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Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
the servant, an unceasing menace, that appeared noiselessly at
his shoulder, a dire Sphinx that propounded puzzles and conundrums
demanding instantaneous solution. He was oppressed throughout the meal
by the thought of finger-bowls. Irrelevantly, insistently, scores of
times, he wondered when they would come on and what they looked like. He
had heard of such things, and now, sooner or later, somewhere in the next
few minutes, he would see them, sit at table with exalted beings who used
them--ay, and he would use them himself. And most important of all, far
down and yet always at the surface of his thought, was the problem of how
he should comport himself toward these persons. What should his attitude
be? He wrestled continually and anxiously with the problem. There were
cowardly suggestions that he should make believe, assume a part; and
there were still more cowardly suggestions that warned him he would fail
in such course, that his nature was not fitted to live up to it, and that
he would make a fool of himself.
It was during the first part of the dinner, struggling to decide upon his
attitude, that he was very quiet. He did not know that his quietness was
giving the lie to Arthurs words of the day before, when that brother of
hers had announced that he was going to bring a wild man home to dinner
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
treachery--especially when he had been the means of getting this
particular brother out of an unpleasant row. So he sat at table,
perturbed by his own unfitness and at the same time charmed by all that
went on about him. For the first time he realized that eating was
something more than a utilitarian function. He was unaware of what he
ate. It was merely food. He was feasting his love of beauty at this
table where eating was an aesthetic function. It was an intellectual
function, too. His mind was stirred. He heard words spoken that were
meaningless to him, and other words that he had seen only in books and
that no man or woman he had known was of large enough mental caliber to
pronounce. When he heard such words dropping carelessly from the lips of
the members of this marvellous family, her family, he thrilled with
delight. The romance, and beauty, and high vigor of the books were
coming true. He was in that rare and blissful state wherein a man sees
his dreams stalk out from the crannies of fantasy and become fact.
Never had he been at such an altitude of living, and he kept himself in
the background, listening, observing, and pleasuring, replying in
reticent monosyllables, saying, "Yes, miss," and "No, miss," to her, and
"Yes, maam," and "No, maam," to her mother. He curbed the impulse,
arising out of his sea-training, to say "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," to her
brothers. He felt that it would be inappropriate and a confession of
inferiority on his part--which would never do if he was to win to her.
Also, it was a dictate of his pride. "By God!" he cried to himself,
once; "Im just as good as them, and if they do know lots that I dont, I
could learn m a few myself, all the same!" And the next moment, when
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
man, that was what he was, shoulder to shoulder, at dinner, with people
he had read about in books. He was in the books himself, adventuring
through the printed pages of bound volumes.
But while he belied Arthurs description, and appeared a gentle lamb
rather than a wild man, he was racking his brains for a course of action.
He was no gentle lamb, and the part of second fiddle would never do for
the high-pitched dominance of his nature. He talked only when he had to,
and then his speech was like his walk to the table, filled with jerks and
halts as he groped in his polyglot vocabulary for words, debating over
words he knew Martin Eden page 7 Martin Eden page 9 |