He punched on, with his left hand only, and as he punched, doggedly, only half-conscious, as from a remote distance he heard murmurs of fear in the gangs, and one who said with shaking voice: "This ain't a scrap, fellows. It's murder, an' we ought to stop it."
But no one stopped it, and he was glad, punching on wearily and endlessly with his one arm, battering away at a bloody something before him that was not a face but a horror, an oscillating, hideous, gibbering, nameless thing that persisted before his wavering vision and would not go away. And he punched on and on, slower and slower, as the last shreds of vitality oozed from him, through centuries and aeons and enormous lapses of time, until, in a dim way, he became aware that the nameless thing was sinking, slowly sinking down to the rough board-planking of the bridge. And the next moment he was standing over it, staggering and swaying on shaky legs, clutching at the air for support, and saying in a voice he did not recognize:-
"D'ye want any more? Say, d'ye want any more?"
He was still saying it, over and over, - demanding, entreating, threatening, to know if it wanted any more, - when he felt the fellows of his gang laying hands on him, patting him on the back and trying to put his coat on him. And then came a sudden rush of blackness and oblivion.
The tin alarm-clock on the table ticked on, but Martin Eden, his face buried on his arms, did not hear it. He heard nothing. He did not think. So absolutely had he relived life that he had fainted just as he fainted years before on the Eighth Street Bridge. For a full minute the blackness and the blankness endured. Then, like one from the dead, he sprang upright, eyes flaming, sweat pouring down his face, shouting:-
"I licked you, Cheese-Face! It took me eleven years, but I licked you!"
His knees were trembling under him, he felt faint, and he staggered back to the bed, sinking down and sitting on the edge of it. He was still in the clutch of the past. He looked about the room, perplexed, alarmed, wondering where he was, until he caught sight of the pile of manuscripts in the corner. Then the wheels of memory slipped ahead through four years of time, and he was aware of the