“Say, Joe,” was his greeting to his old-time working-mate next morning,“there’s a Frenchman out on Twenty-eighth Street. He’s made a pot of money, and he’s going back to France. It’s a dandy, well-appointed, small steam laundry. There’s a start for you if you want to settle down. Here, take this;buy some clothes with it and be at this man’s office by ten o’clock. He looked up the laundry for me, and he’ll take you out and show you around. If you like it, and think it is worth the price—twelve thousand—let me know and it is yours. Now run along. I’m busy. I’ll see you later.”
“Now look here, Mart,” the other said slowly, with kindling anger,“I come here this mornin’ to see you. Savve? I didn’t come here to get no laundry. I come a here for a talk for old friends’ sake, and you shove a laundry at me. I tell you, what you can do. You can take that laundry an’ go to hell.”
He was out of the room when Martin caught him and whirled him around.
“Now look here, Joe,” he said; “if you act that way, I’ll punch your head. An for old friends’ sake I’ll punch it hard. Savve?—you will, will you?”
Joe had clinched and attempted to throw him, and he was twisting and writhing out of the advantage of the other’s hold. They reeled about the room, locked in each other’s arms, and came down with a crash across the splintered wreckage of a wicker chair. Joe was underneath, with arms spread out and held and with Martin’s knee on his chest. He was panting and gasping for breath when Martin released him.
“Now we’ll talk a moment,” Martin said. “You can’t get fresh with me. I want that laundry business finished first of all. Then you can come back and we’ll talk for old sake’s sake. I told you I was busy. Look at that.”
A servant had just come in with the morning mail, a great mass of letters and magazines.
“How can I wade through that and talk with you? You go and fix up that laundry, and then we’ll get together.”
“All right,” Joe admitted reluctantly. “I thought you was turnin’ me down, but I guess I was mistaken. But you can’t lick me, Mart, in a stand-up fight. I’ve got the reach on you.”
“We’ll put on the gloves sometime and see,” Martin said with a smile.
“Sure; as soon as I get that laundry going.” Joe extended his arm. “You see that reach? It’ll make you go a few.”
Martin heaved a sigh of relief when the door closed behind the laundryman. He was becoming anti-social. Daily he found it a severer strain to be decent with people. Their presence perturbed him, and the effort of conversation irritated him. They made him restless, and no sooner was he in contact with them than he was casting about for excuses to get rid of them.
He did not proceed to attack his mail, and for a half hour he lolled in his chair, doing nothing, while no more than vague, half-formed thoughts occasionally filtered through his intelligence, or rather, at wide intervals, themselves constituted the flickering of his intelligence.
He roused himself and began glancing through his mail. There were a dozen requests for autographs—he knew them at sight; there were professional begging letters; and there were letters from cranks, ranging from the man with a working model of perpetual motion, and the man who demonstrated that the surface of the earth was the inside of a hollow sphere, to the man seeking financial aid to purchase the Peninsula of Lower California for the purpose of communist colonization. There were letters from women seeking to know him, and over one such he smiled, for enclosed was her receipt for pew-rent, sent as evidence of her good faith and as proof of her respectability.
Editors and publishers contributed to the daily heap of letters, the former on their knees for his manuscripts, the latter on their knees for his books—his poor disdained manuscripts that had kept all he possessed in pawn for so many dreary months in order to find them in postage. There were unexpected checks for English serial rights and for advance payments on foreign translations. His English agent announced the sale of German translation rights in three of his books, and informed him that Swedish editions, from which he could expect nothing because Sweden was not a party to the Berne Convention, were already on the market. Then there was a nominal request for his permission for a Russian translation, that country being likewise outside the Berne Convention.
He turned to the huge bundle of clippings which had come in from his press bureau, and read about himself and his vogue, which had become a furore. All his creative output had been flung to the public in one magnificent sweep. That seemed to account for it. He had taken the public off its feet, the way Kipling had, that time when he lay near to death and all the mob, animated by a mob-mind thought, began suddenly to read him. Martin remembered how that same world-mob, having read him and acclaimed him and not understood him in the least, had, abruptly, a few months later, flung itself upon him and torn him to pieces. Martin grinned at the thought. Who was he that he should not be similarly treated in a few more months? Well, he would fool the mob. He would be away, in the South Seas, building his grass house, trading for pearls and copra, jumping reefs in frail outriggers, catching sharks and bonitas, hunting wild goats among the cliffs of the valley that lay next to the valley of Taiohae.
In the moment of that thought the desperateness of his situation dawned upon him. He saw, cleared eyed, that he was in the Valley of the Shadow. All the life that was in him was fading, fainting, making toward death.
