LOST FACE(丢失的脸)

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LOST FACE

by Jack London

LOST FACE

It was the end. Subienkow had travelled a long trail of bitterness and

horror, homing like a dove for the capitals of Europe, and here, farther

away than ever, in Russian America, the trail ceased. He sat in the snow,

arms tied behind him, waiting the torture. He stared curiously before him

at a huge Cossack, prone in the snow, moaning in his pain. The men had

finished handling the giant and turned him over to the women. That they

exceeded the fiendishness of the men, the man's cries attested.

Subienkow looked on, and shuddered. He was not afraid to die. He

had carried his life too long in his hands, on that weary trail from Warsaw

to Nulato, to shudder at mere dying. But he objected to the torture. It

offended his soul. And this offence, in turn, was not due to the mere pain

he must endure, but to the sorry spectacle the pain would make of him.

He knew that he would pray, and beg, and entreat, even as Big Ivan and

the others that had gone before. This would not be nice. To pass out

bravely and cleanly, with a smile and a jest--ah! that would have been the

way. But to lose control, to have his soul upset by the pangs of the flesh,

to screech and gibber like an ape, to become the veriest beast--ah, that was

what was so terrible.

There had been no chance to escape. From the beginning, when he

dreamed the fiery dream of Poland's independence, he had become a

puppet in the hands of Fate. From the beginning, at Warsaw, at St.

Petersburg, in the Siberian mines, in Kamtchatka, on the crazy boats of the

fur-thieves, Fate had been driving him to this end. Without doubt, in the

foundations of the world was graved this end for him-- for him, who was

so fine and sensitive, whose nerves scarcely sheltered under his skin, who

was a dreamer, and a poet, and an artist. Before he was dreamed of, it

had been determined that the quivering bundle of sensitiveness that

constituted him should be doomed to live in raw and howling savagery,

and to die in this far land of night, in this dark place beyond the last

boundaries of the world.

He sighed. So that thing before him was Big Ivan--Big Ivan the giant,

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the man without nerves, the man of iron, the Cossack turned freebooter of

the seas, who was as phlegmatic as an ox, with a nervous system so low

that what was pain to ordinary men was scarcely a tickle to him. Well,

well, trust these Nulato Indians to find Big Ivan's nerves and trace them to

the roots of his quivering soul. They were certainly doing it. It was

inconceivable that a man could suffer so much and yet live. Big Ivan

was paying for his low order of nerves. Already he had lasted twice as

long as any of the others.

Subienkow felt that he could not stand the Cossack's sufferings much

longer. Why didn't Ivan die? He would go mad if that screaming did

not cease. But when it did cease, his turn would come. And there was

Yakaga awaiting him, too, grinning at him even now in anticipation--

Yakaga, whom only last week he had kicked out of the fort, and upon

whose face he had laid the lash of his dog-whip. Yakaga would attend to

him. Doubtlessly Yakaga was saving for him more refined tortures, more

exquisite nerve-racking. Ah! that must have been a good one, from the

way Ivan screamed. The squaws bending over him stepped back with

laughter and clapping of hands. Subienkow saw the monstrous thing that

had been perpetrated, and began to laugh hysterically. The Indians

looked at him in wonderment that he should laugh. But Subienkow

could not stop.

This would never do. He controlled himself, the spasmodic

twitchings slowly dying away. He strove to think of other things, and

began reading back in his own life. He remembered his mother and his

father, and the little spotted pony, and the French tutor who had taught him

dancing and sneaked him an old worn copy of Voltaire. Once more he saw

Paris, and dreary London, and gay Vienna, and Rome. And once more he

saw that wild group of youths who had dreamed, even as he, the dream of

an independent Poland with a king of Poland on the throne at Warsaw.

Ah, there it was that the long trail began. Well, he had lasted longest.

One by one, beginning with the two executed at St. Petersburg, he took up

the count of the passing of those brave spirits. Here one had been beaten

to death by a jailer, and there, on that bloodstained highway of the exiles,

where they had marched for endless months, beaten and maltreated by

LOST FACE

their Cossack guards, another had dropped by the way. Always it had

been savagery- -brutal, bestial savagery. They had died--of fever, in the

mines, under the knout. The last two had died after the escape, in the

battle with the Cossacks, and he alone had won to Kamtchatka with the

stolen papers and the money of a traveller he had left lying in the snow.

