the jacket (the star-rover)-第1章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！






The　Jacket　（Star…Rover）



by　Jack　London












CHAPTER　I







All　my　life　I　have　had　an　awareness　of　other　times　and　places。　　I

have　been　aware　of　other　persons　in　me。Oh；　and　trust　me；　so　have

you；　my　reader　that　is　to　be。　　Read　back　into　your　childhood；　and

this　sense　of　awareness　I　speak　of　will　be　remembered　as　an

experience　of　your　childhood。　　You　were　then　not　fixed；　not

crystallized。　　You　were　plastic；　a　soul　in　flux；　a　consciousness　and

an　identity　in　the　process　of　formingay；　of　forming　and

forgetting。



You　have　forgotten　much；　my　reader；　and　yet；　as　you　read　these

lines；　you　remember　dimly　the　hazy　vistas　of　other　times　and　places

into　which　your　child　eyes　peered。　　They　seem　dreams　to　you　to…day。

Yet；　if　they　were　dreams；　dreamed　then；　whence　the　substance　of

them？　　Our　dreams　are　grotesquely　compounded　of　the　things　we　know。

The　stuff　of　our　sheerest　dreams　is　the　stuff　of　our　experience。　　As

a　child；　a　wee　child；　you　dreamed　you　fell　great　heights；　you

dreamed　you　flew　through　the　air　as　things　of　the　air　fly；　you　were

vexed　by　crawling　spiders　and　many…legged　creatures　of　the　slime；

you　heard　other　voices；　saw　other　faces　nightmarishly　familiar；　and

gazed　upon　sunrises　and　sunsets　other　than　you　know　now；　looking

back；　you　ever　looked　upon。



Very　well。　　These　child　glimpses　are　of　other…worldness；　of　other…

lifeness；　of　things　that　you　had　never　seen　in　this　particular　world

of　your　particular　life。　　Then　whence？　　Other　lives？　　Other　worlds？

Perhaps；　when　you　have　read　all　that　I　shall　write；　you　will　have

received　answers　to　the　perplexities　I　have　propounded　to　you；　and

that　you　yourself；　ere　you　came　to　read　me；　propounded　to　yourself。





Wordsworth　knew。　　He　was　neither　seer　nor　prophet；　but　just　ordinary

man　like　you　or　any　man。　　What　he　knew；　you　know；　any　man　knows。

But　he　most　aptly　stated　it　in　his　passage　that　begins　〃Not　in　utter

nakedness；　not　in　entire　forgetfulness。　。　。〃



Ah；　truly；　shades　of　the　prison…house　close　about　us；　the　new…born

things；　and　all　too　soon　do　we　forget。　　And　yet；　when　we　were　new…

born　we　did　remember　other　times　and　places。　　We；　helpless　infants

in　arms　or　creeping　quadruped…like　on　the　floor；　dreamed　our　dreams

of　air…flight。　　Yes；　and　we　endured　the　torment　and　torture　of

nightmare　fears　of　dim　and　monstrous　things。　　We　new…born　infants；

without　experience；　were　born　with　fear；　with　memory　of　fear；　and

MEMORY　IS　EXPERIENCE。



As　for　myself；　at　the　beginnings　of　my　vocabulary；　at　so　tender　a

period　that　I　still　made　hunger　noises　and　sleep　noises；　yet　even

then　did　I　know　that　I　had　been　a　star…rover。　　Yes；　I；　whose　lips

had　never　lisped　the　word　〃king；〃　remembered　that　I　had　once　been

the　son　of　a　king。　　MoreI　remembered　that　once　I　had　been　a　slave

and　a　son　of　a　slave；　and　worn　an　iron　collar　round　my　neck。



Still　more。　　When　I　was　three；　and　four；　and　five　years　of　age；　I

was　not　yet　I。　　I　was　a　mere　becoming；　a　flux　of　spirit　not　yet

cooled　solid　in　the　mould　of　my　particular　flesh　and　time　and　place。

In　that　period　all　that　I　had　ever　been　in　ten　thousand　lives　before

strove　in　me；　and　troubled　the　flux　of　me；　in　the　effort　to

incorporate　itself　in　me　and　become　me。



Silly；　isn't　it？　　But　remember；　my　reader；　whom　I　hope　to　have

travel　far　with　me　through　time　and　spaceremember；　please；　my

reader；　that　I　have　thought　much　on　these　matters；　that　through

bloody　nights　and　sweats　of　dark　that　lasted　years…long；　I　have　been

alone　with　my　many　selves　to　consult　and　contemplate　my　many　selves。

