Текст книги "Странник по звездам / The Star-Rover"

“You do not know my master,” he said solemnly.

“Nor do I wish to know him,” I retorted.

The little intriguing priest went down the creaking stairs.

When I rode out in Paris that day it was the Paris of the past. The narrow streets were an unsanitary scandal of filth and slime. But I must skip. Only of the end of my adventure will I write, which begins with where I stood jesting with Philippa herself—ah, dear God, she was wondrous beautiful! Philippa was small, slender, in brief, she was the one woman in the world for me.

And the Italian, Fortini[40]40
  Fortini – Фортини


[Закрыть], leaned to my shoulder and whispered:

“One who desires to speak.”

“One who must wait my pleasure,” I answered shortly.

“I wait no man’s pleasure,” was his equally short reply.

And, while my blood boiled, I remembered the priest, Martinelli. The thing was clear. Fortini smiled lazily.

This was the work of the priest. This was the Fortini, the best sword[41]41
  the best sword – лучший фехтовальщик


[Закрыть] from Italy.

“I am busy,” I said. “Begone.”

“No,” was his reply.

Our voices had slightly risen, so that Philippa heard.

“Begone, you Italian hound,” I said. “Take your howling from my door. I shall attend to you presently[42]42
  I shall attend to you presently. – Я скоро тобой займусь.


[Закрыть].”

“The moon is up,” he said. “The grass is dry and excellent. There is no dew. Beyond the fish-pond, there is an open space, quiet and private.”

“Presently,” I said. “Presently I shall attend to you.”

Then spoke Philippa.

“Satisfy the gentleman’s desire, Sainte-Maure. Attend to him now. And good fortune go with you.”

She paused.

“Good fortune go with you,” she repeated, and then leaned to me so that she could whisper: “And my heart goes with you, Sainte-Maure. Do not be long. I shall await you in the big hall.”

I was in the seventh heaven. I trod on air. It was the first sign of her love. I knew I could kill a hundred of Fortinis.

When two friends of mine and I arrived in the open space beyond the fish-pond, Fortini and two friends were already waiting us. We saluted properly. It was nothing new to any of us.

I knew that Fortini was a better swordsman. But I carried my lady’s heart with me this night, and that this night, because of me, there would be one Italian less in the world.

In a minute, my blade was inside of him, and through him, from right side of him to left side of him and outside of him beyond. Not at once did Fortini fall. Not at once did I withdraw the blade. For a full second we stood in pause. Then Fortini gasped and coughed slightly. The rigidity of his pose slackened.

We saluted his friends and were about to depart, when Felix Pasquini[43]43
  Felix Pasquini – Феликс Паскини


[Закрыть], a friend of Fortini detained me.

“Pardon me,” I said. “Let it be tomorrow.”

“We have but to move a step aside,” he urged, “where the grass is still dry.”

I shook my head.

“Tomorrow,” I said. “You will name time and place, and I shall be there.”

“The grass is excellent,” Pasquini teased, “the place is excellent, and I am sure that Fortini will have you for company this night.”

“It would be better if he met a friend,” I answered. “And now your pardon, for I must go.”

But he blocked my path.

“Whoever it be,” he said, “let it be now.”

And he spat in the grass at my feet. Then my anger seized me and was beyond me. I forgot that Philippa waited for me in the great hall. Here Pasquini standing in my way and spitting in the grass!

“Very well, Pasquini,” I said. “Fortini waits your companionship.”

And then I saluted Pasquini, and we began. Oh, I was devilish this night: quick and brilliant! My rapier entered Pasquini’s side on the right, but it did not emerge, on the left, for, well-nigh through him, it met a rib. And I cleared my weapon of him with jerk and wrench.

“A pleasant journey, Pasquini,” I told him. “Now, de Villehardouin[44]44
  de Villehardouin – Виллардуэн


[Закрыть]”.

De Villehardouin was ridiculous. He was clownish. “Short work and simple” was my judgment.

