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The Human Drift
By
Jack London
Contents
NOTHING
THAT EVER CAME TO ANYTHING
A
WICKED WOMAN (Curtain Raiser) BY JACK LONDON..
=
"The Revelations of Dev=
out
and Learn'd Who r=
ose
before us, and as Prophets Burn'd, Are a=
ll but
stories, which, awoke from Sleep, They told their comrade=
s, and
to Sleep return'd."
The history of civilisation is a history of
wandering, sword in hand, in search of food. In the misty younger world we catch
glimpses of phantom races, rising, slaying, finding food, building rude
civilisations, decaying, falling under the swords of stronger hands, and
passing utterly away. Man, li=
ke any
other animal, has roved over the earth seeking what he might devour; and not
romance and adventure, but the hunger-need, has urged him on his vast
adventures. Whether a bankrupt
gentleman sailing to colonise Virginia or a lean Cantonese contracting to
labour on the sugar plantations of Hawaii, in each case, gentleman and cool=
ie,
it is a desperate attempt to get something to eat, to get more to eat than =
he
can get at home.
It has always been so, from the time of the fi=
rst
pre-human anthropoid crossing a mountain-divide in quest of better berry-bu=
shes
beyond, down to the latest Slovak, arriving on our shores to-day, to go to =
work
in the coal-mines of Pennsylvania.
These migratory movements of peoples have been called drifts, and the
word is apposite. Unplanned, =
blind,
automatic, spurred on by the pain of hunger, man has literally drifted his =
way
around the planet. There have=
been
drifts in the past, innumerable and forgotten, and so remote that no records
have been left, or composed of such low-typed humans or pre-humans that they
made no scratchings on stone or bone and left no monuments to show that they
had been.
These early drifts we conjecture and know must
have occurred, just as we know that the first upright-walking brutes were
descended from some kin of the quadrumana through having developed "a =
pair
of great toes out of two opposable thumbs." Dominated by fear, and by their ve=
ry
fear accelerating their development, these early ancestors of ours, sufferi=
ng hunger-pangs
very like the ones we experience to-day, drifted on, hunting and being hunt=
ed,
eating and being eaten, wandering through thousand-year- long odysseys of
screaming primordial savagery, until they left their skeletons in glacial g=
ravels,
some of them, and their bone-scratchings in cave-men's lairs.
There have been drifts from east to west and w=
est
to east, from north to south and back again, drifts that have criss-crossed=
one
another, and drifts colliding and recoiling and caroming off in new
directions. From Central Euro=
pe the
Aryans have drifted into Asia, and from Central Asia the Turanians have dri=
fted
across Europe. Asia has thrown
forth great waves of hungry humans from the prehistoric
"round-barrow" "broad-heads" who overran Europe and
penetrated to Scandinavia and England, down through the hordes of Attila and
Tamerlane, to the present immigration of Chinese and Japanese that threatens
America. The Phoenicians and =
the Greeks,
with unremembered drifts behind them, colonised the Mediterranean. Rome was engulfed in the torrent of
Germanic tribes drifting down from the north before a flood of drifting
Asiatics. The Angles, Saxons,=
and
Jutes, after having drifted whence no man knows, poured into Britain, and t=
he
English have carried this drift on around the world. Retreating before stronger breeds,
hungry and voracious, the Eskimo has drifted to the inhospitable polar regi=
ons,
the Pigmy to the fever-rotten jungles of Africa. And in this day the drift of the r=
aces continues,
whether it be of Chinese into the Philippines and the Malay Peninsula, of
Europeans to the United States or of Americans to the wheat- lands of Manit=
oba
and the Northwest.
Perhaps most amazing has been the South Sea
Drift. Blind, fortuitous, pre=
carious
as no other drift has been, nevertheless the islands in that waste of ocean
have received drift after drift of the races. Down from the mainland of Asia pou=
red an
Aryan drift that built civilisations in Ceylon, Java, and Sumatra. Only the monuments of these Aryans
remain. They themselves have perished utterly, though not until after leavi=
ng evidences
of their drift clear across the great South Pacific to far Easter Island. And on that drift they encountered=
races
who had accomplished the drift before them, and they, the Aryans, passed, i=
n turn,
before the drift of other and subsequent races whom we to-day call the
Polynesian and the Melanesian.
Man early discovered death. As soon as his evolution permitted=
, he
made himself better devices for killing than the old natural ones of fang a=
nd claw. He devoted himself to the inventio=
n of
killing devices before he discovered fire or manufactured for himself
religion. And to this day, his
finest creative energy and technical skill are devoted to the same old task=
of
making better and ever better killing weapons. All his days, down all the past, h=
ave
been spent in killing. And fr=
om the
fear-stricken, jungle-lurking, cave-haunting creature of long ago, he won to
empery over the whole animal world because he developed into the most terri=
ble
and awful killer of all the animals.
He found himself crowded. He killed to make room, and as he made room
ever he increased and found himself crowded, and ever he went on killing to
make more room. Like a settler
clearing land of its weeds and forest bushes in order to plant corn, so man=
was
compelled to clear all manner of life away in order to plant himself. And, sword in hand, he has literal=
ly
hewn his way through the vast masses of life that occupied the earth space =
he
coveted for himself. And ever=
he
has carried the battle wider and wider, until to- day not only is he a far =
more
capable killer of men and animals than ever before, but he has pressed the
battle home to the infinite and invisible hosts of menacing lives in the wo=
rld
of micro-organisms.
It is true, that they that rose by the sword
perished by the sword. And ye=
t, not
only did they not all perish, but more rose by the sword than perished by i=
t,
else man would not to-day be over-running the world in such huge swarms.
"The Sword Singing--
Driving the darkness, Even as the banners The Slag from the metal=
, The waste and the weak =
From the fit and the st=
rong; Fighting the brute,
As time passed and man increased, he drifted e=
ver
farther afield in search of room.
He encountered other drifts of men, and the killing of men became
prodigious. The weak and the
decadent fell under the sword. Nations that faltered, that waxed prosperous=
in
fat valleys and rich river deltas, were swept away by the drifts of stronger
men who were nourished on the hardships of deserts and mountains and who we=
re
more capable with the sword.
Unknown and unnumbered billions of men have been so destroyed in
prehistoric times. Draper say=
s that
in the twenty years of the Gothic war, Italy lost 15,000,000 of her populat=
ion;
"and that the wars, famines, and pestilences of the reign of Justinian
diminished the human species by the almost incredible number of
100,000,000." Germany, i=
n the
Thirty Years' War, lost 6,000,000 inhabitants. The record of our own American Civ=
il War
need scarcely be recalled.
And man has been destroyed in other ways than =
by
the sword. Flood, famine,
pestilence and murder are potent factors in reducing population--in making
room. As Mr. Charles Woodruff=
, in
his "Expansion of Races," has instanced: In 1886, when the dikes =
of
the Yellow River burst, 7,000,000 people were drowned. The failure of crops in Ireland, in
1848, caused 1,000,000 deaths. The
famines in India of 1896-7 and 1899-1900 lessened the population by
21,000,000. The T'ai'ping reb=
ellion
and the Mohammedan rebellion, combined with the famine of 1877-78, destroyed
scores of millions of Chinese.
Europe has been swept repeatedly by great plagues. In India, for the period of 1903 to
1907, the plague deaths averaged between one and two millions a year. Mr. Woodruff is responsible for the
assertion that 10,000,000 persons now living in the United States are doome=
d to
die of tuberculosis. And in t=
his
same country ten thousand persons a year are directly murdered. In China, between three and six mi=
llions
of infants are annually destroyed, while the total infanticide record of the
whole world is appalling. In =
Africa,
now, human beings are dying by millions of the sleeping sickness.
More destructive of life than war, is
industry. In all civilised co=
untries
great masses of people are crowded into slums and labour-ghettos, where dis=
ease
festers, vice corrodes, and famine is chronic, and where they die more swif=
tly
and in greater numbers than do the soldiers in our modern wars. The very infant mortality of a slu=
m parish
in the East End of London is three times that of a middle-class parish in t=
he
West End. In the United State=
s, in
the last fourteen years, a total of coal-miners, greater than our entire
standing army, has been killed and injured. The United States Bureau of Labour
states that during the year 1908, there were between 30,000 and 35,000 deat=
hs
of workers by accidents, while 200,000 more were injured. In fact, the safest place for a
working-man is in the army. A=
nd
even if that army be at the front, fighting in Cuba or South Africa, the
soldier in the ranks has a better chance for life than the working-man at h=
ome.
And yet, despite this terrible roll of death,
despite the enormous killing of the past and the enormous killing of the
present, there are to- day alive on the planet a billion and three quarters=
of
human beings. Our immediate
conclusion is that man is exceedingly fecund and very tough. Never before h=
ave
there been so many people in the world.&nb=
sp;
In the past centuries the world's population has been smaller; in the
future centuries it is destined to be larger. And this brings us to that old bug=
bear
that has been so frequently laughed away and that still persists in raising=
its
grisly head--namely, the doctrine of Malthus. While man's increasing efficiency =
of
food-production, combined with colonisation of whole virgin continents, has=
for
generations given the apparent lie to Malthus' mathematical statement of the
Law of Population, nevertheless the essential significance of his doctrine
remains and cannot be challenged.
Population does press against subsistence. And no matter how rapidly subsiste=
nce
increases, population is certain to catch up with it.
When man was in the hunting stage of developme=
nt,
wide areas were necessary for the maintenance of scant populations. With the shepherd stages, the mean=
s of
subsistence being increased, a larger population was supported on the same
territory. The agricultural s=
tage
gave support to a still larger population; and, to-day, with the increased
food-getting efficiency of a machine civilisation, an even larger populatio=
n is
made possible. Nor is this
theoretical. The population is
here, a billion and three quarters of men, women, and children, and this va=
st
population is increasing on itself by leaps and bounds.
A heavy European drift to the New World has go=
ne on
and is going on; yet Europe, whose population a century ago was 170,000,000,
has to-day 500,000,000. At th=
is
rate of increase, provided that subsistence is not overtaken, a century from
now the population of Europe will be 1,500,000,000. And be it noted of the present rat=
e of
increase in the United States that only one-third is due to immigration, wh=
ile
two-thirds is due to excess of births over deaths. And at this present rate of increa=
se,
the population of the United States will be 500,000,000 in less than a cent=
ury
from now.
Man, the hungry one, the killer, has always
suffered for lack of room. The world has been chronically overcrowded. Belgium with her 572 persons to the
square mile is no more crowded than was Denmark when it supported only 500 =
palaeolithic
people. According to Mr. Wood=
ruff,
cultivated land will produce 1600 times as much food as hunting land. From the time of the Norman Conque=
st,
for centuries Europe could support no more than 25 to the square mile. To-day Europe supports 81 to the s=
quare
mile. The explanation of this=
is
that for the several centuries after the Norman Conquest her population was
saturated. Then, with the
development of trading and capitalism, of exploration and exploitation of n=
ew
lands, and with the invention of labour-saving machinery and the discovery =
and application
of scientific principles, was brought about a tremendous increase in Europe=
's
food-getting efficiency. And
immediately her population sprang up.
According to the census of Ireland, of 1659, t=
hat
country had a population of 500,000.
One hundred and fifty years later, her population was 8,000,000. For many centuries the population =
of
Japan was stationary. There s=
eemed
no way of increasing her food-getting efficiency. Then, sixty years ago, came Commod=
ore
Perry, knocking down her doors and letting in the knowledge and machinery of
the superior food- getting efficiency of the Western world. Immediately upon this rise in subs=
istence
began the rise of population; and it is only the other day that Japan, find=
ing
her population once again pressing against subsistence, embarked, sword in
hand, on a westward drift in search of more room. And, sword in hand, killing and be=
ing
killed, she has carved out for herself Formosa and Korea, and driven the va=
nguard
of her drift far into the rich interior of Manchuria.
For an immense period of time China's populati=
on
has remained at 400,000,000--the saturation point. The only reason that the Yellow Ri=
ver periodically
drowns millions of Chinese is that there is no other land for those million=
s to
farm. And after every such
catastrophe the wave of human life rolls up and now millions flood out upon
that precarious territory. Th=
ey are
driven to it, because they are pressed remorselessly against subsistence. It is inevitable that China, soone=
r or
later, like Japan, will learn and put into application our own superior
food-getting efficiency. And =
when
that time comes, it is likewise inevitable that her population will increas=
e by
unguessed millions until it again reaches the saturation point. And then, inoculated with Western =
ideas,
may she not, like Japan, take sword in hand and start forth colossally on a
drift of her own for more room?
This is another reputed bogie--the Yellow Peril; yet the men of China
are only men, like any other race of men, and all men, down all history, ha=
ve
drifted hungrily, here, there and everywhere over the planet, seeking for
something to eat. What other =
men
do, may not the Chinese do?
But a change has long been coming in the affai=
rs
of man. The more recent drift=
s of
the stronger races, carving their way through the lesser breeds to more
earth-space, has led to peace, ever to wider and more lasting peace. The lesser breeds, under penalty of
being killed, have been compelled to lay down their weapons and cease killi=
ng
among themselves. The scalp-talking Indian and the head-hunting Melanesian =
have
been either destroyed or converted to a belief in the superior efficacy of
civil suits and criminal prosecutions.&nbs=
p;
The planet is being subdued.
The wild and the hurtful are either tamed or eliminated. From the beasts of prey and the ca=
nnibal
humans down to the death-dealing microbes, no quarter is given; and daily,
wider and wider areas of hostile territory, whether of a warring desert-tri=
be
in Africa or a pestilential fever-hole like Panama, are made peaceable and
habitable for mankind. As for=
the
great mass of stay-at-home folk, what percentage of the present generation =
in the
United States, England, or Germany, has seen war or knows anything of war at
first hand? There was never s=
o much
peace in the world as there is to-day.
War itself, the old red anarch, is passing.
Not only has war, by its own evolution, render=
ed
itself futile, but man himself, with greater wisdom and higher ethics, is
opposed to war. He has learne=
d too
much. War is repugnant to his
common sense. He conceives it=
to be
wrong, to be absurd, and to be very expensive. For the damage wrought and the res=
ults
accomplished, it is not worth the price.&n=
bsp;
Just as in the disputes of individuals the arbitration of a civil co=
urt
instead of a blood feud is more practical, so, man decides, is arbitration =
more
practical in the disputes of nations.
War is passing, disease is being conquered, and
man's food-getting efficiency is increasing. It is because of these factors that
there are a billion and three quarters of people alive to-day instead of a
billion, or three-quarters of a billion.&n=
bsp;
And it is because of these factors that the world's population will =
very
soon be two billions and climbing rapidly toward three billions. The lifetime of the generation is =
increasing
steadily. Men live longer the=
se
days. Life is not so precario=
us. The newborn infant has a greater c=
hance
for survival than at any time in the past.=
Surgery and sanitation reduce the fatalities that accompany the
mischances of life and the ravages of disease. Men and women, with deficiencies a=
nd
weaknesses that in the past would have effected their rapid extinction, live
to-day and father and mother a numerous progeny. And high as the food-getting effic=
iency
may soar, population is bound to soar after it. "The abysmal fecundity" =
of
life has not altered. Given t=
he
food, and life will increase. A
small percentage of the billion and three-quarters that live to-day may hus=
h the
clamour of life to be born, but it is only a small percentage. In this particular, the life in the
man-animal is very like the life in the other animals.
And still another change is coming in human
affairs. Though politicians g=
nash
their teeth and cry anathema, and man, whose superficial book-learning is
vitiated by crystallised prejudice, assures us that civilisation will go to
smash, the trend of society, to-day, the world over, is toward socialism. The old individualism is passing.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The state interferes more and more=
in
affairs that hitherto have been considered sacredly private. And socialism, when the last word =
is
said, is merely a new economic and political system whereby more men can get
food to eat. In short, socialism is an improved food-getting efficiency.
Furthermore, not only will socialism get food =
more
easily and in greater quantity, but it will achieve a more equitable
distribution of that food. Socialism promises, for a time, to give all men,
women, and children all they want to eat, and to enable them to eat all they
want as often as they want.
Subsistence will be pushed back, temporarily, an exceedingly long
way. In consequence, the floo=
d of
life will rise like a tidal wave. There will be more marriages and more
children born. The enforced s=
terility
that obtains to-day for many millions, will no longer obtain. Nor will the
fecund millions in the slums and labour-ghettos, who to-day die of all the =
ills
due to chronic underfeeding and overcrowding, and who die with their fecund=
ity
largely unrealised, die in that future day when the increased food-getting
efficiency of socialism will give them all they want to eat.
It is undeniable that population will increase
prodigiously-just as it has increased prodigiously during the last few
centuries, following upon the increase in food-getting efficiency. The magnitude of population in that
future day is well nigh unthinkable.
But there is only so much land and water on the surface of the
earth. Man, despite his marve=
llous accomplishments,
will never be able to increase the diameter of the planet. The old days of virgin continents =
will
be gone. The habitable planet=
, from
ice-cap to ice-cap, will be inhabited.&nbs=
p;
And in the matter of food-getting, as in everything else, man is only
finite. Undreamed-of efficien=
cies
in food-getting may be achieved, but, soon or late, man will find himself f=
ace
to face with Malthus' grim law. Not
only will population catch up with subsistence, but it will press against s=
ubsistence,
and the pressure will be pitiless and savage. Somewhere in the future is a date =
when
man will face, consciously, the bitter fact that there is not food enough f=
or
all of him to eat.
When this day comes, what then? Will there be a recrudescence of o=
ld obsolete
war? In a saturated populatio=
n life
is always cheap, as it is cheap in China, in India, to-day. Will new human drifts take place, =
questing
for room, carving earth-space out of crowded life. Will the Sword again sing:
"Follow, O follow, then, Heroes, my harvesters! =
Where the tall grain is=
ripe Thrust in your sickles!=
Stripped and adust In a stubble of empire =
Scything and binding The full sheaves of
sovereignty."
Even if, as of old, man should wander hungrily,
sword in hand, slaying and being slain, the relief would be only
temporary. Even if one race a=
lone
should hew down the last survivor of all the other races, that one race,
drifting the world around, would saturate the planet with its own life and
again press against subsistence.
And in that day, the death rate and the birth rate will have to bala=
nce. Men will have to die, or be preven=
ted
from being born. Undoubtedly a
higher quality of life will obtain, and also a slowly decreasing
fecundity. But this decrease =
will be
so slow that the pressure against subsistence will remain. The control of progeny will be one=
of
the most important problems of man and one of the most important functions =
of
the state. Men will simply be=
not permitted
to be born.
Disease, from time to time, will ease the
pressure. Diseases are parasi=
tes,
and it must not be forgotten that just as there are drifts in the world of =
man,
so are there drifts in the world of micro-organisms-- hunger-quests for
food. Little is known of the
micro-organic world, but that little is appalling; and no census of it will
ever be taken, for there is the true, literal "abysmal
fecundity." Multitudinou=
s as man
is, all his totality of individuals is as nothing in comparison with the
inconceivable vastness of numbers of the micro-organisms. In your body, or in mine, right no=
w, are
swarming more individual entities than there are human beings in the world
to-day. It is to us an invisi=
ble
world. We only guess its near=
est
confines. With our powerful m=
icroscopes
and ultramicroscopes, enlarging diameters twenty thousand times, we catch b=
ut
the slightest glimpses of that profundity of infinitesimal life.
Little is known of that world, save in a gener=
al
way. We know that out of it a=
rise
diseases, new to us, that afflict and destroy man. We do not know whether these disea=
ses
are merely the drifts, in a fresh direction, of already-existing breeds of
micro-organisms, or whether they are new, absolutely new, breeds themselves
just spontaneously generated. The latter
hypothesis is tenable, for we theorise that if spontaneous generation still
occurs on the earth, it is far more likely to occur in the form of simple
organisms than of complicated organisms.
