He fled to his stateroom, where he lurked until the steamer was clear of the dock. In the dining saloon, at luncheon, he found himself in the place of honor, at the captain's right; and he was not long in discovering that he was the great man on board. But no more unsatisfactory great man ever sailed on a ship. He spent the afternoon in a deck-chair, with closed eyes, dozing brokenly most of the time, and in the evening went early to bed.
After the second day, recovered from seasickness, the full passenger list was in evidence, and the more he saw of the passengers the more he disliked them. Yet he knew that he did them injustice. They were good and kindly people, he forced himself to acknowledge, and in the moment of acknowledgment he qualified - good and kindly like all the bourgeoisie, with all the psychological cramp and intellectual futility of their kind, they bored him when they talked with him, their little superficial minds were so filled with emptiness; while the boisterous high spirits and the excessive energy of the younger people shocked him. They were never quiet, ceaselessly playing deck-quoits, tossing rings, promenading, or rushing to the rail with loud cries to watch the leaping porpoises and the first schools of flying fish.
He slept much. After breakfast he sought his deck-chair with a magazine he never finished. The printed pages tired him. He puzzled that men found so much to write about, and, puzzling, dozed in his chair. When the gong awoke him for luncheon, he was irritated that he must awaken. There was no satisfaction in being awake.
Once, he tried to arouse himself from his lethargy, and went forward into the forecastle with the sailors. But the breed of sailors seemed to have changed since the days he had lived in the forecastle. He could find no kinship with these stolid-faced, ox- minded bestial creatures. He was in despair. Up above nobody had wanted Martin Eden for his own sake, and he could not go back to those of his own class who had wanted him in the past. He did not want them. He could not stand them any more than he could stand the stupid first-cabin passengers and the riotous young people.
Life was to him like strong, white light that hurts the tired eyes of a sick person. During every conscious moment life blazed in a raw glare around him and upon him. It hurt. It hurt intolerably. It was the first time in his life that Martin had travelled first class. On ships at sea he had always been in the forecastle, the steerage, or in the black depths of the coal-hold, passing coal. In those days, climbing up the iron ladders out the pit of stifling heat, he had often caught glimpses of the passengers, in cool white, doing nothing but enjoy themselves, under awnings spread to keep the sun and wind away from them, with subservient stewards taking care of their every want and whim, and it had seemed to him that the realm in which they moved and had their being was nothing else than paradise. Well, here he was, the great man on board, in the midmost centre of it, sitting at the captain's right hand, and yet vainly harking back to forecastle and stoke-hole in quest of the Paradise he had lost. He had found no new one, and now he could not find the old one.
He strove to stir himself and find something to interest him. He ventured the petty officers' mess, and was glad to get away. He talked with a quartermaster off duty, an intelligent man who promptly prodded him with the socialist propaganda and forced into his hands a bunch of leaflets and pamphlets. He listened to the man expounding the slave-morality, and as he listened, he thought languidly of his own Nietzsche philosophy. But what was it worth, after all? He remembered one of Nietzsche's mad utterances wherein that madman had doubted truth. And who was to say? Perhaps Nietzsche had been right. Perhaps there was no truth in anything, no truth in truth - no such thing as truth. But his mind wearied quickly, and he was content to go back to his chair and doze.
Miserable as he was on the steamer, a new misery came upon him. What when the steamer reached Tahiti? He would have to go ashore. He would have to order his trade-goods, to find a passage on a schooner to the Marquesas, to do a thousand and one things that were awful to contemplate. Whenever he steeled himself deliberately to think, he could see the desperate peril in which he stood. In all truth, he was in the Valley of the Shadow, and his danger lay in that he was not afraid. If he were only afraid, he would make toward life. Being unafraid, he was drifting deeper into the shadow. He found no delight in the old familiar things of life. The Mariposa was now in the northeast trades, and this wine of wind, surging against him, irritated him. He had his chair moved to escape the embrace of this lusty comrade of old days and nights.