He realized how much he slept, and how much he desired to sleep. Of old, he had hated sleep. It had robbed him of precious moments of living. Four hours of sleep in the twenty-four had meant being robbed of four hours of life. How he had grudged sleep! Now it was life he grudged. Life was not good; its taste in his mouth was without tang, and bitter. This was his peril. Life that did not yearn toward life was in fair way toward ceasing. Some remote instinct for preservation stirred in him, and he knew he must get away. He glanced about the room, and the thought of packing was burdensome. Perhaps it would be better to leave that to the last. In the meantime he might be getting an outfit.
He put on his hat and went out, stopping in at a gun-store, where he spent the remainder of the morning buying automatic rifles, ammunition, and fishing tackle. Fashions changed in trading, and he knew he would have to wait till he reached Tahiti before ordering his trade-goods. They could come up from Australia, anyway. This solution was a source of pleasure. He had avoided doing something, and the doing of anything just now was unpleasant.He went back to the hotel gladly, with a feeling of satisfaction in that the comfortable Morris chair was waiting for him; and he groaned inwardly, on entering his room, at sight of Joe in the Morris chair.
Joe was delighted with the laundry. Everything was settled, and he would enter into possession next day. Martin lay on the bed, with closed eyes, while the other talked on. Martin’s thoughts were far away—so far away that he was rarely aware that he was thinking. It was only by an effort that he occasionally responded. And yet this was Joe, whom he had always liked. But Joe was too keen with life. The boisterous impact of it on Martin’s jaded mind was a hurt. It was an aching probe to his tired sensitiveness. When Joe reminded him that sometime in the future they were going to put on the gloves together, he could almost have screamed.
“Remember, Joe, you’re to run the laundry according to those old rules you used to lay down at Shelly Hot Springs,” he said. “No overworking. No working at night. And no children at the mangles. No children anywhere. And a fair wage.”
Joe nodded and pulled out a note-book.
“Look at here. I was workin’ out them rules before breakfast this A. M. What d’ye think of them?”
He read them aloud, and Martin approved, worrying at the same time as to when Joe would take himself off.
It was late afternoon when he awoke. Slowly the fact of life came back to him. He glanced about the room. Joe had evidently stolen away after he had dozed off. That was considerate of Joe, he thought. Then he closed his eyes and slept again.
In the days that followed Joe was too busy organizing and taking hold of the laundry to bother him much; and it was not until the day before sailing that the newspapers made the announcement that he had taken passage on the Mariposa.Once,when the instinct of preservation fluttered,he went to a doctor and underwent a searching physical examination. Nothing could be found the matter with him. His heart and lungs were pronounced magnificent. Every organ, so far as the doctor could know, was normal and was working normally.
“There is nothing the matter with you, Mr. Eden,” he said, “positively nothing the matter with you. You are in the pink of condition. Candidly, I envy you your health. It is superb. Look at that chest. There, and in your stomach, lies the secret of your remarkable constitution. Physically, you are a man in a thousand—in ten thousand. Barring accidents, you should live to be a hundred.”
And Martin knew that Lizzie’s diagnosis had been correct. Physically he was all right. It was his “think-machine” that had gone wrong, and there was no cure for that except to get away to the South Seas. The trouble was that now, on the verge of departure, he had no desire to go. The South Seas charmed him no more than did bourgeois civilization. There was no zest in the thought of departure, while the act of departure appalled him as a weariness of the flesh. He would have felt better if he were already on board and gone.
The last day was a sore trial. Having read of his sailing in the morning papers, Bernard Higginbotham, Gertrude, and all the family came to say good-by, as did Hermann von Schmidt and Marian. Then there was business to be transacted, bills to be paid, and everlasting reporters to be endured. He said good-by to Lizzie Connolly, abruptly, at the entrance to night school, and hurried away. At the hotel he found Joe, too busy all day with the laundry to have come to him earlier. It was the last straw, but Martin gripped the arms of his chair and talked and listened for half an hour.
“You know, Joe,” he said, “that you are not tied down to that laundry. There are no strings on it. You can sell it any time and blow the money. Any time you get sick of it and want to hit the road, just pull out. Do what will make you the happiest.”
Joe shook his head.