It had been nothing but savagery. All the years, with his heart in

studios, and theatres, and courts, he had been hemmed in by savagery. He

had purchased his life with blood. Everybody had killed. He had killed

that traveller for his passports. He had proved that he was a man of parts

by duelling with two Russian officers on a single day. He had had to prove

himself in order to win to a place among the fur- thieves. He had had to

win to that place. Behind him lay the thousand-years-long road across all

Siberia and Russia. He could not escape that way. The only way was

ahead, across the dark and icy sea of Bering to Alaska. The way had led

from savagery to deeper savagery. On the scurvy-rotten ships of the fur-

thieves, out of food and out of water, buffeted by the interminable storms

of that stormy sea, men had become animals. Thrice he had sailed east

from Kamtchatka. And thrice, after all manner of hardship and suffering,

the survivors had come back to Kamtchatka. There had been no outlet

for escape, and he could not go back the way he had come, for the mines

and the knout awaited him.

Again, the fourth and last time, he had sailed east. He had been with

those who first found the fabled Seal Islands; but he had not returned with

them to share the wealth of furs in the mad orgies of Kamtchatka. He

had sworn never to go back. He knew that to win to those dear capitals

of Europe he must go on. So he had changed ships and remained in the

dark new land. His comrades were Slavonian hunters and Russian

adventurers, Mongols and Tartars and Siberian aborigines; and through the

savages of the new world they had cut a path of blood. They had

massacred whole villages that refused to furnish the fur-tribute; and they,

in turn, had been massacred by ships' companies. He, with one Finn, had

been the sole survivor of such a company. They had spent a winter of

solitude and starvation on a lonely Aleutian isle, and their rescue in the

spring by another fur-ship had been one chance in a thousand.

LOST FACE

But always the terrible savagery had hemmed him in. Passing from

ship to ship, and ever refusing to return, he had come to the ship that

explored south. All down the Alaska coast they had encountered nothing

but hosts of savages. Every anchorage among the beetling islands or

under the frowning cliffs of the mainland had meant a battle or a storm.

Either the gales blew, threatening destruction, or the war canoes came off,

manned by howling natives with the war- paint on their faces, who came

to learn the bloody virtues of the sea-rovers' gunpowder. South, south

they had coasted, clear to the myth-land of California. Here, it was said,

were Spanish adventurers who had fought their way up from Mexico. He

had had hopes of those Spanish adventurers. Escaping to them, the rest

would have been easy--a year or two, what did it matter more or less--and

he would win to Mexico, then a ship, and Europe would be his. But they

had met no Spaniards. Only had they encountered the same impregnable

wall of savagery. The denizens of the confines of the world, painted for

war, had driven them back from the shores. At last, when one boat was

cut off and every man killed, the commander had abandoned the quest and

sailed back to the north.

The years had passed. He had served under Tebenkoff when

Michaelovski Redoubt was built. He had spent two years in the

Kuskokwim country. Two summers, in the month of June, he had

managed to be at the head of Kotzebue Sound. Here, at this time, the

tribes assembled for barter; here were to be found spotted deerskins from

Siberia, ivory from the Diomedes, walrus skins from the shores of the

Arctic, strange stone lamps, passing in trade from tribe to tribe, no one

knew whence, and, once, a hunting-knife of English make; and here,

Subienkow knew, was the school in which to learn geography. For he met

Eskimos from Norton Sound, from King Island and St. Lawrence Island,

from Cape Prince of Wales, and Point Barrow. Such places had other

names, and their distances were measured in days.

It was a vast region these trading savages came from, and a vaster

region from which, by repeated trade, their stone lamps and that steel knife

had come. Subienkow bullied, and cajoled, and bribed. Every far-

journeyer or strange tribesman was brought before him. Perils

LOST FACE

unaccountable and unthinkable were mentioned, as well as wild beasts,

hostile tribes, impenetrable forests, and mighty mountain ranges; but

always from beyond came the rumour and the tale of white- skinned men,

blue of eye and fair of hair, who fought like devils and who sought always

for furs. They were to the east--far, far to the east. No one had seen

them. It was the word that had been passed along.

It was a hard school. One could not learn geography very well

through the medium of strange dialects, from dark minds that mingled fact

and fable and that measured distances by "sleeps" that varied according to

the difficulty of the going. But at last came the whisper that gave

Subienkow courage. In the east lay a great river where were these blue-

eyed men. The river was called the Yukon. South of Michaelovski

Redoubt emptied another great river which the Russians knew as the

Kwikpak. These two rivers were one, ran the whisper.

