บทที่ บทที่ 15 · Chapter XV

. Chapter XV

“The first battle, fought and finished,” Martin said to the

looking-glass ten days later. “But there will be a second battle, and a

third battle, and battles to the end of time, unless—”

He had not finished the sentence, but looked about the mean little room

and let his eyes dwell sadly upon a heap of returned manuscripts, still

in their long envelopes, which lay in a corner on the floor. He had no

stamps with which to continue them on their travels, and for a week

they had been piling up. More of them would come in on the morrow, and

on the next day, and the next, till they were all in. And he would be

unable to start them out again. He was a month’s rent behind on the

typewriter, which he could not pay, having barely enough for the week’s

board which was due and for the employment office fees.

He sat down and regarded the table thoughtfully. There were ink stains

upon it, and he suddenly discovered that he was fond of it.

“Dear old table,” he said, “I’ve spent some happy hours with you, and

you’ve been a pretty good friend when all is said and done. You never

turned me down, never passed me out a reward-of-unmerit rejection slip,

never complained about working overtime.”

He dropped his arms upon the table and buried his face in them. His

throat was aching, and he wanted to cry. It reminded him of his first

fight, when he was six years old, when he punched away with the tears

running down his cheeks while the other boy, two years his elder, had

beaten and pounded him into exhaustion. He saw the ring of boys,

howling like barbarians as he went down at last, writhing in the throes

of nausea, the blood streaming from his nose and the tears from his

bruised eyes.

“Poor little shaver,” he murmured. “And you’re just as badly licked

now. You’re beaten to a pulp. You’re down and out.”

But the vision of that first fight still lingered under his eyelids,

and as he watched he saw it dissolve and reshape into the series of

fights which had followed. Six months later Cheese-Face (that was the

boy) had whipped him again. But he had blacked Cheese-Face’s eye that

time. That was going some. He saw them all, fight after fight, himself

always whipped and Cheese-Face exulting over him. But he had never run

away. He felt strengthened by the memory of that. He had always stayed

and taken his medicine. Cheese-Face had been a little fiend at

fighting, and had never once shown mercy to him. But he had stayed! He

had stayed with it!

Next, he saw a narrow alley, between ramshackle frame buildings. The

end of the alley was blocked by a one-story brick building, out of

which issued the rhythmic thunder of the presses, running off the first

edition of the _Enquirer_. He was eleven, and Cheese-Face was thirteen,

and they both carried the _Enquirer_. That was why they were there,

waiting for their papers. And, of course, Cheese-Face had picked on him

again, and there was another fight that was indeterminate, because at

quarter to four the door of the press-room was thrown open and the gang

of boys crowded in to fold their papers.

“I’ll lick you to-morrow,” he heard Cheese-Face promise; and he heard

his own voice, piping and trembling with unshed tears, agreeing to be

there on the morrow.

And he had come there the next day, hurrying from school to be there

first, and beating Cheese-Face by two minutes. The other boys said he

was all right, and gave him advice, pointing out his faults as a

scrapper and promising him victory if he carried out their

instructions. The same boys gave Cheese-Face advice, too. How they had

enjoyed the fight! He paused in his recollections long enough to envy

them the spectacle he and Cheese-Face had put up. Then the fight was

on, and it went on, without rounds, for thirty minutes, until the

press-room door was opened.

He watched the youthful apparition of himself, day after day, hurrying

from school to the _Enquirer_ alley. He could not walk very fast. He

was stiff and lame from the incessant fighting. His forearms were black

and blue from wrist to elbow, what of the countless blows he had warded

off, and here and there the tortured flesh was beginning to fester. His

head and arms and shoulders ached, the small of his back ached,—he

ached all over, and his brain was heavy and dazed. He did not play at

school. Nor did he study. Even to sit still all day at his desk, as he

did, was a torment. It seemed centuries since he had begun the round of

daily fights, and time stretched away into a nightmare and infinite

future of daily fights. Why couldn’t Cheese-Face be licked? he often

thought; that would put him, Martin, out of his misery. It never

entered his head to cease fighting, to allow Cheese-Face to whip him.