The day the Mariposa entered the doldrums, Martin was more miserable than ever. He could no longer sleep. He was soaked with sleep, and perforce he must now stay awake and endure the white glare of life. He moved about restlessly. The air was sticky and humid, and the rain-squalls were unrefreshing. He ached with life. He walked around the deck until that hurt too much, then sat in his chair until he was compelled to walk again. He forced himself at last to finish the magazine, and from the steamer library he culled several volumes of poetry. But they could not hold him, and once more he took to walking.
He stayed late on deck, after dinner, but that did not help him, for when he went below, he could not sleep. This surcease from life had failed him. It was too much. He turned on the electric light and tried to read. One of the volumes was a Swinburne. He lay in bed, glancing through its pages, until suddenly he became aware that he was reading with interest. He finished the stanza, attempted to read on, then came back to it. He rested the book face downward on his breast and fell to thinking. That was it. The very thing. Strange that it had never come to him before. That was the meaning of it all; he had been drifting that way all the time, and now Swinburne showed him that it was the happy way out. He wanted rest, and here was rest awaiting him. He glanced at the open port-hole. Yes, it was large enough. For the first time in weeks he felt happy. At last he had discovered the cure of his ill. He picked up the book and read the stanza slowly aloud:-
"'From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.'"
He looked again at the open port. Swinburne had furnished the key. Life was ill, or, rather, it had become ill - an unbearable thing. "That dead men rise up never!" That line stirred him with a profound feeling of gratitude. It was the one beneficent thing in the universe. When life became an aching weariness, death was ready to soothe away to everlasting sleep. But what was he waiting for? It was time to go.
He arose and thrust his head out the port-hole, looking down into the milky wash. The Mariposa was deeply loaded, and, hanging by his hands, his feet would be in the water. He could slip in noiselessly. No one would hear. A smother of spray dashed up, wetting his face. It tasted salt on his lips, and the taste was good. He wondered if he ought to write a swan-song, but laughed the thought away. There was no time. He was too impatient to be gone.
Turning off the light in his room so that it might not betray him, he went out the port-hole feet first. His shoulders stuck, and he forced himself back so as to try it with one arm down by his side. A roll of the steamer aided him, and he was through, hanging by his hands. When his feet touched the sea, he let go. He was in a milky froth of water. The side of the Mariposa rushed past him like a dark wall, broken here and there by lighted ports. She was certainly making time. Almost before he knew it, he was astern, swimming gently on the foam-crackling surface.
A bonita struck at his white body, and he laughed aloud. It had taken a piece out, and the sting of it reminded him of why he was there. In the work to do he had forgotten the purpose of it. The lights of the Mariposa were growing dim in the distance, and there he was, swimming confidently, as though it were his intention to make for the nearest land a thousand miles or so away.
It was the automatic instinct to live. He ceased swimming, but the moment he felt the water rising above his mouth the hands struck out sharply with a lifting movement. The will to live, was his thought, and the thought was accompanied by a sneer. Well, he had will, - ay, will strong enough that with one last exertion it could destroy itself and cease to be.
He changed his position to a vertical one. He glanced up at the quiet stars, at the same time emptying his lungs of air. With swift, vigorous propulsion of hands and feet, he lifted his shoulders and half his chest out of water. This was to gain impetus for the descent. Then he let himself go and sank without movement, a white statue, into the sea. He breathed in the water deeply, deliberately, after the manner of a man taking an anaesthetic. When he strangled, quite involuntarily his arms and legs clawed the water and drove him up to the surface and into the clear sight of the stars.
The will to live, he thought disdainfully, vainly endeavoring not to breathe the air into his bursting lungs. Well, he would have to try a new way. He filled his lungs with air, filled them full. This supply would take him far down. He turned over and went down head first, swimming with all his strength and all his will. Deeper and deeper he went. His eyes were open, and he watched the ghostly, phosphorescent trails of the darting bonita. As he swam, he hoped that they would not strike at him, for it might snap the tension of his will. But they did not strike, and he found time to be grateful for this last kindness of life.
