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Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
"trig" several times, Martin Eden demanded:-
"What is _trig_?"
"Trignometry," Norman said; "a higher form of math."
"And what is math?" was the next question, which, somehow, brought the
laugh on Norman.
"Mathematics, arithmetic," was the answer.
Martin Eden nodded. He had caught a glimpse of the apparently
illimitable vistas of knowledge. What he saw took on tangibility. His
abnormal power of vision made abstractions take on concrete form. In the
alchemy of his brain, trigonometry and mathematics and the whole field of
knowledge which they betokened were transmuted into so much landscape.
The vistas he saw were vistas of green foliage and forest glades, all
softly luminous or shot through with flashing lights. In the distance,
detail was veiled and blurred by a purple haze, but behind this purple
haze, he knew, was the glamour of the unknown, the lure of romance. It
was like wine to him. Here was adventure, something to do with head and
hand, a world to conquer--and straightway from the back of his
consciousness rushed the thought, _conquering, to win to her, that lily-
pale spirit sitting beside him_.
The glimmering vision was rent asunder and dissipated by Arthur, who, all
evening, had been trying to draw his wild man out. Martin Eden
remembered his decision. For the first time he became himself,
consciously and deliberately at first, but soon lost in the joy of
creating in making life as he knew it appear before his listeners eyes.
He had been a member of the crew of the smuggling schooner Halcyon when
she was captured by a revenue cutter. He saw with wide eyes, and he
could tell what he saw. He brought the pulsing sea before them, and the
men and the ships upon the sea. He communicated his power of vision,
till they saw with his eyes what he had seen. He selected from the vast
mass of detail with an artists touch, drawing pictures of life that
glowed and burned with light and color, injecting movement so that his
listeners surged along with him on the flood of rough eloquence,
enthusiasm, and power. At times he shocked them with the vividness of
the narrative and his terms of speech, but beauty always followed fast
upon the heels of violence, and tragedy was relieved by humor, by
interpretations of the strange twists and quirks of sailors minds.
And while he talked, the girl looked at him with startled eyes. His fire
warmed her. She wondered if she had been cold all her days. She wanted
to lean toward this burning, blazing man that was like a volcano spouting
forth strength, robustness, and health. She felt that she must lean
toward him, and resisted by an effort. Then, too, there was the counter
impulse to shrink away from him. She was repelled by those lacerated
hands, grimed by toil so that the very dirt of life was ingrained in the
flesh itself, by that red chafe of the collar and those bulging muscles.
His roughness frightened her; each roughness of speech was an insult to
her ear, each rough phase of his life an insult to her soul. And ever
and again would come the draw of him, till she thought he must be evil to
have such power over her. All that was most firmly established in her
mind was rocking. His romance and adventure were battering at the
conventions. Before his facile perils and ready laugh, life was no
longer an affair of serious effort and restraint, but a toy, to be played
with and turned topsy-turvy, carelessly to be lived and pleasured in, and
carelessly to be flung aside. "Therefore, play!" was the cry that rang
through her. "Lean toward him, if so you will, and place your two hands
upon his neck!" She wanted to cry out at the recklessness of the
thought, and in vain she appraised her own cleanness and culture and
balanced all that she was against what he was not. She glanced about her
and saw the others gazing at him with rapt attention; and she would have
despaired had not she seen horror in her mothers eyes--fascinated
horror, it was true, but none the less horror. This man from outer
darkness was evil. Her mother saw it, and her mother was right. She
would trust her mothers judgment in this as she had always Martin Eden page 9 Martin Eden page 11 |