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He recoiled from side to side between the various objects and multiplied the hazards that in reality lodged only in his mind. Between a grand piano and a centre-table piled high with books was space for a half a dozen to walk abreast, yet he essayed it with trepidation. His heavy arms hung loosely at his sides. He did not know what to do with those arms and hands, and when, to his excited vision, one arm seemed liable to brush against the books on the table, he lurched away like a frightened horse, barely missing the piano stool.
He watched the easy walk of the other in front of him, and for the first time realized that his walk was different from that of other men. He was used to the harsh callousness of factory girls and working women. Well he knew why their hands were rough; but this hand of hers. It was soft because she had never used it to work with. The machine impresses its ignominy and vulgarity on a person, affecting her whole body, gait and carriage, as Martin remarks on meeting Lizzie: She has worked long hours for years at machines.
I can tell at a glance the trades of many workingmen I meet on the street. Ceaselessly active, head and hand, an intelligent machine, all that constituted him a man was devoted to furnishing that intelligence.
There was no room in his brain for the universe and its mighty problems. All the broad and spacious corridors of his mind were closed and hermetically sealed. The echoing chamber of his soul was a narrow room, a conning tower, whence were directed his arm and shoulder muscles, his ten nimble fingers, and the swift-moving iron along its steaming path in broad, sweeping strokes, just so many strokes and no more, just so far with each stroke and not a fraction of an inch farther, rushing along interminable sleeves, sides, backs, and tails, and tossing the finished shirts, without rumpling, upon the receiving frame.
She did not even exist, for his driven soul had no time to remember her London, by using a spatial metaphor to characterise the mind, foregrounds the violent effect that menial activity has on an individual who was not long ago driven by passionate love and cosmic curiosity. As the biblical onomastics suggest, Martin Eden starts off as an innocent young man; his many adventures as a sailor and a hoodlum seem to have left him somehow unscathed on a moral and spiritual level.
All that was god-like in him was blotted out. The spur of ambition was blunted; he had no vitality with which to feel the prod of it. He was dead. His soul seemed dead. He was a beast, a work-beast. Fancy came out of the darkened room and lured him on, a thing of flaming brightness.
His mirror of vision was silver-clear, a flashing, dazzling palimpsest of imagery. Colors and radiances surrounded him and bathed him and pervaded him. What was that? It seemed a lighthouse; but it was inside his brain—a flashing, bright white light. It flashed swifter and swifter. In both cases, Martin seeks refuge from the despair inspired by a machine- like environment; in the former instance it is a crushing, mind-numbing toil in a laundry, in the latter it is the nauseating workings of the social machinery.
Disheartened by the toll manual labour took on his physical and mental health, Martin decides to dedicate his time and energy to writing, only to discover another mechanistic inferno. After casting away sweated labour, the hero turns to the world of art, literature and philosophy.
But against all expectations, the machine motif is more present than ever in that new chapter of his life.
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