Another thing we know, and that is that it is =
in
crowded populations that new diseases arise. They have done so in the past. They do so to-day. And no matter h=
ow
wise are our physicians and bacteriologists, no matter how successfully they
cope with these invaders, new invaders continue to arise--new drifts of hun=
gry
life seeking to devour us. An=
d so
we are justified in believing that in the saturated populations of the futu=
re, when
life is suffocating in the pressure against subsistence, that new, and ever
new, hosts of destroying micro-organisms will continue to arise and fling
themselves upon earth-crowded man to give him room. There may even be plagues of
unprecedented ferocity that will depopulate great areas before the wit of m=
an
can overcome them. And this we
know: that no matter how often these invisible hosts may be overcome by man=
's
becoming immune to them through a cruel and terrible selection, new hosts w=
ill ever
arise of these micro-organisms that were in the world before he came and th=
at
will be here after he is gone.
After he is gone? Will he then some day be gone, and=
this
planet know him no more? Is it
thither that the human drift in all its totality is trending? God Himself is silent on this poin=
t,
though some of His prophets have given us vivid representations of that last
day when the earth shall pass into nothingness. Nor does science, despite its radi=
um speculations
and its attempted analyses of the ultimate nature of matter, give us any ot=
her
word than that man will pass. So
far as man's knowledge goes, law is universal. Elements react under certain uncha=
ngeable
conditions. One of these cond=
itions
is temperature. Whether it be=
in
the test tube of the laboratory or the workshop of nature, all organic chem=
ical
reactions take place only within a restricted range of heat. Man, the latest of the ephemera, is
pitifully a creature of temperature, strutting his brief day on the thermom=
eter. Behind him is a past wherein it wa=
s too
warm for him to exist. Ahead =
of him
is a future wherein it will be too cold for him to exist. He cannot adjust himself to that f=
uture,
because he cannot alter universal law, because he cannot alter his own
construction nor the molecules that compose him.
It would be well to ponder these lines of Herb=
ert
Spencer's which follow, and which embody, possibly, the wildest vision the
scientific mind has ever achieved:
"Motion as well as Matter being fixed in quantity, it would seem that the change i= n the distribution of Matter which Motion effects, coming to a limit in whichever direction it is carried, the indestructible Motion thereupon necess= itates a reverse distribution. Appar= ently, the universally-c= o-existent forces of attraction and repulsion, which, as we have seen, necessita= te rhythm in all minor changes throughout the Universe, also necessit= ate rhythm in the totality of its changes--produce now an immeasurable period during which the attractive forces predominating, cause universal concentration, and then an immeasurable pe= riod during which the repulsive forces predominating, cause universal diffusion--alternate eras of Evolution and Dissolution. And thus there is suggested the conception of a p= ast during which there have been successive Evolutions analogous to that which is now going= on; a future during which successive other Evolutions may go on--e= ver the same in principle but never the same in concrete result."<= o:p>
That is it--the most we know--alternate eras of
evolution and dissolution. In=
the
past there have been other evolutions similar to that one in which we live,=
and
in the future there may be other similar evolutions--that is all. The principle of all these evoluti=
ons
remains, but the concrete results are never twice alike. Man was not; he was; and again he =
will
not be. In eternity which is =
beyond
our comprehension, the particular evolution of that solar satellite we call=
the
"Earth" occupied but a slight fraction of time. And of that fraction of time man
occupies but a small portion. All
the whole human drift, from the first ape-man to the last savant, is but a
phantom, a flash of light and a flutter of movement across the infinite fac=
e of
the starry night.
When the thermometer drops, man ceases--with a=
ll
his lusts and wrestlings and achievements; with all his race-adventures and
race-tragedies; and with all his red killings, billions upon billions of hu=
man
lives multiplied by as many billions more.=
This is the last word of Science, unless there be some further,
unguessed word which Science will some day find and utter. In the meantime it sees no farther=
than
the starry void, where the "fleeting systems lapse like foam."
And for us who live, no worse can happen than =
has
happened to the earliest drifts of man, marked to-day by ruined cities of
forgotten civilisation--ruined cities, which, on excavation, are found to r=
est
on ruins of earlier cities, city upon city, and fourteen cities, down to a =
stratum
where, still earlier, wandering herdsmen drove their flocks, and where, even
preceding them, wild hunters chased their prey long after the cave-man and =
the
man of the squatting-place cracked the knuckle-bones of wild animals and
vanished from the earth. Ther=
e is
nothing terrible about it. Wi=
th
Richard Hovey, when he faced his death, we can say: "Behold! I have lived!" And with another and greater one, =
we can
lay ourselves down with a will. The
one drop of living, the one taste of being, has been good; and perhaps our
greatest achievement will be that we dreamed immortality, even though we fa=
iled
to realise it.
A
sailor is born, not made. And=
by
"sailor" is meant, not the average efficient and hopeless creature
who is found to-day in the forecastle of deepwater ships, but the man who w=
ill
take a fabric compounded of wood and iron and rope and canvas and compel it=
to
obey his will on the surface of the sea.&n=
bsp;
Barring captains and mates of big ships, the small- boat sailor is t=
he
real sailor. He knows--he must
know--how to make the wind carry his craft from one given point to another
given point. He must know abo=
ut
tides and rips and eddies, bar and channel markings, and day and night sign=
als;
he must be wise in weather-lore; and he must be sympathetically familiar wi=
th
the peculiar qualities of his boat which differentiate it from every other =
boat
that was ever built and rigged. He must
know how to gentle her about, as one instance of a myriad, and to fill her =
on
the other tack without deadening her way or allowing her to fall off too fa=
r.
The deepwater sailor of to-day needs know none=
of
these things. And he doesn't.=
He pulls and hauls as he is ordere=
d,
swabs decks, washes paint, and chips iron-rust. He knows nothing, and cares less.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Put him in a small boat and he is
helpless. He will cut an even
better figure on the hurricane deck of a horse.
I shall never forget my child-astonishment whe=
n I
first encountered one of these strange beings. He was a runaway English sailor. I was a lad of twelve, with a
decked-over, fourteen-foot, centre-board skiff which I had taught myself to
sail. I sat at his feet as at=
the
feet of a god, while he discoursed of strange lands and peoples, deeds of
violence, and hair-raising gales at sea.&n=
bsp;
Then, one day, I took him for a sail. With all the trepidation of the ve=
riest
little amateur, I hoisted sail and got under way. Here was a man, looking on critica=
lly, I
was sure, who knew more in one second about boats and the water than I could
ever know. After an interval, in which I exceeded myself, he took the tiller
and the sheet. I sat on the l=
ittle
thwart amidships, open-mouthed, prepared to learn what real sailing was.
Which points my moral. A man can sail in the forecastles =
of big
ships all his life and never know what real sailing is. From the time I was twelve, I list=
ened
to the lure of the sea. When =
I was
fifteen I was captain and owner of an oyster-pirate sloop. By the time I was sixteen I was sa=
iling
in scow-schooners, fishing salmon with the Greeks up the Sacramento River, =
and
serving as sailor on the Fish Patrol.
And I was a good sailor, too, though all my cruising had been on San
Francisco Bay and the rivers tributary to it. I had never been on the ocean in m=
y life.
Then, the month I was seventeen, I signed befo=
re
the mast as an able seaman on a three-top-mast schooner bound on a
seven-months' cruise across the Pacific and back again. As my shipmates promptly informed =
me, I
had had my nerve with me to sign on as able seaman. Yet behold, I was an able seaman.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I had graduated from the right
school. It took no more than
minutes to learn the names and uses of the few new ropes. It was simple. I did not do things blindly. As a small-boat sailor I had learn=
ed to
reason out and know the why of everything.=
It is true, I had to learn how to steer by compass, which took maybe
half a minute; but when it came to steering "full-and-by" and
"close-and-by," I could beat the average of my shipmates, because
that was the very way I had always sailed.=
Inside fifteen minutes I could box the compass around and back again=
. And there was little else to learn
during that seven-months' cruise, except fancy rope-sailorising, such as the
more complicated lanyard knots and the making of various kinds of sennit and
rope-mats. The point of all of which is that it is by means of small-boat
sailing that the real sailor is best schooled.
And if a man is a born sailor, and has gone to=
the
school of the sea, never in all his life can he get away from the sea
again. The salt of it is in h=
is
bones as well as his nostrils, and the sea will call to him until he dies.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Of late years, I have found easier=
ways
of earning a living. I have q=
uit
the forecastle for keeps, but always I come back to the sea. In my case it is usually San Franc=
isco
Bay, than which no lustier, tougher, sheet of water can be found for small-=
boat
sailing.
It really blows on San Francisco Bay. During the winter, which is the be=
st
cruising season, we have southeasters, southwesters, and occasional howling
northers. Throughout the summ=
er we
have what we call the "sea- breeze," an unfailing wind off the
Pacific that on most afternoons in the week blows what the Atlantic Coast
yachtsmen would name a gale. =
They
are always surprised by the small spread of canvas our yachts carry. Some of them, with schooners they =
have
sailed around the Horn, have looked proudly at their own lofty sticks and h=
uge
spreads, then patronisingly and even pityingly at ours. Then, perchance, they have joined =
in a
club cruise from San Francisco to Mare Island. They found the morning run up the =
Bay
delightful. In the afternoon,=
when
the brave west wind ramped across San Pablo Bay and they faced it on the lo=
ng
beat home, things were somewhat different.=
One by one, like a flight of swallows, our more meagrely sparred and
canvassed yachts went by, leaving them wallowing and dead and shortening do=
wn
in what they called a gale but which we called a dandy sailing breeze. The next time they came out, we wo=
uld
notice their sticks cut down, their booms shortened, and their after-leeches
nearer the luffs by whole cloths.
As for excitement, there is all the difference=
in
the world between a ship in trouble at sea, and a small boat in trouble on
land-locked water. Yet for genuine excitement and thrill, give me the small=
boat. Things happen so quickly, and ther=
e are
always so few to do the work--and hard work, too, as the small-boat sailor
knows. I have toiled all nigh=
t,
both watches on deck, in a typhoon off the coast of Japan, and been less ex=
hausted
than by two hours' work at reefing down a thirty-foot sloop and heaving up =
two
anchors on a lee shore in a screaming southeaster.
Hard work and excitement? Let the wind baffle and drop in a =
heavy
tide- way just as you are sailing your little sloop through a narrow draw-b=
ridge. Behold your sails, upon which you =
are
depending, flap with sudden emptiness, and then see the impish wind, with a
haul of eight points, fill your jib aback with a gusty puff. Around she goes, and sweeps, not t=
hrough
the open draw, but broadside on against the solid piles. Hear the roar of the tide, sucking
through the trestle. And hear=
and
see your pretty, fresh-painted boat crash against the piles. Feel her stout little hull give to=
the
impact. See the rail actually=
pinch
in. Hear your canvas tearing,=
and
see the black, square-ended timbers thrusting holes through it. Smash! There goes your topmast stay, and =
the
topmast reels over drunkenly above you.&nb=
sp;
There is a ripping and crunching.&n=
bsp;
If it continues, your starboard shrouds will be torn out. Grab a
rope--any rope--and take a turn around a pile. But the free end of the rope is too
short. You can't make it fast=
, and
you hold on and wildly yell for your one companion to get a turn with anoth=
er
and longer rope. Hold on! You hold on till you are purple in=
the
face, till it seems your arms are dragging out of their sockets, till the b=
lood
bursts from the ends of your fingers.
But you hold, and your partner gets the longer rope and makes it
fast. You straighten up and l=
ook at
your hands. They are ruined. =
You
can scarcely relax the crooks of the fingers. The pain is sickening. But there is no time. The skiff, which is always pervers=
e, is
pounding against the barnacles on the piles which threaten to scrape its
gunwale off. It's drop the pe=
ak! Down jib! Then you run lines, and pull and h=
aul
and heave, and exchange unpleasant remarks with the bridge-tender who is al=
ways
willing to meet you more than half way in such repartee. And finally, at the end of an hour=
, with
aching back, sweat-soaked shirt, and slaughtered hands, you are through and
swinging along on the placid, beneficent tide between narrow banks where th=
e cattle
stand knee-deep and gaze wonderingly at you. Excitement! Work! Can you beat it in a calm da=
y on
the deep sea?
I've tried it both ways. I remember labouring in a fourteen=
days'
gale off the coast of New Zealand.
We were a tramp collier, rusty and battered, with six thousand tons =
of
coal in our hold. Life lines =
were stretched
fore and aft; and on our weather side, attached to smokestack guys and rigg=
ing,
were huge rope-nettings, hung there for the purpose of breaking the force of
the seas and so saving our mess-room doors. But the doors were smashed and the
mess-rooms washed out just the same.
And yet, out of it all, arose but the one feeling, namely, of monoto=
ny.
In contrast with the foregoing, about the
liveliest eight days of my life were spent in a small boat on the west coas=
t of
Korea. Never mind why I was t=
hus
voyaging up the Yellow Sea during the month of February in below- zero
weather. The point is that I =
was in
an open boat, a sampan, on a rocky coast where there were no light-houses a=
nd
where the tides ran from thirty to sixty feet. My crew were Japanese fishermen. We did not speak each other's
language. Yet there was nothi=
ng
monotonous about that trip. Never shall I forget one particular cold bitter
dawn, when, in the thick of driving snow, we took in sail and dropped our s=
mall
anchor. The wind was howling =
out of
the northwest, and we were on a lee shore. Ahead and astern, all escape was cu=
t off
by rocky headlands, against whose bases burst the unbroken seas. To windward a short distance, seen=
only
between the snow-squalls, was a low rocky reef. It was this that inadequately prot=
ected
us from the whole Yellow Sea that thundered in upon us.
The Japanese crawled under a communal rice mat=
and
went to sleep. I joined them,=
and
for several hours we dozed fitfully.
Then a sea deluged us out with icy water, and we found several inche=
s of
snow on top the mat. The reef=
to
windward was disappearing under the rising tide, and moment by moment the s=
eas
broke more strongly over the rocks.
The fishermen studied the shore anxiously. So did I, and with a sailor's eye,
though I could see little chance for a swimmer to gain that surf- hammered =
line
of rocks. I made signs toward=
the
headlands on either flank. The
Japanese shook their heads. I
indicated that dreadful lee shore.
Still they shook their heads and did nothing. My conclusion was that they were
paralysed by the hopelessness of the situation. Yet our extremity increased with e=
very
minute, for the rising tide was robbing us of the reef that served as
buffer. It soon became a case=
of
swamping at our anchor. Seas =
were
splashing on board in growing volume, and we baled constantly. And still my fishermen crew eyed t=
he
surf-battered shore and did nothing.
At last, after many narrow escapes from comple=
te
swamping, the fishermen got into action.&n=
bsp;
All hands tailed on to the anchor and hove it up. For'ard, as the bo=
at's
head paid off, we set a patch of sail about the size of a flour-sack. And we headed straight for shore.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I unlaced my shoes, unbottoned my
great-coat and coat, and was ready to make a quick partial strip a minute o=
r so
before we struck. But we didn=
't
strike, and, as we rushed in, I saw the beauty of the situation. Before us opened a narrow channel,
frilled at its mouth with breaking seas.&n=
bsp;
Yet, long before, when I had scanned the shore closely, there had be=
en
no such channel. I had forgot=
ten
the thirty-foot tide. And it =
was
for this tide that the Japanese had so precariously waited. We ran the frill of breakers, curv=
ed
into a tiny sheltered bay where the water was scarcely flawed by the gale, =
and
landed on a beach where the salt sea of the last tide lay frozen in long
curving lines. And this was o=
ne
gale of three in the course of those eight days in the sampan. Would it have been beaten on a
ship? I fear me the ship woul=
d have
gone aground on the outlying reef and that its people would have been
incontinently and monotonously drowned.
There are enough surprises and mishaps in a
three-days' cruise in a small boat to supply a great ship on the ocean for a
full year. I remember, once, =
taking
out on her trial trip a little thirty-footer I had just bought. In six days we had two stiff blows=
, and,
in addition, one proper southwester and one rip-snorting southeaster. The slight intervals between these=
blows
were dead calms. Also, in the=
six
days, we were aground three times.
Then, too, we tied up to the bank in the Sacramento River, and,
grounding by an accident on the steep slope on a falling tide, nearly turne=
d a
side somersault down the bank. In a
stark calm and heavy tide in the Carquinez Straits, where anchors skate on =
the
channel- scoured bottom, we were sucked against a big dock and smashed and
bumped down a quarter of a mile of its length before we could get clear.
After all, the mishaps are almost the best par=
t of
small-boat sailing. Looking back, they prove to be punctuations of joy. At the time they try your mettle a=
nd
your vocabulary, and may make you so pessimistic as to believe that God has=
a
grudge against you--but afterward, ah, afterward, with what pleasure you
remember them and with what gusto do you relate them to your brother skippe=
rs
in the fellowhood of small-boat sailing!
A narrow, winding slough; a half tide, exposing
mud surfaced with gangrenous slime; the water itself filthy and discoloured=
by
the waste from the vats of a near-by tannery; the marsh grass on either sid=
e mottled
with all the shades of a decaying orchid; a crazy, ramshackled, ancient wha=
rf;
and at the end of the wharf a small, white-painted sloop. Nothing romantic
about it. No hint of
adventure. A splendid pictori=
al argument
against the alleged joys of small-boat sailing. Possibly that is what Cloudesley a=
nd I
thought, that sombre, leaden morning as we turned out to cook breakfast and
wash decks. The latter was my
stunt, but one look at the dirty water overside and another at my fresh-pai=
nted
deck, deterred me. After brea=
kfast,
we started a game of chess. T=
he tide
continued to fall, and we felt the sloop begin to list. We played on until the chess men b=
egan
to fall over. The list increa=
sed,
and we went on deck. Bow-line=
and
stern-line were drawn taut. A=
s we
looked the boat listed still farther with an abrupt jerk. The lines were now very taut.
"As soon as her belly touches the bottom =
she
will stop," I said.
Cloudesley sounded with a boat-hook along the
outside.
"Seven feet of water," he
announced. "The bank is =
almost
up and down. The first thing that touches will be her mast when she turns
bottom up."
An ominous, minute snapping noise came from the
stern-line. Even as we looked=
, we
saw a strand fray and part. T=
hen we
jumped. Scarcely had we bent
another line between the stern and the wharf, when the original line parted=
. As we bent another line for'ard, t=
he
original one there crackled and parted.&nb=
sp;
After that, it was an inferno of work and excitement.
We ran more and more lines, and more and more
lines continued to part, and more and more the pretty boat went over on her
side. We bent all our spare l=
ines;
we unrove sheets and halyards; we used our two-inch hawser; we fastened lin=
es
part way up the mast, half way up, and everywhere else. We toiled and sweat=
ed
and enounced our mutual and sincere conviction that God's grudge still held
against us. Country yokels ca=
me
down on the wharf and sniggered at us.&nbs=
p;
When Cloudesley let a coil of rope slip down the inclined deck into =
the
vile slime and fished it out with seasick countenance, the yokels sniggered
louder and it was all I could do to prevent him from climbing up on the wha=
rf
and committing murder.
By the time the sloop's deck was perpendicular=
, we
had unbent the boom- lift from below, made it fast to the wharf, and, with =
the
other end fast nearly to the mast-head, heaved it taut with block and
tackle. The lift was of steel
wire. We were confident that =
it
could stand the strain, but we doubted the holding-power of the stays that =
held
the mast.
The tide had two more hours to ebb (and it was=
the
big run-out), which meant that five hours must elapse ere the returning tide
would give us a chance to learn whether or not the sloop would rise to it a=
nd
right herself.
The bank was almost up and down, and at the
bottom, directly beneath us, the fast-ebbing tide left a pit of the vilest,
illest-smelling, illest- appearing muck to be seen in many a day's ride.
"I love you as a brother. I'd fight for you. I'd face roaring lions, and sudden=
death
by field and flood. But just =
the
same, don't you fall into that."
