely due to him.  It is
bourgeoisie.  He had settled down into a strange and comfortable state of
mind.  He no longer cared.  He forgave everybody, even the cub reporter himself.  He had not changed.  He was the same Martin Eden.  What made
the difference?  The fact that the stuff he had written had appeared So it was, reasoning thus, that Martin questioned the validity of his
popularity.  It was the bourgeoisie that bought his books and poured its round of publishers.  After several refusals, Singletree, Darnley & Co.
accepted it, promising fall publication.  When Martin asked for an In the meantime the world had begun to ask: "Who is this Martin Eden?"  He
had declined to give any biographical data to his publishers, but the Editors and publishers contributed to the daily heap of letters, the
former on their knees for his manuscripts, the latter on their knees for "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." 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 photographer who had once taken Martin's picture and who promptly
copyrighted it and put it on the market.  At first, so great was his
disgust with the magazines and all bourgeois society, Martin fought 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 him a thin letter from the editor of The Parthenon.  A glance told him
that "Ephemera" was accepted.  "We have submitted the poem to Mr. bourgeoisie is that he robs without illusion.  He'll talk Nietzsche, or
Schopenhauer, or Kant, or anything, but the only thing in this world, not terrorized honest, working-class householders.  But his ideals had
changed.  He glanced about him at the well-bred, well-dressed men and "Bourgeois," "trader's den"--Brissenden's epithets repeated themselves in
his mind.  But what of that? he demanded angrily.  He was marrying Ruth, "Let me see--where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an
air of expectant attention.

"He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden.  "He remembers it all." waiting to take her back."  He burst into laughter.  "Oh, these
bourgeois!  When I was broke, I was not fit to be seen with his sister. "I must say, Mr. Eden," the editor of The Hornet called down, "that for a
poet you can go some yourself.  Where did you learn that right cross--if
I may ask?" But this was his first editor, and under the circumstances he did not
desire to scare him too abruptly.  To his surprise, Mr. Ford leaped into that editors saw fit to publish.  One thing was certain: What these
multitudinous writers did he could do, and only give him time and he along with one rejection of all his rejections, he would have been
cheered.  But not one editor had given that proof of existence.  And he
had not really loved her.  It was an idealized Ruth he had loved, an
ethereal creature of his own creating, the bright and luminous spirit of It had been unfortunate from the first.  But one regret she voiced in the
whole letter, and it was a bitter one to Martin.  "If only you had "I wish you would show me all you write, Mr. Eden," she said. "I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." would have gone to work--to work for Ruth.  He went back to the day he
first attempted to write, and was appalled at the enormous waste of now.  Not another line would he ever write.  He would do what Ruth wanted
him to do, what everybody wanted him to do--get a job.  The thought of refusing his stuff.  He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself
and the dreams he had dreamed.  Ruth returned his "Sea Lyrics" by mail. "Because she must have loved you," Ruth said, still softly.  "Candidly,
now, didn't she?" "I--have thought about them," Ruth confessed, remembering the wanton
thoughts that had vexed her in the past, her face again red with maiden
shame that she should be telling such things. urged that he recreate this beauty for a wider audience than Ruth.  And
then, in splendor and glory, came the great idea.  He would write.  He "I think you are right," Ruth said in a low voice.  "And it is too bad.
She is such a pretty girl." of her letter.  And she was right.  He was firmly convinced of it as he
read the poems over.  Beauty and wonder had departed from him, and as he 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 his love-poems.  The real bourgeois Ruth, with all the bourgeois failings
and with the hopeless cramp of the bourgeois psychology in her mind, he
had never loved. 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 "I have thought."  Ruth waited a long time for the thought to frame
itself.  "And it is terrible.  It sickens me to think of it.  I told you had been the instrument, and, though Ruth did not love him, he had made
her conscious of her womanhood. that he encountered Ruth and her mother.  Mrs. Morse was shocked.  Even
Ruth was hurt, for she had some regard for appearances, and her lover, He read her letter apathetically.  She did her best to say how much she
liked them and that they were beautiful.  But she could not lie, and she During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation.  She was
stunned.  He was apathetic.  Once, he mentioned that he was going away,
"I mean that she is not to die an old maid if I can help it," was the
answer.  "If this young Eden can arouse her interest in mankind in
general, it will be a good thing." But Ruth laughed from security.  She was sure of herself, and in a few
days he would be off to sea.  Then, by the time he returned, she would be But his wife shook her head.  "It will not be necessary.  Ruth says he is
going to sea in a few days.  When he comes back, she will not be here.  We But Ruth did not care to wait ten days or two weeks.  Besides, her lover
was sick.  The next afternoon, accompanied by Arthur, she arrived in the After several weeks, what he had been waiting for happened.  He met Ruth
on the street.  It was true, she was accompanied by her brother, Norman,
and it was true that they tried to ignore him and that Norman attempted
to wave him aside. He signified that he was done with the discussion, and turned to Ruth.