Down, down, he swam till his arms and leg grew tired and hardly moved. He knew that he was deep. The pressure on his ear-drums was a pain, and there was a buzzing in his head. His endurance was faltering, but he compelled his arms and legs to drive him deeper until his will snapped and the air drove from his lungs in a great explosive rush. The bubbles rubbed and bounded like tiny balloons against his cheeks and eyes as they took their upward flight. Then came pain and strangulation. This hurt was not death, was the thought that oscillated through his reeling consciousness. Death did not hurt. It was life, the pangs of life, this awful, suffocating feeling; it was the last blow life could deal him.
His wilful hands and feet began to beat and churn about, spasmodically and feebly. But he had fooled them and the will to live that made them beat and churn. He was too deep down. They could never bring him to the surface. He seemed floating languidly in a sea of dreamy vision. 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. There was a long rumble of sound, and it seemed to him that he was falling down a vast and interminable stairway. And somewhere at the bottom he fell into darkness. That much he knew. He had fallen into darkness. And at the instant he knew, he ceased to know.
“我说，乔，”第二天早上他招呼当年一起干活的伙伴说，“二十八号街有一个法国人赚了一大笔钱，打算回法国。他开了一家小蒸汽洗衣店，花里胡哨，设备齐全，你若是想安定下来，可以拿这家铺子开张。这钱你拿去先去买几件衣服，十点钟到这个人的办公室去。洗衣店就是他给我找到的。由他带你去，要你去看一看，你如果中意，觉得价钱合适——一万二千块——就回来告诉我，那店就归你了。现在去吧，我很忙。你呆会儿再来，我们再见面。”
“听着，马，”那人慢吞吞地发起火来，缓缓说道，“我今天早上是来看你的，懂吗？不是来要什么洗衣店的。我是来和老朋友聊天的，可你却要塞给我一家洗衣店。我来告诉你怎么办。你还是带了你那洗衣店到地狱去吧。”