present, of the books he had opened and the universe he had won from their pages, of his dreams and ambitions, and of his love for a pale wraith of a girl, sensitive and sheltered and ethereal, who would die of horror did she witness but one moment of what he had just lived through - one moment of all the muck of life through which he had waded.
He arose to his feet and confronted himself in the looking-glass.
"And so you arise from the mud, Martin Eden," he said solemnly. "And you cleanse your eyes in a great brightness, and thrust your shoulders among the stars, doing what all life has done, letting the 'ape and tiger die' and wresting highest heritage from all powers that be."
He looked more closely at himself and laughed.
"A bit of hysteria and melodrama, eh?" he queried. "Well, never mind. You licked Cheese-Face, and you'll lick the editors if it takes twice eleven years to do it in. You can't stop here. You've got to go on. It's to a finish, you know."
“第一仗打过了，打完了，”十天后马丁对着镜子说．“还会有第二仗，第三仗．直打到时间的尽头，除非——”
话还没说完，他回头看了看那间寒伧的小屋，目光落在一堆退稿上，装在长信封里的份份退稿躺在地板角落山地里。他再没有邮票打发它们去周游了，一个礼拜以来退稿在不断堆积。明天还会有更多的退稿要来，还有后天，大后天，直到稿子全部退回。而他已无法再把它们打发出去了。他已有一个月没交打字机租金，因为交不出。他的钱只勉强够这一周已到期的膳宿费和职业介绍所的手续费。
他坐了下来，心事重重地望着桌子。桌子上有墨水印迹，他突然发现自己很爱这桌子。
“亲爱的老桌子，”他说，“我跟你一起度过了一段快乐的时光。归根到底你对我还是够朋友的，从来不拒绝为找做事，从来不给我一份退稿条用以回答我的太能，也从来没有抱怨过加班加点。”
他双肘往桌上一搁，便把脸埋了过去，他喉头硬塞，想哭。这让他想起他第一次打架。那时他六岁。他眼泪汪汪地不停地打着。比他大两岁的那个孩子拳头耳光直打得他精疲力竭。在他终于倒下的时候他看见那一圈男孩子像野蛮人一样嚎叫着。他痛得扭来扭去想呕吐，鼻子鲜血直流，受伤的眼睛眼泪直淌。
“可怜的小伙子，”他喃喃地说，“你现在又遭到了惨败，被打成了肉泥。你给打倒了，退场了。”
但那第一场架的幻影还在他眼帘下留存。他仔细一看，又见它融化开去，变作此后的多次打架。六个月之后干酪脸（他那对手）又把他打败了，却也被他打青了眼睛。那些仗打得可不简单。他一仗一仗都看到了，每一仗他都挨揍，干酪脸在他面前耀武扬威。但他从来没有逃走过。想到这一点他便有了力气。打不过就挨揍，却决不逃走。干酪脸打起架来是个小魔鬼，对他从不手软，但他总能挺住！总能挺住！
然后，他看到了一条狭窄的胡同，两旁是歪歪倒倒的棚屋。胡同尽头叫一栋一楼一底的砖房堵住，砖房里发出印刷机有节奏的轰鸣，第一期《探询者》报就是在这儿出版的。他那时十一岁，干酪脸十三岁。两人都送《探询者》，都在那儿等报纸。当然，干酪脸又跟他找碴，于是又打了一架。这一架胜负不分，因为三点三刻印刷车间大门一开报童们就挤进去折报纸了。
“我明天准收拾你，”他听见干酪脸向他保证，也听见自己尖细而颤抖的声音忍住了眼泪答应明天在那儿见。
第二天他果然去了，从学校匆匆赶去，抢先到达，两分钟后就跟干酿脸干了起来。别的孩子说他是好样的，给他参谋，指出他拼打中的毛病，说要是他照他们的主意打他准能赢。他们也给干酪脸参谋，出点子。那一仗他们看得好开心！他停止了回忆，却来羡慕那群孩子所看到的他跟干酪脸那场精彩表演。两人打了起来，打得难分难解，打了三十分钟，直打到印刷车间开门。
他观看着自己的幻影一天一天从学校匆匆赶到《探询者》胡同去。他行动不便了，因为天天打架，腿僵了，瘸了。因为挡开了数不清的拳头，他的前臂从手腕到手肘被打得青一块紫一块，有些地方还溃脓了。他的脑袋、胳臂、肩头、后腰都疼，全身都疼，脑袋沉重，发晕。在学校他不玩，也不读书，甚至像他现在这样在桌子边安安静静坐上一天，也是一种折磨。自从每天一架开始，日子便长得可怕，时间流驶成了梦魇，未来只是无穷无尽的每天一架。他常常想他为什么就打不败干酪脸？打败了他，可不就脱离苦海了么？可他从没有想到过不打，没想到过向干酪脸认输。
