Chapter XV

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　"The first battle, fought and finished," Martin said to thelooking-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 littleroom and let his eyes dwell sadly upon a heap of returnedmanuscripts, still in their long envelopes, which lay in a corneron the floor. He had no stamps with which to continue them ontheir travels, and for a week they had been piling up. More ofthem would come in on the morrow, and on the next day, and thenext, till they were all in. And he would be unable to start themout again. He was a month's rent behind on the typewriter, whichhe could not pay, having barely enough for the week's board whichwas due and for the employment office fees.He sat down and regarded the table thoughtfully. There were inkstains 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-unmeritrejection 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 ofhis first fight, when he was six years old, when he punched awaywith the tears running down his cheeks while the other boy, twoyears his elder, had beaten and pounded him into exhaustion. Hesaw the ring of boys, howling like barbarians as he went down atlast, writhing in the throes of nausea, the blood streaming fromhis nose and the tears from his bruised eyes."Poor little shaver," he murmured. "And you're just as badlylicked now. You're beaten to a pulp. You're down and out."But the vision of that first fight still lingered under hiseyelids, and as he watched he saw it dissolve and reshape into theseries of fights which had followed. Six months later Cheese-Face(that was the boy) had whipped him again. But he had blackedCheese-Face's eye that time. That was going some. He saw themall, fight after fight, himself always whipped and Cheese-Faceexulting over him. But he had never run away. He feltstrengthened by the memory of that. He had always stayed and takenhis medicine. Cheese-Face had been a little fiend at fighting, andhad never once shown mercy to him. But he had stayed! He hadstayed 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, outof which issued the rhythmic thunder of the presses, running offthe first edition of the Enquirer. He was eleven, and Cheese-Facewas thirteen, and they both carried the Enquirer. That was whythey were there, waiting for their papers. And, of course, Cheese-Face had picked on him again, and there was another fight that wasindeterminate, because at quarter to four the door of the press-room was thrown open and the gang of boys crowded in to fold theirpapers."I'll lick you to-morrow," he heard Cheese-Face promise; and heheard 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 bethere first, and beating Cheese-Face by two minutes. The otherboys said he was all right, and gave him advice, pointing out hisfaults as a scrapper and promising him victory if he carried outtheir instructions. The same boys gave Cheese-Face advice, too.How they had enjoyed the fight! He paused in his recollectionslong enough to envy them the spectacle he and Cheese-Face had putup. Then the fight was on, and it went on, without rounds, forthirty 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 veryfast. He was stiff and lame from the incessant fighting. Hisforearms were black and blue from wrist to elbow, what of thecountless blows he had warded off, and here and there the torturedflesh was beginning to fester. His head and arms and shouldersached, the small of his back ached, - he ached all over, and hisbrain was heavy and dazed. He did not play at school. Nor did hestudy. Even to sit still all day at his desk, as he did, was atorment. It seemed centuries since he had begun the round of dailyfights, and time stretched away into a nightmare and infinitefuture of daily fights. Why couldn't Cheese-Face be licked? heoften thought; that would put him, Martin, out of his misery. Itnever entered his head to cease fighting, to allow Cheese-Face towhip him.And so he dragged himself to the Enquirer alley, sick in body andsoul, but learning the long patience, to confront his eternalenemy, Cheese-Face, who was just as sick as he, and just a bitwilling to quit if it were not for the gang of newsboys that lookedon and made pride painful and necessary. One afternoon, aftertwenty minutes of desperate efforts to annihilate each otheraccording to set rules that did not permit kicking, striking belowthe belt, nor hitting when one was down, Cheese-Face, panting forbreath and reeling, offered to call it quits. And Martin, head onarms, thrilled at the picture he caught of himself, at that momentin the afternoon of long ago, when he reeled and panted and chokedwith the blood that ran into his mouth and down his throat from hiscut