“No more road in mine, thank you kindly. Hoboin’s all right, exceptin’ for one thing—the girls. I can’t help it, but I’m a ladies’ man. I can’t get along without ’em, and you’ve got to get along without ’em when you’re hoboin’. The times I’ve passed by houses where dances an’ parties was goin’ on, an’ heard the women laugh, an’ saw their white dresses and smiling faces through the windows—Gee! I tell you them moments was plain hell. I like dancin’ an’ picnics, an’ walking in the moonlight, an’ all the rest too well. Me for the laundry, and a good front, with big iron dollars clinkin’ in my jeans. I seen a girl already, just yesterday, and, d’ye know, I’m feelin’ already I’d just as soon marry her as not. I’ve ben whistlin’ all day at the thought of it. She’s a beaut, with the kindest eyes and softest voice you ever heard. Me for her, you can stack on that. Say, why don’t you get married with all this money to burn? You could get the finest girl in the land.”
Martin shook his head with a smile, but in his secret heart he was wondering why any man wanted to marry. It seemed an amazing and incomprehensible thing.
From the deck of the Mariposa, at the sailing hour, he saw Lizzie Connolly hiding in the skirts of the crowd on the wharf. Take her with you, came the thought. It is easy to be kind. She will be supremely happy. It was almost a temptation one moment, and the succeeding moment it became a terror. He was in a panic at the thought of it. His tired soul cried out in protest. He turned away from the rail with a groan, muttering, “Man, you are too sick, you are too sick.”
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.
第二天早晨,他一見到自己以前的工友便說:“聽我說,喬,第二十八大街有個法國人。他賺了許多錢,眼下要回法國去。他有家呱呱叫的、設(shè)備齊全的小規(guī)模蒸汽洗衣店。如果你想安頓下來,就拿這家店做個開端吧。這些錢你拿去買套衣服,十點(diǎn)鐘到這個人的辦公室去,洗衣店是他替我物色的,讓他帶你去那兒看看。如果你看中了,覺得價錢也合適——總共一萬兩千塊錢——,只消跟我說一聲,它就是你的了。你快去吧,我還忙著呢。咱們回頭見?!?/p>
“你豎起耳朵聽著,馬特,”對方一字一板地說,同時心里的怒火直朝上冒,“今天早晨我是來看望你的。明白嗎?我可不是來要什么洗衣店的。我是看在老朋友的面子上來和你聊聊,可你卻把一家洗衣店施舍給了我。讓我告訴你怎么做吧。你可以和那家洗衣店一道下地獄?!?/p>
他說完就想沖出屋子去,卻被馬丁一把扳住了肩膀,使他轉(zhuǎn)回了身。
“你也給我聽著,喬。”他說,“如果你再這么不懂事,我就揍你的腦袋瓜。正因?yàn)樵蹅兪抢吓笥?,我要狠狠地揍。明白嗎?我會狠狠揍你的。愿意聽話嗎??/p>
喬猛地抱住他,想把他摔倒,而他拼命扭動著身子,想從喬的懷里掙出來,不讓他占上風(fēng)。兩人摟抱成團(tuán)在屋子里摔起了跤,最后嘩啦一聲倒在一把柳條椅上,把椅子壓得粉碎。喬被壓在下邊,兩條胳膊展開著被牢牢地按住,馬丁用一個膝蓋頂在他的胸口上。待馬丁放開他的時候,他呼哧呼哧地直喘粗氣。
“現(xiàn)在咱們可以談?wù)劺?,”馬丁說,“你可別跟我對著干。我要你先把洗衣店的那樁事處理好,然后回來找我,那時咱們可以敘敘惜別之情。我說過我很忙。你瞧瞧?!?/p>
一位服務(wù)員送早班郵件,拿來一大堆信和雜志。