I　have　gone　through　the　hells　of　all　existences　to　bring　you　news

which　you　will　share　with　me　in　a　casual　comfortable　hour　over　my

printed　page。



So；　to　return；　I　say；　during　the　ages　of　three　and　four　and　five；　I

was　not　yet　I。　　I　was　merely　becoming　as　I　took　form　in　the　mould　of

my　body；　and　all　the　mighty；　indestructible　past　wrought　in　the

mixture　of　me　to　determine　what　the　form　of　that　becoming　would　be。

It　was　not　my　voice　that　cried　out　in　the　night　in　fear　of　things

known；　which　I；　forsooth；　did　not　and　could　not　know。　　The　same　with

my　childish　angers；　my　loves；　and　my　laughters。　　Other　voices

screamed　through　my　voice；　the　voices　of　men　and　women　aforetime；　of

all　shadowy　hosts　of　progenitors。　　And　the　snarl　of　my　anger　was

blended　with　the　snarls　of　beasts　more　ancient　than　the　mountains；

and　the　vocal　madness　of　my　child　hysteria；　with　all　the　red　of　its

wrath；　was　chorded　with　the　insensate；　stupid　cries　of　beasts　pre…

Adamic　and　progeologic　in　time。



And　there　the　secret　is　out。　　The　red　wrath！　　It　has　undone　me　in

this；　my　present　life。　　Because　of　it；　a　few　short　weeks　hence；　I

shall　be　led　from　this　cell　to　a　high　place　with　unstable　flooring；

graced　above　by　a　well…stretched　rope；　and　there　they　will　hang　me

by　the　neck　until　I　am　dead。　　The　red　wrath　always　has　undone　me　in

all　my　lives；　for　the　red　wrath　is　my　disastrous　catastrophic

heritage　from　the　time　of　the　slimy　things　ere　the　world　was　prime。





It　is　time　that　I　introduce　myself。　　I　am　neither　fool　nor　lunatic。

I　want　you　to　know　that；　in　order　that　you　will　believe　the　things　I

shall　tell　you。　　I　am　Darrell　Standing。　　Some　few　of　you　who　read

this　will　know　me　immediately。　　But　to　the　majority；　who　are　bound

to　be　strangers；　let　me　exposit　myself。　　Eight　years　ago　I　was

Professor　of　Agronomics　in　the　College　of　Agriculture　of　the

University　of　California。　　Eight　years　ago　the　sleepy　little

university　town　of　Berkeley　was　shocked　by　the　murder　of　Professor

Haskell　in　one　of　the　laboratories　of　the　Mining　Building。　　Darrell

Standing　was　the　murderer。



I　am　Darrell　Standing。　　I　was　caught　red…handed。　　Now　the　right　and

the　wrong　of　this　affair　with　Professor　Haskell　I　shall　not　discuss。

It　was　purely　a　private　matter。　　The　point　is；　that　in　a　surge　of

anger；　obsessed　by　that　catastrophic　red　wrath　that　has　cursed　me

down　the　ages；　I　killed　my　fellow　professor。　　The　court　records　show

that　I　did；　and；　for　once；　I　agree　with　the　court　records。



No；　I　am　not　to　be　hanged　for　his　murder。　　I　received　a　life…

sentence　for　my　punishment。　　I　was　thirty…six　years　of　age　at　the

time。　　I　am　now　forty…four　years　old。　　I　have　spent　the　eight

intervening　years　in　the　California　State　Prison　of　San　Quentin。

Five　of　these　years　I　spent　in　the　dark。　　Solitary　confinement；　they

call　it。　　Men　who　endure　it；　call　it　living　death。　　But　through

these　five　years　of　death…in…life　I　managed　to　attain　freedom　such

as　few　men　have　ever　known。　　Closest…confined　of　prisoners；　not　only

did　I　range　the　world；　but　I　ranged　time。　　They　who　immured　me　for

petty　years　gave　to　me；　all　unwittingly；　the　largess　of　centuries。

Truly；　thanks　to　Ed　Morrell；　I　have　had　five　years　of　star…roving。

But　Ed　Morrell　is　another　story。　　I　shall　tell　you　about　him　a

little　later。　　I　have　so　much　to　tell　I　scarce　know　how　to　begin。



Well；　a　beginning。　　I　was　born　on　a　quarter…section　in　Minnesota。

My　mother　was　the　daughter　of　an　immigrant　Swede。　　Her　name　was

Hilda　Tonnesson。　　My　father　was　Chauncey　Standing；　of　old　American

stock。　　He　traced　back　to　Alfred　Standing；　an　indentured　servant；　or

slave　if　you　please；　who　was　transported　from　England　to　the