lips; when he tottered toward Cheese-Face, spitting out amouthful of blood so that he could speak, crying out that he wouldnever quit, though Cheese-Face could give in if he wanted to. AndCheese-Face did not give in, and the fight went on.The next day and the next, days without end, witnessed theafternoon fight. When he put up his arms, each day, to begin, theypained exquisitely, and the first few blows, struck and received,racked his soul; after that things grew numb, and he fought onblindly, seeing as in a dream, dancing and wavering, the largefeatures and burning, animal-like eyes of Cheese-Face. Heconcentrated upon that face; all else about him was a whirlingvoid. There was nothing else in the world but that face, and hewould never know rest, blessed rest, until he had beaten that faceinto a pulp with his bleeding knuckles, or until the bleedingknuckles that somehow belonged to that face had beaten him into apulp. And then, one way or the other, he would have rest. But toquit, - for him, Martin, to quit, - that was impossible!Came the day when he dragged himself into the Enquirer alley, andthere was no Cheese-Face. Nor did Cheese-Face come. The boyscongratulated him, and told him that he had licked Cheese-Face.But Martin was not satisfied. He had not licked Cheese-Face, norhad Cheese-Face licked him. The problem had not been solved. Itwas not until afterward that they learned that Cheese-Face's fatherhad died suddenly that very day.Martin skipped on through the years to the night in the niggerheaven at the Auditorium. He was seventeen and just back from sea.A row started. Somebody was bullying somebody, and Martininterfered, 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 towardthe disturbance."I'll meet you outside, after the last act," Martin whispered, thewhile his face showed undivided interest in the buck-and-wingdancing 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 knewfrom the nail works, a railroad fireman, and half a dozen of theBoo Gang, along with as many more from the dread Eighteen-and-Market Gang.When the theatre let out, the two gangs strung alonginconspicuously on opposite sides of the street. When they came toa quiet corner, they united and held a council of war."Eighth Street Bridge is the place," said a red-headed fellowbelonging to Cheese-Face's Gang. "You kin fight in the middle,under the electric light, an' whichever way the bulls come in wekin sneak the other way.""That's agreeable to me," Martin said, after consulting with theleaders 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 passthose end-lights unseen. It was the safe place for the battle thatrevived itself under Martin's eyelids. He saw the two gangs,aggressive and sullen, rigidly keeping apart from each other andbacking their respective champions; and he saw himself and Cheese-Face stripping. A short distance away lookouts were set, theirtask being to watch the lighted ends of the bridge. A member ofthe Boo Gang held Martin's coat, and shirt, and cap, ready to racewith them into safety in case the police interfered. Martinwatched himself go into the centre, facing Cheese-Face, and heheard himself say, as he held up his hand warningly:-"They ain't no hand-shakin' in this. Understand? They ain'tnothin' but scrap. No throwin' up the sponge. This is a grudge-fight an' it's to a finish. Understand? Somebody's goin' to getlicked."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 aboutit? I'm wit' cheh to de finish."Then they fell upon each other, like young bulls, in all the gloryof youth, with naked fists, with hatred, with desire to hurt, tomaim, to destroy. All the painful, thousand years' gains of man inhis upward climb through creation were lost. Only the electriclight remained, a milestone on the path of the great humanadventure. Martin and Cheese-Face were two savages, of the stoneage, of the squatting place and the tree refuge. They sank lowerand lower into the muddy abyss, back into the dregs of the rawbeginnings of life, striving blindly and chemically, as atomsstrive, as the star-dust if the heavens strives, colliding,recoiling, and colliding again and eternally again."God! We are animals! Brute-beasts!" Martin muttered aloud, ashe watched the progress of the fight. It was to him, with hissplendid power of vision, like gazing into a kinetoscope. He wasboth onlooker and participant. His long months of culture andrefinement shuddered at the sight; then the present was blotted outof his consciousness and the ghosts of the past possessed him, andhe was Martin Eden, just returned from sea and fighting Cheese-Faceon the Eighth Street Bridge. He suffered and toiled and sweatedand bled, and exulted when his naked knuckles smashed