“我要看這許多東西,又要跟你談話,這怎么能成呢?你去定洗衣店的事,回頭咱們再談?!?/p>
“好吧,”喬勉強(qiáng)地同意了,“原以為你會冷淡我呢,看來我猜錯了。不過,要是正規(guī)打架,你可打不過我。我的拳頭比你的硬?!?/p>
“那就讓咱們改天見個高低吧。”馬丁笑了笑說。
“當(dāng)然好呀。我把洗衣店一安排好,咱們就較量?!眴陶f著,伸出了一條胳膊來,“看到這拳頭了嗎?它會打得你鬼哭狼嚎?!?/p>
待房門在這位洗衣匠的身后關(guān)上時,馬丁如釋重負(fù)地吁了口氣。他對交往產(chǎn)生了抵觸的情緒。他愈來愈覺得難以體面的態(tài)度待人了。有人在跟前他就不安,一與人談話他就惱火。人們令他煩躁,于是他剛和人們接觸,就想方設(shè)法要擺脫他們。
他沒有看郵件,懶洋洋地在椅子上足足坐了有半個小時,什么事情也不干。只有些模糊和不完整的念頭偶爾滲入他的意識,或者更確切地說,他那忽明忽暗的意識里只有這些隔很長一段時間才出現(xiàn)一次的念頭。
后來他強(qiáng)打精神,開始翻閱信件。有十幾封信是請求他親筆簽名的——他一看就知道;其中也有專業(yè)團(tuán)體要求捐款的信;還有些是怪人寄來的信,其中有一個說他制作了一臺永動機(jī),還有一個說他能證明地球的表面下是一個空心的球體,另外有一個則請求他給予經(jīng)濟(jì)援助,說要買下加利福尼亞半島,建立一個共產(chǎn)主義社會。有些信是女人寫來的,想跟他結(jié)識。他看到其中的一封這樣的信不由笑了起來。因?yàn)橛袀€女人在信里附了張交付教堂座位費(fèi)的收據(jù),以此證明她的虔誠和高尚。
每天的郵件堆里總有編輯和出版商的信,前者低三下四地要他的文章,后者死乞白賴地要他的書稿——豈不知他在那幾多凄風(fēng)苦雨的日月里為了把這些可憐的、遭人鄙棄的手稿郵寄出去,當(dāng)?shù)袅俗约核械臇|西。郵件堆里也有意想不到的支票,有英國人購買連載權(quán)的錢,也有外國譯本出版人預(yù)付的版稅。他在英國的代理人通知他有三本書已經(jīng)賣掉了出德譯本的版權(quán),并通知他瑞典文譯本已經(jīng)問世,但由于瑞典不是伯爾尼[1]會議的締約國,他一分錢也拿不到手。此外,還收到俄國的來信,請求準(zhǔn)許出俄譯本——這是有名無實(shí)的,因?yàn)檫@個國家也不是伯爾尼會議的締約國。
他回過頭來看他的新聞代理人寄來的一大包剪報(bào)材料,看到他和他的作品已紅得發(fā)紫。他創(chuàng)作的所有東西,全都似一股旋風(fēng)出現(xiàn)在公眾的眼前,看來這就是他的走紅原因。他像吉卜林一樣,風(fēng)靡了讀者群。正當(dāng)他奄奄待斃時,公眾卻群情激昂,突然對他的書產(chǎn)生了興趣。他忘不了,正是這些遍布全世界的讀者曾經(jīng)捧讀吉卜林的作品,雖然一點(diǎn)也看不出個名堂,卻為吉卜林高聲喝彩,可是沒過幾個月,他們又猛撲到吉卜林身上,將他撕成碎片。想到這里,馬丁苦笑了一聲。他算老幾,難道敢肯定幾個月后不會有同樣的遭遇?所以,他要捉弄一下公眾。他要遠(yuǎn)走高飛到南海去,在那里蓋草房、販賣珍珠和椰子干,他將劃著輕巧的獨(dú)木舟越過珊瑚礁去捕鯊魚和鰹魚,將到泰奧海伊峽谷旁邊的懸崖峭壁上獵野山羊。
想著想著,他便意識到自己已到了窮途末路。他清楚地看到自己正置身于幽靈峽谷。他的生命在消失、衰弱,走向死亡。他發(fā)現(xiàn)自己睡眠太多,睡覺的欲望過于強(qiáng)烈。過去他痛恨睡眠,因?yàn)樗邐Z去了他寶貴的生活時間。二十四小時里睡四個小時的覺,就等于少活四個小時。當(dāng)時他是多么仇恨睡神啊!而現(xiàn)在他仇恨的卻是生活。生活一點(diǎn)也不美好,在他看來一點(diǎn)也不甜蜜,有的只是苦澀。這是一個危險(xiǎn)的信號。一個人如果不向往生活,就是在向生命的終點(diǎn)邁進(jìn),一種淡淡的求生的本能在他的體內(nèi)蠕動,他知道自己必須離開這里。他在屋里朝四下望了一眼,覺得整理行李是個負(fù)擔(dān)。也許,最好把整理行李放到最后去做。利用這段時間,可以去籌備一套行頭。
他戴上帽子,走出房門,來到槍支店,用了半上午的時間購買自動步槍、彈藥和漁具。做買賣的方式起了變化,他發(fā)現(xiàn)自己必須抵達(dá)塔希提后才能夠訂貨。這也沒關(guān)系,反正貨物會從澳洲發(fā)來的。這樣一來,他反倒高興了起來。這件事他總算躲過去了,眼下無論干任何事情都叫他不快。他愉快地回到飯店,一想到那把舒適的莫里斯安樂椅在等著他,心里就有一種滿足的感覺;可進(jìn)了自己的房間,看到喬坐在那把莫里斯安樂椅上,他不禁暗自哼了一聲。
喬對洗衣店十分滿意,一切都已安排妥當(dāng),就等著第二天接管了。當(dāng)他滔滔不絕講話的時候,馬丁閉著眼睛躺在床上。馬丁的思緒飄得很遠(yuǎn),遠(yuǎn)得他幾乎都覺察不到自己在思索了。他幾次都是很勉強(qiáng)地回答了對方的問話。這位可是他過去一直都很喜歡的喬啊。然而,喬過于熱愛生活,這一點(diǎn)如洶涌的浪濤沖擊著他膩煩的心靈,似鋼針刺疼了他疲憊的神經(jīng),當(dāng)喬提醒他說他們將來可以找個時間較量一下時,他差一點(diǎn)尖叫起來。
“別忘了,喬,你得根據(jù)你當(dāng)初在雪萊溫泉旅館制訂的那些章程管理這家洗衣店?!彼f,“不許加班,不許開夜車,軋液機(jī)旁不用童工,別的地方也不能用童工,工資要公平合理?!?/p>
喬點(diǎn)了點(diǎn)頭,掏出一個筆記本來。
“你瞧這個。這是我早飯以前擬出的章程。不知你意下如何?”