Subienkow returned to Michaelovski. For a year he urged an

expedition up the Kwikpak. Then arose Malakoff, the Russian half-

breed, to lead the wildest and most ferocious of the hell's broth of mongrel

adventurers who had crossed from Kamtchatka. Subienkow was his

lieutenant. They threaded the mazes of the great delta of the Kwikpak,

picked up the first low hills on the northern bank, and for half a thousand

miles, in skin canoes loaded to the gunwales with trade-goods and

ammunition, fought their way against the five-knot current of a river that

ran from two to ten miles wide in a channel many fathoms deep.

Malakoff decided to build the fort at Nulato. Subienkow urged to go

farther. But he quickly reconciled himself to Nulato. The long winter

was coming on. It would be better to wait. Early the following summer,

when the ice was gone, he would disappear up the Kwikpak and work his

way to the Hudson Bay Company's posts. Malakoff had never heard the

whisper that the Kwikpak was the Yukon, and Subienkow did not tell him.

Came the building of the fort. It was enforced labour. The tiered

walls of logs arose to the sighs and groans of the Nulato Indians. The lash

was laid upon their backs, and it was the iron hand of the freebooters of

the sea that laid on the lash. There were Indians that ran away, and when

they were caught they were brought back and spread-eagled before the fort,

LOST FACE

where they and their tribe learned the efficacy of the knout. Two died

under it; others were injured for life; and the rest took the lesson to heart

and ran away no more. The snow was flying ere the fort was finished, and

then it was the time for furs. A heavy tribute was laid upon the tribe.

Blows and lashings continued, and that the tribute should be paid, the

women and children were held as hostages and treated with the barbarity

that only the fur-thieves knew.

Well, it had been a sowing of blood, and now was come the harvest.

The fort was gone. In the light of its burning, half the fur-thieves had

been cut down. The other half had passed under the torture. Only

Subienkow remained, or Subienkow and Big Ivan, if that whimpering,

moaning thing in the snow could be called Big Ivan. Subienkow caught

Yakaga grinning at him. There was no gainsaying Yakaga. The mark of

the lash was still on his face. After all, Subienkow could not blame him,

but he disliked the thought of what Yakaga would do to him. He thought

of appealing to Makamuk, the head-chief; but his judgment told him that

such appeal was useless. Then, too, he thought of bursting his bonds and

dying fighting. Such an end would be quick. But he could not break

his bonds. Caribou thongs were stronger than he. Still devising,

another thought came to him. He signed for Makamuk, and that an

interpreter who knew the coast dialect should be brought.

"Oh, Makamuk," he said, "I am not minded to die. I am a great man,

and it were foolishness for me to die. In truth, I shall not die. I am not

like these other carrion."

He looked at the moaning thing that had once been Big Ivan, and

stirred it contemptuously with his toe.

"I am too wise to die. Behold, I have a great medicine. I alone

know this medicine. Since I am not going to die, I shall exchange this

medicine with you."

"What is this medicine?" Makamuk demanded.

"It is a strange medicine."

Subienkow debated with himself for a moment, as if loth to part with

the secret.

"I will tell you. A little bit of this medicine rubbed on the skin makes

LOST FACE

the skin hard like a rock, hard like iron, so that no cutting weapon can cut

it. The strongest blow of a cutting weapon is a vain thing against it. A

bone knife becomes like a piece of mud; and it will turn the edge of the

iron knives we have brought among you. What will you give me for the

secret of the medicine?"

"I will give you your life," Makamuk made answer through the

interpreter.

Subienkow laughed scornfully.

"And you shall be a slave in my house until you die."

The Pole laughed more scornfully.

"Untie my hands and feet and let us talk," he said.

The chief made the sign; and when he was loosed Subienkow rolled a

cigarette and lighted it.

"This is foolish talk," said Makamuk. "There is no such medicine. It

cannot be. A cutting edge is stronger than any medicine."

The chief was incredulous, and yet he wavered. He had seen too

many deviltries of fur-thieves that worked. He could not wholly doubt.

"I will give you your life; but you shall not be a slave," he announced.

"More than that."

Subienkow played his game as coolly as if he were bartering for a

foxskin.

"It is a very great medicine. It has saved my life many times. I

want a sled and dogs, and six of your hunters to travel with me down the

river and give me safety to one day's sleep from Michaelovski Redoubt."

"You must live here, and teach us all of your deviltries," was the reply.

