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.His money meanttime.There was so much that was more important than Latin, so many studies that clamored with imperious voices.And he mustMartin Eden 43/161 Martin Edenwrite.He must earn money.He had had no acceptances.Twoscore of manuscripts were travelling the endless round of the magazines.How did the others do it? He spent long hours in the free reading-room, going over what others had written, studying their workeagerly and critically, comparing it with his own, and wondering, wondering, about the secret trick they had discovered which enabledthem to sell their work.He was amazed at the immense amount of printed stuff that was dead.No light, no life, no color, was shot through it.There was nobreath of life in it, and yet it sold, at two cents a word, twenty dollars a thousand--the newspaper clipping had said so.He was puzzledby countless short stories, written lightly and cleverly he confessed, but without vitality or reality.Life was so strange and wonderful,filled with an immensity of problems, of dreams, and of heroic toils, and yet these stories dealt only with the commonplaces of life.Hefelt the stress and strain of life, its fevers and sweats and wild insurgences--surely this was the stuff to write about! He wanted toglorify the leaders of forlorn hopes, the mad lovers, the giants that fought under stress and strain, amid terror and tragedy, making lifecrackle with the strength of their endeavor.And yet the magazine short stories seemed intent on glorifying the Mr.Butlers, the sordiddollar- chasers, and the commonplace little love affairs of commonplace little men and women.Was it because the editors of themagazines were commonplace? he demanded.Or were they afraid of life, these writers and editors and readers?But his chief trouble was that he did not know any editors or writers.And not merely did he not know any writers, but he did not knowanybody who had ever attempted to write.There was nobody to tell him, to hint to him, to give him the least word of advice.He beganto doubt that editors were real men.They seemed cogs in a machine.That was what it was, a machine.He poured his soul into stories,articles, and poems, and intrusted them to the machine.He folded them just so, put the proper stamps inside the long envelope alongwith the manuscript, sealed the envelope, put more stamps outside, and dropped it into the mail-box.It travelled across the continent,and after a certain lapse of time the postman returned him the manuscript in another long envelope, on the outside of which were thestamps he had enclosed.There was no human editor at the other end, but a mere cunning arrangement of cogs that changed themanuscript from one envelope to another and stuck on the stamps.It was like the slot machines wherein one dropped pennies, and,with a metallic whirl of machinery had delivered to him a stick of chewing-gum or a tablet of chocolate.It depended upon which slotone dropped the penny in, whether he got chocolate or gum.And so with the editorial machine.One slot brought checks and the otherbrought rejection slips.So far he had found only the latter slot.It was the rejection slips that completed the horrible machinelikeness of the process.These slips were printed in stereotyped forms andhe had received hundreds of them--as many as a dozen or more on each of his earlier manuscripts.If he had received one line, onepersonal line, along with one rejection of all his rejections, he would have been cheered.But not one editor had given that proof ofexistence.And he could conclude only that there were no warm human men at the other end, only mere cogs, well oiled and runningbeautifully in the machine.He was a good fighter, whole-souled and stubborn, and he would have been content to continue feeding the machine for years; but hewas bleeding to death, and not years but weeks would determine the fight.Each week his board bill brought him nearer destruction,while the postage on forty manuscripts bled him almost as severely.He no longer bought books, and he economized in petty ways andsought to delay the inevitable end; though he did not know how to economize, and brought the end nearer by a week when he gave hissister Marian five dollars for a dress.He struggled in the dark, without advice, without encouragement, and in the teeth of discouragement.Even Gertrude was beginning tolook askance.At first she had tolerated with sisterly fondness what she conceived to be his foolishness; but now, out of sisterlysolicitude, she grew anxious.To her it seemed that his foolishness was becoming a madness.Martin knew this and suffered morekeenly from it than from the open and nagging contempt of Bernard Higginbotham.Martin had faith in himself, but he was alone inthis faith.Not even Ruth had faith.She had wanted him to devote himself to study, and, though she had not openly disapproved of hiswriting, she had never approved.He had never offered to show her his work.A fastidious delicacy had prevented him.Besides, she had been studying heavily at theuniversity, and he felt averse to robbing her of her time.But when she had taken her degree, she asked him herself to let her seesomething of what he had been doing.Martin was elated and diffident.Here was a judge.She was a bachelor of arts.She had studiedliterature under skilled instructors.Perhaps the editors were capable judges, too.But she would be different from them.She would nothand him a stereotyped rejection slip, nor would she inform him that lack of preference for his work did not necessarily imply lack ofmerit in his work.She would talk, a warm human being, in her quick, bright way, and, most important of all, she would catch glimpsesof the real Martin Eden
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