Authors: Robert W Service
"You seem to have some new stunts in your repertoire," he said, looking at me
curiously; "you've got me guessing. Sometimes I think you're a candidate for the
dippy-house, then again I think you're on to yourself. There's a grim set to
your mouth and a hard look in your eyes that I didn't use to see. Maybe you can
hold up your end. Well, anyway, if you will go I wish you good luck."
So, bidding good-bye to the big cabin, with my two partners looking ruefully
after me, I struck off down Bonanza. It was mid-October. A bitter wind chilled
me to the marrow. Once more the land lay stark beneath its coverlet of snow, and
the sky was wan and ominous. I travelled fast, for a painful anxiety gripped me,
so that I scarce took notice of the improved trail, of the increased activity,
of the heaps of tailings built up with brush till they looked like walls of a
fortification. All I thought of was Dawson and Berna.
How curious it was, this strange new strength, this indifference to self, to
physical suffering, to danger, to public opinion! I thought only of the girl. I
would make her marry me. I cared nothing for what
had happened to her. I might be a pariah, an outcast
for the rest of my days; at least I would save her, shield her, cherish her. The
thought uplifted me, exalted me. I had suffered beyond expression. I had
rearranged my set of ideas; my concept of life, of human nature, had broadened
and deepened. What did it matter if physically they had wronged her? Was not the
pure, virgin soul of her beyond their reach?
I was just in time to see the last boat go out. Already the river was
"throwing ice," and every day the jagged edges of it crept further towards
midstream. An immense and melancholy mob stood on the wharf as the little
steamer backed off into the channel. There were uproarious souls on board, and
many women of the town screaming farewells to their friends. On the boat all was
excited, extravagant joy; on the wharf, a sorry attempt at resignation.
The last boat! they watched her as her stern paddle churned the freezing
water; they watched her forge her slow way through the ever-thickening
ice-flakes; they watched her in the far distance battling with the Klondike
current; then, sad and despondent, they turned away to their lonely cabins.
Never had their exile seemed so bitter. A few more days and the river would
close tight as a drum. The long, long night would fall on them, and for nigh on
eight weary months they would be cut off from the outside world.
Yet soon, very soon, a mood of reconciliation would set in. They would begin
to make the best of things. To feed that great Octopus, the town, the miners
would flock in from the
creeks with treasure hoarded up in baking-powder tins; the dance-halls and
gambling-places would absorb them; the gaiety would go on full swing, and there
would seem but little change in the glittering abandon of the gold-camp. As I
paced its sidewalks once more I marvelled at its growth. New streets had been
made; the stores boasted expensive fittings and gloried in costly goods; in the
bar-rooms were splendid mirrors and ornate woodwork; the restaurants offered
European delicacies; all was on a new scale of extravagance, of garish display,
of insolent wealth.
Everywhere the man with the fat "poke" was in evidence. He came into town
unshorn, wild-looking, often raggedly clad, yet always with the same wistful
hunger in his eyes. You saw that look, and it took you back to the dark and dirt
and drudgery of the claim, the mirthless months of toil, the crude cabin with
its sugar barrel of ice behind the door, its grease light dimly burning, its
rancid smell of stale food. You saw him lying smoking his strong pipe, looking
at that can of nuggets on the rough shelf, and dreaming of what it would mean to
himout there where the lights glittered and the gramophones blared. Surely, if
patience, endurance, if grim, unswerving purpose, if sullen, desperate toil
deserved a reward, this man had a peckful of pleasure for his due.
And always that hungry, wistful look. The women with the painted cheeks knew
that look; the black-jack boosters knew it; the barkeeper with his
knock-out drops knew it.
They waited for him; he was their "meat."
Yet in a few days your wild and woolly man is transformed, and no longer does
your sympathy go out towards him. Shaven and shorn, clad in silken underwear,
with patent leather shoes, and a suit in New York style, you absolutely fail to
recognise him as your friend of the moccasins and mackinaw coat. He is smoking a
dollar Laranago, he has half a dozen whiskies "under his belt," and later on he
has a "date" with a lady singer of the Pavilion Theatre. He is having a "whale"
of a good time, he tells you; you wonder how long he will last.