He shuddered nauseously.
"For if you do, I haven't the grit to pull you out. I simply couldn't. You'd be awful. The best I could do would be to ta=
ke a
boat-hook and shove you down out of sight."
We sat on the upper side-wall of the cabin,
dangled our legs down the top of the cabin, leaned our backs against the de=
ck,
and played chess until the rising tide and the block and tackle on the
boom-lift enabled us to get her on a respectable keel again. Years afterward, down in the South=
Seas,
on the island of Ysabel, I was caught in a similar predicament. In order to clean her copper, I had
careened the Snark broadside on to the beach and outward. When the tide rose, she refused to
rise. The water crept in thro=
ugh
the scuppers, mounted over the rail, and the level of the ocean slowly craw=
led
up the slant of the deck. We
battened down the engine-room hatch, and the sea rose to it and over it and
climbed perilously near to the cabin companion-way and skylight. We were all sick with fever, but we
turned out in the blazing tropic sun and toiled madly for several hours.
There is never lack of exercise in small-boat
sailing, and the hard work is not only part of the fun of it, but it beats =
the
doctors. San Francisco Bay is=
no
mill pond. It is a large and
draughty and variegated piece of water.&nb=
sp;
I remember, one winter evening, trying to enter the mouth of the
Sacramento. There was a fresh=
et on
the river, the flood tide from the bay had been beaten back into a strong e=
bb,
and the lusty west wind died down with the sun. It was just sunset, and with a fai=
r to middling
breeze, dead aft, we stood still in the rapid current. We were squarely in the mouth of t=
he
river; but there was no anchorage and we drifted backward, faster and faste=
r,
and dropped anchor outside as the last breath of wind left us. The night came on, beautiful and w=
arm
and starry. My one companion =
cooked
supper, while on deck I put everything in shape Bristol fashion. When we turned in at nine o'clock =
the
weather- promise was excellent. (If
I had carried a barometer I'd have known better.) By two in the morning our shrouds =
were
thrumming in a piping breeze, and I got up and gave her more scope on her
hawser. Inside another hour t=
here
was no doubt that we were in for a southeaster.
It is not nice to leave a warm bed and get out=
of
a bad anchorage in a black blowy night, but we arose to the occasion, put in
two reefs, and started to heave up.
The winch was old, and the strain of the jumping head sea was too mu=
ch
for it. With the winch out of
commission, it was impossible to heave up by hand. We knew, because we tried it and s=
laughtered
our hands. Now a sailor hates=
to
lose an anchor. It is a matte=
r of
pride. Of course, we could ha=
ve
buoyed ours and slipped it. Instead, however, I gave her still more hawser,
veered her, and dropped the second anchor.
There was little sleep after that, for first o=
ne
and then the other of us would be rolled out of our bunks. The increasing size of the seas to=
ld us
we were dragging, and when we struck the scoured channel we could tell by t=
he
feel of it that our two anchors were fairly skating across. It was a deep channel, the farther=
edge
of it rising steeply like the wall of a canyon, and when our anchors starte=
d up
that wall they hit in and held.
Yet, when we fetched up, through the darkness =
we
could hear the seas breaking on the solid shore astern, and so near was it =
that
we shortened the skiff's painter.
Daylight showed us that between the stern of t=
he
skiff and destruction was no more than a score of feet. And how it did blow! There were times, in the gusts, wh=
en the
wind must have approached a velocity of seventy or eighty miles an hour.
I was born so long ago that I grew up before t=
he
era of gasolene. As a result,=
I am
old-fashioned. I prefer a sai=
l-boat
to a motor-boat, and it is my belief that boat-sailing is a finer, more
difficult, and sturdier art than running a motor. Gasolene engines are becoming
fool-proof, and while it is unfair to say that any fool can run an engine, =
it
is fair to say that almost any one can.&nb=
sp;
Not so, when it comes to sailing a boat. More skill, more intelligen=
ce,
and a vast deal more training are necessary. It is the finest training in the w=
orld
for boy and youth and man. If=
the
boy is very small, equip him with a small, comfortable skiff. He will do the rest. He won't need to be taught. Shortly he will be setting a tiny
leg-of-mutton and steering with an oar.&nb=
sp;
Then he will begin to talk keels and centreboards and want to take h=
is
blankets out and stop aboard all night.
But don't be afraid for him. He is bound to run risks and encou=
nter accidents. Remember, there are accidents in t=
he
nursery as well as out on the water.
More boys have died from hot-house culture than have died on boats l=
arge
and small; and more boys have been made into strong and reliant men by
boat-sailing than by lawn-croquet and dancing-school.
And once a sailor, always a sailor. The savour of the salt never stale=
s. The
sailor never grows so old that he does not care to go back for one more
wrestling bout with wind and wave.
I know it of myself. I=
have turned
rancher, and live beyond sight of the sea.=
Yet I can stay away from it only so long. After several months have passed, I
begin to grow restless. I find
myself day-dreaming over incidents of the last cruise, or wondering if the
striped bass are running on Wingo Slough, or eagerly reading the newspapers=
for
reports of the first northern flights of ducks. And then, suddenly, there is a hur=
ried
pack of suit-cases and overhauling of gear, and we are off for Vallejo where
the little Roamer lies, waiting, always waiting, for the skiff to come
alongside, for the lighting of the fire in the galley-stove, for the pulling
off of gaskets, the swinging up of the mainsail, and the rat-tat-tat of the
reef-points, for the heaving short and the breaking out, and for the twirli=
ng
of the wheel as she fills away and heads up Bay or down.
JACK LONDON On Board Roamer, Sonoma Creek, Apr=
il
15, 1911
=
"Huh! Drive four horses! I wouldn't sit behind you--not for=
a
thousand dollars--over them mountain roads."
So said Henry, and he ought to have known, for=
he
drives four horses himself.
Said another Glen Ellen friend: "What?
And the best of it is that he was right. Even after managing to get a few h=
undred
miles with my four horses, I don't know how to drive one. Just the other da=
y,
swinging down a steep mountain road and rounding an abrupt turn, I came full
tilt on a horse and buggy being driven by a woman up the hill. We could not pass on the narrow ro=
ad,
where was only a foot to spare, and my horses did not know how to back,
especially up- hill. About two
hundred yards down the hill was a spot where we could pass. The driver of the buggy said she d=
idn't
dare back down because she was not sure of the brake. And as I didn't know how to tackle=
one
horse, I didn't try it. So we
unhitched her horse and backed down by hand. Which was very well, till it c=
ame
to hitching the horse to the buggy again.&=
nbsp;
She didn't know how. I
didn't either, and I had depended on her knowledge. It took us about half an hour, with
frequent debates and consultations, though it is an absolute certainty that
never in its life was that horse hitched in that particular way.
No; I can't harness up one horse. But I can four, which compels me t=
o back
up again to get to my beginning.
Having selected Sonoma Valley for our abiding place, Charmian and I
decided it was about time we knew what we had in our own county and the
neighbouring ones. How to do =
it,
was the first question. Among=
our
many weaknesses is the one of being old- fashioned. We don't mix with gasolene very
well. And, as true sailors sh=
ould,
we naturally gravitate toward horses.
Being one of those lucky individuals who carries his office under his
hat, I should have to take a typewriter and a load of books along. This put saddle-horses out of the =
running. Charmian suggested driving a span.=
She had faith in me; besides, she =
could
drive a span herself. But whe=
n I
thought of the many mountains to cross, and of crossing them for three mont=
hs
with a poor tired span, I vetoed the proposition and said we'd have to come
back to gasolene after all. T=
his
she vetoed just as emphatically, and a deadlock obtained until I received
inspiration.
"Why not drive four horses?" I said.=
"But you don't know how to drive four
horses," was her objection.
I threw my chest out and my shoulders back.
"Very well," she said. (And there's faith for you! ) "They shall be four saddle ho=
rses,
and we'll strap our saddles on behind the rig."
It was my turn to object. "Our saddle horses are not br=
oken
to harness."
"Then break them."
And what I knew about horses, much less about
breaking them, was just about as much as any sailor knows. Having been kicked, bucked off, fa=
llen
over backward upon, and thrown out and run over, on very numerous occasions=
, I
had a mighty vigorous respect for horses; but a wife's faith must be lived =
up
to, and I went at it.
King was a polo pony from St. Louis, and Princ=
e a
many-gaited love-horse from Pasadena.
The hardest thing was to get them to dig in and pull. They rollicked
along on the levels and galloped down the hills, but when they struck an
up-grade and felt the weight of the breaking-cart, they stopped and turned
around and looked at me. But I
passed them, and my troubles began.
Milda was fourteen years old, an unadulterated broncho, and in
temperament was a combination of mule and jack-rabbit blended equally. If you pressed your hand on her fl=
ank
and told her to get over, she lay down on you. If you got her by the head and tol=
d her
to back, she walked forward over you.
And if you got behind her and shoved and told her to "Giddap!&q=
uot;
she sat down on you. Also, she
wouldn't walk. For endless we=
ary
miles I strove with her, but never could I get her to walk a step. Finally, she was a manger-glutton.=
No matter how near or far from the
stable, when six o'clock came around she bolted for home and never missed t=
he
directest cross-road. Many ti=
mes I
rejected her.
The fourth and most rejected horse of all was =
the
Outlaw. From the age of three=
to
seven she had defied all horse-breakers and broken a number of them. Then a long, lanky cowboy, with a
fifty-pound saddle and a Mexican bit had got her proud goat. I was the next owner. She was my favourite riding horse.=
Charmian said I'd have to put her =
in as
a wheeler where I would have more control over her. Now Charmian had a favourite ridin=
g mare
called Maid. I suggested Maid=
as a
substitute. Charmian pointed out that my mare was a branded range horse, wh=
ile
hers was a near-thoroughbred, and that the legs of her mare would be ruined=
forever
if she were driven for three months.
I acknowledged her mare's thoroughbredness, and at the same time def=
ied
her to find any thoroughbred with as small and delicately-viciously pointed
ears as my Outlaw. She indica=
ted
Maid's exquisitely thin shinbone. =
span>I
measured the Outlaw's. It was
equally thin, although, I insinuated, possibly more durable. This stabbed Charmian's pride. Of course her near-thoroughbred Ma=
id,
carrying the blood of "old" Lexington, Morella, and a streak of t=
he super-enduring
Morgan, could run, walk, and work my unregistered Outlaw into the ground; a=
nd
that was the very precise reason why such a paragon of a saddle animal shou=
ld
not be degraded by harness.
So it was that Charmian remained obdurate, unt=
il,
one day, I got her behind the Outlaw for a forty-mile drive. For every inch of those forty mile=
s the
Outlaw kicked and jumped, in between the kicks and jumps finding time and s=
pace
in which to seize its team-mate by the back of the neck and attempt to drag=
it
to the ground. Another trick =
the
Outlaw developed during that drive was suddenly to turn at right angles in =
the traces
and endeavour to butt its team-mate over the grade. Reluctantly and nobly did Charmian=
give
in and consent to the use of Maid.
The Outlaw's shoes were pulled off, and she was turned out on range.=
Finally, the four horses were hooked to the ri=
g--a
light Studebaker trap. With two hours and a half of practice, in which the
excitement was not abated by several jack-poles and numerous kicking matche=
s, I
announced myself as ready for the start.&n=
bsp;
Came the morning, and Prince, who was to have been a wheeler with Ma=
id,
showed up with a badly kicked shoulder.&nb=
sp;
He did not exactly show up; we had to find him, for he was unable to
walk. His leg swelled and continually swelled during the several days we wa=
ited
for him. Remained only the
Outlaw. In from pasture she c=
ame,
shoes were nailed on, and she was harnessed into the wheel. Friends and relatives strove to pr=
ess
accident policies on me, but Charmian climbed up alongside, and Nakata got =
into
the rear seat with the typewriter--Nakata, who sailed cabin-boy on the Snark
for two years and who had shown himself afraid of nothing, not even of me a=
nd
my amateur jamborees in experimenting with new modes of locomotion. And we did very nicely, thank you,
especially after the first hour or so, during which time the Outlaw had kic=
ked
about fifty various times, chiefly to the damage of her own legs and the
paintwork, and after she had bitten a couple of hundred times, to the damag=
e of
Maid's neck and Charmian's temper.
It was hard enough to have her favourite mare in the harness without=
also
enduring the spectacle of its being eaten alive.
Our leaders were joys. King being a polo pony and Milda a
rabbit, they rounded curves beautifully and darted ahead like coyotes out of
the way of the wheelers. Mild=
a's
besetting weakness was a frantic desire not to have the lead-bar strike her
hocks. When this happened, on=
e of
three things occurred: either she sat down on the lead-bar, kicked it up in=
the
air until she got her back under it, or exploded in a straight-ahead, harne=
ss-disrupting
jump. Not until she carried t=
he
lead-bar clean away and danced a break-down on it and the traces, did she
behave decently. Nakata and I made the repairs with good old-fashioned
bale-rope, which is stronger than wrought-iron any time, and we went on our
way.
In the meantime I was learning--I shall not sa=
y to
tool a four-in-hand--but just simply to drive four horses. Now it is all right enough to begi=
n with
four work-horses pulling a load of several tons. But to begin with four light horse=
s, all
running, and a light rig that seems to outrun them--well, when things happen
they happen quickly. My weakn=
ess
was total ignorance. In parti=
cular,
my fingers lacked training, and I made the mistake of depending on my eyes =
to
handle the reins. This brough=
t me
up against a disastrous optical illusion.&=
nbsp;
The bight of the off head-line, being longer and heavier than that of
the off wheel-line, hung lower. In
a moment requiring quick action, I invariably mistook the two lines. Pulling on what I thought was the
wheel-line, in order to straighten the team, I would see the leaders swing
abruptly around into a jack-pole.
Now for sensations of sheer impotence, nothing can compare with a
jack-pole, when the horrified driver beholds his leaders prancing gaily up =
the
road and his wheelers jogging steadily down the road, all at the same time =
and
all harnessed together and to the same rig.
I no longer jack-pole, and I don't mind admitt=
ing
how I got out of the habit. I=
t was
my eyes that enslaved my fingers into ill practices. So I shut my eyes and let the fing=
ers go
it alone. To-day my fingers a=
re independent
of my eyes and work automatically.
I do not see what my fingers do.&nb=
sp;
They just do it. All I=
see
is the satisfactory result.
Still we managed to get over the ground that f=
irst
day--down sunny Sonoma Valley to the old town of Sonoma, founded by General
Vallejo as the remotest outpost on the northern frontier for the purpose of
holding back the Gentiles, as the wild Indians of those days were called. Here history was made. Here the last Spanish mission was
reared; here the Bear flag was raised; and here Kit Carson, and Fremont, and
all our early adventurers came and rested in the days before the days of go=
ld.
We swung on over the low, rolling hills, throu=
gh
miles of dairy farms and chicken ranches where every blessed hen is white, =
and
down the slopes to Petaluma Valley.
Here, in 1776, Captain Quiros came up Petaluma Creek from San Pablo =
Bay
in quest of an outlet to Bodega Bay on the coast. And here, later, the Russians, wit=
h Alaskan
hunters, carried skin boats across from Fort Ross to poach for sea-otters on
the Spanish preserve of San Francisco Bay.=
Here, too, still later, General Vallejo built a fort, which still
stands--one of the finest examples of Spanish adobe that remain to us. And here, at the old fort, to brin=
g the
chronicle up to date, our horses proceeded to make peculiarly personal hist=
ory
with astonishing success and dispatch.&nbs=
p;
King, our peerless, polo-pony leader, went lame. So hopelessly lame did he go that =
no expert,
then and afterward, could determine whether the lameness was in his frogs,
hoofs, legs, shoulders, or head.
Maid picked up a nail and began to limp. Milda, figuring the day alr=
eady
sufficiently spent and maniacal with manger-gluttony, began to rabbit-jump.=
All that held her was the bale- ro=
pe. And the Outlaw, game to the last,
exceeded all previous exhibitions of skin-removing, paint-marring, and
horse-eating.
At Petaluma we rested over while King was retu=
rned
to the ranch and Prince sent to us.
Now Prince had proved himself an excellent wheeler, yet he had to go
into the lead and let the Outlaw retain his old place. There is an axiom th=
at a
good wheeler is a poor leader. I
object to the last adjective. A
good wheeler makes an infinitely worse kind of a leader than that. I know . . . now. I ought to know. Since that day I have driven Princ=
e a
few hundred miles in the lead. He
is neither any better nor any worse than the first mile he ran in the lead;=
and
his worst is even extremely worse than what you are thinking. Not that he is vicious. He is merely a good-natured rogue =
who
shakes hands for sugar, steps on your toes out of sheer excessive friendlin=
ess,
and just goes on loving you in your harshest moments.
But he won't get out of the way. Also, whenever he is reproved for b=
eing in
the wrong, he accuses Milda of it and bites the back of her neck. So bad has this become that whenev=
er I
yell "Prince!" in a loud voice, Milda immediately rabbit-jumps to=
the
side, straight ahead, or sits down on the lead-bar. All of which is quite
disconcerting. Picture it
yourself. You are swinging ro=
und a
sharp, down-grade, mountain curve, at a fast trot. The rock wall is the out=
side
of the curve. The inside of t=
he
curve is a precipice. The
continuance of the curve is a narrow, unrailed bridge. You hit the curve,
throwing the leaders in against the wall and making the polo-horse do the
work. All is lovely. The leaders are hugging the wall l=
ike
nestling doves. But the moment
comes in the evolution when the leaders must shoot out ahead. They really must shoot, or else th=
ey'll hit
the wall and miss the bridge. Also,
behind them are the wheelers, and the rig, and you have just eased the brak=
e in
order to put sufficient snap into the manoeuvre. If ever team-work is required, now=
is
the time. Milda tries to shoot. She
does her best, but Prince, bubbling over with roguishness, lags behind. He knows the trick. Milda is half a length ahead of
him. He times it to the fract=
ion of
a second. Maid, in the wheel,
over-running him, naturally bites him.&nbs=
p;
This disturbs the Outlaw, who has been behaving beautifully, and she
immediately reaches across for Maid.
Simultaneously, with a fine display of firm conviction that it's all
Milda's fault, Prince sinks his teeth into the back of Milda's defenceless
neck. The whole thing has occ=
urred
in less than a second. Under the surprise and pain of the bite, Milda either
jumps ahead to the imminent peril of harness and lead-bar, or smashes into =
the
wall, stops short with the lead-bar over her back, and emits a couple of
hysterical kicks. The Outlaw
invariably selects this moment to remove paint. And after things are untangled and=
you
have had time to appreciate the close shave, you go up to Prince and reprove
him with your choicest vocabulary. And Prince, gazelle-eyed and tender, off=
ers
to shake hands with you for sugar.
I leave it to any one: a boat would never act that way.
We have some history north of the Bay. Nearly three centuries and a half =
ago,
that doughty pirate and explorer, Sir Francis Drake, combing the Pacific for
Spanish galleons, anchored in the bight formed by Point Reyes, on which to-=
day
is one of the richest dairy regions in the world. Here, less than two decad=
es
after Drake, Sebastien Carmenon piled up on the rocks with a silk-laden gal=
leon
from the Philippines. And in =
this same
bay of Drake, long afterward, the Russian fur-poachers rendezvous'd their
bidarkas and stole in through the Golden Gate to the forbidden waters of San
Francisco Bay.
Farther up the coast, in Sonoma County, we
pilgrimaged to the sites of the Russian settlements. At Bodega Bay, south of what to-da=
y is
called Russian River, was their anchorage, while north of the river they bu=
ilt their
fort. And much of Fort Ross s=
till
stands. Log-bastions, church,=
and
stables hold their own, and so well, with rusty hinges creaking, that we wa=
rmed
ourselves at the hundred-years-old double fireplace and slept under the
hand-hewn roof beams still held together by spikes of hand-wrought iron.