Subienkow shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. He blew

cigarette smoke out on the icy air, and curiously regarded what remained

of the big Cossack.

"That scar!" Makamuk said suddenly, pointing to the Pole's neck,

where a livid mark advertised the slash of a knife in a Kamtchatkan brawl.

"The medicine is not good. The cutting edge was stronger than the

medicine."

"It was a strong man that drove the stroke." (Subienkow considered.)

"Stronger than you, stronger than your strongest hunter, stronger than he."

LOST FACE

Again, with the toe of his moccasin, he touched the Cossack--a grisly

spectacle, no longer conscious--yet in whose dismembered body the pain-

racked life clung and was loth to go.

"Also, the medicine was weak. For at that place there were no

berries of a certain kind, of which I see you have plenty in this country.

The medicine here will be strong."

"I will let you go down river," said Makamuk; "and the sled and the

dogs and the six hunters to give you safety shall be yours."

"You are slow," was the cool rejoinder. "You have committed an

offence against my medicine in that you did not at once accept my terms.

Behold, I now demand more. I want one hundred beaver skins."

(Makamuk sneered.)

"I want one hundred pounds of dried fish." (Makamuk nodded, for

fish were plentiful and cheap.) "I want two sleds--one for me and one for

my furs and fish. And my rifle must be returned to me. If you do not

like the price, in a little while the price will grow."

Yakaga whispered to the chief.

"But how can I know your medicine is true medicine?" Makamuk

asked.

"It is very easy. First, I shall go into the woods--"

Again Yakaga whispered to Makamuk, who made a suspicious dissent.

"You can send twenty hunters with me," Subienkow went on. "You

see, I must get the berries and the roots with which to make the medicine.

Then, when you have brought the two sleds and loaded on them the fish

and the beaver skins and the rifle, and when you have told off the six

hunters who will go with me--then, when all is ready, I will rub the

medicine on my neck, so, and lay my neck there on that log. Then can

your strongest hunter take the axe and strike three times on my neck.

You yourself can strike the three times."

Makamuk stood with gaping mouth, drinking in this latest and most

wonderful magic of the fur-thieves.

"But first," the Pole added hastily, "between each blow I must put on

fresh medicine. The axe is heavy and sharp, and I want no mistakes."

"All that you have asked shall be yours," Makamuk cried in a rush of

LOST FACE

acceptance. "Proceed to make your medicine."

Subienkow concealed his elation. He was playing a desperate game,

and there must be no slips. He spoke arrogantly.

"You have been slow. My medicine is offended. To make the

offence clean you must give me your daughter."

He pointed to the girl, an unwholesome creature, with a cast in one eye

and a bristling wolf-tooth. Makamuk was angry, but the Pole remained

imperturbable, rolling and lighting another cigarette.

"Make haste," he threatened. "If you are not quick, I shall demand

yet more."

In the silence that followed, the dreary northland scene faded before

him, and he saw once more his native land, and France, and, once, as he

glanced at the wolf-toothed girl, he remembered another girl, a singer and

a dancer, whom he had known when first as a youth he came to Paris.

"What do you want with the girl?" Makamuk asked.

"To go down the river with me." Subienkow glanced over her

critically. "She will make a good wife, and it is an honour worthy of my

medicine to be married to your blood."

Again he remembered the singer and dancer and hummed aloud a song

she had taught him. He lived the old life over, but in a detached,

impersonal sort of way, looking at the memory-pictures of his own life as

if they were pictures in a book of anybody's life. The chief's voice,

abruptly breaking the silence, startled him

"It shall be done," said Makamuk. "The girl shall go down the river

with you. But be it understood that I myself strike the three blows with

the axe on your neck."

"But each time I shall put on the medicine," Subienkow answered,

with a show of ill-concealed anxiety.

"You shall put the medicine on between each blow. Here are the

hunters who shall see you do not escape. Go into the forest and gather

your medicine."

Makamuk had been convinced of the worth of the medicine by the

Pole's rapacity. Surely nothing less than the greatest of medicines could

enable a man in the shadow of death to stand up and drive an old-

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摘要：

LOSTFACE1LOSTFACEbyJackLondonLOSTFACE2LOSTFACEItwastheend.Subienkowhadtravelledalongtrailofbitternessandhorror,hominglikeadoveforthecapitalsofEurope,andhere,fartherawaythanever,inRussianAmerica,thetrailceased.Hesatinthesnow,armstiedbehindhim,waitingthetorture.HestaredcuriouslybeforehimatahugeCossack...

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