Alas! When I had played with him and laughed at him, he whistled his rapier through the air and rapped it down on my crown. I was in amaze. The next I knew was the pang of the entering steel. As I fell I could see the glut of satisfaction in the face of de Villehardouin.

I was falling, but I never reached the grass. Came a blurr of flashing lights, a thunder in my ears, a darkness, a glimmering of dim light, and then I heard the voice of one who said:

“I can’t feel anything.”

I knew the voice. It was Warden Atherton’s. And I knew myself for Darrell Standing, just returned across the centuries to the jacket hell of San Quentin. And I knew the touch of finger-tips on my neck was Warden Atherton’s. And it was Doctor Jackson’s voice that said:

“You don’t know how to take a man’s pulse from the neck. There—right there—put your fingers where mine are. Heart weak, but steady as a chronometer.”

“It’s only twenty-four hours,” Captain Jamie said, “and he was never in like condition before.”

“What do you think, Doc?” Warden Atherton asked.

“I tell you the heart action is splendid,” was the answer. “Of course it is weak. The man is feigning.”

I opened my eye and gazed up at the group bending over me.

“What did I tell you?” was Doctor Jackson’s cry of triumph.

And then I summoned all my will and smiled.

They held water to my lips, and I drank greedily. It must be remembered that all this while I lay helpless on my back, my arms were inside the jacket. When they offered me food—dry prison bread—I shook my head. The pain of my resuscitation was unbearable. I could feel my body coming to life. And in my brain the memory was strong that Philippa waited me in the big hall.

I strove to eliminate the live portion of my body from my consciousness. But Warden Atherton’s voice held me back.

“Is there anything you want to complain about?” he asked.

“You might make the jacket a little tighter,” I whispered. “It’s too loose. I get lost in it. Hutchins is stupid. He is also a fool. He doesn’t know about lacing the jacket. Now get out, all of you.”

“Standing, you are a wonder,” the Warden said. “You’ve got an iron will, but I’ll break it.”

“And you’ve the heart of a rabbit,” I retorted. “And you have long rabbit ears.”

Warden did have unusual ears.

“Anything more?” Warden demanded.

“Begone, you prison hound,” I said. “Take your yapping from my door.”

My voice had strengthened, and I began to sing, “Sing cucu, sing cucu, sing cucu.”

Chapter XII

I had learned the trick. And I knew that the way would be easier. Every succeeding journey will find less resistance. And so, as you will see, my journeys from San Quentin life into other lives were achieved almost automatically as time went by[45]45
  as time went by – со временем


[Закрыть].

After Warden Atherton and his crew had left me it was a matter of minutes to let my body be back into the little death. It was death in life, but it was only the little death, similar to the temporary death produced by an anaesthetic.

Came the duration of darkness, and the slow-growing awareness of other things and of another self. First of all, in this awareness, was dust. It was in my nostrils, dry and acrid. It was on my lips. It coated my face, my hands, and especially the finger-tips. Next I was aware of ceaseless movement. I heard clash of iron tyres against rock and sand.

I opened my eyes. On the coarse blankets on which I lay the dust was half an inch thick. I was a child, a boy of eight or nine, and I was weary, as was the woman, who sat up beside me and soothed a crying babe in her arms. She was my mother; that I knew, just as I knew, that the shoulders of the man on the driver’s seat were the shoulders of my father.

When I started to crawl my mother said in a tired and querulous voice, “Can’t you ever be still a minute, Jesse?”

That was my name, Jesse. I did not know my surname, though I heard my mother call my father John. The other men addressed my father as Captain. I knew that he was the leader of this company.

I crawled out and sat down beside my father. My father had horses to his wagon. To right and left of us rode a dozen or fifteen men and youths on horses. Across their pommels were rifles. Our way was like a funeral march. Nobody laughed or smiled. Never did I hear a happy tone of voice. The faces of the men and youths were grim and hopeless. But I will not say that my father’s face was hopeless. It was grim and anxious, most anxious.