We went to see where history had been made, an=
d we
saw scenery as well. One of our stretches in a day's drive was from beautif=
ul
Inverness on Tomales Bay, down the Olema Valley to Bolinas Bay, along the
eastern shore of that body of water to Willow Camp, and up over the sea-blu=
ffs,
around the bastions of Tamalpais, and down to Sausalito. From the head of Bolinas Bay to Wi=
llow
Camp the drive on the edge of the beach, and actually, for half-mile stretc=
hes,
in the waters of the bay itself, was a delightful experience. The wonderful part was to come.
It was on this part of the drive that I decide=
d at
last I was learning real mountain-driving.=
To confess the truth, for delicious titillation of one's nerve, I ha=
ve
since driven over no mountain road that was worse, or better, rather, than =
that
piece.
And then the contrast! From Sausalito, over excellent,
park-like boulevards, through the splendid redwoods and homes of Mill Valle=
y, across
the blossomed hills of Marin County, along the knoll-studded picturesque
marshes, past San Rafael resting warmly among her hills, over the divide an=
d up
the Petaluma Valley, and on to the grassy feet of Sonoma Mountain and
home. We covered fifty-five m=
iles
that day. Not so bad, eh, for
Prince the Rogue, the paint-removing Outlaw, the thin-shanked thoroughbred,=
and
the rabbit-jumper? And they c=
ame in
cool and dry, ready for their mangers and the straw.
Oh, we didn't stop. We considered we were just startin=
g, and
that was many weeks ago. We h=
ave
kept on going over six counties which are comfortably large, even for
California, and we are still going.
We have twisted and tabled, criss-crossed our tracks, made fascinati=
ng
and lengthy dives into the interior valleys in the hearts of Napa and Lake =
Counties,
travelled the coast for hundreds of miles on end, and are now in Eureka, on
Humboldt Bay, which was discovered by accident by the gold- seekers, who we=
re
trying to find their way to and from the Trinity diggings. Even here, the white man's history
preceded them, for dim tradition says that the Russians once anchored here =
and
hunted sea-otter before the first Yankee trader rounded the Horn, or the fi=
rst
Rocky Mountain trapper thirsted across the "Great American Desert"
and trickled down the snowy Sierras to the sun-kissed land. No; we are not resting our horses =
here
on Humboldt Bay. We are writi=
ng
this article, gorging on abalones and mussels, digging clams, and catching
record-breaking sea- trout and rock-cod in the intervals in which we are not
sailing, motor- boating, and swimming in the most temperately equable clima=
te
we have ever experienced.
These comfortably large counties! They are veritable empires. Take Humboldt, for instance. It is three times as large as Rhode
Island, one and a half times as large as Delaware, almost as large as
Connecticut, and half as large as Massachusetts. The pioneer has done his work in t=
his
north of the bay region, the foundations are laid, and all is ready for the
inevitable inrush of population and adequate development of resources which=
so
far have been no more than skimmed, and casually and carelessly skimmed at
that. This region of the six
counties alone will some day support a population of millions. In the meanwhile, O you home- seek=
ers,
you wealth-seekers, and, above all, you climate-seekers, now is the time to=
get
in on the ground floor.
Robert Ingersoll once said that the genial cli=
mate
of California would in a fairly brief time evolve a race resembling the
Mexicans, and that in two or three generations the Californians would be se=
en
of a Sunday morning on their way to a cockfight with a rooster under each
arm. Never was made a rasher
generalisation, based on so absolute an ignorance of facts. It is to laugh. Here is a climate that breeds vigo=
ur,
with just sufficient geniality to prevent the expenditure of most of that
vigour in fighting the elements.
Here is a climate where a man can work three hundred and sixty-five =
days
in the year without the slightest hint of enervation, and where for three
hundred and sixty-five nights he must perforce sleep under blankets. What more can one say? I consider myself somewhat of clim=
ate
expert, having adventured among most of the climates of five out of the six
zones. I have not yet been in=
the
Antarctic, but whatever climate obtains there will not deter me from drawing
the conclusion that nowhere is there a climate to compare with that of this=
region. Maybe I am as wrong as Ingersoll
was. Nevertheless I take my m=
edicine
by continuing to live in this climate.&nbs=
p;
Also, it is the only medicine I ever take.
But to return to the horses. There is some improvement. Milda has actually learned to walk=
. Maid has proved her thoroughbredne=
ss by
never tiring on the longest days, and, while being the strongest and highes=
t spirited
of all, by never causing any trouble save for an occasional kick at the
Outlaw. And the Outlaw rarely
gallops, no longer butts, only periodically kicks, comes in to the pole and
does her work without attempting to vivisect Maid's medulla oblongata,
and--marvel of marvels--is really and truly getting lazy. But Prince remains the same incorr=
igible,
loving and lovable rogue he has always been.
And the country we've been over! The drives through Napa and Lake C=
ounties! One, from Sonoma Valley, via Santa=
Rosa,
we could not refrain from taking several ways, and on all the ways we found=
the
roads excellent for machines as well as horses. One route, and a more delightful o=
ne for
an automobile cannot be found, is out from Santa Rosa, past old Altruria and
Mark West Springs, then to the right and across to Calistoga in Napa
Valley. By keeping to the lef=
t, the
drive holds on up the Russian River Valley, through the miles of the noted =
Asti
Vineyards to Cloverdale, and then by way of Pieta, Witter, and Highland Spr=
ings
to Lakeport. Still another wa=
y we
took, was down Sonoma Valley, skirting San Pablo Bay, and up the lovely Napa
Valley. From Napa were side e=
xcursions
through Pope and Berryessa Valleys, on to AEtna Springs, and still on, into
Lake County, crossing the famous Langtry Ranch.
Continuing up the Napa Valley, walled on either
hand by great rock palisades and redwood forests and carpeted with endless
vineyards, and crossing the many stone bridges for which the County is noted
and which are a joy to the beauty-loving eyes as well as to the four-horse =
tyro
driver, past Calistoga with its old mud-baths and chicken-soup springs, with
St. Helena and its giant saddle ever towering before us, we climbed the
mountains on a good grade and dropped down past the quicksilver mines to the
canyon of the Geysers. After =
a stop
over night and an exploration of the miniature-grand volcanic scene, we pul=
led
on across the canyon and took the grade where the cicadas simmered audibly =
in
the noon sunshine among the hillside manzanitas. Then, higher, came the big cattle-=
dotted
upland pastures, and the rocky summit.&nbs=
p;
And here on the summit, abruptly, we caught a vision, or what seemed=
a
mirage. The ocean we had left=
long days
before, yet far down and away shimmered a blue sea, framed on the farther s=
hore
by rugged mountains, on the near shore by fat and rolling farm lands. Clear Lake was before us, and like
proper sailors we returned to our sea, going for a sail, a fish, and a swim=
ere
the day was done and turning into tired Lakeport blankets in the early
evening. Well has Lake County=
been
called the Walled-in County. =
But
the railroad is coming. They =
say
the approach we made to Clear Lake is similar to the approach to Lake
Lucerne. Be that as it may, t=
he
scenery, with its distant snow-capped peaks, can well be called Alpine.
And what can be more exquisite than the drive =
out
from Clear Lake to Ukiah by way of the Blue Lakes chain!--every turn bringi=
ng
into view a picture of breathless beauty; every glance backward revealing s=
ome perfect
composition in line and colour, the intense blue of the water margined with
splendid oaks, green fields, and swaths of orange poppies. But those side
glances and backward glances were provocative of trouble. Charmian and I
disagreed as to which way the connecting stream of water ran. We still disagree, for at the hote=
l,
where we submitted the affair to arbitration, the hotel manager and the cle=
rk
likewise disagreed. I assume,=
now,
that we never will know which way that stream runs. Charmian suggests "both
ways." I refuse such a
compromise. No stream of wate=
r I ever
saw could accomplish that feat at one and the same time. The greatest concession I can make=
is
that sometimes it may run one way and sometimes the other, and that in the
meantime we should both consult an oculist.
More valley from Ukiah to Willits, and then we
turned westward through the virgin Sherwood Forest of magnificent redwood,
stopping at Alpine for the night and continuing on through Mendocino County=
to
Fort Bragg and "salt water."&nbs=
p;
We also came to Fort Bragg up the coast from Fort Ross, keeping our
coast journey intact from the Golden Gate.=
The coast weather was cool and delightful, the coast driving superb.=
Especially in the Fort Ross sectio=
n did
we find the roads thrilling, while all the way along we followed the sea. At every stream, the road skirted =
dizzy
cliff- edges, dived down into lush growths of forest and ferns and climbed =
out along
the cliff-edges again. The wa=
y was
lined with flowers--wild lilac, wild roses, poppies, and lupins. Such lupins!--giant clumps of them=
, of every
lupin-shade and--colour. And =
it was
along the Mendocino roads that Charmian caused many delays by insisting on
getting out to pick the wild blackberries, strawberries, and thimble-berries
which grew so profusely. And ever we caught peeps, far down, of steam schoo=
ners
loading lumber in the rocky coves; ever we skirted the cliffs, day after da=
y,
crossing stretches of rolling farm lands and passing through thriving villa=
ges
and saw-mill towns. Memorable=
was
our launch-trip from Mendocino City up Big River, where the steering gears =
of
the launches work the reverse of anywhere else in the world; where we saw a
stream of logs, of six to twelve and fifteen feet in diameter, which filled=
the
river bed for miles to the obliteration of any sign of water; and where we =
were
told of a white or albino redwood tree.&nb=
sp;
We did not see this last, so cannot vouch for it.
All the streams were filled with trout, and mo=
re
than once we saw the side-hill salmon on the slopes. No, side-hill salmon is not a peri=
patetic
fish; it is a deer out of season.
But the trout! At Gual=
ala Charmian
caught her first one. Once be=
fore
in my life I had caught two . . . on angleworms. On occasion I had tried fly and sp=
inner
and never got a strike, and I had come to believe that all this talk of
fly-fishing was just so much nature-faking. But on the Gualala River I caught
trout--a lot of them--on fly and spinners; and I was beginning to feel quit=
e an
expert, until Nakata, fishing on bottom with a pellet of bread for bait, ca=
ught
the biggest trout of all. I n=
ow
affirm there is nothing in science nor in art. Nevertheless, since that day poles=
and
baskets have been added to our baggage, we tackle every stream we come to, =
and
we no longer are able to remember the grand total of our catch.
At Usal, many hilly and picturesque miles nort=
h of
Fort Bragg, we turned again into the interior of Mendocino, crossing the ra=
nges
and coming out in Humboldt County on the south fork of Eel River at
Garberville. Throughout the trip, from Marin County north, we had been warn=
ed
of "bad roads ahead." Yet
we never found those bad roads. We
seemed always to be just ahead of them or behind them. The farther we came the better the=
roads
seemed, though this was probably due to the fact that we were learning more=
and
more what four horses and a light rig could do on a road. And thus do I save my face with al=
l the
counties. I refuse to make
invidious road comparisons. I=
can
add that while, save in rare instances on steep pitches, I have trotted my
horses down all the grades, I have never had one horse fall down nor have I=
had
to send the rig to a blacksmith shop for repairs.
Also, I am learning to throw leather. If any tyro thinks it is easy to t=
ake a
short-handled, long-lashed whip, and throw the end of that lash just where =
he
wants it, let him put on automobile goggles and try it. On reconsideration, I would sugges=
t the
substitution of a wire fencing-mask for the goggles. For days I looked at that whip.
Here's the problem. Instead of pulling honestly, Princ=
e is
lagging back and manoeuvring for a bite at Milda's neck. I have four reins in my hands. I must put these four reins into m=
y left
hand, properly gather the whip handle and the bight of the lash in my right
hand, and throw that lash past Maid without striking her and into Prince. If the lash strikes Maid, her
thoroughbredness will go up in the air, and I'll have a case of horse hyste=
ria
on my hands for the next half hour.
But follow. The whole problem is not yet stated. Suppose that I miss Maid and reach=
the
intended target. The instant =
the
lash cracks, the four horses jump, Prince most of all, and his jump, with
spread wicked teeth, is for the back of Milda's neck. She jumps to escape--which is her =
second
jump, for the first one came when the lash exploded. The Outlaw reaches for Maid's neck=
, and
Maid, who has already jumped and tried to bolt, tries to bolt harder. And all this infinitesimal fractio=
n of
time I am trying to hold the four animals with my left hand, while my
whip-lash, writhing through the air, is coming back to me. Three simultaneous things I must d=
o:
keep hold of the four reins with my left hand; slam on the brake with my fo=
ot; and
on the rebound catch that flying lash in the hollow of my right arm and get=
the
bight of it safely into my right hand.&nbs=
p;
Then I must get two of the four lines back into my right hand and ke=
ep
the horses from running away or going over the grade. Try it some time. You will find life anything but
wearisome. Why, the first tim=
e I
hit the mark and made the lash go off like a revolver shot, I was so astoun=
ded
and delighted that I was paralysed.
I forgot to do any of the multitudinous other things, tangled the wh=
ip
lash in Maid's harness, and was forced to call upon Charmian for
assistance. And now,
confession. I carry a few peb=
bles
handy. They're great for reac=
hing
Prince in a tight place. But =
just
the same I'm learning that whip every day, and before I get home I hope to
discard the pebbles. And as l=
ong as
I rely on pebbles, I cannot truthfully speak of myself as "tooling a
four-in-hand."
From Garberville, where we ate eel to repletion
and got acquainted with the aborigines, we drove down the Eel River Valley =
for
two days through the most unthinkably glorious body of redwood timber to be
seen anywhere in California. =
From
Dyerville on to Eureka, we caught glimpses of railroad construction and of
great concrete bridges in the course of building, which advertised that at
least Humboldt County was going to be linked to the rest of the world.
We still consider our trip is just begun. As soon as this is mailed from Eur=
eka,
it's heigh ho! for the horses and pull on.=
We shall continue up the coast, turn in for Hoopa Reservation and the
gold mines, and shoot down the Trinity and Klamath rivers in Indian canoes =
to
Requa. After that, we shall g=
o on
through Del Norte County and into Oregon.&=
nbsp;
The trip so far has justified us in taking the attitude that we won'=
t go
home until the winter rains drive us in.&n=
bsp;
And, finally, I am going to try the experiment of putting the Outlaw=
in
the lead and relegating Prince to his old position in the near wheel. I won't need any pebbles then.
=
It was
at Quito, the mountain capital of Ecuador, that the following passage at
correspondence took place. Ha=
ving
occasion to buy a pair of shoes in a shop six feet by eight in size and with
walls three feet thick, I noticed a mangy leopard skin on the floor. I had no Spanish. The shop-keeper =
had no
English. But I was an adept a=
t sign
language. I wanted to know wh=
ere I
should go to buy leopard skins. On
my scribble- pad I drew the interesting streets of a city. Then I drew a small shop, which, a=
fter
much effort, I persuaded the proprietor into recognising as his shop. Next, I indicated in my drawing th=
at on
the many streets there were many shops.&nb=
sp;
And, finally, I made myself into a living interrogation mark, pointi=
ng
all the while from the mangy leopard skin to the many shops I had sketched.=
But the proprietor failed to follow me. So did his assistant. The street came in to help--that i=
s, as
many as could crowd into the six-by- eight shop; while those that could not
force their way in held an overflow meeting on the sidewalk. The proprietor and the rest took t=
urns at
talking to me in rapid-fire Spanish, and, from the expressions on their fac=
es,
all concluded that I was remarkably stupid. Again I went through my programme,
pointing on the sketch from the one shop to the many shops, pointing out th=
at
in this particular shop was one leopard skin, and then questing interrogati=
vely
with my pencil among all the shops.
All regarded me in blank silence, until I saw comprehension suddenly
dawn on the face of a small boy.
"Tigres montanya!" he cried.
This appealed to me as mountain tigers, namely,
leopards; and in token that he understood, the boy made signs for me to fol=
low
him, which I obeyed. He led m=
e for
a quarter of a mile, and paused before the doorway of a large building where
soldiers slouched on sentry duty and in and out of which went other
soldiers. Motioning for me to
remain, he ran inside.
Fifteen minutes later he was out again, without
leopard skins, but full of information.&nb=
sp;
By means of my card, of my hotel card, of my watch, and of the boy's
fingers, I learned the following: that at six o'clock that evening he would
arrive at my hotel with ten leopard skins for my inspection. Further, I learned that the skins =
were
the property of one Captain Ernesto Becucci. Also, I learned that the boy's nam=
e was
Eliceo.
The boy was prompt. At six o'clock he was at my room.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> In his hand was a small roll addre=
ssed
to me. On opening it I found =
it to
be manuscript piano music, the Hora Tranquila Valse, or "Tranquil Hour
Waltz," by Ernesto Becucci. I
came for leopard skins, thought I, and the owner sends me sheet music
instead. But the boy assured =
me
that he would have the skins at the hotel at nine next morning, and I entru=
sted
to him the following letter of acknowledgment:
"DEAR CAPTAIN BECUCCI:
"A thousand thanks for your kind presentation of Hora Tranquila=
Valse. Mrs. London will play it for me th=
is
evening.
"Sincerely yours,
"Jack London."
Next morning Eliceo was back, but without the
skins. Instead, he gave me a
letter, written in Spanish, of which the following is a free translation:
"To my dearest and always appreciated friend, I submit myself--=
"DEAR SIR:
"I sent you last night an offering by the bearer of this note, =
and
you returned me a
letter which I translated.
"Be it known to you, sir, that I am giving this waltz away in t=
he
best society, and
therefore to your honoured self.
Therefore it is beholden to you to reco=
gnise
the attention, I mean by a tangible return, as this composi=
tion
was made by myself. You will
therefore send by=
your
humble servant, the bearer, any offering, however minute, that you may be prompte=
d to make. Send it under cover of an envelope=
. The bearer may be trust=
ed.
"I did not indulge in the pleasure of visiting your honourable =
self
this morning, as =
I find
my body not to be enjoying the normal exercise of its functions.
"As regards the skins from the mountain, you shall be waited on=
by
a small boy at se=
ven
o'clock at night with ten skins from which you may select those which most
satisfy your aspirations.
"In the hope that you will look upon this in the same light as
myself, I beg to =
be
allowed to remain,
"Your most faithful servant,
"CAPTAIN ERNESTO BECUCCI."
Well, thought I, this Captain Ernesto Becucci =
has
shown himself to be such an undependable person, that, while I don't mind
rewarding him for his composition, I fear me if I do I never shall lay eyes=
on
those leopard skins. So to El=
iceo I
gave this letter for the Captain:
"MY DEAR CAPTAIN BECUCCI:
"Have the boy bring the skins at seven o'clock this evening, wh=
en I
shall be glad to =
look
at them. This evening when th=
e boy
brings the skins,=
I
shall be pleased to give him, in an envelope, for you, a tangible return for your
musical composition.
"Please put the price on each skin, and also let me know for wh=
at
sum all the skins=
will
sell together.
"Sincerely yours,
"JACK LONDON."
Now, thought I, I have him. No skins, no tangible return; and
evidently he is set on receiving that tangible return.
At seven o'clock Eliceo was back, but without
leopard skins. He handed me t=
his
letter:
"SENOR LONDON:
"I wish to instil in you the belief that I lost to-day, at half
past three in the
afternoon, the key to my cubicle.
While distributing rations to the soldiers=
I
dropped it. I see in this los=
s the
act of God.
"I received a letter from your honourable self, delivered by the
one who bears you=
this
poor response of mine. To-mor=
row I
will burst open t=
he
door to permit me to keep my word with you. I feel myself eternally shamed not to=
be
able to dominate the evils that afflict colonial mankind. Please send me the trifle that you
offered me. Send me this proof of your
appreciation by the bearer, who is to be trusted. Also give to him a small sum of mo=
ney
for himself, and earn the undying gratitude o=
f
"Your most faithful servant,
"CAPTAIN ERNESTO BECUCCI."
