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Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
lights of the
sugar steamers in the harbor, the voices of the drunken sailors in the
distance, the jostling stevedores, the flaming passion in the Mexicans
face, the glint of the beast-eyes in the starlight, the sting of the
steel in his neck, and the rush of blood, the crowd and the cries, the
two bodies, his and the Mexicans, locked together, rolling over and over
and tearing up the sand, and from away off somewhere the mellow tinkling
of a guitar. Such was the picture, and he thrilled to the memory of it,
wondering if the man could paint it who had painted the pilot-schooner on
the wall. The white beach, the stars, and the lights of the sugar
steamers would look great, he thought, and midway on the sand the dark
group of figures that surrounded the fighters. The knife occupied a
place in the picture, he decided, and would show well, with a sort of
gleam, in the light of the stars. But of all this no hint had crept into
his speech. "He tried to bite off my nose," he concluded.
"Oh," the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed the shock in
her sensitive face.
He felt a shock himself, and a blush of embarrassment shone faintly on
his sunburned cheeks, though to him it burned as hotly as when his cheeks
had been exposed to the open furnace-door in the fire-room. Such sordid
things as stabbing affrays were evidently not fit subjects for
conversation with a lady. People in the books, in her walk of life, did
not talk about such things--perhaps they did not know about them, either.
There was a brief pause in the conversation they were trying to get
started. Then she asked tentatively about the scar on his cheek. Even
as she asked, he realized that she was making an effort to talk his talk,
and he resolved to get away from it and talk hers.
"It was just an accident," he said, putting his hand to his cheek. "One
night, in a calm, with a heavy sea running, the main-boom-lift carried
away, an next the tackle. The lift was wire, an it was threshin
around like a snake. The whole watch was tryin to grab it, an I rushed
in an got swatted."
"Oh," she said, this time with an accent of comprehension, though
secretly his speech had been so much Greek to her and she was wondering
what a _lift_ was and what _swatted_ meant.
"This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan into
execution and pronouncing the i long.
"Who?"
"Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The poet."
"Swinburne," she corrected.
"Yes, thats the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long
since he died?"
"Why, I havent heard that he was dead." She looked at him curiously.
"Where did you make his acquaintance?"
"I never clapped eyes on him," was the reply. "But I read some of his
poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How
do you like his poetry?"
And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject he had
suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly from the edge of
the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands, as if it might get
away from him and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in making her
talk her talk, and while she rattled on, he strove to follow her,
marvelling at all the knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty head
of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of her face. Follow her he did,
though bothered by unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips and by
critical phrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his mind, but
that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here was
intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as
he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and stared at her
with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win to, to fight
for--ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such women in the
world. She was one of them. She lent wings to his imagination, and
great, luminous canvases spread themselves before him whereon loomed
vague, gigantic figures of love and romance, and of Martin Eden page 3 Martin Eden page 5 |