他就像这样忍受着肉体和灵魂的痛苦，挣扎着去到《探询者》胡同，去学忍受，去面对他那永恒的敌人干酪脸。那孩子也跟他一样痛苦，若不是有那群报童看热闹非得保全那痛苦的面子不可，他也有点不想打了。有一天下午在两人按照规矩（不许踢，不许打皮带以下部位，倒地之后不许再打）作了一场你死我活的苦斗之后，干酪脸被打得气喘吁吁，站立不稳，提出算个平局不再打了。这时脑袋伏在胳膊上的马丁看到了多年前那天下午自己的样子，禁不住满心欢喜。那时他已站立不稳，喘着气，打破的嘴唇在流血，那血倒灌进喉咙，噎得他说不出话来。但他却晃晃悠悠地向干酪脸走去，吐出了一口血，清理了喉咙，大叫说，干酪脸尽可以认输，可他还要揍他。干酪脸不认输，两人又打了起来。
第二天、第三天和以后没完没了的日子里下午的架照打不误。他每天抡起胳膊开仗时都疼得厉害。最初的几拳无论是打的还是挨的，都疼得他翻肠倒肚。然后就麻木了。他闷着头瞎打。干酪脸那粗大的五官、野兽一样的燃烧着的眼睛像梦境一样在他面前旋来旋去，晃来晃去。他集中全力揍他的脸，别的只剩下一团旋转的虚无，世界上除了那张脸便一无所有。不用自己那流血的拳头把他打成肉泥自己就得不到休息——幸福的休息。否则便是让不知怎么属于那张脸的血淋淋的拳头把自己打成肉泥。总之，无论胜负他都可以休息了。但是住手不打，要他马丁住手不打，哼！没门！
那一天终于到了。他拖着身子来到《探询者》胡同，却没见到干酪脸。以后干酪脸也再没有出现。孩子们祝贺他，告诉他干酪脸给他打败了。但是马丁并不满足。他还没有打败干酪脸，也没叫他打败。问题还没有解决。后来他们才听说干酪脸的父亲就在那天突然死了。
马丁跨过了许多年来到了奥狄多林戏院楼座的那天夜里。他那年十七岁，刚从海上回来。有人争吵，马丁出面干涉，面对他的正是干酪脸那怒气冲冲的眼睛。
“看完戏我再修理你，”他的老对手从牙缝里说。
马丁点了点头。楼座警卫已经向骚乱方向走来。
“最后一场完了咱俩外边会，”马丁低声说，脸上的兴趣仍在舞台的蹦蹦飞上，没有分心。
警卫瞪了瞪眼走掉了。
“有哥儿们么？”那一出看完他问干酪脸。
“当然。”
“那我也得找几个来。”马丁宣布。
他在幕间休息时召集了自己的人马——铁钉厂的三个熟人，一个铁路上的锅炉工，大麻帮的六七个，还加上两路口帮的六七个横人。
观众出戏院时两帮人马从街两面不显眼地鱼贯而出，来到一个僻静处所，会了面，举行了战前会议。
“地点定在八号街大桥，”干酪脸帮的一个红发崽说，“你俩可以在正中灯光下打，哪头来了公安都可以从另一头溜走。”
“我没有意见.”马丁跟自己那帮人的头头商量了一下，说。
八号街大桥横跨手安东尼奥河入海口的一道狭长的海湾，有城市的三段街长，在桥的正中和两头都有电灯。警察在桥头的灯火下一露脸就会被发现。要进行此刻在马丁眼帘前出现的战斗，那是个安全的地方。他会看同那两帮人气势汹汹，阴沉着脸，彼此冷冷对峙着。分别支持自己的斗士。他看见自己和干酪脸掉衣服。不远处布有岗哨，，任务是观察灯光照亮的两边桥头，大麻帮一个人拿着马丁的外衣、衬衫和帽了准备万一出现警察干预便跟他们一起向安全地带逃走。马丁看见自己走到正中。面对着干酪脸．听见自己举起手警告说：——
“这一架只打不和，懂吗？只能打到底，再没有别的；不许认输求和。这是算旧账，是要打到底的，懂吗？总得有一个人给打垮才完事。”
干酪脸想表示不同意见——马丁能看出——但在两帮人面前他不能不顾全自己面临危机的面子。
“噢，本吧，”他回答道，“少废话。奉陪到底。”
然后两人便像两头血气方刚的小牛一样了起架来。不戴手参，憋足了仇恨，巴不得把对手打伤、打残、打死。人类万余年来在创造的过程中，在向上发展的阶梯中所取得的进步已荡然无存，只剩下了电灯光，那是人类伟人的冒险历程中的一个里程碑、马丁和干酪脸都成了石器时代的野蛮人，穴居野处构木为巢。两人往烂泥的深渊里越陷越深，倒退成了生命初起时的渣滓，按化学规律盲目地斗争前，像原子一样，像诸天星尘一样斗争着。撞击，退缩，再撞击，永远撞击。
“上帝呀，原来我们都是野兽！残暴的野兽，”马丁看着斗殴继续，大声嘟哝道。那话是对自己说的，他现在具有卓越的视力，有如通过电影放映机在观看。他既是旁观看，又是参预者。许多个月的文化学习和教养使他见到这种场面感到毛骨惊然了。然后现实从他的意识中抹去，往昔的幽灵及附到他身上，他又成了刚从海上回来的马丁·伊登，在八号街大桥跟干酷胜打架。他挨打、苦斗、流汗、流血，没戴手套的拳头一打中，他就得意杨扬。
他们是两股仇恨的旋风，声势煊煊地绕着彼此旋转。时间流驰，敌对的两帮人鸦雀无声。他们从没见过这样的凶暴残忍，不禁惶恐起来。对拼的两人都是比他们更凶残的野兽、血气方刚的冲动和锐气逐渐消磨下去，双方都打得小心多了，谨慎多了，谁都没有占到便宜。“谁胜谁败可真说不准，”马丁听见有人说。然后他左右开弓时一个假动作紧逼过去，却挨了狠狠一拳反击，感到面颊被扯破了，破到了骨头。那不是光凭拳头能打成的。他听见那可怕的伤口引起的惊呼与窃窃私语。血淋漓地流了下来，但他没动声色．只是非常警觉了，因为他头脑聪明，深知自己这类人的狡猾与肮脏卑鄙。他观察着、等待着．终于佯装了一个猛攻却中途收拳，看见有金属的光一问。