Virginia　plantations　in　the　days　that　were　even　old　when　the

youthful　Washington　went　a…surveying　in　the　Pennsylvania　wilderness。



A　son　of　Alfred　Standing　fought　in　the　War　of　the　Revolution；　a

grandson；　in　the　War　of　1812。　　There　have　been　no　wars　since　in

which　the　Standings　have　not　been　represented。　　I；　the　last　of　the

Standings；　dying　soon　without　issue；　fought　as　a　common　soldier　in

the　Philippines；　in　our　latest　war；　and　to　do　so　I　resigned；　in　the

full　early　ripeness　of　career；　my　professorship　in　the　University　of

Nebraska。　　Good　heavens；　when　I　so　resigned　I　was　headed　for　the

Deanship　of　the　College　of　Agriculture　in　that　universityI；　the

star…rover；　the　red…blooded　adventurer；　the　vagabondish　Cain　of　the

centuries；　the　militant　priest　of　remotest　times；　the　moon…dreaming

poet　of　ages　forgotten　and　to…day　unrecorded　in　man's　history　of

man！



And　here　I　am；　my　hands　dyed　red　in　Murderers'　Row；　in　the　State

Prison　of　Folsom；　awaiting　the　day　decreed　by　the　machinery　of　state

when　the　servants　of　the　state　will　lead　me　away　into　what　they

fondly　believe　is　the　darkthe　dark　they　fear；　the　dark　that　gives

them　fearsome　and　superstitious　fancies；　the　dark　that　drives　them；

drivelling　and　yammering；　to　the　altars　of　their　fear…created；

anthropomorphic　gods。



No；　I　shall　never　be　Dean　of　any　college　of　agriculture。　　And　yet　I

knew　agriculture。　　It　was　my　profession。　　I　was　born　to　it；　reared

to　it；　trained　to　it；　and　I　was　a　master　of　it。　　It　was　my　genius。

I　can　pick　the　high…percentage　butter…fat　cow　with　my　eye　and　let

the　Babcock　Tester　prove　the　wisdom　of　my　eye。　　I　can　look；　not　at

land；　but　at　landscape；　and　pronounce　the　virtues　and　the

shortcomings　of　the　soil。　　Litmus　paper　is　not　necessary　when　I

determine　a　soil　to　be　acid　or　alkali。　　I　repeat；　farm…husbandry；　in

its　highest　scientific　terms；　was　my　genius；　and　is　my　genius。　　And

yet　the　state；　which　includes　all　the　citizens　of　the　state；

believes　that　it　can　blot　out　this　wisdom　of　mine　in　the　final　dark

by　means　of　a　rope　about　my　neck　and　the　abruptive　jerk　of

gravitationthis　wisdom　of　mine　that　was　incubated　through　the

millenniums；　and　that　was　well…hatched　ere　the　farmed　fields　of　Troy

were　ever　pastured　by　the　flocks　of　nomad　shepherds！



Corn？　　Who　else　knows　corn？　　There　is　my　demonstration　at　Wistar；

whereby　I　increased　the　annual　corn…yield　of　every　county　in　Iowa　by

half　a　million　dollars。　　This　is　history。　　Many　a　farmer；　riding　in

his　motor…car　to…day；　knows　who　made　possible　that　motor…car。　　Many

a　sweet…bosomed　girl　and　bright…browed　boy；　poring　over　high…school

text…books；　little　dreams　that　I　made　that　higher　education　possible

by　my　corn　demonstration　at　Wistar。



And　farm　management！　　I　know　the　waste　of　superfluous　motion　without

studying　a　moving　picture　record　of　it；　whether　it　be　farm　or　farm…

hand；　the　layout　of　buildings　or　the　layout　of　the　farm…hands'

labour。　　There　is　my　handbook　and　tables　on　the　subject。　　Beyond　the

shadow　of　any　doubt；　at　this　present　moment；　a　hundred　thousand

farmers　are　knotting　their　brows　over　its　spread　pages　ere　they　tap

out　their　final　pipe　and　go　to　bed。　　And　yet；　so　far　was　I　beyond　my

tables；　that　all　I　needed　was　a　mere　look　at　a　man　to　know　his

predispositions；　his　co…ordinations；　and　the　index　fraction　of　his

motion…wastage。



And　here　I　must　close　this　first　chapter　of　my　narrative。　　It　is

nine　o'clock；　and　in　Murderers'　Row　that　means　lights　out。　　Even

now；　I　hear　the　soft　tread　of　the　gum…shoed　guard　as　he　comes　to

censure　me　for　my　coal…oil　lamp　still　burning。　　As　if　the　mere

living　could　censure　the　do