他正要冲出屋子，马丁一把揪住他的肩头，揪得他转过身来。
“听着，乔，你要是那样做，我就揍你脑袋，看在你是老朋友面上，揍得更狠。明白么？愿挨揍吗？愿吗？”
可乔已经揪住他，打算把他摔倒在地，但马丁却控制了他。他扭来扭去，想摆脱马丁的优势。两人彼此抱住，在屋里摇晃了一阵，便摔倒在一把已破的藤椅上。乔压在下面，双手被抓住了，直伸着，马丁的膝盖顶在他胸口上。他已经气喘吁吁，马丁放掉了他。
“现在咱们来谈一谈，”马丁说，“你别跟我耍横，我要你先办完洗衣店的事再回来，咱俩那时再为了老交情谈谈老交情。我早告诉过你，我很忙。”
一个仆役刚送来了早班邮件，一大抱信件和杂志。
“我怎么能又跟你谈话又看这些东西呢？你先去把洗衣店的事办了，然后咱俩再见面。”
“好吧，”乔勉强同意了，“我认为你刚才是在回绝我呢，看来我是误会了。可你是打不过我的，马，硬碰硬地打，我的拳头可比你打得远。”
“哪天咱们戴上手套再较量吧，”马丁笑了笑，说。
“肯定，我把洗衣店办起来再说，”乔伸直了手臂，“你看见我能打多远吗？能打得你倒退几步呢。”
大门在洗衣工背后关上之后，马丁叹了一声，松了口气。他已经变得落落寡合了，他一天天发现自己更难跟人和谐相处。别人的存在令他心烦，硬要跟人说话也叫他生气、烦躁。一跟别人来往他就要设法找借口摆脱。
他并不立即开始拆看邮件，只坐在椅子上打吨，什么都没干地过了半小时。只有一些零碎的模糊念头偶然渗透到他的思想里，更确切地说，他的思想只极偶然地闪出一两星火花。
他振作精神看起邮件来。其中有十二封是要他签名的——这类信他一眼就能看出来；还有职业性的求助信，还有一些怪人的信。一个人寄来了可用的永动机模型；一个人证明世界的表面是一个圆球的内壁；一个人打算买下下加利福尼亚半岛组织共产主义侨居地，来请求财政援助。什么人都有。还有些是妇女，想认识他，其中有一封使他笑了，因为附有一张教堂座位的租金收据，证明她虔诚的信念和正派的作风。
编辑和出版家的信件是每日邮件的主要部分。编辑们跪地乞求他的稿件，出版家们跪地乞求他的书——乞求他那些被人轻贱的可怜的手稿，当初为了筹集它们的邮资，他曾把一切值钱的东西都送进当铺，过了许多凄惨的日子。还有些是意外的支票，是英国连载的稿费，外国译本预付的稿费。他的英国代理人通知他，有三本书的德文翻译权已经卖出；又通知他他的作品已有瑞典译本问市，只是得不到稿酬，因为瑞典没有参加伯尔尼版权公约。还有一份名义上申请批准俄文译本的信，那个国家也同样没有参加伯尔尼公约。
他又转向一大捆由各编辑部寄来的剪报。他读到有关自己和围绕自己所形成的风尚的消息。那风尚已成了狂热。他全部的作品已经五彩缤纷地席卷了读者，狂热似乎便由此形成。读者已被他颌倒了。他严然成了当年的吉卜林。那时吉卜林卧病在床，奄奄一息，他的作品却由于群氓心态的作用，在群氓中突然风行起来。马丁想起世界上那同样的群氓曾如何大读吉卜林的作品，向他欢呼，却丝毫不理解他，然后又在几个月之内突然何他扑去，把他撕扯成了碎片。想起了这事马丁不禁苦笑。他算老几？他能保证在几个月之后不受到同样的待遇么？好了，他得骗骗群氓诸公。他要到南海去，去修建他的草墙房屋，去做珍珠和椰子干生意，会驾驶带平衡翼的独木船在礁石间出没，捕捉鲨鱼和鲤鱼；到泰欧黑山谷附近的峭壁上去打野苹。
想起吉卜林他明白了自己目前处境的发发可危。他清楚地看到自己此刻正在死荫的幽谷之中。他身上的全部活力正在消退、衰败、趋于死亡。他意识到了自己睡眠太多，却还非常想睡。以前他恨睡眠，恨它剥夺了他生活的宝贵时间。他在二十四小时里只睡四小时还嫌四小时生活时间被剥夺。他曾经多么不愿意睡觉！可现在他所不愿意的却是活着。活着并不美妙；在他嘴里生活已没有了甜蜜，只有苦味。他的危机正在这里。没有生活欲望的生活距离长眠已经不远。某种辽远的求生的本能还在他心里搏动，他明白他必须走掉。他望了望屋子，一想起收拾行李他就心烦。也许还是留到最后再收拾为好。现在他可以去采购旅行用品。