Also, inclosed in the foregoing letter was the
following original poem, a propos neither of leopard skins nor tangible
returns, so far as I can make out:
EFFUSION
Thou canst not weep; Nor ask I for a year To rid me of my woes Or make my life more de=
ar.
The mystic chains that bound Thy all-fond heart to m=
ine, Alas! asundered are
In vain you strove to hide, From vulgar gaze of man=
, The burning glance of l=
ove That none but Love can =
scan.
Go on thy starlit way And leave me to my fate=
; Our souls must needs un=
ite-- But, God! 'twill be too=
late.
To all and sundry of which I replied:
"MY DEAR CAPTAIN BECUCCI:
"I regret exceedingly to hear that by act of God, at half past
three this aftern=
oon,
you lost the key to your cubicle.
Please have the boy bring the skins at seven
o'clock to-morrow morning, at which time, when he brings the skin=
s, I
shall be glad to make you that tangible return for your 'Tranqu=
il
Hour Waltz.'
"Sincerely yours,
"JACK LONDON."
At seven o'clock came no skins, but the follow=
ing:
"SIR:
"After offering you my most sincere respects, I beg to continue=
by telling you that no one=
, up
to the time of writing, has treated me with such lack of
attention. It was a present to
gentlemen who were to
retain the piece of music, and who have all, without exception, made me a present of fi=
ve
dollars. It is beyond my humb=
le
capacity to belie=
ve
that you, after having offered to send me money in an envelope, should fail t=
o do
so.
"Send me, I pray of you, the money to remunerate the small boy =
for
his repeated visi=
ts to
you. Please be discreet and s=
end it
in an envelope by=
the
bearer.
"Last night I came to the hotel with the boy. You were dining. I waited more than an hou=
r for
you and then went to the theatre.
Give the b=
oy
some small amount, and send me a like offering of larger proportions.
"Awaiting incessantly a slight attention on your part,
"CAPTAIN ERNESTO BECUCCI."
And here, like one of George Moore's realistic
studies, ends this intercourse with Captain Ernesto Becucci. Nothing happened. Nothing ever came to anything. He got no tangible return, and I g=
ot no
leopard skins. The tangible r=
eturn
he might have got, I presented to Eliceo, who promptly invested it in a pai=
r of
trousers and a ticket to the bull-fight.
(NOTE TO EDITOR.--This is a faithful narration=
of
what actually happened in Quito, Ecuador.)
=
The
month in which my seventeenth birthday arrived I signed on before the mast =
on
the Sophie Sutherland, a three-topmast schooner bound on a seven-months'
seal-hunting cruise to the coast of Japan.=
We sailed from San Francisco, and immediately I found confronting me=
a
problem of no inconsiderable proportions.&=
nbsp;
There were twelve men of us in the forecastle, ten of whom were
hardened, tarry-thumbed sailors.
Not alone was I a youth and on my first voyage, but I had for shipma=
tes
men who had come through the hard school of the merchant service of
Europe. As boys, they had had=
to
perform their ship's duty, and, in addition, by immemorial sea custom, they=
had
had to be the slaves of the ordinary and able-bodied seamen. When they became ordinary seamen t=
hey
were still the slaves of the able-bodied.&=
nbsp;
Thus, in the forecastle, with the watch below, an able seaman, lying=
in
his bunk, will order an ordinary seaman to fetch him his shoes or bring him=
a
drink of water. Now the ordin=
ary seaman
may be lying in his bunk. He =
is
just as tired as the able seaman.
Yet he must get out of his bunk and fetch and carry. If he refuses, he will be beaten.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> If, perchance, he is so strong tha=
t he
can whip the able seaman, then all the able seamen, or as many as may be ne=
cessary,
pitch upon the luckless devil and administer the beating.
My problem now becomes apparent. These hard-bit Scandinavian sailor=
s had come
through a hard school. As boy=
s they
had served their mates, and as able seamen they looked to be served by other
boys. I was a boy--withal wit=
h a
man's body. I had never been =
to sea
before--withal I was a good sailor and knew my business. It was either a case of holding my=
own
with them or of going under. =
I had
signed on as an equal, and an equal I must maintain myself, or else endure
seven months of hell at their hands.
And it was this very equality they resented. By what right was I an equal? I had not earned that high
privilege. I had not endured =
the miseries
they had endured as maltreated boys or bullied ordinaries. Worse than that, I was a land-lubb=
er
making his first voyage. And =
yet,
by the injustice of fate, on the ship's articles I was their equal.
My method was deliberate, and simple, and dras=
tic. In the first place, I resolved to =
do my
work, no matter how hard or dangerous it might be, so well that no man woul=
d be
called upon to do it for me.
Further, I put ginger in my muscles. I never malingered when pulling on=
a
rope, for I knew the eagle eyes of my forecastle mates were squinting for j=
ust
such evidences of my inferiority. =
span>I
made it a point to be among the first of the watch going on deck, among the
last going below, never leaving a sheet or tackle for some one else to coil
over a pin. I was always eage=
r for
the run aloft for the shifting of topsail sheets and tacks, or for the sett=
ing
or taking in of topsails; and in these matters I did more than my share.
Furthermore, I was on a hair-trigger of resent=
ment
myself. I knew better than to
accept any abuse or the slightest patronizing. At the first hint of such, I went =
off--I
exploded. I might be beaten i=
n the
subsequent fight, but I left the impression that I was a wild-cat and that I
would just as willingly fight again.
My intention was to demonstrate that I would tolerate no
imposition. I proved that the=
man
who imposed on me must have a fight on his hands. And doing my work well, the innate=
justice
of the men, assisted by their wholesome dislike for a clawing and rending
wild-cat ruction, soon led them to give over their hectoring. After a bit of
strife, my attitude was accepted, and it was my pride that I was taken in a=
s an
equal in spirit as well as in fact.
From then on, everything was beautiful, and the voyage promised to b=
e a
happy one.
But there was one other man in the
forecastle. Counting the Scan=
dinavians
as ten, and myself as the eleventh, this man was the twelfth and last. We never knew his name, contenting
ourselves with calling him the "Bricklayer." He was from Missouri--at least he =
so informed
us in the one meagre confidence he was guilty of in the early days of the
voyage. Also, at that time, we
learned several other things. He was a bricklayer by trade. He had never even seen salt water =
until the
week before he joined us, at which time he had arrived in San Francisco and
looked upon San Francisco Bay. Why
he, of all men, at forty years of age, should have felt the prod to go to s=
ea,
was beyond all of us; for it was our unanimous conviction that no man less
fitted for the sea had ever embarked on it. But to sea he had come. After a week's stay in a sailors'
boarding-house, he had been shoved aboard of us as an able seaman.
All hands had to do his work for him. Not only did he know nothing, but =
he
proved himself unable to learn anything.&n=
bsp;
Try as they would, they could never teach him to steer. To him the compass must have been =
a profound
and awful whirligig. He never
mastered its cardinal points, much less the checking and steadying of the s=
hip
on her course. He never did c=
ome to
know whether ropes should be coiled from left to right or from right to
left. It was mentally impossi=
ble
for him to learn the easy muscular trick of throwing his weight on a rope in
pulling and hauling. The simplest knots and turns were beyond his
comprehension, while he was mortally afraid of going aloft. Bullied by captain and mate, he wa=
s one day
forced aloft. He managed to g=
et
underneath the crosstrees, and there he froze to the ratlines. Two sailors had to go after him to=
help him
down.
All of which was bad enough had there been no
worse. But he was vicious, ma=
lignant,
dirty, and without common decency.
He was a tall, powerful man, and he fought with everybody. And there was no fairness in his f=
ighting. His first fight on board, the firs=
t day
out, was with me, when he, desiring to cut a plug of chewing tobacco, took =
my
personal table- knife for the purpose, and whereupon, I, on a hair-trigger,
promptly exploded. After that=
he
fought with nearly every member of the crew. When his clothing became too
filthy to be bearable by the rest of us, we put it to soak and stood over h=
im
while he washed it. In short,=
the Bricklayer
was one of those horrible and monstrous things that one must see in order t=
o be
convinced that they exist.
I will only say that he was a beast, and that =
we
treated him like a beast. It =
is
only by looking back through the years that I realise how heartless we were=
to
him. He was without sin. He could not, by the very nature of
things, have been anything else than he was. He had not made himself, and for h=
is
making he was not responsible. Yet
we treated him as a free agent and held him personally responsible for all =
that
he was and that he should not have been.&n=
bsp;
As a result, our treatment of him was as terrible as he was himself
terrible. Finally we gave him=
the
silent treatment, and for weeks before he died we neither spoke to him nor =
did he
speak to us. And for weeks he=
moved
among us, or lay in his bunk in our crowded house, grinning at us his hatre=
d and
malignancy. He was a dying ma=
n, and
he knew it, and we knew it. A=
nd
furthermore, he knew that we wanted him to die. He cumbered our life with his pres=
ence,
and ours was a rough life that made rough men of us. And so he died, in a small space c=
rowded
by twelve men and as much alone as if he had died on some desolate mountain
peak. No kindly word, no last=
word,
was passed between. He died a=
s he
had lived, a beast, and he died hating us and hated by us.
And now I come to the most startling moment of=
my
life. No sooner was he dead t=
han he
was flung overboard. He died =
in a
night of wind, drawing his last breath as the men tumbled into their oilski=
ns
to the cry of "All hands!"
And he was flung overboard, several hours later, on a day of wind. Not even a canvas wrapping graced =
his
mortal remains; nor was he deemed worthy of bars of iron at his feet. We sewed him up in the blankets in=
which
he died and laid him on a hatch-cover for'ard of the main-hatch on the port
side. A gunnysack, half full =
of
galley coal, was fastened to his feet.
It was bitter cold. The weather-side of every rope, sp=
ar,
and stay was coated with ice, while all the rigging was a harp, singing and
shouting under the fierce hand of the wind. The schooner, hove to, lurched and=
floundered
through the sea, rolling her scuppers under and perpetually flooding the de=
ck
with icy salt water. We of the
forecastle stood in sea- boots and oilskins. Our hands were mittened, but our h=
eads
were bared in the presence of the death we did not respect. Our ears stung and numbed and whit=
ened,
and we yearned for the body to be gone.&nb=
sp;
But the interminable reading of the burial service went on. The captain had mistaken his place=
, and
while he read on without purpose we froze our ears and resented this final
hardship thrust upon us by the helpless cadaver. As from the beginning, so to the e=
nd,
everything had gone wrong with the Bricklayer. Finally, the captain's son, irrita=
ted
beyond measure, jerked the book from the palsied fingers of the old man and=
found
the place. Again the quavering
voice of the captain arose. T=
hen came
the cue: "And the body shall be cast into the sea." We elevated one end of the hatch-c=
over,
and the Bricklayer plunged outboard and was gone.
Back into the forecastle we cleaned house, was=
hing
out the dead man's bunk and removing every vestige of him. By sea law and sea custom, we shou=
ld
have gathered his effects together and turned them over to the captain, who,
later, would have held an auction in which we should have bid for the vario=
us
articles. But no man wanted t=
hem,
so we tossed them up on deck and overboard in the wake of the departed
body--the last ill- treatment we could devise to wreak upon the one we had
hated so. Oh, it was raw, bel=
ieve
me; but the life we lived was raw, and we were as raw as the life.
The Bricklayer's bunk was better than mine. Oh, the arrogance of youth! But let that pass. The sailors were appalled by my
intention. One and all, they =
warned
me that in the history of the sea no man had taken a dead man's bunk and li=
ved
to the end of the voyage. They
instanced case after case in their personal experience. I was obdurate. Then they begged and pleaded with =
me,
and my pride was tickled in that they showed they really liked me and were =
concerned
about me. This but served to
confirm me in my madness. I m=
oved
in, and, lying in the dead man's bunk, all afternoon and evening listened to
dire prophecies of my future. Also
were told stories of awful deaths and gruesome ghosts that secretly shivered
the hearts of all of us. Satu=
rated
with this, yet scoffing at it, I rolled over at the end of the second dog-w=
atch
and went to sleep.
At ten minutes to twelve I was called, and at
twelve I was dressed and on deck, relieving the man who had called me. On the sealing grounds, when hove =
to, a
watch of only a single man is kept through the night, each man holding the =
deck
for an hour. It was a dark ni=
ght,
though not a black one. The g=
ale
was breaking up, and the clouds were thinning. There should have been a moon, and,
though invisible, in some way a dim, suffused radiance came from it. I paced back and forth across the =
deck amidships. My mind was filled with the event =
of the
day and with the horrible tales my shipmates had told, and yet I dare to sa=
y,
here and now, that I was not afraid.
I was a healthy animal, and furthermore, intellectually, I agreed wi=
th
Swinburne that dead men rise up never.&nbs=
p;
The Bricklayer was dead, and that was the end of it. He would rise up never--at least, =
never
on the deck of the Sophie Sutherland.
Even then he was in the ocean depths miles to windward of our leeward
drift, and the likelihood was that he was already portioned out in the maws=
of
many sharks. Still, my mind
pondered on the tales of the ghosts of dead men I had heard, and I speculat=
ed
on the spirit world. My concl=
usion
was that if the spirits of the dead still roamed the world they carried the=
goodness
or the malignancy of the earth-life with them. Therefore, granting the hypothesis
(which I didn't grant at all), the ghost of the Bricklayer was bound to be =
as
hateful and malignant as he in life had been. But there wasn't any Bricklayer's
ghost--that I insisted upon.
A few minutes, thinking thus, I paced up and
down. Then, glancing casually
for'ard, along the port side, I leaped like a startled deer and in a blind
madness of terror rushed aft along the poop, heading for the cabin. Gone was all my arrogance of youth=
and
my intellectual calm. I had s=
een a
ghost. There, in the dim ligh=
t,
where we had flung the dead man overboard, I had seen a faint and wavering
form. Six-feet in length it w=
as,
slender, and of substance so attenuated that I had distinctly seen through =
it
the tracery of the fore-rigging.
As for me, I was as panic-stricken as a fright=
ened
horse. I, as I, had ceased to
exist. Through me were vibrat=
ing
the fibre-instincts of ten thousand generations of superstitious forebears =
who
had been afraid of the dark and the things of the dark. I was not I. I was, in truth, those ten thousand
forebears. I was the race, the
whole human race, in its superstitious infancy. Not until part way down the cabin-=
companionway
did my identity return to me. I
checked my flight and clung to the steep ladder, suffocating, trembling, and
dizzy. Never, before nor sinc=
e,
have I had such a shock. I cl=
ung to
the ladder and considered. I =
could
not doubt my senses. That I h=
ad
seen something there was no discussion.&nb=
sp;
But what was it? Eithe=
r a
ghost or a joke. There could be nothing else. If a ghost, the question was: woul=
d it appear
again? If it did not, and I a=
roused
the ship's officers, I would make myself the laughing stock of all on
board. And by the same token,=
if it
were a joke, my position would be still more ridiculous. If I were to retain my hard-won pl=
ace of
equality, it would never do to arouse any one until I ascertained the natur=
e of
the thing.
I am a brave man. I dare to say so; for in fear and
trembling I crept up the companion-way and went back to the spot from which=
I
had first seen the thing. It =
had
vanished. My bravery was qual=
ified,
however. Though I could see
nothing, I was afraid to go for'ard to the spot where I had seen the
thing. I resumed my pacing up=
and
down, and though I cast many an anxious glance toward the dread spot, nothi=
ng
manifested itself. As my equa=
nimity
returned to me, I concluded that the whole affair had been a trick of the
imagination and that I had got what I deserved for allowing my mind to dwel=
l on
such matters.
Once more my glances for'ard were casual, and =
not
anxious; and then, suddenly, I was a madman, rushing wildly aft. I had seen the thing again, the lo=
ng,
wavering attenuated substance through which could be seen the
fore-rigging. This time I had
reached only the break of the poop when I checked myself. Again I reasoned over the situatio=
n, and
it was pride that counselled strongest.&nb=
sp;
I could not afford to make myself a laughing-stock. This thing, whatever it was, I mus=
t face
alone. I must work it out
myself. I looked back to the =
spot
where we had tilted the Bricklayer.
It was vacant. Nothing
moved. And for a third time I=
resumed
my amidships pacing.
In the absence of the thing my fear died away =
and
my intellectual poise returned. Of
course it was not a ghost. De=
ad men
did not rise up. It was a jok=
e, a
cruel joke. My mates of the
forecastle, by some unknown means, were frightening me. Twice already must they have seen =
me run
aft. My cheeks burned with
shame. In fancy I could hear =
the
smothered chuckling and laughter even then going on in the forecastle. I began to grow angry. Jokes were all very well, but this=
was
carrying the thing too far. I=
was
the youngest on board, only a youth, and they had no right to play tricks o=
n me
of the order that I well knew in the past had made raving maniacs of men and
women. I grew angrier and ang=
rier,
and resolved to show them that I was made of sterner stuff and at the same =
time
to wreak my resentment upon them.
If the thing appeared again, I made my mind up that I would go up to
it--furthermore, that I would go up to it knife in hand. When within striking distance, I w=
ould
strike. If a man, he would ge=
t the
knife-thrust he deserved. If a
ghost, well, it wouldn't hurt the ghost any, while I would have learned that
dead men did rise up.
Now I was very angry, and I was quite sure the
thing was a trick; but when the thing appeared a third time, in the same sp=
ot,
long, attenuated, and wavering, fear surged up in me and drove most of my a=
nger
away. But I did not run. Nor did I take my eyes from the
thing. Both times before, it =
had
vanished while I was running away, so I had not seen the manner of its
going. I drew my sheath-knife=
from
my belt and began my advance. Step
by step, nearer and nearer, the effort to control myself grew more severe.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The struggle was between my will, =
my
identity, my very self, on the one hand, and on the other, the ten thousand
ancestors who were twisted into the fibres of me and whose ghostly voices w=
ere whispering
of the dark and the fear of the dark that had been theirs in the time when =
the
world was dark and full of terror.
I advanced more slowly, and still the thing
wavered and flitted with strange eerie lurches. And then, right before my eyes, it
vanished. I saw it vanish.
But he didn't seize my throat. Nothing happened. And, since nature abhors a status,=
I
could not remain there in the one place forever paralysed. I turned and started aft. I did not run. What was the use? What chance had I
against the malevolent world of ghosts?&nb=
sp;
Flight, with me, was the swiftness of my legs. The pursuit, with a ghost, was the=
swiftness
of thought. And there were
ghosts. I had seen one.
And so, stumbling slowly aft, I discovered the
explanation of the seeming. I=
saw
the mizzen topmast lurching across a faint radiance of cloud behind which w=
as
the moon. The idea leaped in =
my
brain. I extended the line be=
tween
the cloudy radiance and the mizzen-topmast and found that it must strike
somewhere near the fore-rigging on the port side. Even as I did this, the radiance
vanished. The driving clouds =
of the
breaking gale were alternately thickening and thinning before the face of t=
he
moon, but never exposing the face of the moon. And when the clouds were at their
thinnest, it was a very dim radiance that the moon was able to make. I watched and waited. The next time the clouds thinned I
looked for'ard, and there was the shadow of the topmast, long and attenuate=
d,
wavering and lurching on the deck and against the rigging.
This was my first ghost. Once again have I seen a ghost.
(TO THE EDITOR.--This is not a fiction. It is a true page out of my life.)=
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>A CLASSIC OF THE SEA<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>
=
Introduction to "Two Ye=
ars
before the Mast."