“把你的手举起来！”他尖叫道，“你戴了铜大节．你用铜关节打我！”
两帮人都嗷嗷叫着，张牙舞爪地向前冲；一秒钟之内就可能打成一团，那他就报不了仇了。他急得发了疯。
“你们全都闪开！”他嘶哑着喉咙尖叫道，“懂不懂？说，懂不懂！”
人们退开了。他们都是野兽，可马丁却是头号野兽，是比他们高出一头的、管得了他们的凶神恶煞。
“这一架是我的架，别来瞎掺和。把铜关节交出来。”
干酪脸清醒下来，有点害怕了，交出了那可耻的暗器。
“是你递给他的，是你红头崽躲在别人背后递给他的，”马丁把铜关节扔进水里说．“我早看见你了，早猜到你要使坏。你要敢再使坏我就揍死你，听见没有？”
两人又打了起来，打得精疲力竭仍然不停，打到疲倦得无法衡量，难以想像，打到那帮野人从满足了嗜血的兴趣到被那惨象吓坏了。他们不偏不倚地提出双方停战。干酪脸差不多要倒地而死或是不倒地而死，他那险给打得成了一张十足的干酪皮，成了张狰狞的鬼脸。他动摇了，犹豫了；可是马丁扑进人群又对他接二连三地打了起来。
然后，大约过了一百年，干酪脸猛然垮了下去，可就在一阵混乱的击打声中突然出现了响亮的折断声，马丁的右臂垂了下来，他的骨头断了。那声音谁都听见，也都明白。干酪验也明白，便趁对方山穷水尽之际拳头雨点般地打了过去。马丁一帮冲上前来劝架。马丁被打得晕头转问，仍发出恶毒却也认真的咒骂，叫他们闪开。他怀着最终的凄凉与绝望抽泣着、呻吟着。
他用左手继续打了下去，他顽强地、晕晕忽忽地打着。他访怫听见遥远处那群人在恐怖地嘁嘁嚓嚓地议论。其中有一个嗓子颤抖地说：“这不叫打架，伙计们，这是杀人，我们得挡住他们。”
可是并没有人来挡住。马丁很高兴，用他那唯一的胳膊疲劳不堪地无休无止地打了下去，对着眼前那鲜血淋漓的东西狠命地打。邵东西已不是股，而是一团恐怖，一团晃来晃去、吭味吭陈难看已极的没有名字的东西。那东西坚持在他昏花的眼睛面前不肯离开。他一拳又一拳地打着，越打越慢，最后的活力点点滴滴地往外渗出。打了许多个世纪、亿万斯年，打到了天老地荒，最后才隐隐约约感到那难以名状的东西在往下垮，慢慢地坍倒在粗糙的桥面上。他随即耸立到了那东西上面。他双腿颤抖，踉跄着，摇晃着，在空中抓烧着，想找个依靠。用自己也不认识的声音说道：
“你还想挨揍不？说呀，还想挨揍不？”
他一遍一遍地逼问，要求回答，威胁着，问那东西还想不想挨揍——这时他感到团伙的同伴们扶住了他，为他拍背，给他穿衣服。于是眼前一黑，人事不省了。
桌上的白铁皮闹钟前附着，头埋在手臂里的马丁·伊登却没有听见。他什么都没听见，什么都没想。他绝对地在重温着昏死在八号街大桥上的那个旧梦，现在他也昏死了过去。眼前的黑暗和。心里内空虚持续了一分钟之久，他才死人复活一样蹦了起来，站直了身子，眼里燃着火，满脸流汗，叫道：——
“我打垮了你，干酪脸！等了十一年，可我打垮了你。”
他的膝盖在颤抖，他感到虚弱，摇摇晃晃地回到床边，一屁股坐在床沿上。往昔的日子仍然支配着他。他莫名其妙地望着小屋，不知道自己在什么地方，直到瞥见了屋角的稿件。然后回忆的轮子才飞掠过四年的时光，让他意识到了现在，意识到了他翻开的书和他从书本中所获得的天地、他的梦想和雄心，意识到他对一个苍白的天使一样的姑娘的爱情。那姑娘敏感、受宠、轻灵，若是看见了刚才在他眼前重演的旧日生活，哪怕只一瞬间，她也会吓坏的——而那却不过是他曾经经历过的全部肮脏生活的一个瞬间。
他站起身子，来到镜前，对着自己。
“你就这样从泥淖中爬出来了，伊登，”他庄严地说，“‘你在朦胧的光中涤净了眼睛，在星群之间挺起了双肩，你在做着生命要做的工作，‘让猴与虎死去’，从一切古往今来的力量中获取最优秀的遗产。”
他更仔细地审视着自己，笑了。
“有几分歇斯底里，还带几分浅薄的浪漫，是么？”他问，“没关系，你汀垮了干酪脸，你也能打垮编辑们的，哪怕要花去你两个十一年的时间。你不能到此为止。你必须前进。你得一走到底，要知道。”
Chapter 16
The alarm-clock went off, jerking Martin out of sleep with a suddenness that would have given headache to one with less splendid constitution. Though he slept soundly, he awoke instantly, like a cat, and he awoke eagerly, glad that the five hours of unconsciousness were gone. He hated the oblivion of sleep. There was too much to do, too much of life to live. He grudged every moment of life sleep robbed him of, and before the clock had ceased its clattering he was head and ears in the washbasin and thrilling to the cold bite of the water.
