04-in a far country-第3章

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was　in　the　muck　with　the　swine；　and　told　him　so；　and　he　was

reciprocally　informed　that　he　was　a　milk…and…water　sissy　and　a　cad。

Weatherbee　could　not　have　defined　'cad'　for　his　life；　but　it　satisfied

its　purpose；　which　after　all　seems　the　main　point　in　life。

　　Weatherbee　flatted　every　third　note　and　sang　such　songs　as　'The

Boston　Burglar'　and　'the　Handsome　Cabin　Boy；'　for　hours　at　a　time；

while　Cuthfert　wept　with　rage；　till　he　could　stand　it　no　longer　and

fled　into　the　outer　cold。　But　there　was　no　escape。　The　intense　frost

could　not　be　endured　for　long　at　a　time；　and　the　little　cabin

crowded　them…　beds；　stove；　table；　and　all…　into　a　space　of　ten　by

twelve。　The　very　presence　of　either　became　a　personal　affront　to　the

other；　and　they　lapsed　into　sullen　silences　which　increased　in

length　and　strength　as　the　days　went　by。　Occasionally；　the　flash　of　an

eye　or　the　curl　of　a　lip　got　the　better　of　them；　though　they　strove　to

wholly　ignore　each　other　during　these　mute　periods。　And　a　great　wonder

sprang　up　in　the　breast　of　each；　as　to　how　God　had　ever　come　to　create

the　other。

　　With　little　to　do；　time　became　an　intolerable　burden　to　them。　This

naturally　made　them　still　lazier。　They　sank　into　a　physical　lethargy

which　there　was　no　escaping；　and　which　made　them　rebel　at　the

performance　of　the　smallest　chore。　One　morning　when　it　was　his　turn　to

cook　the　common　breakfast；　Weatherbee　rolled　out　of　his　blankets；

and　to　the　snoring　of　his　companion；　lighted　first　the　slush…lamp

and　then　the　fire。　The　kettles　were　frozen　hard；　and　there　was　no

water　in　the　cabin　with　which　to　wash。　But　he　did　not　mind　that。

Waiting　for　it　to　thaw；　he　sliced　the　bacon　and　plunged　into　the

hateful　task　of　bread…making。　Cuthfert　had　been　slyly　watching　through

his　half…closed　lids。　Consequently　there　was　a　scene；　in　which　they

fervently　blessed　each　other；　and　agreed；　henceforth；　that　each　do　his

own　cooking。　A　week　later；　Cuthfert　neglected　his　morning　ablutions；

but　none　the　less　complacently　ate　the　meal　which　he　had　cooked。

Weatherbee　grinned。　After　that　the　foolish　custom　of　washing　passed

out　of　their　lives。

　　As　the　sugar…pile　and　other　little　luxuries　dwindled；　they　began

to　be　afraid　they　were　not　getting　their　proper　shares；　and　in　order

that　they　might　not　be　robbed；　they　fell　to　gorging　themselves。　The

luxuries　suffered　in　this　gluttonous　contest；　as　did　also　the　men。

In　the　absence　of　fresh　vegetables　and　exercise；　their　blood　became

impoverished；　and　a　loathsome；　purplish　rash　crept　over　their

bodies。　Yet　they　refused　to　heed　the　warning。　Next；　their　muscles

and　joints　began　to　swell；　the　flesh　turning　black；　while　their

mouths；　gums；　and　lips　took　on　the　color　of　rich　cream。　Instead　of

being　drawn　together　by　their　misery；　each　gloated　over　the　other's

symptoms　as　the　scurvy　took　its　course。

　　They　lost　all　regard　for　personal　appearance；　and　for　that　matter；

common　decency。　The　cabin　became　a　pigpen；　and　never　once　were　the

beds　made　or　fresh　pine　boughs　laid　underneath。　Yet　they　could　not

keep　to　their　blankets；　as　they　would　have　wished；　for　the　frost　was

inexorable；　and　the　fire　box　consumed　much　fuel。　The　hair　of　their

heads　and　faces　grew　long　and　shaggy；　while　their　garments　would

have　disgusted　a　ragpicker。　But　they　did　not　care。　They　were　sick；　and

there　was　no　one　to　see；　besides；　it　was　very　painful　to　move　about。

　　To　all　this　was　added　a　new　trouble…　the　Fear　of　the　North。　This

Fear　was　the　joint　child　of　the　Great　Cold　and　the　Great　Silence；

and　was　born　in　the　darkness　of　December；　when　the　sun　dipped　below

the　horizon　for　good。　It　affected　them　according　to　their　natures。

Weatherbee　fell　prey　to　the　grosser　superstitions；　and　did　his　best　to

resurrect　the　spirits　which　slept　in　the　forgotten　graves。　It　was　a

fascinating　thing；　and　in　his　dreams　they　came　to　him　from　out　of

the　cold；　and　snuggled　into　his　blankets；　and　told　him　of　their