Suddenly our horses raised their weary heads and scented the air. The horses quickened their pace.

“What is it?” my mother asked from within the wagon.

“Water,” was my father’s reply. “It must be Nephi[46]46
  Nephi – Нефи


[Закрыть].”

And my mother: “Thank God! And perhaps they will sell us food.”

And into Nephi our great wagons rolled. The landscape was much the same as that through which we had passed. There were no trees, but there was water.

“That must be Bill Black’s mill they told us about,” my father said, pointing out a building to my mother.

An old man with sunburnt hair rode to our wagon and talked with father. The signal was given. Many women, all tired-faced and dusty like my mother, emerged from the wagons. Also poured forth many children. There must have been at least fifty children, and it seemed I knew them all of long time. The women began to cook supper.

While some of the men chopped sage-brush[47]47
  sage-brush – полынь


[Закрыть] and we children carried it to the fires that were kindling, other men unyoked the oxen and let them stampede for water.

My father with several men, including the old man with the sunburnt hair, went away on foot in the direction of the mill. I remember that all of us, men, women, and even the children, paused to watch them depart.

While they were away other men, strangers, inhabitants of desert Nephi, came into camp. They were white men, like us, but they seemed angry with all our company. Bad feeling was in the air.

One of the strangers came to our fire, where my mother was alone, cooking. I had just come up with an armful of sage-brush, and I stopped to listen and to stare at the intruder, whom I hated, because it was in the air to hate, because I knew that every last person in our company hated these strangers.

This stranger at our fire had blue eyes. Mother did not greet him, nor did he greet her. He stood and glowered at her for some time, then he cleared his throat and said with a sneer:

“I bet you want to be back in Missouri[48]48
  Missouri – Миссури


[Закрыть] right now.”

Mother answered:

“We are from Arkansas[49]49
  Arkansas – Арканзас


[Закрыть].”

“I guess you got good reasons to deny where you come from,” he said, “you that drove the Lord’s people from Missouri.”

Mother made no reply.

“And now,” he went on, after the pause, “you’re now coming and begging bread from us.”

“You lie!” I cried. “We aren’t Missourians. And we are not beggars. We’ve got the money to buy.”

“Shut up, Jesse!” my mother cried. And then, to the stranger, “Go away and let the boy alone.”

“I’ll shoot you, you damned Mormon[50]50
  Mormon – мормон


[Закрыть]!” I screamed and sobbed at him.

As for the man himself, my conduct had not disturbed him. At last he spoke, and he spoke solemnly.

“Like fathers like sons[51]51
  Like fathers like sons. – Каковы отцы, таковы и дети.


[Закрыть],” he said. “The young generation is as bad as the elder. The whole breed is unregenerate and damned. There is no atonement. Not even the blood of Christ can wipe out the iniquities.”

“Damned Mormon!” I cried. “Damned Mormon! Damned Mormon! Damned Mormon!”

When my father, and the men who had accompanied him, returned, all crowded anxiously about him. He shook his head.

“They will not sell?” some woman demanded.

Again he shook his head.

A man spoke up. “They say they have flour and provisions for three years, Captain,” he said. “They have always sold it before. And now they won’t sell. And it is not our quarrel. Their quarrel is with the government, and they’re taking it out on us[52]52
  they’re taking it out on us – они вымещают это на нас


[Закрыть]. It is not right, Captain. It is not right, I say. We have our women and children, and California is months away, winter is coming, and there is nothing but desert in between. We can’t face the desert.”

He broke off for a moment to address the whole crowd.

“Why, you all don’t know what desert is. This is not desert. I tell you, it’s paradise, and heavenly pasture. Captain, we must get flour first. If they don’t want to sell it, then we must just take it.”

Many of the men and women began crying out in approval, but my father held up his hand.

“I agree with everything you say, Hamilton[53]53
  Hamilton – Гамильтон


[Закрыть],” he began. “We could wipe out Nephi very fast and take all the provisions we can carry. But we wouldn’t carry them very far. You know it. I know it. We all know it.”