Once in a hundred years is a book written that
lives not alone for its own century but which becomes a document for the fu=
ture
centuries. Such a book is
Dana's. When Marryat's and Co=
oper's
sea novels are gone to dust, stimulating and joyful as they have been to
generations of men, still will remain "Two Years Before the Mast."=
;
Paradoxical as it may seem, Dana's book is the
classic of the sea, not because there was anything extraordinary about Dana,
but for the precise contrary reason that he was just an ordinary, normal ma=
n,
clear-seeing, hard-headed, controlled, fitted with adequate education to go
about the work. He brought a
trained mind to put down with untroubled vision what he saw of a certain ph=
ase
of work-a-day life. There was
nothing brilliant nor fly-away about him.&=
nbsp;
He was not a genius. H=
is
heart never rode his head. He=
was
neither overlorded by sentiment nor hag-ridden by imagination. Otherwise he might have been guilt=
y of
the beautiful exaggerations in Melville's "Typee" or the imaginat=
ive
orgies in the latter's "Moby Dick." It was Dana's cool poise that save=
d him
from being spread-eagled and flogged when two of his mates were so treated;=
it
was his lack of abandon that prevented him from taking up permanently with =
the
sea, that prevented him from seeing more than one poetical spot, and more t=
han
one romantic spot on all the coast of Old California. Yet these apparent defects were his
strength. They enabled him
magnificently to write, and for all time, the picture of the sea-life of his
time.
Written close to the middle of the last centur=
y,
such has been the revolution worked in man's method of trafficking with the
sea, that the life and conditions described in Dana's book have passed utte=
rly
away. Gone are the crack clippers, the driving captains, the hard-bitten bu=
t efficient
foremast hands. Remain only
crawling cargo tanks, dirty tramps, greyhound liners, and a sombre, sordid =
type
of sailing ship. The only rec=
ords
broken to-day by sailing vessels are those for slowness. They are no longer=
built
for speed, nor are they manned before the mast by as sturdy a sailor stock,=
nor
aft the mast are they officered by sail- carrying captains and driving mate=
s.
Speed is left to the liners, who run the silk,=
and
tea, and spices. Admiralty courts, boards of trade, and underwriters frown =
upon
driving and sail-carrying. No=
more
are the free-and-easy, dare-devil days, when fortunes were made in fast runs
and lucky ventures, not alone for owners, but for captains as well. Nothing is ventured now. The risks of swift passages cannot=
be
abided. Freights are calculat=
ed to
the last least fraction of per cent.
The captains do no speculating, no bargain-making for the owners.
It has been learned that small crews only, and
large carriers only, can return a decent interest on the investment. The inevitable corollary is that s=
peed
and spirit are at a discount. There
is no discussion of the fact that in the sailing merchant marine the seamen=
, as
a class, have sadly deteriorated.
Men no longer sell farms to go to sea. But the time of which Dana writes =
was
the heyday of fortune-making and adventure on the sea--with the full
connotation of hardship and peril always attendant.
It was Dana's fortune, for the sake of the
picture, that the Pilgrim was an average ship, with an average crew and
officers, and managed with average discipline. Even the hazing that took place af=
ter
the California coast was reached, was of the average sort. The Pilgrim savoured not in any wa=
y of a
hell-ship. The captain, while=
not
the sweetest-natured man in the world, was only an average down-east driver=
, neither
brilliant nor slovenly in his seamanship, neither cruel nor sentimental in =
the
treatment of his men. While, =
on the
one hand, there were no extra liberty days, no delicacies added to the meag=
re
forecastle fare, nor grog or hot coffee on double watches, on the other han=
d the
crew were not chronically crippled by the continual play of knuckle-dusters=
and
belaying pins. Once, and once=
only,
were men flogged or ironed--a very fair average for the year 1834, for at t=
hat
time flogging on board merchant vessels was already well on the decline.
The difference between the sea-life then and n=
ow
can be no better epitomised than in Dana's description of the dress of the
sailor of his day:
"The trousers tight around the hips, and
thence hanging long and loose around the feet, a superabundance of checked
shirt, a low-crowned, well- varnished black hat, worn on the back of the he=
ad,
with half a fathom of black ribbon hanging over the left eye, and a peculiar
tie to the black silk neckerchief."
Though Dana sailed from Boston only three-quar=
ters
of a century ago, much that is at present obsolete was then in full sway. For instance, the old word larboar=
d was
still in use. He was a member=
of
the larboard watch. The vesse=
l was
on the larboard tack. It was =
only
the other day, because of its similarity in sound to starboard, that larboa=
rd
was changed to port. Try to i=
magine
"All larboard bowlines on deck!" being shouted down into the
forecastle of a present day ship.
Yet that was the call used on the Pilgrim to fetch Dana and the rest=
of
his watch on deck.
The chronometer, which is merely the least
imperfect time-piece man has devised, makes possible the surest and easiest
method by far of ascertaining longitude.&n=
bsp;
Yet the Pilgrim sailed in a day when the chronometer was just coming
into general use. So little w=
as it
depended upon that the Pilgrim carried only one, and that one, going wrong =
at the
outset, was never used again. A
navigator of the present would be aghast if asked to voyage for two years, =
from
Boston, around the Horn to California, and back again, without a
chronometer. In those days su=
ch a proceeding
was a matter of course, for those were the days when dead reckoning was ind=
eed
something to reckon on, when running down the latitude was a common way of
finding a place, and when lunar observations were direly necessary. It may be fairly asserted that ver=
y few
merchant officers of to-day ever make a lunar observation, and that a large=
percentage
are unable to do it.
"Sept. 22nd., upon coming on deck at seven
bells in the morning we found the other watch aloft throwing water upon the
sails, and looking astern we saw a small, clipper-built brig with a black h=
ull
heading directly after us. We=
went
to work immediately, and put all the canvas upon the brig which we could get
upon her, rigging out oars for studding-sail yards; and contined wetting do=
wn
the sails by buckets of water whipped up to the mast-head . . . She was arm=
ed,
and full of men, and showed no colours."
The foregoing sounds like a paragraph from
"Midshipman Easy" or the "Water Witch," rather than a
paragraph from the soberest, faithfullest, and most literal chronicle of the
sea ever written. And yet the=
chase
by a pirate occurred, on board the brig Pilgrim, on September 22nd, 1834--s=
omething
like only two generations ago.
Dana was the thorough-going type of man, not
overbalanced and erratic, without quirk or quibble of temperament. He was efficient, but not brillian=
t. His was a general all-round
efficiency. He was efficient =
at the
law; he was efficient at college; he was efficient as a sailor; he was
efficient in the matter of pride, when that pride was no more than the prid=
e of
a forecastle hand, at twelve dollars a month, in his seaman's task well don=
e,
in the smart sailing of his captain, in the clearness and trimness of his s=
hip.
There is no sailor whose cockles of the heart =
will
not warm to Dana's description of the first time he sent down a royal
yard. Once or twice he had se=
en it
done. He got an old hand in t=
he
crew to coach him. And then, =
the
first anchorage at Monterey, being pretty thick with the second mate, he got
him to ask the mate to be sent up the first time the royal yards were
struck. "Fortunately,&qu=
ot; as
Dana describes it, "I got through without any word from the officer; a=
nd
heard the 'well done' of the mate, when the yard reached the deck, with as =
much
satisfaction as I ever felt at Cambridge on seeing a 'bene' at the foot of a
Latin exercise."
"This was the first time I had taken a
weather ear-ring, and I felt not a little proud to sit astride of the weath=
er
yard-arm, past the ear-ring, and sing out 'Haul out to leeward!'" He had been over a year at sea bef=
ore he
essayed this able seaman's task, but he did it, and he did it with pride. And with pride, he went down a
four-hundred foot cliff, on a pair of top-gallant studding-sail halyards be=
nt
together, to dislodge several dollars worth of stranded bullock hides, thou=
gh
all the acclaim he got from his mates was: "What a d-d fool you were to
risk your life for half a dozen hides!"
In brief, it was just this efficiency in pride=
, as
well as work, that enabled Dana to set down, not merely the photograph deta=
il
of life before the mast and hide-droghing on the coast of California, but of
the untarnished simple psychology and ethics of the forecastle hands who dr=
oghed
the hides, stood at the wheel, made and took in sail, tarred down the riggi=
ng,
holystoned the decks, turned in all-standing, grumbled as they cut about the
kid, criticised the seamanship of their officers, and estimated the duratio=
n of
their exile from the cubic space of the hide- house.
JACK LONDON Glen Ellen, California, August 13,
1911.
=
Scene--California.
Time--Afternoon of a summer day.
CHARACTERS
LORETTA, A sweet, young thing. Frightfully innocent. About nineteen years old. Slender, delicate, a fragile
flower. Ingenuous.
NED BASHFORD, A jaded young man of the world, =
who
has philosophised his experiences and who is without faith in the veracity =
or
purity of women.
BILLY MARSH, A boy from a country town who is =
just
about as innocent as Loretta.
Awkward. Positive. Raw and callow youth.
ALICE HEMINGWAY, A society woman, good-hearted,
and a match-maker.
JACK HEMINGWAY, Her husband.
MAID.
A
WICKED WOMAN
=
[Curtain
rises on a conventional living room of a country house in California. It is the Hemingway house at Santa
Clara. The room is remarkable=
for
magnificent stone fireplace at rear centre. On either side of fireplace are
generous, diamond-paned windows.
Wide, curtained doorways to right and left. To left, front, table, with vase of
flowers and chairs. To right,
front, grand piano.]
[Curtain discovers LORETTA seated at piano, not
playing, her back to it, facing NED BASHFORD, who is standing.]
LORETTA.
[Petulantly, fanning herself with sheet of music.] No, I won't go fishing. It's too warm. Besides, the fish won't bite so ea=
rly in
the afternoon.
NED.
Oh, come on. It's not =
warm
at all. And anyway, we won't =
really
fish. I want to tell you some=
thing.
LORETTA.
[Still petulantly.] Yo=
u are
always wanting to tell me something.
NED.
Yes, but only in fun. =
This
is different. This is serious=
. Our . . . my happiness depends upo=
n it.
LORETTA.
[Speaking eagerly, no longer petulant, looking, serious and delighte=
d,
divining a proposal.] Then do=
n't
wait. Tell me right here.
NED.
[Almost threateningly.]
Shall I?
LORETTA.
[Challenging.] Yes.
[He looks around apprehensively as though fear=
ing
interruption, clears his throat, takes resolution, also takes LORETTA's han=
d.]
[LORETTA is startled, timid, yet willing to he=
ar,
naively unable to conceal her love for him.]
NED.
[Speaking softly.]
Loretta . . . I, . . .=
ever
since I met you I have--
[JACK HEMINGWAY appears in the doorway to the
left, just entering.]
[NED suddenly drops LORETTA's hand. He shows exasperation.]
[LORETTA shows disappointment at interruption.=
]
NED.
Confound it
LORETTA.
[Shocked.] Ned! Why will you swear so?
NED.
[Testily.] That isn't
swearing.
LORETTA.
What is it, pray?
NED.
Displeasuring.
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Who is crossing over to right.] Squabbling again?
LORETTA.
[Indignantly and with dignity.]&nbs=
p;
No, we're not.
NED.
[Gruffly.] What do you=
want
now?
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Enthusiastically.] Come on fishing.
NED.
[Snappily.] No. It's too warm.
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Resignedly, going out right.] You needn't take a fellow's head o=
ff.
LORETTA.
I thought you wanted to go fishing.
NED.
Not with Jack.
LORETTA.
[Accusingly, fanning herself vigorously.] And you told me it wasn't warm at =
all.
NED.
[Speaking softly.] That
isn't what I wanted to tell you, Loretta. [He takes her hand.] Dear Loretta--
[Enter abruptly ALICE HEMINGWAY from right.]
[LORETTA sharply jerks her hand away, and looks
put out.]
[NED tries not to look awkward.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Goodness! I thought you'd both gone fishing!=
LORETTA.
[Sweetly.] Is there an=
ything
you want, Alice?
NED.
[Trying to be courteous.]
Anything I can do?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Speaking quickly, and trying to
withdraw.] No, no. I only came to see if the mail had
arrived.
LORETTA AND NED
[Speaking together.] No, it hasn't arrived.
LORETTA.
[Suddenly moving toward door to right.] I am going to see.
[NED looks at her reproachfully.]
[LORETTA looks back tantalisingly from doorway=
and
disappears.]
[NED flings himself disgustedly into Morris
chair.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Moving over and standing in front= of him. Speaks accusingly.] What have you been saying to her?<= o:p>
NED.
[Disgruntled.] Nothing=
.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Threateningly.] Now listen to me, Ned.
NED.
[Earnestly.] On my wor=
d,
Alice, I've been saying nothing to her.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With sudden change of front.] Then you ought to have been saying
something to her.
NED.
[Irritably. Getting ch=
air
for her, seating her, and seating himself again.] Look here, Alice, I know your game=
. You invited me down here to make a=
fool
of me.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Nothing of the sort, sir. I asked you down to meet a sweet a=
nd
unsullied girl--the sweetest, most innocent and ingenuous girl in the world=
.
NED.
[Dryly.] That's what y=
ou
said in your letter.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. And that's why you came. Jack had been trying for a year to=
get
you to come. He did not know =
what
kind of a letter to write.
NED.
If you think I came because of a line in a letter about a girl I'd n=
ever
seen--
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Mockingly.] The poor, jaded, world-worn man, w=
ho is no
longer interested in women . . . and girls! The poor, tired pessimist who has =
lost
all faith in the goodness of women--
NED.
For which you are responsible.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Incredulously.] I?
NED.
You are responsible. W=
hy did
you throw me over and marry Jack?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Do you want to know?
NED.
Yes.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Judiciously.] First, because I did not love you.=
Second,
because you did not love me. =
[She
smiles at his protesting hand and at the protesting expression on his
face.] And third, because the=
re were
just about twenty-seven other women at that time that you loved, or thought=
you
loved. That is why I married
Jack. And that is why you los=
t faith
in the goodness of women. You=
have
only yourself to blame.
NED.
[Admiringly.] You talk=
so
convincingly. I almost believ=
e you
as I listen to you. And yet I=
know
all the time that you are like all the rest of your sex--faithless,
unveracious, and . . .
[He glares at her, but does not proceed.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Go on. I'm not afraid.
NED.
[With finality.] And
immoral.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Oh!
You wretch!
NED.
[Gloatingly.] That's r=
ight. Get angry. You may break the furniture if you
wish. I don't mind.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With sudden change of front,
softly.] And how about Lorett=
a?
[NED gasps and remains silent.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. The depths of duplicity that must = lurk under that sweet and innocent exterior . . . according to your philosophy!<= o:p>
NED.
[Earnestly.] Loretta i=
s an
exception, I confess. She is =
all
that you said in your letter. She
is a little fairy, an angel. I
never dreamed of anything like her.
It is remarkable to find such a woman in this age.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Encouragingly.] She is so naive.
NED.
[Taking the bait.] Yes,
isn't she? Her face and her t=
ongue
betray all her secrets.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Nodding her head.] Yes, I have noticed it.
NED.
[Delightedly.] Have yo=
u?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. She cannot conceal anything. Do you know that she loves you?
NED.
[Falling into the trap, eagerly.]&n=
bsp;
Do you think so?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Laughing and rising.] And to think I once permitted you =
to
make love to me for three weeks!
[NED rises.]
[MAID enters from left with letters, which she
brings to ALICE HEMINGWAY.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Running over letters.] None for you, Ned. [Selecting two letters for
herself.] Tradesmen. [Handing remainder of letters to M=
AID.] And three for Loretta. [Speaking to MAID.] Put them on the table, Josie.
[MAID puts letters on table to left front, and
makes exit to left.]
NED.
[With shade of jealousy.]
Loretta seems to have quite a correspondence.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With a sigh.] Yes, as I used to when I was a gir=
l.
NED.
But hers are family letters.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Yes, I did not notice any from Bil=
ly.
NED.
[Faintly.] Billy?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Nodding.] Of course she has told you about h=
im?
NED.
[Gasping.] She has had
lovers . . . already?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. And why not? She is nineteen.
NED.
[Haltingly.] This . . =
. er .
. . this Billy . . . ?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Laughing and putting her hand
reassuringly on his arm.] Now=
don't
be alarmed, poor, tired philosopher.
She doesn't love Billy at all.
[LORETTA enters from right.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [To LORETTA, nodding toward table.=
] Three letters for you.
LORETTA.
[Delightedly.] Oh! Thank you.
[LORETTA trips swiftly across to table, looks =
at
letters, sits down, opens letters, and begins to read.]
NED.
[Suspiciously.] But Bi=
lly?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. I am afraid he loves her very hard=
. That is why she is here. They had to send her away. Billy was making life miserable fo=
r her. They were little children together=
--playmates. And Billy has been, well,
importunate. And Loretta, poor
child, does not know anything about marriage. That is all.
NED.
[Reassured.] Oh, I see=
.
[ALICE HEMINGWAY starts slowly toward right ex=
it,
continuing conversation and accompanied by NED.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Calling to LORETTA.] Are you going fishing, Loretta?
[LORETTA looks up from letter and shakes head.=
]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [To NED.] Then you're not, I suppose?
NED.
No, it's too warm.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Then I know the place for you.
NED.
Where?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Right here. [Looks significantly in direction =
of LORETTA.] Now is your opportunity to say wha=
t you
ought to say.
[ALICE HEMINGWAY laughs teasingly and goes out=
to
right.]
[NED hesitates, starts to follow her, looks at
LORETTA, and stops. He twists=
his
moustache and continues to look at her meditatively.]
[LORETTA is unaware of his presence and goes on
reading. Finishes letter, fol=
ds it,
replaces in envelope, looks up, and discovers NED.]
LORETTA.
[Startled.] Oh! I thought you were gone.
NED.
[Walking across to her.] I
thought I'd stay and finish our conversation.
LORETTA.
[Willingly, settling herself to listen.] Yes, you were going to . . . [Drop=
s eyes
and ceases talking.]
NED.
[Taking her hand, tenderly.]
I little dreamed when I came down here visiting that I was to meet my
destiny in--[Abruptly releases LORETTA's hand.]
[MAID enters from left with tray.]
[LORETTA glances into tray and discovers that =
it
is empty. She looks inquiring=
ly at
MAID.]
MAID.
A gentleman to see you. He
hasn't any card. He said for =
me to tell
you that it was Billy.
LORETTA.
[Starting, looking with dismay and appeal to NED.] Oh! . . . Ned!
NED
[Gracefully and courteously, rising to his feet and preparing to go.=
] If you'll excuse me now, I'll wait=
till
afterward to tell you what I wanted.
LORETTA.
[In dismay.] What shal=
l I
do?
NED.
[Pausing.] Don't you w=
ant to
see him? [LORETTA shakes her =
head.]
Then don't.
LORETTA.
[Slowly.] I can't do
that. We are old friends. We . . . were children together. [To the MAID.] Send him in. [To NED, who has started to go out
toward right.] Don't go, Ned.=
[MAID makes exit to left.]
NED.
[Hesitating a moment.] I'll
come back.
[NED makes exit to right.]
[LORETTA, left alone on stage, shows perturbat=
ion
and dismay.]
[BILLY enters from left. Stands in doorway a moment. His shoes are dusty. He looks overheated. His eyes and face brighten at sigh=
t of LORETTA.]
BILLY.
[Stepping forward, ardently.]
Loretta!
LORETTA.
[Not exactly enthusiastic in her reception, going slowly to meet
him.] You never said you were
coming.
[BILLY shows that he expects to kiss her, but =
she
merely shakes his hand.]
BILLY.
[Looking down at his very dusty shoes.] I walked from the station.
LORETTA.
If you had let me know, the carriage would have been sent for you.
BILLY.
[With expression of shrewdness.]&nb=
sp;
If I had let you know, you wouldn't have let me come.
[BILLY looks around stage cautiously, then tri=
es
to kiss her.]
LORETTA.
[Refusing to be kissed. ]
Won't you sit down?
BILLY.
[Coaxingly.] Go on, ju=
st
one. [LORETTA shakes head and=
holds
him off.] Why not? We're engaged.
LORETTA.