But he did not follow his regular programme. There was no unfinished story waiting his hand, no new story demanding articulation. He had studied late, and it was nearly time for breakfast. He tried to read a chapter in Fiske, but his brain was restless and he closed the book. To-day witnessed the beginning of the new battle, wherein for some time there would be no writing. He was aware of a sadness akin to that with which one leaves home and family. He looked at the manuscripts in the corner. That was it. He was going away from them, his pitiful, dishonored children that were welcome nowhere. He went over and began to rummage among them, reading snatches here and there, his favorite portions. "The Pot" he honored with reading aloud, as he did "Adventure." "Joy," his latest-born, completed the day before and tossed into the corner for lack of stamps, won his keenest approbation.
"I can't understand," he murmured. "Or maybe it's the editors who can't understand. There's nothing wrong with that. They publish worse every month. Everything they publish is worse - nearly everything, anyway."
After breakfast he put the type-writer in its case and carried it down into Oakland.
"I owe a month on it," he told the clerk in the store. "But you tell the manager I'm going to work and that I'll be in in a month or so and straighten up."
He crossed on the ferry to San Francisco and made his way to an employment office. "Any kind of work, no trade," he told the agent; and was interrupted by a new-comer, dressed rather foppishly, as some workingmen dress who have instincts for finer things. The agent shook his head despondently.
"Nothin' doin' eh?" said the other. "Well, I got to get somebody to-day."
He turned and stared at Martin, and Martin, staring back, noted the puffed and discolored face, handsome and weak, and knew that he had been making a night of it.
"Lookin' for a job?" the other queried. "What can you do?"
"Hard labor, sailorizing, run a type-writer, no shorthand, can sit on a horse, willing to do anything and tackle anything," was the answer.
The other nodded.
"Sounds good to me. My name's Dawson, Joe Dawson, an' I'm tryin' to scare up a laundryman."
"Too much for me." Martin caught an amusing glimpse of himself ironing fluffy white things that women wear. But he had taken a liking to the other, and he added: "I might do the plain washing. I learned that much at sea." Joe Dawson thought visibly for a moment.
"Look here, let's get together an' frame it up. Willin' to listen?"
Martin nodded.
"This is a small laundry, up country, belongs to Shelly Hot Springs, - hotel, you know. Two men do the work, boss and assistant. I'm the boss. You don't work for me, but you work under me. Think you'd be willin' to learn?"
Martin paused to think. The prospect was alluring. A few months of it, and he would have time to himself for study. He could work hard and study hard.
"Good grub an' a room to yourself," Joe said.
That settled it. A room to himself where he could burn the midnight oil unmolested.
"But work like hell," the other added.
Martin caressed his swelling shoulder-muscles significantly. "That came from hard work."
"Then let's get to it." Joe held his hand to his head for a moment. "Gee, but it's a stem-winder. Can hardly see. I went down the line last night - everything - everything. Here's the frame-up. The wages for two is a hundred and board. I've ben drawin' down sixty, the second man forty. But he knew the biz. You're green. If I break you in, I'll be doing plenty of your work at first. Suppose you begin at thirty, an' work up to the forty. I'll play fair. Just as soon as you can do your share you get the forty."
"I'll go you," Martin announced, stretching out his hand, which the other shook. "Any advance? - for rail-road ticket and extras?"
"I blew it in," was Joe's sad answer, with another reach at his aching head. "All I got is a return ticket."
"And I'm broke - when I pay my board."
"Jump it," Joe advised.
"Can't. Owe it to my sister."
Joe whistled a long, perplexed whistle, and racked his brains to little purpose.
"I've got the price of the drinks," he said desperately. "Come on, an' mebbe we'll cook up something."
Martin declined.
"Water-wagon?"
This time Martin nodded, and Joe lamented, "Wish I was."
"But I somehow just can't," he said in extenuation. "After I've ben workin' like hell all week I just got to booze up. If I didn't, I'd cut my throat or burn up the premises. But I'm glad you're on the wagon. Stay with it."
Martin knew of the enormous gulf between him and this man - the gulf the books had made; but he found no difficulty in crossing back over that gulf. He had lived all his life in the working- class world, and the CAMARADERIE of labor was second nature with him. He solved the difficulty of transportation that was too much for the other's aching head. He would send his trunk up to Shelly Hot Springs on Joe's ticket. As for himself, there was his wheel. It was seventy miles, and he could ride it on Sunday and be ready for work Monday morning. In the meantime he would go home and pack up. There was no one to say good-by to. Ruth and her whole family were spending the long summer in the Sierras, at Lake Tahoe.
