“But you don’t hold yourself superior to all the judges of music?” she protested.

“No, no, not for a moment.  I merely maintain my right as an individual.  I have just been telling you what I think, in order to explain why the elephantine gambols of Madame Tetralani spoil the orchestra for me.  The world’s judges of music may all be right.  But I am I, and I won’t subordinate my taste to the unanimous judgment of mankind.  If I don’t like a thing, I don’t like it, that’s all; and there is no reason under the sun why I should ape a liking for it just because the majority of my fellow-creatures like it, or make believe they like it.  I can’t follow the fashions in the things I like or dislike.”

“But music, you know, is a matter of training,” Ruth argued; “and opera is even more a matter of training.  May it not be—­”

“That I am not trained in opera?” he dashed in.

She nodded.

“The very thing,” he agreed.  “And I consider I am fortunate in not having been caught when I was young.  If I had, I could have wept sentimental tears to-night, and the clownish antics of that precious pair would have but enhanced the beauty of their voices and the beauty of the accompanying orchestra.  You are right.  It’s mostly a matter of training.  And I am too old, now.  I must have the real or nothing.  An illusion that won’t convince is a palpable lie, and that’s what grand opera is to me when little Barillo throws a fit, clutches mighty Tetralani in his arms (also in a fit), and tells her how passionately he adores her.”

Again Ruth measured his thoughts by comparison of externals and in accordance with her belief in the established.  Who was he that he should be right and all the cultured world wrong?  His words and thoughts made no impression upon her.  She was too firmly intrenched in the established to have any sympathy with revolutionary ideas.  She had always been used to music, and she had enjoyed opera ever since she was a child, and all her world had enjoyed it, too.  Then by what right did Martin Eden emerge, as he had so recently emerged, from his rag-time and working-class songs, and pass judgment on the world’s music?  She was vexed with him, and as she walked beside him she had a vague feeling of outrage.  At the best, in her most charitable frame of mind, she considered the statement of his views to be a caprice, an erratic and uncalled-for prank.  But when he took her in his arms at the door and kissed her good night in tender lover-fashion, she forgot everything in the outrush of her own love to him.  And later, on a sleepless pillow, she puzzled, as she had often puzzled of late, as to how it was that she loved so strange a man, and loved him despite the disapproval of her people.

And next day Martin Eden cast hack-work aside, and at white heat hammered out an essay to which he gave the title, “The Philosophy of Illusion.”  A stamp started it on its travels, but it was destined to receive many stamps and to be started on many travels in the months that followed.