[With decision. ] We're
not. You know we're not. You know I broke it off the day be=
fore I
came away. And . . . and . . .
you'd better sit down.
[BILLY sits down on edge of chair. LORETTA seats herself by table. Bi=
lly,
without rising, jerks his chair forward till they are facing each other, his
knees touching hers. He yearns
toward her. She moves back her
chair slightly.]
BILLY.
[With supreme confidence.]
That's what I came to see you for--to get engaged over again.
[BILLY hudges chair forward and tries to take =
her
hand.]
[LORETTA hudges her chair back.]
BILLY.
[Drawing out large silver watch and looking at it.] Now look here, Loretta, I haven't =
any
time to lose. I've got to lea=
ve for
that train in ten minutes. An=
d I
want you to set the day.
LORETTA.
But we're not engaged, Billy.
So there can't be any setting of the day.
BILLY.
[With confidence.] But=
we're
going to be. [Suddenly breaki=
ng out.] Oh, Loretta, if you only knew how =
I've
suffered. That first night I =
didn't
sleep a wink. I haven't slept=
much
ever since. [Hudges chair for=
ward.] I walk the floor all night. [Solemnly.] Loretta, I don't eat enough to kee=
p a
canary bird alive. Loretta . =
. .
[Hudges chair forward.]
LORETTA.
[Hudging her chair back maternally.] Billy, what you need is a tonic. Have you seen Doctor Haskins?
BILLY.
[Looking at watch and evincing signs of haste.] Loretta, when a girl kisses a man,=
it
means she is going to marry him.
LORETTA.
I know it, Billy. But =
. . .
[She glances toward letters on table.]&nbs=
p;
Captain Kitt doesn't want me to marry you. He says . . . [She takes letter and
begins to open it.]
BILLY.
Never mind what Captain Kitt says.&=
nbsp;
He wants you to stay and be company for your sister. He doesn't want you to marry me be=
cause
he knows she wants to keep you.
LORETTA.
Daisy doesn't want to keep me.
She wants nothing but my own happiness. She says--[She takes second letter=
from
table and begins to open it.]
BILLY.
Never mind what Daisy says--
LORETTA.
[Taking third letter from table and beginning to open it.] And Martha says--
BILLY.
[Angrily.] Darn Martha=
and the
whole boiling of them!
LORETTA.
[Reprovingly.] Oh, Bil=
ly!
BILLY.
[Defensively.] Darn is=
n't
swearing, and you know it isn't.
[There is an awkward pause. Billy has lost the thread of the c=
onversation
and has vacant expression.]
BILLY.
[Suddenly recollecting.]
Never mind Captain Kitt, and Daisy, and Martha, and what they want.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The question is, what do you want?=
LORETTA.
[Appealingly.] Oh, Bil=
ly,
I'm so unhappy.
BILLY.
[Ignoring the appeal and pressing home the point.] The thing is, do you want to marry
me? [He looks at his watch.]<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Just answer that.
LORETTA.
Aren't you afraid you'll miss that train?
BILLY.
Darn the train!
LORETTA.
[Reprovingly.] Oh, Bil=
ly!
BILLY.
[Most irascibly.] Darn=
isn't
swearing. [Plaintively.] That's the way you always put me
off. I didn't come all the wa=
y here
for a train. I came for you.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Now just answer me one thing. Do you want to marry me?
LORETTA.
[Firmly.] No, I don't =
want
to marry you.
BILLY.
[With assurance.] But =
you've
got to, just the same.
LORETTA.
[With defiance.] Got t=
o?
BILLY.
[With unshaken assurance.]
That's what I said--got to.
And I'll see that you do.
LORETTA.
[Blazing with anger.] =
I am
no longer a child. You can't =
bully me,
Billy Marsh!
BILLY.
[Coolly.] I'm not tryi=
ng to
bully you. I'm trying to save=
your reputation.
LORETTA.
[Faintly.] Reputation?=
BILLY.
[Nodding.] Yes,
reputation. [He pauses for a
moment, then speaks very solemnly.]
Loretta, when a woman kisses a man, she's got to marry him.
LORETTA.
[Appalled, faintly.] G=
ot to?
BILLY.
[Dogmatically.] It is =
the
custom.
LORETTA.
[Brokenly.] And when .=
. . a
. . . a woman kisses a man and doesn't . . . marry him . . . ?
BILLY.
Then there is a scandal.
That's where all the scandals you see in the papers come from.
[BILLY looks at watch.]
[LORETTA in silent despair.]
LORETTA.
[In abasement.] You ar=
e a
good man, Billy. [Billy shows=
that he
believes it.] And I am a very
wicked woman.
BILLY.
No, you're not, Loretta. You
just didn't know.
LORETTA.
[With a gleam of hope.] But
you kissed me first.
BILLY.
It doesn't matter. You=
let
me kiss you.
LORETTA.
[Hope dying down.] But=
not
at first.
BILLY.
But you did afterward and that's what counts. You let me you in the grape-arbour=
. You let me--
LORETTA.
[With anguish] Don't!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Don't!
BILLY.
[Relentlessly.]--kiss you when you were playing the piano. You let me kiss you that day of the
picnic. And I can't remember =
all
the times you let me kiss you good night.
LORETTA.
[Beginning to weep.] N=
ot
more than five.
BILLY.
[With conviction.] Eig=
ht at
least.
LORETTA.
[Reproachfully, still weeping.]&nbs=
p;
You told me it was all right.
BILLY.
[Emphatically.] So it =
was
all right--until you said you wouldn't marry me after all. Then it was a scandal--only no one=
knows
it yet. If you marry me no on=
e ever
will know it. [Looks at
watch.] I've got to go. [Stands up.] Where's my hat?
LORETTA.
[Sobbing.] This is awf=
ul.
BILLY.
[Approvingly.] You bet=
it's
awful. And there's only one w=
ay out. [Looks anxiously about for hat.] What do you say?
LORETTA.
[Brokenly.] I must
think. I'll write to you. [Faintly.] The train? Your hat's in the hall.
BILLY.
[Looks at watch, hastily tries to kiss her, succeeds only in shaking
hand, starts across stage toward left.]&nb=
sp;
All right. You write t=
o me. Write to-morrow. [Stops for a moment in doorway and
speaks very solemnly.] Rememb=
er,
Loretta, there must be no scandal.
[Billy goes out.]
[LORETTA sits in chair quietly weeping. Slowly dries eyes, rises from chai=
r, and
stands, undecided as to what she will do next.]
[NED enters from right, peeping. Discovers that LORETTA is alone, a=
nd comes
quietly across stage to her. =
When
NED comes up to her she begins weeping again and tries to turn her head
away. NED catches both her ha=
nds in
his and compels her to look at him.
She weeps harder.]
NED.
[Putting one arm protectingly around her shoulder and drawing her to=
ward
him.] There, there, little on=
e,
don't cry.
LORETTA.
[Turning her face to his shoulder like a tired child, sobbing.] Oh, =
Ned,
if you only knew how wicked I am.
NED.
[Smiling indulgently.] What
is the matter, little one? Ha=
s your
dearly beloved sister failed to write to you? [LORETTA shakes head.] Has Hemingway been bullying you? [LORETTA shakes head.] Then it must have been that caller=
of
yours? [Long pause, during wh=
ich
LORETTA's weeping grows more violent.]&nbs=
p;
Tell me what's the matter, and we'll see what I can do. [He lightly kisses her hair--so li=
ghtly
that she does not know.]
LORETTA.
[Sobbing.] I can't.
NED.
[Laughing incredulously.]
Let us forget all about it.
I want to tell you something that may make me very happy. My fondest hope is that it will ma=
ke you
happy, too. Loretta, I love y=
ou--
LORETTA.
[Uttering a sharp cry of delight, then moaning.] Too late!
NED.
[Surprised.] Too late?=
LORETTA.
[Still moaning.] Oh, w=
hy did
I? [NED somewhat stiffens.] I was so young. I did not know the world then.
NED. =
span>What
is it all about anyway?
LORETTA.
Oh, I . . . he . . . Billy . . . I am a wicked woman, Ned. I know you will never speak to me =
again.
NED.
This . . . er . . . this Billy--what has he been doing?
LORETTA.
I . . . he . . . I didn't know.&nbs=
p;
I was so young. I coul=
d not help
it. Oh, I shall go mad, I sha=
ll go
mad!
[NED's encircling arm goes limp. He gently disengages her and depos=
its her
in big chair.]
[LORETTA buries her face and sobs afresh.]
NED.
[Twisting moustache fiercely, regarding her dubiously, hesitating a =
moment,
then drawing up chair and sitting down.]&n=
bsp;
I . . . I do not understand.
LORETTA.
[Wailing.] I am so unh=
appy!
NED.
[Inquisitorially.] Why
unhappy?
LORETTA.
Because . . . he . . . he wants to marry me.
NED.
[His face brightening instantly, leaning forward and laying a hand s=
oothingly
on hers.] That should not mak=
e any
girl unhappy. Because you don=
't
love him is no reason--[Abruptly breaking off.] Of course you don't love him? [LORETTA shakes her head and shoul=
ders
vigorously.] What?
LORETTA.
[Explosively.] No, I d=
on't
love Billy! I don't want to l=
ove Billy!
NED.
[With confidence.] Bec=
ause
you don't love him is no reason that you should be unhappy just because he =
has
proposed to you.
LORETTA. [Sobbing.] That's the trouble. I wish I did love him. Oh, I wish I were dead.<= o:p>
NED.
[Growing complacent.] =
Now my
dear child, you are worrying yourself over trifles. [His second hand joins the first in
holding her hands.] Women do it every day.=
Because you have changed your mind, or did not know you mind, because
you have--to use an unnecessarily harsh word--jilted a man--
LORETTA.
[Interrupting, raising her head and looking at him.] Jilted? Oh Ned, if that were a all=
!
NED.
[Hollow voice.] All!
[NED's hands slowly retreat from hers. He opens his mouth as though to sp=
eak
further, then changes his mind and remains silent.]
LORETTA.
[Protestingly.] But I =
don't
want to marry him!
NED.
Then I shouldn't.
LORETTA.
But I ought to marry him.
NED.
Ought to marry him? [L=
ORETTA
nods.] That is a strong word.=
LORETTA.
[Nodding.] I know it
is. [Her lips are trembling, =
but
she strives for control and manages to speak more calmly.] I am a wicked woman. A terrible wicked woman. No one knows how wicked I am . . .=
except
Billy.
NED.
[Starting, looking at her queerly.]=
He . . . Billy knows?
[LORETTA nods. He deba=
tes
with himself a moment.] Tell =
me
about it. You must tell me al=
l of
it.
LORETTA.
[Faintly, as though about to weep again.] All of it?
NED.
[Firmly.] Yes, all of =
it.
LORETTA.
[Haltingly.] And . . .=
will
. . . you . . . ever . . . forgive . . . me?
NED.
[Drawing a long, breath, desperately.] Yes, I'll forgive you. Go ahead.
LORETTA.
There was no one to tell me.
We were with each other so much. I did not know anything of the worl=
d .
. . then. [Pauses.]
NED. [Impatiently.] Go on.<= o:p>
LORETTA.
If I had only known.
[Pauses.]
NED.
[Biting his lip and clenching his hands.] Yes, yes. Go on.
LORETTA.
We were together almost every evening.
NED.
[Savagely.] Billy?
LORETTA.
Yes, of course, Billy. We
were with each other so much . . . If I had only known . . . There was no o=
ne
to tell me . . . I was so young . . . [Breaks down crying.]
NED.
[Leaping to his feet, explosively.]=
The scoundrel!
LORETTA.
[Lifting her head.] Bi=
lly is
not a scoundrel . . . He . . . he . . . is a good man.
NED.
[Sarcastically.] I sup=
pose
you'll be telling me next that it was all your fault. [LORETTA nods.] What!
LORETTA.
[Steadily.] It was all=
my fault. I should never have let him. I was=
to
blame.
NED.
[Paces up and down for a minute, stops in front of her, and speaks w=
ith
resignation.] All right. I don't blame you in the least, Lo=
retta.
And you have been very honest. It
is . . . er . . . commendable. But Billy
is right, and you are wrong. =
You
must get married.
LORETTA.
[In dim, far-away voice.] To
Billy?
NED.
Yes, to Billy. I'll se=
e to
it. Where does he live? I'll make him. If he won't I'll . . . I'll shoot =
him!
LORETTA.
[Crying out with alarm.] Oh,
Ned, you won't do that?
NED.
[Sternly.] I shall.
LORETTA.
But I don't want to marry Billy.
NED.
[Sternly.] You must. And Billy must. Do you understand? It is the only thing.
LORETTA.
That's what Billy said.
NED.
[Triumphantly.] You se=
e, I
am right.
LORETTA.
And if . . . if I don't marry him . . . there will be . . . scandal?=
NED.
[Calmly.] Yes, there w=
ill be
scandal.
LORETTA.
That's what Billy said. Oh,
I am so unhappy!
[LORETTA breaks down into violent weeping.]
[NED paces grimly up and down, now and again
fiercely twisting his moustache.]
LORETTA.
[Face buried, sobbing and crying all the time.]
I don't want to leave Daisy! I don't want to leave Daisy! What shall I do? What shall I do? How was I to know? He didn't tell me. Nobody else ever kissed me. [NED stops curiously to listen.
NED.
[Abruptly.] Is that wh=
at you
are crying about?
LORETTA.
[Reluctantly.] N-no.
NED.
[In hopeless voice, the brightness gone out of his face, about to be=
gin
pacing again.] Then what are =
you
crying about?
LORETTA.
Because you said I had to marry Billy. I don't want to marry Billy. I don't want to leave Daisy. I don't know what I want. I wish I were dead.
NED.
[Nerving himself for another effort.] Now look here, Loretta, be sensibl=
e. What is this about kisses? You haven't told me everything aft=
er
all.
LORETTA. I . . . I don't want to tell you
everything.
NED.
[Imperatively.] You mu=
st.
LORETTA.
[Surrendering.] Well, =
then .
. . must I?
NED.
You must.
LORETTA.
[Floundering.] He . . =
. I .
. . we . . . I let him, and he kissed me.
NED.
[Desperately, controlling himself.]=
Go on.
LORETTA.
He says eight, but I can't think of more than five times.
NED.
Yes, go on.
LORETTA.
That's all.
NED.
[With vast incredulity.]
All?
LORETTA.
[Puzzled.] All?
NED.
[Awkwardly.] I mean . =
. . er
. . . nothing worse?
LORETTA.
[Puzzled.] Worse? As though there could be. Billy said--
NED. [Interrupting.] When?<= o:p>
LORETTA.
This afternoon. Just
now. Billy said that my . . .=
our .
. . our . . . our kisses were terrible if we didn't get married.
NED.
What else did he say?
LORETTA.
He said that when a woman permitted a man to kiss her she always mar=
ried
him. That it was awful if she
didn't. It was the custom, he=
said;
and I say it is a bad, wicked custom, and it has broken my heart. I shall never be happy again. I know I am terrible, but I can't =
help
it. I must have been born wic=
ked.
NED.
[Absent-mindedly bringing out a cigarette and striking a match.] Do you mind if I smoke? [Coming to himself again, and flin=
ging
away match and cigarette.] I =
beg your
pardon. I don't want to smoke=
. I didn't mean that at all. What I mean is . . . [He bends over
LORETTA, catches her hands in his, then sits on arm of chair, softly puts o=
ne
arm around her, and is about to kiss her.]
LORETTA.
[With horror, repulsing him.]
No! No!
NED.
[Surprised.] What's the
matter?
LORETTA.
[Agitatedly.] Would yo=
u make
me a wickeder woman than I am?
NED. =
span>A
kiss?
LORETTA.
There will be another scandal.
That would make two scandals.
NED.
To kiss the woman I love . . . a scandal?
LORETTA.
Billy loves me, and he said so.
NED.
Billy is a joker . . . or else he is as innocent as you.
LORETTA.
But you said so yourself.
NED.
[Taken aback.] I?
LORETTA.
Yes, you said it yourself, with your own lips, not ten minutes ago.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I shall never believe you again.
NED.
[Masterfully putting arm around her and drawing her toward him.] And=
I
am a joker, too, and a very wicked man.&nb=
sp;
Nevertheless, you must trust me.&nb=
sp;
There will be nothing wrong.
LORETTA.
[Preparing to yield.] =
And no
. . . scandal?
NED.
Scandal fiddlesticks.
Loretta, I want you to be my wife.&=
nbsp;
[He waits anxiously.]
[JACK HEMINGWAY, in fishing costume, appears in
doorway to right and looks on.]
NED.
You might say something.
LORETTA.
I will . . . if . . .
[ALICE HEMINGWAY appears in doorway to left and
looks on.]
NED.
[In suspense.] Yes, go=
on.
LORETTA.
If I don't have to marry Billy.
NED.
[Almost shouting.] You=
can't
marry both of us!
LORETTA.
[Sadly, repulsing him with her hands.] Then, Ned, I cannot marry you.
NED.
[Dumbfounded.] W-what?=
LORETTA.
[Sadly.] Because I can=
't
marry both of you.
NED.
Bosh and nonsense!
LORETTA.
I'd like to marry you, but . . .
NED.
There is nothing to prevent you.
LORETTA.
[With sad conviction.] Oh,
yes, there is. You said yours=
elf that
I had to marry Billy. You sai=
d you
would s-s-shoot him if he didn't.
NED.
[Drawing her toward him.]
Nevertheless . . .
LORETTA.
[Slightly holding him off.]
And it isn't the custom . . . what . . . Billy said?
NED. No, it isn't the custom. Now, Loretta, will you marry me?
LORETTA.
[Pouting demurely.] Do=
n't be
angry with me, Ned. [He gathe=
rs her
into his arms and kisses her. She
partially frees herself, gasping.] I wish it were the custom, because now I=
'd
have to marry you, Ned, wouldn't I?
[NED and LORETTA kiss a second time and
profoundly.]
[JACK HEMINGWAY chuckles.]
[NED and LORETTA, startled, but still in each other's arms, look around. NED looks sillily at ALICE HEMINGWAY. LORETTA looks at JACK HEMINGWAY.]<= o:p>
LORETTA.
I don't care.
CURTAIN
THE BIRTH MARK SKETCH BY JACK LONDON written f=
or
Robert and Julia Fitzsimmons
=
SCENE--One
of the club rooms of the West Bay Athletic Club. Near centre front is a large table
covered with newspapers and magazines.&nbs=
p;
At left a punching-bag apparatus.&n=
bsp;
At right, against wall, a desk, on which rests a desk-telephone. Door at rear toward left. On walls are framed pictures of
pugilists, conspicuous among which is one of Robert Fitzsimmons. Appropriate
furnishings, etc., such as foils, clubs, dumb-bells and trophies.
[Enter MAUD SYLVESTER.]
[She is dressed as a man, in evening clothes,
preferably a Tuxedo. In her h=
and is
a card, and under her arm a paper-wrapped parcel. She peeps about curiously and adva=
nces
to table. She is timorous and
excited, elated and at the same time frightened. Her eyes are dancing with exciteme=
nt.]
MAUD.
[Pausing by table.] No=
t a
soul saw me. I wonder where
everybody is. And that big br=
other
of mine said I could not get in.
[She reads back of card.]
"Here is my card, Maudie.
If you can use it, go ahead. But you will never get inside the
door. I consider my bet as go=
od as won." [Looking up, triumphantly.] You do, do you? Oh, if you could see your little s=
ister
now. Here she is, inside. [Pauses, and looks about.] So this=
is
the West Bay Athletic Club. No
women allowed. Well, here I a=
m, if
I don't look like one. [Stret=
ches
out one leg and then the other, and looks at them. Leaving card and parcel on table, =
she
struts around like a man, looks at pictures of pugilists on walls, reading
aloud their names and making appropriate remarks. But she stops before the portrait =
of
Fitzsimmons and reads aloud.]