"I'm wrought up to-day," he said in an undertone.  "All I want to do is
to love, not talk." "And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible," Mrs.
Morse went on incisively.  "Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am "It's absurd and unfair," he had told Ruth weeks before, "this objection
to talking shop.  For what reason under the sun do men and women come now.  Not another line would he ever write.  He would do what Ruth wanted
him to do, what everybody wanted him to do--get a job.  The thought of "No! no!" Ruth cried, starting up.  "I do not want to be released.  I
love him, and love is very sweet.  I am going to marry him--of course, if
you will let me." 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 think.  He did not know that he loved Ruth.  She did not even exist, for
his driven soul had no time to remember her.  It was only when he crawled "Ruth."  It was a talisman, a magic word to conjure with.  Each time he
murmured it, her face shimmered before him, suffusing the foul wall with Well, he would fight his way on and up higher.  And he would take Ruth
with him.  Her he dearly loved, and he was confident that she would shine market that weeks must elapse before he could hope for the first returns
from his hack-work.  Except at such times as he saw Ruth, or dropped in devote it to rest and love, and in both matters he prospered.  He was
soon spilling over with vitality, and each day he saw Ruth, at the moment During the walk Ruth and Martin held little conversation.  She was
stunned.  He was apathetic.  Once, he mentioned that he was going away, So he waited with Ruth and watched, desiring to speak his love but not
daring.  He was afraid of shocking her, and he was not sure of himself. had done for her, Martin decided he could do for Ruth.  But first, she
must love him.  The rest would be easy.  He would give her strength and Martin felt very uncomfortable, and looked entreaty at Ruth.

"Yes, what do you want?" Ruth asked.  "That will settle it."
When does the story take place? Where does the story take place? What profession does Martin pursue? Who is martin in love with? What does Martin Promise Ruth? What happens to Martin at the end of the story? How long is it before Ruth tires of waiting for Martin's success? What was Martin's prior profession? What does martin do with his wealth? What is Eden's primary motivation for educating and improving himself? Why can Eden and Ruth not get married? Why does Eden come to resent the bourgeoisie even though he becomes a wealthy member of society himself? How does Eden emotionally deal with becoming wealthy? What does Eden do frequently with his wealth? How does Ruth reject Eden? Why does Ruth reject Eden? What did Eden believe people valued most about him? What was Eden's profession before he educated himself? How does Eden die? How does Eden die? At the beginning of the story, what is Eden's job? How does Ruth reject Eden? What does Eden do with the wealth he acquires? Why would a union between Eden and Ruth have been impossible? What does Eden think people value him for? How does Eden relate to the bourgeoisie once publishers have accepted him? In her rejection letter, what does Ruth write she wishes Eden had done? How long does Eden promise Ruth that he'll be successful, before she rejects him?
The beginning of the 20th century. The beginning of the 20th Century
Oakland Oakland
Well known writer. Writing.
Ruth Morse. Ruth
That he will become a successful writer. That success will come
He commits suicide. He kills himself. 
Around 2 years. two years
Sailor. Sailor.
He gives it to his working class friends and family. He donates his wealth to working class family and friends. 
His love for Ruth.   Love
because they are from two different social and economic backgrounds.   Eden is a working class sailor while Ruth is from a bourgeois family 
Because of Ruth's rejection of him for his work-class background.   He has already been rejected for not becoming one of them sooner.
He becomes secluded and indifferent. He becomes jaded and reclusive. 
He donates to working class family and friends. Eden helped the working class
In a letter. She rejects him in a letter.
Because Eden does not become wealthy and successful soon enough.   Eden did not settle down.
His fame. His fame
Eden was a sailor.  A sailor
Eden commits suicide by drowning.  By committing suicide
Eden commits suicide by drowning himself. suicide by drowning
Eden is a sailor. A sailor.
She writes him a letter of rejection. She sends a letter.
He donates it to working-class friends and family. he donates money to his working class friends.
Eden is uneducated and working-class, while Ruth is educated and middle-class. Ruth would not marry someone unless they were also middle-class or higher. Eden and Ruth came from different backgrounds
Eden thinks people value him for his fame. Eden thinks people only value him for his fame. 
Eden holds himself apart from the bourgeoisie.  He has developed a grudge against them.
Ruth writes that she wishes Eden had settled down and made something of himself. settled down and made something of himself
Eden promises Ruth that he will be successful for two years before she rejects him. Two years.