他戴上帽子走了出去，在一家枪械店停了下来，上午剩下的时间就用在那里买自动步枪、弹药和渔具了。做买卖的方式变了，他知道只能在到达塔希提岛以后再订购需要的东西。那些东西至少是可以从澳大利亚买到的。这种解决办法也使他快乐，因为可以让他避免做事，目前叫他做任何事他都心烦。他高高兴兴回到旅馆，想到那舒适的莫里斯安乐椅在那儿等着他，便心满意足。可一进门他却看见乔坐在莫里斯安乐椅上等着他，心里不禁呻吟起来。
洗衣店叫乔高兴。一切都解决了，明天他就接手。马丁闭着眼躺在床上心不在焉地听他讲着，他太心不在焉，几乎觉得自己没有什么思想，连偶然回答一两句也觉得吃力。这人是他一向喜欢的乔，而乔正热中着生活。他那絮絮叨叨的谈话伤害着马丁疲惫的心灵，是一根对他的感觉的探针，戳痛了他那倦怠的神经。当乔提醒他他们俩某一天可以戴上手套一起干活时，他几乎尖叫起来。
“记住，乔，要按你当年在雪莉温泉订下的规矩办洗衣店的是你。”他说，“劳动不过度，夜间不干活，碾压机禁用童工，一律禁用童工，工资合理。”
乔点点头，拿出了笔记本。
“你看这儿，今天早饭前我就在订规章制度。你对它们怎么看？”
他大声朗读着，马丁表示同意，同时估计着乔什么时候才会走。
他醒来时已是后半下午。生活的现实慢慢回到他心里。他四面望望，乔显然是在他迷糊过去时悄悄溜走的。他倒很体贴，他思想，又闭上眼睡着了。
以后的几天乔都忙于组织和管理洗衣店，没有来给他添麻烦。他出航的前一天报纸公布了他订了马里泊萨号舱位的消息。在他求生的欲望颤动的时候他曾去找过医生，仔细检查了身体。他全身没有丝毫毛病。心脏和肺部都异常健康。凡医生能检查到的器官都完全正常，功能也完全正常。
“你一切都正常，伊登先生，”他说，“绝对没有问题。身体棒极了。坦率地说，我很羡慕你的健康，那是第一流的。看看你那胸膛，这儿，还有你的胃，这就是你那惊人的体魄的奥秘所在。就身体而言，你是千里挑一，万里挑一的。要是不出意外你准可以活到一百岁。”
马丁知道丽齐的诊断并没有错。他的身体是好的。出了问题的是他的“思想机器”。要不一走了之，到南海去，就无法治好。问题是现在，马上就要出发了，他却没有了到南海去的欲望。南海并不比资产阶级文明更能吸引他。出发的念头并不使他兴奋，而出发的准备所给他的肉体疲劳又使他厌恶。上船出发之后他就会好得多了。
最后一天是一场痛苦的考验。伯纳德·希金波坦、格特露一家人在晨报上读到他要出发的消息，忙来和他告别。赫尔曼·冯·史密特和茉莉安也来了。于是又有了事要办，有了帐要付，有了数不清的记者采访要忍受。他在夜校门口突然跟丽齐·康诺利告了别，便匆匆走掉了。他在旅馆发现了乔，乔成天忙于洗衣店事务，设工夭早来。那是压断了骆驼背脊的最后一根稻草，但马丁仍然抓住椅子扶手，和他交谈了半个小时。
“你知道，乔，”他说，“那洗衣店并不能约束访，你任何时候都可以把它卖掉，然后把钱花掉。洗衣店不是绳子，任何时候你厌倦了都可以一走了之，上路去流浪。什么东西最叫你快活你就干什么。”
乔摇摇头。
“我再也不打算到路上去混了，谢谢你。流浪虽然不错，却有个不好的地方：没有女人，那叫我受不了。我是个喜欢女人的男人，没有女人就不好过。可要流浪就只好过没有女人的日子。我曾经多少次从开晚会、开舞会的屋子门前经过，听见女人笑，从窗子里看见她们的白衣和笑脸——啧啧！告诉你，那时候我简直就在地狱里。我太喜欢跳舞、野餐、在月光里散步这类事了。我喜欢洗衣店，喜欢漂亮，喜欢裤子口袋里装着大洋。我已经看见一个姑娘，就在昨天，你知道不？我简直觉得要么就不付老婆，要么就立刻娶了她。想起这事我就吹日哨，吹了一天了。是个漂亮妞，眼睛最温柔，声音最美妙，你简直就没有见过。你可以打赌，我跟她是最般配不过的。嗨，你的钱多得都烧包了，干吗不讨个老婆？全国最好的姑娘你都可以讨到呢。”
