the jacket (the star-rover)-第52章

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thing　in　life；　in　all　lives；　to　me　and　to　all　men；　has　been　woman；

is　woman；　and　will　be　woman　so　long　as　the　stars　drift　in　the　sky

and　the　heavens　flux　eternal　change。　　Greater　than　our　toil　and

endeavour；　the　play　of　invention　and　fancy；　battle　and　star…gazing

and　mysterygreatest　of　all　has　been　woman。



Even　though　she　has　sung　false　music　to　me；　and　kept　my　feet　solid

on　the　ground；　and　drawn　my　star…roving　eyes　ever　back　to　gaze　upon

her；　she；　the　conserver　of　life；　the　earth…mother；　has　given　me　my

great　days　and　nights　and　fulness　of　years。　　Even　mystery　have　I

imaged　in　the　form　of　her；　and　in　my　star…charting　have　I　placed　her

figure　in　the　sky。



All　my　toils　and　devices　led　to　her；　all　my　far　visions　saw　her　at

the　end。　　When　I　made　the　fire…drill　and　fire…socket；　it　was　for

her。　　It　was　for　her；　although　I　did　not　know　it；　that　I　put　the

stake　in　the　pit　for　old　Sabre…Tooth；　tamed　the　horse；　slew　the

mammoth；　and　herded　my　reindeer　south　in　advance　of　the　ice…sheet。

For　her　I　harvested　the　wild　rice；　tamed　the　barley；　the　wheat；　and

the　corn。



For　her；　and　the　seed　to　come　after　whose　image　she　bore；　I　have

died　in　tree…tops　and　stood　long　sieges　in　cave…mouths　and　on　mud…

walls。　　For　her　I　put　the　twelve　signs　in　the　sky。　　It　was　she　I

worshipped　when　I　bowed　before　the　ten　stones　of　jade　and　adored

them　as　the　moons　of　gestation。



Always　has　woman　crouched　close　to　earth　like　a　partridge　hen

mothering　her　young；　always　has　my　wantonness　of　roving　led　me　out

on　the　shining　ways；　and　always　have　my　star…paths　returned　me　to

her；　the　figure　everlasting；　the　woman；　the　one　woman；　for　whose

arms　I　had　such　need　that　clasped　in　them　I　have　forgotten　the

stars。



For　her　I　accomplished　Odysseys；　scaled　mountains；　crossed　deserts；

for　her　I　led　the　hunt　and　was　forward　in　battle；　and　for　her　and　to

her　I　sang　my　songs　of　the　things　I　had　done。　　All　ecstasies　of　life

and　rhapsodies　of　delight　have　been　mine　because　of　her。　　And　here；

at　the　end；　I　can　say　that　I　have　known　no　sweeter；　deeper　madness

of　being　than　to　drown　in　the　fragrant　glory　and　forgetfulness　of

her　hair。



One　word　more。　　I　remember　me　Dorothy；　just　the　other　day；　when　I

still　lectured　on　agronomy　to　farmer…boy　students。　　She　was　eleven

years　old。　　Her　father　was　dean　of　the　college。　　She　was　a　woman…

child；　and　a　woman；　and　she　conceived　that　she　loved　me。　　And　I

smiled　to　myself；　for　my　heart　was　untouched　and　lay　elsewhere。



Yet　was　the　smile　tender；　for　in　the　child's　eyes　I　saw　the　woman

eternal；　the　woman　of　all　times　and　appearances。　　In　her　eyes　I　saw

the　eyes　of　my　mate　of　the　jungle　and　tree…top；　of　the　cave　and　the

squatting…place。　　In　her　eyes　I　saw　the　eyes　of　Igar　when　I　was　Ushu

the　archer；　the　eyes　of　Arunga　when　I　was　the　rice…harvester；　the

eyes　of　Selpa　when　I　dreamed　of　bestriding　the　stallion；　the　eyes　of

Nuhila　who　leaned　to　the　thrust　of　my　sword。　　Yes；　there　was　that　in

her　eyes　that　made　them　the　eyes　of　Lei…Lei　whom　I　left　with　a　laugh

on　my　lips；　the　eyes　of　the　Lady　Om　for　forty　years　my　beggar…mate

on　highway　and　byway；　the　eyes　of　Philippa　for　whom　I　was　slain　on

the　grass　in　old　France；　the　eyes　of　my　mother　when　I　was　the　lad

Jesse　at　the　Mountain　Meadows　in　the　circle　of　our　forty　great

wagons。



She　was　a　woman…child；　but　she　was　daughter　of　all　women；　as　her

mother　before　her；　and　she　was　the　mother　of　all　women　to　come　after

her。　　She　was　Sar；　the　corn…goddess。　　She　was　Isthar　who　conquered

death。　　She　was　Sheba　and　Cleopatra；　she　was　Esther　and　Herodias。

