The Man behind the Legend: Memoirs, Autobiographical Novels & Essays of Jack London. Jack London
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once before—by a very great man, a scientist and evolutionist, Joseph Le Conte. But he is dead, and I thought to remain undetected; and now you come along and expose me. Seriously, though—and this is confession—I think there is something in your contention—a great deal, in fact. I am too classical, not enough up-to-date in the interpretative branches of science, and I can only plead the disadvantages of my education and a temperamental slothfulness that prevents me from doing the work. I wonder if you’ll believe that I’ve never been inside a physics or chemistry laboratory? It is true, nevertheless. Le Conte was right, and so are you, Mr. Eden, at least to an extent—how much I do not know.”
Ruth drew Martin away with her on a pretext; when she had got him aside, whispering:-
“You shouldn’t have monopolized Professor Caldwell that way. There may be others who want to talk with him.”
“My mistake,” Martin admitted contritely. “But I’d got him stirred up, and he was so interesting that I did not think. Do you know, he is the brightest, the most intellectual, man I have ever talked with. And I’ll tell you something else. I once thought that everybody who went to universities, or who sat in the high places in society, was just as brilliant and intelligent as he.”
“He’s an exception,” she answered.
“I should say so. Whom do you want me to talk to now?—Oh, say, bring me up against that cashier-fellow.”
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 cheeks flush, while the calmness and poise with which he talked surprised her. But in Martin’s estimation the whole tribe of bank cashiers fell a few hundred per cent, and for the rest of the evening he labored under the impression that bank cashiers and talkers of platitudes were synonymous phrases. The army officer he found good-natured and simple, a healthy, wholesome young fellow, content to occupy the place in life into which birth and luck had flung him. On learning that he had completed two years in the university, Martin was puzzled to know where he had stored it away. Nevertheless Martin liked him better than the platitudinous bank cashier.
“I really don’t object to platitudes,” he told Ruth later; “but what worries me into nervousness is the pompous, smugly complacent, superior certitude with which they are uttered and the time taken to do it. Why, I could give that man the whole history of the Reformation in the time he took to tell me that the Union-Labor Party had fused with the Democrats. Do you know, he skins his words as a professional poker-player skins the cards that are dealt out to him. Some day I’ll show you what I mean.”
“I’m sorry you don’t like him,” was her reply. “He’s a favorite of Mr. Butler’s. Mr. Butler says he is safe and honest—calls him the Rock, Peter, and says that upon him any banking institution can well be built.”
“I don’t doubt it—from the little I saw of him and the less I heard from him; but I don’t think so much of banks as I did. You don’t mind my speaking my mind this way, dear?”
“No, no; it is most interesting.”
“Yes,” Martin went on heartily, “I’m no more than a barbarian getting my first impressions of civilization. Such impressions must be entertainingly novel to the civilized person.”
“What did you think of my cousins?” Ruth queried.
“I liked them better than the other women. There’s plenty of fun in them along with paucity of pretence.”
“Then you did like the other women?”
He shook his head.
“That social-settlement woman is no more than a sociological poll-parrot. I swear, if you winnowed her out between the stars, like Tomlinson, there would be found in her not one original thought. As for the portrait-painter, she was a positive bore. She’d make a good wife for the cashier. And the musician woman! I don’t care how nimble her fingers are, how perfect her technique, how wonderful her expression—the fact is, she knows nothing about music.”
“She plays beautifully,” Ruth protested.
“Yes, she’s undoubtedly gymnastic in the externals of music, but the intrinsic spirit of music is unguessed by her. I asked her what music meant to her—you know I’m always curious to know that particular thing; and she did not know what it meant to her, except that she adored it, that it was the greatest of the arts, and that it meant more than life to her.”
“You were making them talk shop,” Ruth charged him.
“I confess it. And if they were failures on shop, imagine my sufferings if they had discoursed on other subjects. Why, I used to think that up here, where all the advantages of culture were enjoyed—” He paused for a moment, and watched the youthful shade of himself, in stiff-rim and square-cut, enter the door and swagger across the room. “As I was saying, up here I thought all men and women were brilliant and radiant. But now, from what little I’ve seen of them, they strike me as a pack of ninnies, most of them, and ninety percent of the remainder as bores. Now there’s Professor Caldwell—he’s different. He’s a man, every inch of him and every atom of his gray matter.”
Ruth’s face brightened.
“Tell me about him,” she urged. “Not what is large and brilliant—I know those qualities; but whatever you feel is adverse. I am most curious to know.”
“Perhaps I’ll get myself in a pickle.” Martin debated humorously for a moment. “Suppose you tell me first. Or maybe you find in him nothing less than the best.”
“I attended two lecture courses under him, and I have known him for two years; that is why I am anxious for your first impression.”
“Bad impression, you mean? Well, here goes. He is all the fine things you think about him, I guess. At least, he is the finest specimen of intellectual man I have met; but he is a man with a secret shame.”
“Oh, no, no!” he hastened to cry. “Nothing paltry nor vulgar. What I mean is that he strikes me as a man who has gone to the bottom of things, and is so afraid of what he saw that he makes believe to himself that he never saw it. Perhaps that’s not the clearest way to express it. Here’s another way. A man who has found the path to the hidden temple but has not followed it; who has, perhaps, caught glimpses of the temple and striven afterward to convince himself that it was only a mirage of foliage. Yet another way. A man who could have done things but who placed no value on the doing, and who, all the time, in his innermost heart, is regretting that he has not done them; who has secretly laughed at the rewards for doing, and yet, still more secretly, has yearned for the rewards and for the joy of doing.”
“I don’t read him that way,” she said. “And for that matter, I don’t see just what you mean.”
“It is only a vague feeling on my part,” Martin temporized. “I have no reason for it. It is only a feeling, and most likely it is wrong. You certainly should know him better than I.”
From the evening at Ruth’s Martin brought away with him strange confusions and conflicting feelings. He was disappointed in his goal, in the persons he had climbed to be with. On the other hand, he was encouraged with his success. The climb had been easier than he expected. 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 climbed—with the exception, of course, of Professor Caldwell. About life and the books he knew more than they, and he wondered into what nooks and crannies they had cast aside their educations. He did not know that he was himself possessed of unusual brain vigor; nor did he know that the persons who were given to probing the depths and to thinking ultimate thoughts were not to be found in the drawing rooms of the world’s Morses; nor did he dream that such persons were as lonely eagles sailing solitary in the azure sky far above the earth and its swarming freight of gregarious life.
Chapter XXVIII