Not for long. Sharp and short and sweet it is. He is brought up with a jerk,
and the Dago Queen, for whom he has bought so much wine at twenty dollars a
bottle, has no recognition for him in her flashing eyes. He has been "taken down
the line," "trimmed to a finish" by an artist in the business. Ruefully he turns
his poke inside outnot a "colour." He cannot even command the price of a
penitential three-fingers of rye. Such is one of the commonest phases of life in
the gold-camp.
As I strolled the streets I saw many a familiar face. Mosher I saw. He had
grown very fat, and was talking to a diminutive woman with heavy blond hair (she
must have weighed about ninety-five pounds, I think). They went off
together.
A knife-edged wind was sweeping down from the north, and men in bulging
coonskin coats filled up the
sidewalks. At the Aurora corner I came across the Jam-wagon.
He was wearing a jacket of summer flannels, and, as if to suggest extra warmth,
he had turned up its narrow collar. In his trembling fingers he held an
emaciated cigarette, which he inhaled avidly. He looked wretched, pinched with
hunger, peaked with cold, but he straightened up when he saw me into a semblance
of well-being. Then, in a little, he sagged forward, and his eyes went dull and
abject. It was a business of the utmost delicacy to induce him to accept a small
loan. I knew it would only plunge him more deeply into the mire; but I could not
bear to see him suffer.
I went into the Parisian Restaurant. It was more glittering, more raffish,
more clamant of the tenderloin than ever. There were men waiters in the
conventional garb of waiterdom, and there was Madam, harder looking and more
vulturish. You wondered if such a woman could have a soul, and what was the end
and aim of her being. There she sat, a creature of rapacity and sordid lust. I
marched up to her and asked abruptly:
"Where's Berna?"
She gave a violent start. There was a quality of fear in her bold eyes. Then
she laughed, a hard, jarring laugh.
"In the Tivoli," she said.
Strange again! Now that the worst had come to pass, and I had suffered all
that it was in my power to suffer, this new sense of strength and mastery had
come to me. It seemed as if some of the iron spirit
of the land had gotten into my blood, a grim,
insolent spirit that made me fearless; at times a cold cynical spirit, a spirit
of rebellion, of anarchy, of aggression. The greatest evil had befallen me. Life
could do no more to harm me. I had everything to gain and nothing to lose. I
cared for no man. I despised them, and, to back me in my bitterness, I had
twenty-five thousand dollars in the bank.
I was still weak from my illness and my long mush had wearied me, so I went
into a saloon and called for drinks. I felt the raw whisky burn my throat. I
tingled from head to foot with a strange, pleasing warmth. Suddenly the bar,
with its protecting rod of brass, seemed to me a very desirable place, bright,
warm, suggestive of comfort and good-fellowship. How agreeably every one was
smiling! Indeed, some were laughing for sheer joy. A big, merry-hearted miner
called for another round, and I joined in.
Where was that bitter feeling now? Where that morbid pain at my heart? As I
drank it all seemed to pass away. Magical change! What a fool I was! What was
there to make such a fuss about? Take life easy. Laugh alike at the good and bad
of it. It was all a farce anyway. What would it matter a hundred years from now?
Why were we put into this world to be tortured? I, for one, would protest. I
would writhe no more in the strait-jacket of existence. Here was escape,
heartsease, happinesshere in this bottled impishness. Again I drank.
What a rotten world it all was! But I had no
hand in the making of it, and it wasn't my task to
improve it. I was going to get the best I could out of it. Eat, drink and be
merry, that was the last word of philosophy. Others seemed to be able to extract
all kinds of happiness from things as they are, so why not I? In any case, here
was the solution of my troubles. Better to die happily drunk than miserably
sober. I was not drinking from weakness. Oh no! I was drinking with deliberate
intent to kill pain.
How wonderfully strong I felt! I smashed my clenched fist against the bar. My
knuckles were bruised and bleeding, but I felt no pain. I was so light of foot,
I imagined I could jump over the counter. I ached to fight some one. Then all at
once came the thought of Berna. It came with tragical suddenness, with poignant
force. Intensely it smote me as never before. I could have burst into maudlin
tears.
"What's the matter, Slim?" asked a mouldy mannikin, affectionately hanging on
to my arm.
Disgustedly I looked at him.
"Take your filthy paws off me," I said.