"Robert Fitzsimmons, the greatest warrior of them all."
[Continues strutting around, imitating what she
considers are a man's stride and swagger, returns to table and proceeds to
unwrap parcel.] Well, I'll go out like a girl, if I did come in like a
man. [Drops wrapping paper on=
table
and holds up a woman's long automobile cloak and a motor bonnet. Is suddenly startled by sound of
approaching footsteps and glances in a frightened way toward door.] Mercy! Here comes somebody now! [Glances about her in alarm, drops=
cloak
and bonnet on floor close to table, seizes a handful of newspapers, and run=
s to
large leather chair to right of table, where she seats herself hurriedly. One paper she holds up before her,
hiding her face as she pretends to read. Unfortunately the paper is upside
down. The other papers lie on=
her lap.]
[Enter ROBERT FITZSIMMONS.]
[He looks about, advances to table, takes out
cigarette case and is about to select one, when he notices motor cloak and
bonnet on floor. He lays ciga=
rette
case on table and picks them up.
They strike him as profoundly curious things to be in a club room. He looks at MAUD, then sees card o=
n table. He picks it up and reach it to him=
self,
then looks at her with comprehension.
Hidden by her newspaper, she sees nothing. He looks at card again and reads a=
nd
speaks in an aside.]
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
"Maudie. John H.
Sylvester." That must be=
Jack Sylvester's
sister Maud. [FITZSIMMONS sho=
ws by
his expression that he is going to play a joke. Tossing cloak and bonnet under the=
table
he places card in his vest pocket, selects a chair, sits down, and looks at
MAUD. He notes paper is upside down, is hugely tickled, and laughs silently=
.] Hello! [Newspaper is agitated by slight
tremor. He speaks more loudly=
.] Hello! [Newspaper shakes badly. He speaks very loudly.] Hello!
MAUD.
[Peeping at him over top of paper and speaking hesitatingly.] H-h- hello!
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Gruffly.] You are a q=
ueer
one, reading a paper upside down.
MAUD.
[Lowering newspaper and trying to appear at ease.] It's quite a trick, isn't it? I often practise it. I'm real clever at it, you know.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Grunts, then adds.] S=
eems
to me I have seen you before.
MAUD.
[Glancing quickly from his face to portrait and back again.] Yes, and I know you--You are Robert
Fitzsimmons.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I thought I knew you.
MAUD.
Yes, it was out in San Francisco.&n=
bsp;
My people still live there.
I'm just--ahem--doing New York.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
But I don't quite remember the name.
MAUD.
Jones--Harry Jones.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Hugely delighted, leaping from chair and striding over to her.] Sure. [Slaps her resoundingly on shoulde=
r.]
[She is nearly crushed by the weight of the bl=
ow,
and at the same time shocked. She
scrambles to her feet.]
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Glad to see you, Harry. [He
wrings her hand, so that it hurts.]
Glad to see you again, Harry.
[He continues wringing her hand and pumping her arm.]
MAUD.
[Struggling to withdraw her hand and finally succeeding. Her voice is rather faint.] Ye-es, er . . . Bob . . . er . . .=
glad
to see you again. [She looks
ruefully at her bruised fingers and sinks into chair. Then, recollecting her part, she c=
rosses
her legs in a mannish way.]
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Crossing to desk at right, against which he leans, facing her.] You were a wild young rascal in th=
ose
San Francisco days. [Chuckling.]
Lord, Lord, how it all comes back to me.
MAUD.
[Boastfully.] I was
wild--some.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Grinning.] I should
say! Remember that night I pu=
t you to
bed?
MAUD.
[Forgetting herself, indignantly.]&=
nbsp;
Sir!
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
You were . . . er . . . drunk.
MAUD.
I never was!
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Surely you haven't forgotten that night! You began with dropping champagne
bottles out of the club windows on the heads of the people on the sidewalk,=
and
you wound up by assaulting a cabman.
And let me tell you I saved you from a good licking right there, and
squared it with the police. D=
on't
you remember?
MAUD.
[Nodding hesitatingly.] Yes,
it is beginning to come back to me. I was a bit tight that night.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Exultantly.] A bit
tight! Why, before I could ge=
t you
to bed you insisted on telling me the story of your life.
MAUD.
Did I? I don't remember
that.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I should say not. You =
were
past remembering anything by that time.&nb=
sp;
You had your arms around my neck--
MAUD.
[Interrupting.] Oh!
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
And you kept repeating over and over, "Bob, dear Bob."
MAUD.
[Springing to her feet.]
Oh! I never did! [Recollecting herself.] Perhaps I must have. I was a trifle wild in those days,=
I admit. But I'm wise now. I've sowed my wild oats and steadi=
ed
down.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I'm glad to hear that, Harry.
You were tearing off a pretty fast pace in those days. [Pause, in which MAUD nods.] Still punch the bag?
MAUD.
[In quick alarm, glancing at punching bag.] No, I've got out of the hang of it=
.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Reproachfully.] You h=
aven't
forgotten that right-and-left, arm, elbow and shoulder movement I taught yo=
u?
MAUD.
[With hesitation.] N-o=
-o.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Moving toward bag to left.]
Then, come on.
MAUD.
[Rising reluctantly and following.]=
I'd rather see you punch the bag.&n=
bsp;
I'd just love to.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I will, afterward. You=
go to
it first.
MAUD.
[Eyeing the bag in alarm.]
No; you. I'm out of pr=
actice.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Looking at her sharply.]
How many drinks have you had to- night?
MAUD.
Not a one. I don't
drink--that is--er--only occasionally.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Indicating bag.] Then=
go to
it.
MAUD.
No; I tell you I am out of practice. I've forgotten it all. You see, I made a discovery.
[Pauses.]
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Yes?
MAUD. I--I--you remember what a light voice I always had--almost soprano?<= o:p>
[FITZSIMMONS nods.]
MAUD.
Well, I discovered it was a perfect falsetto.
[FITZSIMMONS nods.]
MAUD. <=
/span>I've
been practising it ever since.
Experts, in another room, would swear it was a woman's voice. So would you, if you turned your b=
ack
and I sang.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Who has been laughing incredulously, now becomes suspicious.] Look here, kid, I think you are an
impostor. You are not Harry J=
ones
at all.
MAUD.
I am, too.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I don't believe it. He=
was
heavier than you.
MAUD.
I had the fever last summer and lost a lot of weight.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
You are the Harry Jones that got sousesd and had to be put to bed?
MAUD.
Y-e-s.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
There is one thing I remember very distinctly. Harry Jones had a birth mark on his
knee. [He looks at her legs
searchingly.]
MAUD.
[Embarrassed, then resolving to carry it out.] Yes, right here. [She advances rig=
ht leg
and touches it.]
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Triumphantly.] Wrong.=
It was the other knee.
MAUD.
I ought to know.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
You haven't any birth mark at all.
MAUD.
I have, too.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Suddenly springing to her and attempting to seize her leg.] Then we'll prove it. Let me see.
MAUD.
[In a panic backs away from him and resists his attempts, until grin=
ning
in an aside to the audience, he gives over. She, in an aside to audience.] Fancy his wanting to see my birth =
mark.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Bullying.] Then take =
a go
at the bag. [She shakes her h=
ead.] You're not Harry Jones.
MAUD.
[Approaching punching bag.]
I am, too.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Then hit it.
MAUD.
[Resolving to attempt it, hits bag several nice blows, and then is s=
truck
on the nose by it.] Oh!
[Recovering herself and rubbing her nose.] I told you I was out of practice.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You punch the bag, Bob.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I will, if you will show me what you can do with that wonderful sopr=
ano
voice of yours.
MAUD.
I don't dare. Everybody
would think there was a woman in the club.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Shaking his head.] No=
, they
won't. They've all gone to the
fight. There's not a soul in =
the
building.
MAUD.
[Alarmed, in a weak voice.]
Not--a--soul--in--the building?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Not a soul. Only you a=
nd I.
MAUD.
[Starting hurriedly toward door.]&n=
bsp;
Then I must go.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
What's your hurry? Sin=
g.
MAUD.
[Turning back with new resolve.]&nb=
sp;
Let me see you punch the bag,--er--Bob.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
You sing first.
MAUD.
No; you punch first.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I don't believe you are Harry--
MAUD.
[Hastily.] All right, =
I'll
sing. You sit down over there=
and turn
your back.
[FITZSIMMONS obeys.]
[MAUD walks over to the table toward right.
MAUD.
"Robert Fitzsimmons."&nbs=
p;
That will prove to my brother that I have been here.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Hurry up.
[MAUD hastily puts cigarette case in her pocket
and begins to sing.]
SONG
[During the song FITZSIMMONS turns his head sl=
owly
and looks at her with growing admiration.]
MAUD.
How did you like it?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Gruffly.] Rotten. Anybody could tell it was a boy's =
voice--
MAUD.
Oh!
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
It is rough and coarse and it cracked on every high note.
MAUD.
Oh! Oh!
[Recollecting herself and shrugging her
shoulders.] Oh, very well.
[FITZSIMMONS takes off coat and gives exhibiti=
on.]
[MAUD looks on in an ecstasy of admiration.]
MAUD. [As he finishes.] Beautiful! Beautiful!<= o:p>
[FITZSIMMONS puts on coat and goes over and si=
ts
down near table.] Nothing like the bag to limber one up. I feel like a fighting cock. Harry,
let's go out on a toot, you and I.
MAUD.
Wh-a-a-t?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
A toot. You know--one =
of
those rip-snorting nights you used to make.
MAUD.
[Emphatically, as she picks up newspapers from leather chair, sits d=
own,
and places them on her lap.] =
I'll
do nothing of the sort. I've--I've reformed.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
You used to joy-ride like the very devil.
MAUD.
I know it.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
And you always had a pretty girl or two along.
MAUD.
[Boastfully, in mannish, fashion.]&=
nbsp;
Oh, I still have my fling.
Do you know any--well,--er,--nice girls?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Sure.
MAUD.
Put me wise.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Sure. You know Jack
Sylvester?
MAUD.
[Forgetting herself.] =
He's
my brother--
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Exploding.] What!
MAUD.--In-law's first cousin.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Oh!
MAUD.
So you see I don't know him very well. I only met him once--at the club.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> We had a drink together.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Then you don't know his sister?
MAUD. [Starting.] His sister= ? I--I didn't know he had a sister.<= o:p>
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Enthusiastically.] Sh=
e's a
peach. A queen. A little bit of all right. A--a loo-loo.
MAUD.
[Flattered.] She is, i=
s she?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
She's a scream. You ou=
ght to
get acquainted with her.
MAUD.
[Slyly.] You know her,=
then?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
You bet.
MAUD.
[Aside.] Oh, ho! [To FITZSIMMONS.] Know her very well?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I've taken her out more times than I can remember. You'll like her, I'm sure.
MAUD.
Thanks. Tell me some m=
ore
about her.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
She dresses a bit loud. But
you won't mind that. And what=
ever
you do, don't take her to eat.
MAUD.
[Hiding her chagrin.] =
Why
not?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I never saw such an appetite--
MAUD.
Oh!
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
It's fair sickening. S=
he
must have a tapeworm. And she=
thinks
she can sing.
MAUD.
Yes?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Rotten. You can do bet=
ter
yourself, and that's not saying much.
She's a nice girl, really she is, but she is the black sheep of the
family. Funny, isn't it?
MAUD.
[Weak voice.] Yes, fun=
ny.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Her brother Jack is all right.
But he can't do anything with her.&=
nbsp;
She's a--a--
MAUD.
[Grimly.] Yes. Go on.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
A holy terror. She oug=
ht to
be in a reform school.
MAUD.
[Springing to her feet and slamming newspapers in his face.] Oh! Oh! Oh!
You liar! She isn't an=
ything
of the sort!
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Recovering from the onslaught and making believe he is angry, advan=
cing
threateningly on her.] Now I'm
going to put a head on you. Y=
ou
young hoodlum.
MAUD.
[All alarm and contrition, backing away from him.] Don't! Please don't! I'm sorry! I apologise. I--I beg your pardon, Bob. Only I don't like to hear girls ta=
lked
about that way, even--even if it is true. And you ought to know.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Subsiding and resuming seat.]
You've changed a lot, I must say.
MAUD.
[Sitting down in leather chair.]&nb=
sp;
I told you I'd reformed. Let
us talk about something else. Why
is it girls like prize-fighters? I should
think--ahem--I mean it seems to me that girls would think prize- fighters
horrid.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
They are men.
MAUD.
But there is so much crookedness in the game. One hears about it all the time.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
There are crooked men in every business and profession. The best fighters are not crooked.=
MAUD. I--er--I thought they all faked fights when there was enough in it.<= o:p>
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Not the best ones.
MAUD.
Did you--er--ever fake a fight?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Looking at her sharply, then speaking solemnly.] Yes. Once.
MAUD.
[Shocked, speaking sadly.]
And I always heard of you and thought of you as the one clean champi=
on
who never faked.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Gently and seriously.] Let
me tell you about it. It was =
down
in Australia. I had just begu=
n to
fight my way up. It was with =
old Bill
Hobart out at Rushcutters Bay. I
threw the fight to him.
MAUD.
[Repelled, disgusted.]
Oh! I could not have
believed it of you.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Let me tell you about it.
Bill was an old fighter. Not
an old man, you know, but he'd been in the fighting game a long time. He was about thirty-eight and a ga=
mer
man never entered the ring. B=
ut he was
in hard luck. Younger fighter=
s were
coming up, and he was being crowded out.&n=
bsp;
At that time it wasn't often he got a fight and the purses were
small. Besides it was a droug=
ht
year in Australia. You don't =
know what
that means. It means that the
rangers are starved. It means=
that the
sheep are starved and die by the millions.=
It means that there is no money and no work, and that the men and wo=
men
and kiddies starve.
Bill Hobart had a missus and three kids and at=
the
time of his fight with me they were all starving. They did not have enough to eat. Do you understand? They did not have enough to eat. And Bill did not have enough to
eat. He trained on an empty
stomach, which is no way to train you'll admit. During that drought year there was
little enough money in the ring, but he had failed to get any fights. He had worked at long- shoring,
ditch-digging, coal-shovelling--anything, to keep the life in the missus and
the kiddies. The trouble was =
the
jobs didn't hold out. And there he was, matched to fight with me, behind in=
his
rent, a tough old chopping-block, but weak from lack of food. If he did not win the fight, the
landlord was going to put them into the street.
MAUD.
But why would you want to fight with him in such weak condition?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I did not know. I did =
not
learn till at the ringside just before the fight. It was in the dressing rooms, wait=
ing
our turn to go on. Bill came =
out of
his room, ready for the ring.
"Bill," I said--in fun, you know. "Bill, I've got to do you to-=
night." He said nothing, but he looked at =
me
with the saddest and most pitiful face I have ever seen. He went back into his dressing roo=
m and
sat down.
"Poor Bill!" one of my seconds
said. "He's been fair st=
arving
these last weeks. And I've go=
t it
straight, the landlord chucks him out if he loses to-night."
Then the call came and we went into the ring.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Bill was desperate. He fought like a tiger, a madman.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He was fair crazy. He was fighting for more than I was
fighting for. I was a rising
fighter, and I was fighting for the money and the recognition. But Bill was fighting for life--fo=
r the
life of his loved ones.
Well, condition told. The strength went out of him, and =
I was
fresh as a daisy. "What'=
s the
matter, Bill?" I said to him in a clinch. "You're weak." "I ain't had a bit to eat this
day," he answered. That =
was
all.
By the seventh round he was about all in, hang=
ing
on and panting and sobbing for breath in the clinches, and I knew I could p=
ut
him out any time. I drew back=
my
right for the short-arm jab that would do the business. He knew it was coming, and he was
powerless to prevent it.
"For the love of God, Bob," he said;
and--[Pause.]
MAUD.
Yes? Yes?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I held back the blow. =
We
were in a clinch.
"For the love of God, Bob," he said
again, "the misses and the kiddies!"
And right there I saw and knew it all. I saw the hungry children asleep, =
and
the missus sitting up and waiting for Bill to come home, waiting to know
whether they were to have food to eat or be thrown out in the street.
"Bill," I said, in the next clinch, =
so
low only he could hear. "=
;Bill,
remember the La Blanche swing. Give
it to me, hard."
We broke away, and he was tottering and
groggy. He staggered away and=
started
to whirl the swing. I saw it =
coming. I made believe I didn't and started
after him in a rush. Biff!
Well, I faked that fight.
MAUD.
[Springing to him and shaking his hand.] Thank God! Oh!
You are a man! A--a--a=
hero!
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Dryly, feeling in his pocket.]&nbs=
p;
Let's have a smoke. [H=
e fails
to find cigarette case.]
MAUD.
I can't tell you how glad I am you told me that.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Gruffly.] Forget it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> [He looks on table, and fails to f=
ind
cigarette case. Looks at her
suspiciously, then crosses to desk at right and reaches for telephone.]
MAUD.
[Curiously.] What are =
you
going to do?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Call the police.
MAUD.
What for?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
For you.
MAUD.
For me?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
You are not Harry Jones. And
not only are you an impostor, but you are a thief.
MAUD.
[Indignantly.] How dar=
e you?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
You have stolen my cigarette case.
MAUD.
[Remembering and taken aback, pulls out cigarette case.] Here it is.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
Too late. It won't save
you. This club must be kept r=
espectable. Thieves cannot be tolerated.
MAUD.
[Growing alarm.] But y=
ou
won't have me arrested?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
I certainly will.
MAUD.
[Pleadingly.] Please!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Please!
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Obdurately.] I see no
reason why I should not.
MAUD.
[Hurriedly, in a panic.]
I'll give you a reason--a--a good one. I--I--am not Harry Jones.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Grimly.] A good reaso=
n in
itself to call in the police.
MAUD.
That isn't the reason.
I'm--a--Oh! I'm so ash=
amed.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Sternly.] I should sa=
y you
ought to be. [Reaches for tel=
ephone
receiver.]
MAUD.
[In rush of desperation.]
Stop! I'm a--I'm a--a
girl. There! [Sinks down in c=
hair,
burying her face in her hands.]
[FITZSIMMONS, hanging up receiver, grunts.]
[MAUD removes hands and looks at him
indignantly. As she speaks he=
r indignation
grows.]
MAUD.
I only wanted your cigarette case to prove to my brother that I had =
been
here. I--I'm Maud Sylvester, =
and
you never took me out once. And I'm not a black sheep. And I don't dress loudly, and I ha=
ven't
a--a tapeworm.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Grinning and pulling out card from vest pocket.] I knew you were Miss Sylvester all=
the
time.
MAUD.
Oh! You brute! I'll never speak to you again.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Gently.] You'll let m=
e see
you safely out of here.
MAUD.
[Relenting.] Ye-e-s. [She rises, crosses to table, and =
is
about to stoop for motor cloak and bonnet, but he forestall her, holds cloa=
k and
helps her into it.] Thank you=
. [She takes off wig, fluffs her own=
hair
becomingly, and puts on bonnet, looking every inch a pretty young girl, rea=
dy
for an automobile ride.]
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Who, all the time, watching her transformation, has been growing
bashful, now handing her the cigarette case.] Here's the cigarette case. You may k-k-keep it.
MAUD.
[Looking at him, hesitates, then takes it.] I thank you--er--Bob. I shall trea=
sure
it all my life. [He is very
embarrassed.] Why, I do belie=
ve
you're bashful. What is the m=
atter?
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
[Stammering.]
Why--I--you--You are a girl--and--a--a--deuced pretty one.
MAUD.
[Taking his arm, ready to start for door.] But you knew it all along.
FITZSIMMONS.&=
nbsp;
But it's somehow different now when you've got your girl's clothes o=
n.
MAUD.
But you weren't a bit bashful--or nice, when--you--you--[Blurting it
out.] Were so anxious about b=
irth
marks.
[They start to make exit.]
CURTAIN