And so he dragged himself to the _Enquirer_ alley, sick in body and

soul, but learning the long patience, to confront his eternal enemy,

Cheese-Face, who was just as sick as he, and just a bit willing to quit

if it were not for the gang of newsboys that looked on and made pride

painful and necessary. One afternoon, after twenty minutes of desperate

efforts to annihilate each other according to set rules that did not

permit kicking, striking below the belt, nor hitting when one was down,

Cheese-Face, panting for breath and reeling, offered to call it quits.

And Martin, head on arms, thrilled at the picture he caught of himself,

at that moment in the afternoon of long ago, when he reeled and panted

and choked with the blood that ran into his mouth and down his throat

from his cut lips; when he tottered toward Cheese-Face, spitting out a

mouthful of blood so that he could speak, crying out that he would

never quit, though Cheese-Face could give in if he wanted to. And

Cheese-Face did not give in, and the fight went on.

The next day and the next, days without end, witnessed the afternoon

fight. When he put up his arms, each day, to begin, they pained

exquisitely, and the first few blows, struck and received, racked his

soul; after that things grew numb, and he fought on blindly, seeing as

in a dream, dancing and wavering, the large features and burning,

animal-like eyes of Cheese-Face. He concentrated upon that face; all

else about him was a whirling void. There was nothing else in the world

but that face, and he would never know rest, blessed rest, until he had

beaten that face into a pulp with his bleeding knuckles, or until the

bleeding knuckles that somehow belonged to that face had beaten him

into a pulp. And then, one way or the other, he would have rest. But to

quit,—for him, Martin, to quit,—that was impossible!

Came the day when he dragged himself into the _Enquirer_ alley, and

there was no Cheese-Face. Nor did Cheese-Face come. The boys

congratulated him, and told him that he had licked Cheese-Face. But

Martin was not satisfied. He had not licked Cheese-Face, nor had

Cheese-Face licked him. The problem had not been solved. It was not

until afterward that they learned that Cheese-Face’s father had died

suddenly that very day.

Martin skipped on through the years to the night in the nigger heaven

at the Auditorium. He was seventeen and just back from sea. A row

started. Somebody was bullying somebody, and Martin interfered, to be

confronted by Cheese-Face’s blazing eyes.

“I’ll fix you after de show,” his ancient enemy hissed.

Martin nodded. The nigger-heaven bouncer was making his way toward the

disturbance.

“I’ll meet you outside, after the last act,” Martin whispered, the

while his face showed undivided interest in the buck-and-wing dancing

on the stage.

The bouncer glared and went away.

“Got a gang?” he asked Cheese-Face, at the end of the act.

“Sure.”

“Then I got to get one,” Martin announced.

Between the acts he mustered his following—three fellows he knew from

the nail works, a railroad fireman, and half a dozen of the Boo Gang,

along with as many more from the dread Eighteen-and-Market Gang.

When the theatre let out, the two gangs strung along inconspicuously on

opposite sides of the street. When they came to a quiet corner, they

united and held a council of war.

“Eighth Street Bridge is the place,” said a red-headed fellow belonging

to Cheese-Face’s Gang. “You kin fight in the middle, under the electric

light, an’ whichever way the bulls come in we kin sneak the other way.”

“That’s agreeable to me,” Martin said, after consulting with the

leaders of his own gang.

The Eighth Street Bridge, crossing an arm of San Antonio Estuary, was

the length of three city blocks. In the middle of the bridge, and at

each end, were electric lights. No policeman could pass those

end-lights unseen. It was the safe place for the battle that revived

itself under Martin’s eyelids. He saw the two gangs, aggressive and

sullen, rigidly keeping apart from each other and backing their

respective champions; and he saw himself and Cheese-Face stripping. A

short distance away lookouts were set, their task being to watch the

lighted ends of the bridge. A member of the Boo Gang held Martin’s

coat, and shirt, and cap, ready to race with them into safety in case

the police interfered. Martin watched himself go into the centre,

facing Cheese-Face, and he heard himself say, as he held up his hand

warningly:-

“They ain’t no hand-shakin’ in this. Understand? They ain’t nothin’ but

scrap. No throwin’ up the sponge. This is a grudge-fight an’ it’s to a

finish. Understand? Somebody’s goin’ to get licked.”