His jaw dropped and he stared at me. Then, before he could draw on his fund
of profanity, I burst through the throng and made for the door.
I was drunk, deplorably drunk, and I was bound for the Tivoli.
I wish it to be understood that I make no excuses for myself at this
particular stage of my chronicle. I am only conscious of a desire to tell the
truth. Many of the stronger-minded will no doubt condemn me; many of those
inclined to a rigid system of morality will be disgusted with me; but, however
it may be, I will write plainly and without reserve.
When I reeled out of the Grubstake Saloon I was in a peculiar state of
exaltation. No longer was I conscious of the rasping cold, and it seemed to me I
could have couched me in the deep snow as cosily as in a bed of down.
Surpassingly brilliant were the lights. They seemed to convey to me a portentous
wink. They twinkled with jovial cheer. What a desirable place the world was,
after all!
With an ebullient sense of eloquence, of extravagant oratory, I longed for a
sympathetic ear. An altruistic emotion pervaded me. Who would suspect, thought
I, as I walked a little too circumspectly amid the throng, that my heart was
aglow, that I was tensing my muscles in the pride of their fitness, that my
brain was a bewildering kaleidoscope of thoughts and images?
Gramophones were braying in every conceivable key. Brazen women were leering
at me. Potbellied men regarded me furtively. Alluringly the
gambling-dens and dancing-dives
invited me. The town was a giant spider drawing in its prey, and I was the prey,
it seemed. Others there were in plenty, men with the eager, wistful eyes; but
who was there so eager and wistful as I? And I didn't care any more. Strike up
the music! On with the dance! Only one life have we to live. Ah! there was the
Tivoli.
To the right as I entered was a palatial bar set off with burnished brass,
bevelled mirrors and glittering, vari-coloured pyramids of costly liqueurs. Up
to the bar men were bellying, and the bartenders in white jackets were mixing
drinks with masterly dexterity. It was a motley crowd. There were men in
broadcloth and fine linen, men in blue shirts and mud-stiffened overalls,
grey-bearded elders and beardless boys. It was a noisy crowd, laughing,
brawling, shouting, singing. Here was the foam of life, with never a hint of the
muddy sediment underneath.
To the left I had a view of the gambling-room, a glimpse of green tables, of
spinning balls, of cool men, with shades over their eyes, impassively dealing.
There were huge wheels of fortune, keno tables, crap outfits, faro layouts, and,
above all, the dainty, fascinating roulette. Everything was in full swing.
Miners with flushed faces and a wild excitement in their eyes were plunging
recklessly; others, calm, alert, anxious, were playing cautiously. Here and
there were the fevered faces of women. Gold coin was stacked on the tables,
while a man with a
pair
of scales was weighing dust from the tendered pokes.
In front of me was a double swing-door painted in white and gold, and,
pushing through this, for the first time I found myself in a Dawson
dance-hall.
I remember being struck by the gorgeousness of it, its glitter and its glow.
Who would have expected, up in this bleak-visaged North, to find such a
fairyland of a place? It was painted in white and gold, and set off by clusters
of bunched lights. There was much elaborate scroll-work and ornate decoration.
Down each side, raised about ten feet from the floor, and supported on gilt
pillars, were little private boxes hung with curtains of heliotrope silk. At the
further end of the hall was a stage, and here a vaudeville performance was going
on.
I sat down on a seat at the very back of the audience. Before me were row
after row of heads, mostly rough, rugged and unwashed. Their faces were eager,
rapt as those of children. They were enjoying, with the deep satisfaction of men
who for many a weary month had been breathing the free, unbranded air of the
Wild. The sensuous odour of patchouli was strangely pleasant to them; the sight
of a woman was thrillingly sweet; the sound of a song was ravishing. Looking at
many of those toil-grooved faces one could see that there was no harm in their
hearts. They were honest, uncouth, simple; they were just like children, the
children of the Wild.
A woman of generous physique was singing in a shrill, nasal voice a pathetic
ballad. She sang without
expression, bringing her hands with monotonous gestures
alternately to her breast. Her squat, matronly figure, beef from the heels up,
looked singularly absurd in her short skirt. Her face was excessively
over-painted, her mouth good-naturedly large, and her eyes out of their
slit-like lids leered at the audience.