His words were reasonable.

“We can’t afford to fight now,” father continued. “We’ve all got our women and children. We’ve got to be peaceable at any price.”

“But what will we do with the desert?” cried a woman who nursed a babe at her breast.

“There are several settlements before we come to the desert,” father answered. “We’ll have to go on, that’s all. Two days’ journey beyond is good pasture, and water. They call it Mountain Meadows. Nobody lives there, and that’s the place we’ll rest our cattle and feed them up. Maybe we can shoot some meat. And if the worst comes, we’ll keep going as long as we can, then abandon the wagons, pack what we can on our animals, and make the last stages on foot. We can eat our cattle as we go along. It would be better to arrive in California without a rag than to leave our bones here.”

I was slow in falling asleep that night. My rage against the Mormon had left my brain. I heard mother ask father if he thought that the Mormons would let us depart peacefully from their land. He answered her that he was sure the Mormons would let us go if none of our own company started trouble. But I saw his face at that moment, and in it was none of the confidence that was in his voice.

And I awoke to the old pain of the jacket in solitary. About me were the customary four: Warden Atherton, Captain Jamie, Doctor Jackson, and Al Hutchins. I cracked my face with a smile. I drank the water they held to me, refusing to eat bread and speak. I closed my eyes. But so long as my visitors stood about me and talked I could not escape.

“Just as yesterday,” Doctor Jackson said. “No change.”

“Then he can stand it?” Warden Atherton queried.

“Sure. The next twenty-four hours as easy as the last. He’s a wooz[54]54
  wooz – ненормальный


[Закрыть], I tell you, a perfect wooz.”

I awoke, lying upon a rough rocky floor, and found myself on my back. I opened my eyes. My shelter was a small cave, no more than three feet in height and a dozen in length. It was very hot in the cave. I wore no clothing save a filthy rag about the middle. I was very thin. I was very dirty. My long hair was all about my shoulders.

After a time I crawled to the entrance, and lay down in the burning sunshine on a narrow ledge of rock. It was a very hot day. Not a breath of air moved over the river valley on which I sometimes gazed. Hundreds of feet beneath me the river ran sluggishly. The farther shore was flat and sandy and stretched away to the horizon. Above the water were scattered clumps of palm-trees.

There were lofty, crumbling cliffs on my side. Farther along the curve, carved out of the living rock, there were four colossal figures. The figures sat, with hands resting on knees, and gazed out upon the river.

The hours passed while I roasted in the sun. All this I knew—colossal figures and river and sand and sun and sky—would pass away. Ah, I knew it so profoundly that I was ready for such sublime event. That was why I was here in rags and filth and wretchedness. I was meek and lowly, and I despised the frail needs and passions of the flesh. And I thought of the far cities of the plain I had known, of the last day so near at hand. Well, they would see soon enough, but too late for them. And I should see. But I was ready. I will arise, reborn and glorious, and take my rightful place in the City of God.

At times, between dreams and visions in which I was verily and before my time in the City of God. The penitent apostates should never again be received into the churches. Continually I returned to contemplation of the nature of the unity of God. I liked the contentions of my beloved teacher, Arius[55]55
  Arius – Арий (ересиарх, основоположник арианства, утверждавший, что Христос сотворён Богом, и следовательно, имеет начало своего бытия, а также не равен ему; в арианстве Христос – не единосущен Богу)


[Закрыть]. Truly, if human reason could determine anything at all, there must have been a time, when the Son did not exist. There must have been a time when the Son commenced to exist. A father must be older than his son. To hold otherwise were a blasphemy.

And I remembered back to my young days when I had sat at the feet of Arius, who had been a presbyter of the city of Alexandria. Yes, I had been to the Council of Nicea[56]56
  Council of Nicea – Никейский собор (созван императором Константином I в 325-м г.; на соборе было осуждено арианство и другие ереси)


[Закрыть]. And I remembered when the Emperor Constantine had banished Arius for his uprightness. And Arius died in the street. I said, and so said all we Arians, that the violent sickness was due to a poison.