She　was　Mary　the　Madonna；　and　Mary　the　Magdalene；　and　Mary　the

sister　of　Martha；　also　she　was　Martha。　　And　she　was　Brunnhilde　and

Guinevere；　Iseult　and　Juliet；　Heloise　and　Nicolette。　　Yes；　and　she

was　Eve；　she　was　Lilith；　she　was　Astarte。　　She　was　eleven　years　old；

and　she　was　all　women　that　had　been；　all　women　to　be。



I　sit　in　my　cell　now；　while　the　flies　hum　in　the　drowsy　summer

afternoon；　and　I　know　that　my　time　is　short。　　Soon　they　will　apparel

me　in　the　shirt　without　a　collar。　。　。　。　But　hush；　my　heart。　　The

spirit　is　immortal。　　After　the　dark　I　shall　live　again；　and　there

will　be　women。　　The　future　holds　the　little　women　for　me　in　the

lives　I　am　yet　to　live。　　And　though　the　stars　drift；　and　the　heavens

lie；　ever　remains　woman；　resplendent；　eternal；　the　one　woman；　as　I；

under　all　my　masquerades　and　misadventures；　am　the　one　man；　her

mate。







CHAPTER　XXII







My　time　grows　very　short。　　All　the　manuscript　I　have　written　is

safely　smuggled　out　of　the　prison。　　There　is　a　man　I　can　trust　who

will　see　that　it　is　published。　　No　longer　am　I　in　Murderers　Row。　　I

am　writing　these　lines　in　the　death　cell；　and　the　death…watch　is　set

on　me。　　Night　and　day　is　this　death…watch　on　me；　and　its　paradoxical

function　is　to　see　that　I　do　not　die。　　I　must　be　kept　alive　for　the

hanging；　or　else　will　the　public　be　cheated；　the　law　blackened；　and

a　mark　of　demerit　placed　against　the　time…serving　warden　who　runs

this　prison　and　one　of　whose　duties　is　to　see　that　his　condemned

ones　are　duly　and　properly　hanged。　　Often　I　marvel　at　the　strange

way　some　men　make　their　livings。



This　shall　be　my　last　writing。　　To…morrow　morning　the　hour　is　set。

The　governor　has　declined　to　pardon　or　reprieve；　despite　the　fact

that　the　Anti…Capital…Punishment　League　has　raised　quite　a　stir　in

California。　　The　reporters　are　gathered　like　so　many　buzzards。　　I

have　seen　them　all。　　They　are　queer　young　fellows；　most　of　them；　and

most　queer　is　it　that　they　will　thus　earn　bread　and　butter；

cocktails　and　tobacco；　room…rent；　and；　if　they　are　married；　shoes

and　schoolbooks　for　their　children；　by　witnessing　the　execution　of

Professor　Darrell　Standing；　and　by　describing　for　the　public　how

Professor　Darrell　Standing　died　at　the　end　of　a　rope。　　Ah；　well；

they　will　be　sicker　than　I　at　the　end　of　the　affair。



As　I　sit　here　and　muse　on　it　all；　the　footfalls　of　the　death…watch

going　up　and　down　outside　my　cage；　the　man's　suspicious　eyes　ever

peering　in　on　me；　almost　I　weary　of　eternal　recurrence。　　I　have

lived　so　many　lives。　　I　weary　of　the　endless　struggle　and　pain　and

catastrophe　that　come　to　those　who　sit　in　the　high　places；　tread　the

shining　ways；　and　wander　among　the　stars。



Almost　I　hope；　when　next　I　reinhabit　form；　that　it　shall　be　that　of

a　peaceful　farmer。　　There　is　my　dream…farm。　　I　should　like　to　engage

just　for　one　whole　life　in　that。　　Oh；　my　dream…farm！　　My　alfalfa

meadows；　my　efficient　Jersey　cattle；　my　upland　pastures；　my　brush…

covered　slopes　melting　into　tilled　fields；　while　ever　higher　up　the

slopes　my　angora　goats　eat　away　brush　to　tillage！



There　is　a　basin　there；　a　natural　basin　high　up　the　slopes；　with　a

generous　watershed　on　three　sides。　　I　should　like　to　throw　a　dam

across　the　fourth　side；　which　is　surprisingly　narrow。　　At　a　paltry

price　of　labour　I　could　impound　twenty　million　gallons　of　water。

For；　see：　　one　great　drawback　to　farming　in　California　is　our　long

dry　summer。　　This　prevents　the　growing　of　cover　crops；　and　the

sensitive　soil；　naked；　a　mere　surface　dust…mulch；　has　its　humus

burned　out　of　it　by　the　sun。　　Now　with　that　dam　I　could　grow　three

crops　a　year；　observing　due　rotation；　and　be　able　to　turn　under　a