他把章程念了一遍。馬丁都同意了,同時心里在嘀咕著,不知喬什么時候才肯離開。
待他醒來時,天色已近黃昏。他慢慢地回到了現(xiàn)實(shí)生活中來。他把屋里四下望了望。喬顯然是在他昏然睡去后悄悄溜走的。他覺得喬還是怪能體貼人的。后來,他合上眼又睡著了。
后邊的幾天里,喬忙于籌劃和接管洗衣店,不太來打攪他。直到啟航的前一天,報(bào)紙上才宣布他要乘坐馬利波薩號旅行。他那求生的本能又一次在他體內(nèi)跳動,于是他去找醫(yī)生檢查了身體。他一點(diǎn)毛病也沒有。醫(yī)生說他的心和肺都非常健康。據(jù)醫(yī)生的了解,他的每一個器官都很正常,功能沒有任何異樣。
“你一點(diǎn)毛病都沒有,伊登先生,”醫(yī)生說,“我肯定你沒有任何毛病。你的健康狀況極佳。老實(shí)說,我很羨慕你的身體,真是棒極啦。瞧瞧這胸脯。你之所以有著良好的體質(zhì),其秘訣都在你的胸膛里。像你這樣的體格,可謂千里——萬里挑一。要是不出意外,你可以活到一百歲?!?/p>
馬丁情知麗茜的診斷是正確的。他的身體沒有毛病,出故障的是他的“思維機(jī)器”,除了到南海去,別無靈丹妙藥。麻煩在于,正值即將啟程的節(jié)骨眼上,他卻不想去了。南海和資產(chǎn)階級文明一樣,對他失去了吸引力。在想到要出發(fā)的時候,他沒有一絲熱情,出去旅行這件事使他驚慌,因?yàn)槟菚兴娜怏w感到勞累。如果已經(jīng)上了船,已經(jīng)揚(yáng)帆啟航,他倒會感覺好受些。
最后一天像受刑一樣讓人痛苦。從早報(bào)上得知了他將乘船旅行的消息后,伯納德·希金波森和葛特露帶著全家,以及赫爾曼·馮·施米特夫婦都趕來話別。另外還得料理事務(wù)、清付賬單,以及應(yīng)付紛至沓來的記者。他到夜校的門口跟麗茜·康諾萊匆匆道了別,便急忙走開了?;氐斤埖昀?,他發(fā)現(xiàn)喬在等他。喬忙了一整天洗衣店的事,此刻才脫出身來。馬丁覺得這最后的時刻實(shí)在難熬,但他抓住椅子的把手,又是聽又是說,足足有半個小時。
“你要知道,喬,”他說,“你不必把自己死死綁在洗衣店里。那兒可沒有繩子捆你。你隨時都可以賣掉洗衣店,把得來的錢花掉。什么時候你厭倦了,又想過流浪生活,那你就退出,反正你怎么高興就怎么來?!?/p>
喬搖了搖頭。
“謝謝你的好意,我可是再也不想流浪了。流浪生活倒是挺不錯,就是有一點(diǎn)不足——找不到姑娘。這就讓人受不了,因?yàn)槲疫@人就喜歡女人,離了女人是不行的??僧?dāng)了流浪漢就得清心寡欲,有時候路過舉辦舞會和聚會的人家,聽到女人的笑聲,從窗口看到女人的白裙子和笑臉——嗨,那滋味真是痛苦極啦。我非常喜歡跳舞、野餐和在月光下散步等娛樂。我愿意開洗衣店,活得排排場場,口袋里大洋叮當(dāng)叮當(dāng)響。我已經(jīng)交上了女朋友,雖然是昨天才交的,但我真恨不得馬上跟她結(jié)婚。一想到這件事,今天我就高興得直吹口哨。她長得很美,有一雙溫柔的眼睛,說話和藹可親。我一定娶她,你等著瞧吧。我問你,你有這么多錢,為什么不結(jié)婚呢?你能得到天下最好的姑娘?!瘪R丁笑著搖了搖頭,內(nèi)心里覺得奇怪,不明白一個男人為什么要結(jié)婚。結(jié)婚好像是一種莫名其妙,叫人無法理解的事情。