Cheese-Face wanted to demur,—Martin could see that,—but Cheese-Face’s

old perilous pride was touched before the two gangs.

“Aw, come on,” he replied. “Wot’s the good of chewin’ de rag about it?

I’m wit’ cheh to de finish.”

Then they fell upon each other, like young bulls, in all the glory of

youth, with naked fists, with hatred, with desire to hurt, to maim, to

destroy. All the painful, thousand years’ gains of man in his upward

climb through creation were lost. Only the electric light remained, a

milestone on the path of the great human adventure. Martin and

Cheese-Face were two savages, of the stone age, of the squatting place

and the tree refuge. They sank lower and lower into the muddy abyss,

back into the dregs of the raw beginnings of life, striving blindly and

chemically, as atoms strive, as the star-dust of the heavens strives,

colliding, recoiling, and colliding again and eternally again.

“God! We are animals! Brute-beasts!” Martin muttered aloud, as he

watched the progress of the fight. It was to him, with his splendid

power of vision, like gazing into a kinetoscope. He was both onlooker

and participant. His long months of culture and refinement shuddered at

the sight; then the present was blotted out of his consciousness and

the ghosts of the past possessed him, and he was Martin Eden, just

returned from sea and fighting Cheese-Face on the Eighth Street Bridge.

He suffered and toiled and sweated and bled, and exulted when his naked

knuckles smashed home.

They were twin whirlwinds of hatred, revolving about each other

monstrously. The time passed, and the two hostile gangs became very

quiet. They had never witnessed such intensity of ferocity, and they

were awed by it. The two fighters were greater brutes than they. The

first splendid velvet edge of youth and condition wore off, and they

fought more cautiously and deliberately. There had been no advantage

gained either way. “It’s anybody’s fight,” Martin heard some one

saying. Then he followed up a feint, right and left, was fiercely

countered, and felt his cheek laid open to the bone. No bare knuckle

had done that. He heard mutters of amazement at the ghastly damage

wrought, and was drenched with his own blood. But he gave no sign. He

became immensely wary, for he was wise with knowledge of the low

cunning and foul vileness of his kind. He watched and waited, until he

feigned a wild rush, which he stopped midway, for he had seen the glint

of metal.

“Hold up yer hand!” he screamed. “Them’s brass knuckles, an’ you hit me

with ’em!”

Both gangs surged forward, growling and snarling. In a second there

would be a free-for-all fight, and he would be robbed of his vengeance.

He was beside himself.

“You guys keep out!” he screamed hoarsely. “Understand? Say, d’ye

understand?”

They shrank away from him. They were brutes, but he was the arch-brute,

a thing of terror that towered over them and dominated them.

“This is my scrap, an’ they ain’t goin’ to be no buttin’ in. Gimme them

knuckles.”

Cheese-Face, sobered and a bit frightened, surrendered the foul weapon.

“You passed ’em to him, you red-head sneakin’ in behind the push

there,” Martin went on, as he tossed the knuckles into the water. “I

seen you, an’ I was wonderin’ what you was up to. If you try anything

like that again, I’ll beat cheh to death. Understand?”

They fought on, through exhaustion and beyond, to exhaustion

immeasurable and inconceivable, until the crowd of brutes, its

blood-lust sated, terrified by what it saw, begged them impartially to

cease. And Cheese-Face, ready to drop and die, or to stay on his legs

and die, a grisly monster out of whose features all likeness to

Cheese-Face had been beaten, wavered and hesitated; but Martin sprang

in and smashed him again and again.

Next, after a seeming century or so, with Cheese-Face weakening fast,

in a mix-up of blows there was a loud snap, and Martin’s right arm

dropped to his side. It was a broken bone. Everybody heard it and knew;

and Cheese-Face knew, rushing like a tiger in the other’s extremity and

raining blow on blow. Martin’s gang surged forward to interfere. Dazed

by the rapid succession of blows, Martin warned them back with vile and

earnest curses sobbed out and groaned in ultimate desolation and

despair.

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.”