The Man behind the Legend: Memoirs, Autobiographical Novels & Essays of Jack London. Jack London

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СКАЧАТЬ herself half out of his embrace, suddenly and exultantly she reached up and placed both hands upon Martin Eden’s sunburnt neck. So exquisite was the pang of love and desire fulfilled that she uttered a low moan, relaxed her hands, and lay half-swooning in his arms.

      Not a word had been spoken, and not a word was spoken for a long time. Twice he bent and kissed her, and each time her lips met his shyly and her body made its happy, nestling movement. She clung to him, unable to release herself, and he sat, half supporting her in his arms, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the blur of the great city across the bay. For once there were no visions in his brain. Only colors and lights and glows pulsed there, warm as the day and warm as his love. He bent over her. She was speaking.

      “When did you love me?” she whispered.

      “From the first, the very first, the first moment I laid eye on you. I was mad for love of you then, and in all the time that has passed since then I have only grown the madder. I am maddest, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic, my head is so turned with joy.”

      “I am glad I am a woman, Martin—dear,” she said, after a long sigh.

      He crushed her in his arms again and again, and then asked:-

      “And you? When did you first know?”

      “Oh, I knew it all the time, almost, from the first.”

      “And I have been as blind as a bat!” he cried, a ring of vexation in his voice. “I never dreamed it until just how, when I—when I kissed you.”

      “I didn’t mean that.” She drew herself partly away and looked at him. “I meant I knew you loved almost from the first.”

      “And you?” he demanded.

      “It came to me suddenly.” She was speaking very slowly, her eyes warm and fluttery and melting, a soft flush on her cheeks that did not go away. “I never knew until just now when—you put your arms around me. And I never expected to marry you, Martin, not until just now. How did you make me love you?”

      “I don’t know,” he laughed, “unless just by loving you, for I loved you hard enough to melt the heart of a stone, much less the heart of the living, breathing woman you are.”

      “This is so different from what I thought love would be,” she announced irrelevantly.

      “What did you think it would be like?”

      “I didn’t think it would be like this.” She was looking into his eyes at the moment, but her own dropped as she continued, “You see, I didn’t know what this was like.”

      He offered to draw her toward him again, but it was no more than a tentative muscular movement of the girdling arm, for he feared that he might be greedy. Then he felt her body yielding, and once again she was close in his arms and lips were pressed on lips.

      “What will my people say?” she queried, with sudden apprehension, in one of the pauses.

      “I don’t know. We can find out very easily any time we are so minded.”

      “But if mamma objects? I am sure I am afraid to tell her.”

      “Let me tell her,” he volunteered valiantly. “I think your mother does not like me, but I can win her around. A fellow who can win you can win anything. And if we don’t—”

      “Yes?”

      “Why, we’ll have each other. But there’s no danger not winning your mother to our marriage. She loves you too well.”

      “I should not like to break her heart,” Ruth said pensively.

      He felt like assuring her that mothers’ hearts were not so easily broken, but instead he said, “And love is the greatest thing in the world.”

      “Do you know, Martin, you sometimes frighten me. I am frightened now, when I think of you and of what you have been. You must be very, very good to me. Remember, after all, that I am only a child. I never loved before.”

      “Nor I. We are both children together. And we are fortunate above most, for we have found our first love in each other.”

      “But that is impossible!” she cried, withdrawing herself from his arms with a swift, passionate movement. “Impossible for you. You have been a sailor, and sailors, I have heard, are—are—”

      Her voice faltered and died away.

      “Are addicted to having a wife in every port?” he suggested. “Is that what you mean?”

      “Yes,” she answered in a low voice.

      “But that is not love.” He spoke authoritatively. “I have been in many ports, but I never knew a passing touch of love until I saw you that first night. Do you know, when I said good night and went away, I was almost arrested.”

      “Arrested?”

      “Yes. The policeman thought I was drunk; and I was, too—with love for you.”

      “But you said we were children, and I said it was impossible, for you, and we have strayed away from the point.”

      “I said that I never loved anybody but you,” he replied. “You are my first, my very first.”

      “And yet you have been a sailor,” she objected.

      “But that doesn’t prevent me from loving you the first.”

      “And there have been women—other women—oh!”

      And to Martin Eden’s supreme surprise, she burst into a storm of tears that took more kisses than one and many caresses to drive away. And all the while there was running through his head Kipling’s line: “And the Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady are sisters under their skins.” It was true, he decided; though the novels he had read had led him to believe otherwise. His idea, for which the novels were responsible, had been that only formal proposals obtained in the upper classes. It was all right enough, down whence he had come, for youths and maidens to win each other by contact; but for the exalted personages up above on the heights to make love in similar fashion had seemed unthinkable. Yet the novels were wrong. Here was a proof of it. The same pressures and caresses, unaccompanied by speech, that were efficacious with the girls of the working-class, were equally efficacious with the girls above the working-class. They were all of the same flesh, after all, sisters under their skins; and he might have known as much himself had he remembered his Spencer. As he held Ruth in his arms and soothed her, he took great consolation in the thought that the Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady were pretty much alike under their skins. It brought Ruth closer to him, made her possible. Her dear flesh was as anybody’s flesh, as his flesh. There was no bar to their marriage. Class difference was the only difference, and class was extrinsic. It could be shaken off. A slave, he had read, had risen to the Roman purple. That being so, then he could rise to Ruth. Under her purity, and saintliness, and culture, and ethereal beauty of soul, she was, in things fundamentally human, just like Lizzie Connolly and all Lizzie Connollys. All that was possible of them was possible of her. She could love, and hate, maybe have hysterics; and she could certainly be jealous, as she was jealous now, uttering her last sobs in his arms.

      “Besides, I am older than you,” she remarked suddenly, СКАЧАТЬ