home.They were twin whirlwinds of hatred, revolving about each othermonstrously. The time passed, and the two hostile gangs becamevery quiet. They had never witnessed such intensity of ferocity,and they were awed by it. The two fighters were greater brutesthan they. The first splendid velvet edge of youth and conditionwore off, and they fought more cautiously and deliberately. Therehad been no advantage gained either way. "It's anybody's fight,"Martin heard some one saying. Then he followed up a feint, rightand left, was fiercely countered, and felt his cheek laid open tothe bone. No bare knuckle had done that. He heard mutters ofamazement at the ghastly damage wrought, and was drenched with hisown blood. But he gave no sign. He became immensely wary, for hewas wise with knowledge of the low cunning and foul vileness of hiskind. He watched and waited, until he feigned a wild rush, whichhe stopped midway, for he had seen the glint of metal."Hold up yer hand!" he screamed. "Them's brass knuckles, an' youhit me with 'em!"Both gangs surged forward, growling and snarling. In a secondthere would be a free-for-all fight, and he would be robbed of hisvengeance. 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 foulweapon."You passed 'em to him, you red-head sneakin' in behind the pushthere," 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 tryanything like that again, I'll beat cheh to death. Understand?"They fought on, through exhaustion and beyond, to exhaustionimmeasurable and inconceivable, until the crowd of brutes, itsblood-lust sated, terrified by what it saw, begged them impartiallyto cease. And Cheese-Face, ready to drop and die, or to stay onhis legs and die, a grisly monster out of whose features alllikeness to Cheese-Face had been beaten, wavered and hesitated; butMartin sprang in and smashed him again and again.Next, after a seeming century or so, with Cheese-Face weakeningfast, in a mix-up of blows there was a loud snap, and Martin'sright arm dropped to his side. It was a broken bone. Everybodyheard it and knew; and Cheese-Face knew, rushing like a tiger inthe other's extremity and raining blow on blow. Martin's gangsurged forward to interfere. Dazed by the rapid succession ofblows, Martin warned them back with vile and earnest curses sobbedout 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 heardmurmurs 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 stopit."But no one stopped it, and he was glad, punching on wearily andendlessly with his one arm, battering away at a bloody somethingbefore him that was not a face but a horror, an oscillating,hideous, gibbering, nameless thing that persisted before hiswavering 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, ina dim way, he became aware that the nameless thing was sinking,slowly sinking down to the rough board-planking of the bridge. Andthe next moment he was standing over it, staggering and swaying onshaky legs, clutching at the air for support, and saying in a voicehe 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 thefellows of his gang laying hands on him, patting him on the backand trying to put his coat on him. And then came a sudden rush ofblackness and oblivion.The tin alarm-clock on the table ticked on, but Martin Eden, hisface buried on his arms, did not hear it. He heard nothing. Hedid not think. So absolutely had he relived life that he hadfainted just as he fainted years before on the Eighth StreetBridge. 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 lickedyou!"His knees were trembling under him, he felt faint, and he staggeredback to the bed, sinking down and sitting on the edge of it. Hewas still in the clutch of the past. He looked about the room,perplexed, alarmed, wondering where he was, until he caught sightof the pile of manuscripts in the corner. Then the wheels ofmemory slipped ahead through four years of time, and he was awareof the present, of the books he had opened and the universe he hadwon from their pages, of his dreams and ambitions, and of his lovefor a pale wraith of a girl, sensitive and sheltered and ethereal,who would die of horror did she witness but one moment of what hehad just lived through - one moment of all the muck of life throughwhich 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 yourshoulders among the stars, doing what all life has done, lettingthe 'ape and tiger die' and wresting highest heritage from allpowers that be."He looked more closely at himself and laughed."A bit of hysteria and melodrama, eh?" he queried. "Well, nevermind. You licked Cheese-Face, and you'll lick the editors if ittakes twice eleven years to do it in. You can't stop here. You'vegot to go on. It's to a finish, you know."