快開船的時候,他從馬利波薩號的甲板上望見麗茜·康諾萊站在碼頭上,躲在前幾排人叢中。他產(chǎn)生了一個念頭,想帶她一起走。這可是輕而易舉之事,她一定會大喜過望。這個念頭剎那間幾乎對他形成了誘惑,但緊接著他就恐慌了起來。他內(nèi)心的想法讓他感到驚亂,他的那顆疲倦的心大聲地發(fā)出了抗議。于是,他呻吟一聲,從欄桿那兒扭過身去,喃喃地說:“伙計(jì),你病得太厲害了,病得太厲害了?!?/p>
他逃進(jìn)船艙,在那兒一直躲到輪船離開碼頭。中午在餐廳里吃飯的時候,他被安置到貴賓席位上,坐在船長的右首。他很快就發(fā)現(xiàn)自己成了船上了不起的人物,但再了不起也沒有給他一絲一毫稱心如意的感覺。下午,他躺在甲板躺椅上,閉著眼一個勁打盹,晚上早早就上了床。
第二天一過,暈船的都復(fù)原了,所有的旅客都露了面,可是他跟他們接觸得愈多就愈討厭他們。他知道這樣看待他們是不公正的。他強(qiáng)迫自己承認(rèn)他們是些善良的好人,而就在承認(rèn)的當(dāng)兒又得出這樣的結(jié)論——他們雖善良,但與所有的資產(chǎn)階級是一樣的,具有褊狹的心理和空洞的思想。和他們交談讓他厭膩,因?yàn)樗麄兡潜氨珊蜏\薄的大腦里簡直是一片空白;而年輕一代那興高采烈的情緒和過分旺盛的精力卻使他頗為驚訝。他們從來不肯安分,一刻不停地在甲板上擲繩圈,拋鐵環(huán),來回溜達(dá),要不,鬧嚷嚷地涌到欄桿邊觀看水里躍起的海豚和第一批出現(xiàn)的飛魚。
他的覺睡得很多。一吃過早餐,他就拿上一本永遠(yuǎn)也看不完的雜志往甲板躺椅上坐。那些鉛字讓他疲倦。他想不通人們怎么有這么多的素材可寫,想著想著就在躺椅上打起盹來。午飯的鈴聲響時,他不得不起來,這讓他又氣又惱。他一點(diǎn)也不愿意醒著。
有一回,他想擺脫這種昏昏欲睡的狀態(tài),便打起精神到水手艙去找水手們。然而,這些人似乎跟他當(dāng)水手時的同伴不一樣。他覺得自己和這些面孔呆板、思想愚魯、缺乏理性的人之間沒有任何相通之處。他陷入了絕望之中。在上層社會,喜歡他的人當(dāng)中沒有一個喜歡的是他馬丁·伊登本人,而現(xiàn)在他又無法再回到過去曾喜歡過他的那個自己的階層中去。他不喜歡他們,無法容忍他們,就像他無法容忍頭等艙里的那些愚蠢的旅客以及那些吵吵嚷嚷的年輕人一樣。
他覺得自己是一個病人,而生活像一道強(qiáng)烈的白光刺得他那疲倦的眼睛發(fā)疼。在有知覺的每一秒鐘里,都有生活的火光在他的周圍、在他的身上閃耀,照得他難受,使他痛不欲生。他這輩子還是頭一回乘坐上等艙。以前航海時,他不是住水手艙、三等艙,就是在黑洞洞的煤艙深處搬煤。在那些日子里,他攀著鐵梯爬出悶熱的船艙時,常常看到乘客穿著涼爽的白衣服,悠閑自得地什么也不干,頭上張著帆布篷遮擋陽光和風(fēng),把唯命是從的服務(wù)員指揮得跑來跑去,當(dāng)時他覺得他們身處仙境,過的是天堂里的生活。現(xiàn)在他自己成了船上了不起的人物,成了人們心目中的中心人物,坐在船長的右首,可他偏要回到水手艙里去徒勞無益地尋找失去的天堂。他非但未發(fā)現(xiàn)新的天堂,也未找到舊的天堂。