toils　and　troubles　ere　they　died。　He　shrank　away　from　the　clammy

contact　as　they　drew　closer　and　twined　their　frozen　limbs　about　him；

and　when　they　whispered　in　his　ear　of　things　to　come；　the　cabin　rang

with　his　frightened　shrieks。　Cuthfert　did　not　understand…　for　they

no　longer　spoke…　and　when　thus　awakened　he　invariably　grabbed　for

his　revolver。　Then　he　would　sit　up　in　bed；　shivering　nervously；　with

the　weapon　trained　on　the　unconscious　dreamer。　Cuthfert　deemed　the　man

going　mad；　and　so　came　to　fear　for　his　life。

　　His　own　malady　assumed　a　less　concrete　form。　The　mysterious

artisan　who　had　laid　the　cabin；　log　by　log；　had　pegged　a　wind…vane

to　the　ridgepole。　Cuthfert　noticed　it　always　pointed　south；　and　one

day；　irritated　by　its　steadfastness　of　purpose；　he　turned　it　toward

the　east。　He　watched　eagerly；　but　never　a　breath　came　by　to　disturb

it。　Then　he　turned　the　vane　to　the　north；　swearing　never　again　to

touch　it　till　the　wind　did　blow。　But　the　air　frightened　him　with　its

unearthly　calm；　and　he　often　rose　in　the　middle　of　the　night　to　see　if

the　vane　had　veered…　ten　degrees　would　have　satisfied　him。　But　no；

it　poised　above　him　as　unchangeable　as　fate。　His　imagination　ran　riot；

till　it　became　to　him　a　fetish。　Sometimes　he　followed　the　path　it

pointed　across　the　dismal　dominions；　and　allowed　his　soul　to　become

saturated　with　the　Fear。　He　dwelt　upon　the　unseen　and　the　unknown　till

the　burden　of　eternity　appeared　to　be　crushing　him。　Everything　in

the　Northland　had　that　crushing　effect…　the　absence　of　life　and

motion；　the　darkness；　the　infinite　peace　of　the　brooding　land；　the

ghastly　silence；　which　made　the　echo　of　each　heartbeat　a　sacrilege；

the　solemn　forest　which　seemed　to　guard　an　awful；　inexpressible

something；　which　neither　word　nor　thought　could　compass。

　　The　world　he　had　so　recently　left；　with　its　busy　nations　and　great

enterprises；　seemed　very　far　away。　Recollections　occasionally

obtruded…　recollections　of　marts　and　galleries　and　crowded

thoroughfares；　of　evening　dress　and　social　functions；　of　good　men

and　dear　women　he　had　known…　but　they　were　dim　memories　of　a　life　he

had　lived　long　centuries　agone；　on　some　other　planet。　This　phantasm

was　the　Reality。　Standing　beneath　the　wind…vane；　his　eyes　fixed　on　the

polar　skies；　he　could　not　bring　himself　to　realize　that　the

Southland　really　existed；　that　at　that　very　moment　it　was　a…roar

with　life　and　action。　There　was　no　Southland；　no　men　being　born　of

women；　no　giving　and　taking　in　marriage。　Beyond　his　bleak　skyline

there　stretched　vast　solitudes；　and　beyond　these　still　vaster

solitudes。　There　were　no　lands　of　sunshine；　heavy　with　the　perfume

of　flowers。　Such　things　were　only　old　dreams　of　paradise。　The　sunlands

of　the　West　and　the　spicelands　of　the　East；　the　smiling　Arcadias　and

blissful　Islands　of　the　Blest…　ha！　ha！　His　laughter　split　the　void　and

shocked　him　with　its　unwonted　sound。　There　was　no　sun。　This　was　the

Universe；　dead　and　cold　and　dark；　and　he　its　only　citizen。　Weatherbee？

At　such　moments　Weatherbee　did　not　count。　He　was　a　Caliban；　a

monstrous　phantom；　fettered　to　him　for　untold　ages；　the　penalty　of

some　forgotten　crime。

　　He　lived　with　Death　among　the　dead；　emasculated　by　the　sense　of

his　own　insignificance；　crushed　by　the　passive　mastery　of　the

slumbering　ages。　The　magnitude　of　all　things　appalled　him。

Everything　partook　of　the　superlative　save　himself…　the　perfect

cessation　of　wind　and　motion；　the　immensity　of　the　snow…covered

wildness；　the　height　of　the　sky　and　the　depth　of　the　silence。　That

wind…vane…　if　it　would　only　move。　If　a　thunderbolt　would　fall；　or

the　forest　flare　up　in　flame。　The　rolling　up　of　the　heavens　as　a

scroll；　the　crash　of　Doom…　anything；　anything！　But　no；　nothing

moved；　the　Silence　crowded　in；　and　the　Fear　of　the　North　laid　icy

fingers　on　his　heart。

　　Once；　like　another　Crusoe；　by　the　edge　of　the　river　he　came　upon　a

track…　the　faint　tracery　of　a　snowshoe　rabbit　on　the　delicate

snow…crust。　It　was　a　revelation。　There　was　life　in　the　Northland。　He

would　follow　it；　l