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- Джек Лондон
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- Стр. 204/210
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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
Brünnhilde
and
Guinevere
,
Iseult
and
Juliet
,
Héloïse
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
.
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
...
.