他想振作起來,找點(diǎn)能引起興趣的事做。于是,他到船員餐廳里去吃飯,但待在那里只讓他不高興。他和一位下了崗的舵手進(jìn)行了交談,那人生性聰敏,馬上對他展開社會主義宣傳,把一疊傳單和小冊子塞進(jìn)了他手里。馬丁聽那人講解奴隸的道德觀,聽著聽著便倦怠地思索起了自己的那一套尼采哲學(xué)。這一切都有什么價值呢?他記得尼采說過一句瘋話,瘋狂地懷疑真理。誰說得準(zhǔn)呢?也許尼采是對的,任何事物都無真理可言,連事實(shí)里都沒有真理——根本就不存在真理這回事。他的大腦很快就累了,很想回到椅子上打盹。
船上的日子已經(jīng)夠難熬了,可他偏偏又產(chǎn)生了新的苦惱。到了塔希提后會怎么樣呢?那時他得上岸去,得定購貨物和乘帆船到馬克薩斯群島去,得干一千一萬件想起來都讓人害怕的事。每當(dāng)他硬著頭皮思索的時候,就會發(fā)現(xiàn)自己身處極其危險(xiǎn)的境地。實(shí)際上,他已走進(jìn)了幽靈峽谷,他的危機(jī)就在于他一點(diǎn)兒也不害怕。假如他感到害怕,他肯定會逃生的。正因?yàn)闊o怯意,他才一步步向谷底走去。在過去所熟悉的事物中,他找不到一點(diǎn)樂趣。馬利波薩號正頂著東北貿(mào)易風(fēng)行駛,那美酒般的風(fēng)兒吹拂在他身上,卻讓他氣惱。他挪開椅子,想躲避這過去日夜陪伴著他的同伴那熱情洋溢的擁抱。
馬利波薩號駛?cè)氤嗟罒o風(fēng)帶的那天,馬丁更加苦惱了。他睡得過多,再也睡不著了,于是只好醒著忍受生活那白熾火光的照耀。他走來走去,煩躁不安??諝怵ず?、濕漉漉,暴風(fēng)雨也沒有給人帶來涼爽。生活使他痛苦。他在甲板上四處溜達(dá),實(shí)在受不了就在椅子上坐坐,然后起來再轉(zhuǎn)悠。最后,他強(qiáng)迫自己看完了那本雜志,又從船上的圖書室里挑了幾本詩集。但這些詩集引不起他的興趣,于是他又踱起了步。
晚飯后他在甲板上待了很長時間,然而這也無濟(jì)于事?;氐脚摾?,他還是無法入睡。連這種短暫的休息他也享受不到,這叫他無法忍受。他打開電燈,想看會兒書。有一本詩集是斯溫伯恩的著作。他躺在床上翻閱了起來,翻著翻著突然來了興趣。他把一個章節(jié)看完,還想朝下看,可不由又翻了回來。他將書反扣在胸口上,陷入沉思。答案就在這里,這就是答案。奇怪,以前他怎么就沒想到過!所有的一切都在此不白自明;他的漫游一直都走的是這個方向,而今斯溫伯恩向他指明這就是痛快的出路。他渴望安息,而歸宿就在這里。他望了望敞開的舷窗,看到那兒倒是挺寬敞。幾個星期以來,他第一次有了喜悅的心情,因?yàn)樗K于找到了治療自身病疾的良方。他捧起詩集,慢慢地朗誦那一節(jié):
放棄了對生活的熱戀,
擺脫恐懼、告別希望,
我們虔誠地祈禱,
感謝冥冥的上蒼,
幸喜生命終有盡期;
死去的不復(fù)站起;
縱使疲倦的河流蜿蜒曲回,
總會平安歸向海洋。
他又望了望那舷窗。斯溫伯恩提供了答案。生活是一場噩夢,或者更確切地說,它變成了一場噩夢,化為叫人無法忍受的東西?!八廊サ牟粡?fù)站起!”這一詩行深深打動了他,令他感激涕零。這可是天地之間唯一叫人向往的事情。當(dāng)生活充滿了痛苦,令人厭倦的時候,死亡會哄你沉沉入睡、長眠不醒。還有什么可猶豫的呢?該走啦!