wealth　of　green　manure。　。　。　。





I　have　just　endured　a　visit　from　the　Warden。　　I　say　〃endured〃

advisedly。　　He　is　quite　different　from　the　Warden　of　San　Quentin。

He　was　very　nervous；　and　perforce　I　had　to　entertain　him。　　This　is

his　first　hanging。　　He　told　me　so。　　And　I；　with　a　clumsy　attempt　at

wit；　did　not　reassure　him　when　I　explained　that　it　was　also　my　first

hanging。　　He　was　unable　to　laugh。　　He　has　a　girl　in　high　school；　and

his　boy　is　a　freshman　at　Stanford。　　He　has　no　income　outside　his

salary；　his　wife　is　an　invalid；　and　he　is　worried　in　that　he　has

been　rejected　by　the　life　insurance　doctors　as　an　undesirable　risk。

Really；　the　man　told　me　almost　all　his　troubles。　　Had　I　not

diplomatically　terminated　the　interview　he　would　still　be　here

telling　me　the　remainder　of　them。



My　last　two　years　in　San　Quentin　were　very　gloomy　and　depressing。

Ed　Morrell；　by　one　of　the　wildest　freaks　of　chance；　was　taken　out　of

solitary　and　made　head　trusty　of　the　whole　prison。　　This　was　Al

Hutchins'　old　job；　and　it　carried　a　graft　of　three　thousand　dollars

a　year。　　To　my　misfortune；　Jake　Oppenheimer；　who　had　rotted　in

solitary　for　so　many　years；　turned　sour　on　the　world；　on　everything。

For　eight　months　he　refused　to　talk　even　to　me。



In　prison；　news　will　travel。　　Give　it　time　and　it　will　reach　dungeon

and　solitary　cell。　　It　reached　me；　at　last；　that　Cecil　Winwood；　the

poet…forger；　the　snitcher；　the　coward；　and　the　stool；　was　returned

for　a　fresh　forgery。　　It　will　be　remembered　that　it　was　this　Cecil

Winwood　who　concocted　the　fairy　story　that　I　had　changed　the　plant

of　the　non…existent　dynamite　and　who　was　responsible　for　the　five

years　I　had　then　spent　in　solitary。



I　decided　to　kill　Cecil　Winwood。　　You　see；　Morrell　was　gone；　and

Oppenheimer；　until　the　outbreak　that　finished　him；　had　remained　in

the　silence。　　Solitary　had　grown　monotonous　for　me。　　I　had　to　do

something。　　So　I　remembered　back　to　the　time　when　I　was　Adam　Strang

and　patiently　nursed　revenge　for　forty　years。　　What　he　had　done　I

could　do　if　once　I　locked　my　hands　on　Cecil　Winwood's　throat。



It　cannot　be　expected　of　me　to　divulge　how　I　came　into　possession　of

the　four　needles。　　They　were　small　cambric　needles。　　Emaciated　as　my

body　was；　I　had　to　saw　four　bars；　each　in　two　places；　in　order　to

make　an　aperture　through　which　I　could　squirm。　　I　did　it。　　I　used　up

one　needle　to　each　bar。　　This　meant　two　cuts　to　a　bar；　and　it　took　a

month　to　a　cut。　　Thus　I　should　have　been　eight　months　in　cutting　my

way　out。　　Unfortunately；　I　broke　my　last　needle　on　the　last　bar；　and

I　had　to　wait　three　months　before　I　could　get　another　needle。　　But　I

got　it；　and　I　got　out。



I　regret　greatly　that　I　did　not　get　Cecil　Winwood。　　I　had　calculated

well　on　everything　save　one　thing。　　The　certain　chance　to　find

Winwood　would　be　in　the　dining…room　at　dinner　hour。　　So　I　waited

until　Pie…Face　Jones；　the　sleepy　guard；　should　be　on　shift　at　the

noon　hour。　　At　that　time　I　was　the　only　inmate　of　solitary；　so　that

Pie…Face　Jones　was　quickly　snoring。　　I　removed　my　bars；　squeezed

out；　stole　past　him　along　the　ward；　opened　the　door　and　was　free　。　。

。　to　a　portion　of　the　inside　of　the　prison。



And　here　was　the　one　thing　I　had　not　calculated　onmyself。　　I　had

been　five　years　in　solitary。　　I　was　hideously　weak。　　I　weighed

eighty…seven　pounds。　　I　was　half　blind。　　And　I　was　immediately

stricken　with　agoraphobia。　　I　was　affrighted　by　spaciousness。　　Five

years　in　narrow　walls　had　unfitted　me　for　the　enormous　declivity　of

the　stairway；　for　the　vastitude　of　the　prison　yard。



The　descent　of　that　stairway　I　consider　the　most　heroic　e