And here I muttered aloud, drunk with conviction:

“Let the Jews and Pagans mock. Let them triumph, for their time is short. Their time is short, and for them there is no time after time.”

I talked to myself aloud a great deal on that rocky shelf overlooking the river. I was feverish, and I drank water from a stinking goatskin. There was food, lying in the dirt on my cave-floor—a few roots and a chunk of mouldy bread; and I was hungry, although I did not eat.

When the sun set, I took a last look at the world. And I crawled into my hole and ebbed down into the darkness of sleep.

Consciousness came back to me in solitary, with the quartet of torturers about me.

“Blasphemous and heretical Warden of San Quentin,” I gibed, after I had drunk deep of the water they held to my lips. “Let the jailers and the trusties triumph. Their time is short, and for them there is no time after time.”

“He’s out of his head,” Warden Atherton affirmed.

“He’s mocking at you,” was Doctor Jackson’s judgment.

“But he refuses food,” Captain Jamie protested.

“Huh, he could fast forty days and not hurt himself,” the doctor answered.

“And I have,” I said, “and forty nights as well. Do me the favour to tighten the jacket and then get out of here.”

The head trusty tried to insert his forefinger inside the lacing.

“It’s impossible,” he assured them.

“Have you any complaint to make, Standing?” the Warden asked.

“Yes,” was my reply. “On two counts.”

“What are they?”

“First,” I said, “the jacket is abominably loose. Hutchins is an ass.”

“What is the other count?” Warden Atherton asked.

“That you are conceived of the devil, Warden.”

Captain Jamie and Doctor Jackson tittered.

Left alone, I strove to go into the dark and gain back to the wagon circle at Nephi. I was interested to know the outcome of that drifting of our forty great wagons across a desolate and hostile land, and I was not at all interested in what came of the mangy hermit. And I gained back.

But here I must pause in the narrative, my reader, in order to explain a few things and make the whole matter easier to your comprehension. This is necessary, because my time is short.

Life cannot be explained in intellectual terms. When we are so ignorant of life, can we know death? Matter is the only illusion. It is life that is the reality and the mystery. Life is vastly different from mere chemic matter. I know. I am life. I have lived ten thousand generations. I have lived millions of years. I have possessed many bodies. I am life.

Look here. This finger of mine—this finger is not I. Cut it off. I live. The spirit that is I is whole.

Very well. Cut off all my fingers. I am I. The spirit is entire. Cut off both hands. Cut off both arms. Cut off both legs. I, the unconquerable and indestructible I, survive. Clip my hair. Shave from me with sharp razors my lips, my nose, my ears. I will still exist, unmutilated, undiminished.

Oh, the heart still beats. Very well. Cut out the heart. I have not perished. Only the body has perished, and the body is not I.

Have I not shown you, my reader, that in previous times, I have been Count Guillaume de Sainte-Maure, and the boy Jesse, whose father was captain of forty wagons in the great westward emigration? And, also, am I not now, as I write these lines, Darrell Sanding, under sentence of death in Folsom Prison and one time professor of agronomy in the College of Agriculture of the University of California?

Matter is the great illusion. That is, matter manifests itself in form, and form is apparitional. Where, now, is the body of Guillaume de Sainte-Maure that was thrust through on the grass so long ago by de Villehardouin? Where, now, are the forty great wagons in the circle at Nephi, and all the men and women and children and cattle? All such things no longer are, for they were forms, manifestations of matter. They have passed and are not.

The spirit is the reality that endures. I am spirit, and I endure. The form of me that is my body will fall apart when it has been sufficiently hanged by the neck. In the world of spirit the memory of it will remain. Matter has no memory, because its forms are evanescent.

In all my journeys through the dark into other lives that have been mine I have never been able to guide any journey to a particular destination. Thus many new experiences of old lives were mine before I returned to the boy Jesse at Nephi.