他立起身,抱頭探出舷窗,低頭望著那渾濁的浪花。馬利波薩號滿載著旅客,吃水很深,用兩手抓住窗子,便可以把腳伸進(jìn)水里。他可以無聲無息地鉆入水里,誰都聽不見,一朵浪花飛濺起,打濕了他的面孔。他的嘴唇發(fā)咸,那味道很是不錯。他想著是否應(yīng)該寫一篇絕筆,但隨即便一笑置之。已經(jīng)沒有時間了,他迫不及待地要赴黃泉之路。
他熄掉艙里的燈,免得暴露行蹤,然后把腳先伸出了舷窗,不料肩膀卻被卡住了,于是他抽回身,將一條胳膊緊貼在身旁,再次朝外鉆。船體的擺動幫了他的忙,他借力鉆出,用手抓緊窗子。雙腳一觸到海水,他就松了手,落入渾濁的泡沫里。馬利波薩號的舷體似一堵黑墻從他身邊擦過,星星點(diǎn)點(diǎn)的舷窗里亮著燈光。輪船向前疾駛,幾乎未待他清醒過來就把他甩到了后邊。他慢慢地在泡沫飛濺的海面上游著。
一條鰹魚在他白皙的身子上咬了一口,惹得他笑出了聲。他身上掉了一塊肉,疼痛感才使他想起了投海的目的。他剛才過于忙碌,竟忘了自己的目標(biāo)。馬利波薩號上的燈光在遠(yuǎn)方愈來愈模糊,而他卻在這兒滿懷信心地游著泳,就好像一門心思要游到千里開外的最近的陸地似的。
這是一種不由自主地求生本能。他停止了游泳,但一覺得海水漫過嘴,便又猛然伸手劃水,讓身子朝上浮。他心想這是求生的意志,隨即便輕蔑地哼了一聲。哈,他還有意志——堅(jiān)強(qiáng)的意志!只消最后一用勁,這意志就會毀于一旦、煙消云散。
他變變姿勢,直立起來,抬頭望望靜悄悄的群星,同時吐凈了肺里的空氣。他猛然手腳并用,狠勁劃水,將肩膀和半個胸脯都露出水面。這樣做是為了能在潛水時多一份沖力。接著,他放松身子,一動不動地朝下沉,似一尊白色雕像沒入海中。他有意識地深深吸一口海水,就像一個人服麻醉劑一樣。他感到窒息,可這時他的胳膊和腿卻亂劃一氣,把他托出水面,使他又清楚地看到了群星。
他竭力不讓空氣進(jìn)入他那快要破裂的肺里,但卻徒勞一場。他不肩地心想這是求生的意志在作祟??磥恚仨氈匦?lián)Q一種方法。他把空氣吸進(jìn)肺里,讓里邊充得滿滿的,這樣便可以潛得深一些。他轉(zhuǎn)過身,頭朝下用出全身的力氣和全部的意志往底層游去。他愈潛愈深,睜眼望著那磷光閃閃、幽靈般沖來沖去的鰹魚群。他一邊游,一邊希望那些魚不要來咬他,因?yàn)槟菢訒輾o繃的意志。幸好那些魚沒有咬他,于是他充滿了感激之情,感謝生活賜給他這最后一點(diǎn)好處。
他不斷地往下游,累得四肢發(fā)酸,幾乎動彈不得。他知道自己已到了深處。他的耳膜被海水?dāng)D壓得發(fā)痛,腦袋嗡嗡作響。他的耐受力正在崩潰,可他拼命劃動四肢把自己朝更深處送,直至意志動搖,肺里的空氣猛然噴射出來。一串串氣泡朝上泛起,似小氣球般跳動著,摩擦著他的臉頰和眼睛。旋踵而至的便是疼痛和窒息。他眩暈的大腦里閃過這樣一個念頭:這不是死亡,因?yàn)樗劳鰶]有痛苦。他還活著,這是生存的痛苦,是一種可怕的令人窒息的感覺。這是生活所能給予他的最后一擊。
他那倔強(qiáng)的手腳開始擊打水,間歇地,有氣無力地劃動。他愚弄了它們,愚弄了驅(qū)使它們擊打和劃動的求生意志。他游得太深了,它們已無法把他送到海面上去了。他似乎懶洋洋地漂浮在夢境的海洋里。五彩光環(huán)包裹著他、沐浴著他,浸透了他的身體。那是什么?好像是一座燈塔。其實(shí),那東西僅存在于他的大腦中——是一道耀眼奪目的白光,閃動得愈來愈快。隨著長長的一聲轟隆巨響,他覺得自己滾下了非常長的一條寬樓梯。到了底層,他跌入黑暗之中。他明白自己墜入黑暗的世界。就在他明白這一點(diǎn)的瞬間,他的感覺停止了。
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[1] 1886年在瑞士首都伯爾尼召開的會議,締結(jié)了國際版權(quán)公約。
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