Джон Стейнбек: Cup of Gold [Золотая чаша]

In the house it was quiet except for the snapping fire-noises and for the swishing sound of blown thatch.

A log cracked on the hearth and out of the crevice a thin blaze leaped up and curled about the black kettle like a flower of flame. Now Mother flurried to the fireplace.

"Robert, you will never be paying attention to the fire. You should be poking at it now and again."

Such was her method. She poked a large fire to make it smaller, and, when it died, she stirred the embers violently to restore the flame.

A faint sound of footsteps came along the high-road-a sound that might have been the wind or those walking things which cannot be seen. The steps grew louder, then stopped in front of the door from whence came a timid knocking.

"Come! Robert called. The door opened softly, and there, lighted against the black night, stood a bent, feeble man with eyes like weak flames. He paused on the threshold as though undecided, but in a moment advanced into the room, asking in a strange, creaking voice, "Will you be knowing me, I wonder, Robert Morgan? Will you be knowing me that have been out so long?" His words were a plea.

Robert searched the shrunken face.

"Know you?" he said. "I do not think-wait! — can it be Dafydd? our little farm lad Dafydd that went away to sea years past?"

A look of complete relief came into the face of the wayfarer.

He might have been applying some delicate, fearful test to Robert Morgan. Now he chuckled.

"It's Dafydd, sure, and rich-and cold." He finished with a wistfulness like a recurring pain.

Dafydd was gray-white and toughened like a dry hide. The skin of his face was stiff and thick so that he seemed to change expression with slow, conscious effort.

"I'm cold, Robert," his queer, dry voice went on. "I can't seem ever to get warm again. But anyway I'm rich,"-as though he hoped these two might balance-"rich along with him they call Pierre le Grand."

Young Henry had risen, and now he cried: "Where have you been to, man-where?"

"Where? Why, I've been out to the Indies, that's where I've been; to Goaves and to Tortuga-that's the turtle-and to Jamaica and the thick woods of Hispaniola for the hunting of cattle. I've been all there."

"You'll be sitting down, Dafydd," Mother Morgan interrupted.

She spoke as though he had never been away. "I'll about getting something warm to drink. Will you look how Henry gobbles you with his eyes, Dafydd? Like as not he'll be wanting to go to the Indies, too." To her, the words were a pleasant idiocy.

Dafydd kept silence, though he appeared to be straining back at a desire to talk. Mother Morgan frightened him as she had when he was a towheaded farm boy. Old Robert knew his embarrassment, and Mother, too, seemed to sense it, for when she had put a steaming cup in his hands she left the room.

Wrinkled old Gwenliana was in her seat before the fire, her mind lost in the swimming future. Her clouded eyes were veiled with tomorrow. Behind their vague blue surfaces seemed to crowd the mounting events and circumstances of the world. She was gone out of the room-gone into pure Time, and that the future.

Old Robert watched the door close behind his wife, then settled himself with turnings as a dog settles.

"Now, Dafydd," he said, and peered smiling into the fire, while Henry, kneeling on the floor, gazed with awe at this mortal who held the very distances in his palm.

"Well, Robert-it's about the green jungle I wanted to tell and the brown Indians that live in it, and about him they call Pierre le Grand. But, Robert, there's something gone out of me like a little winking light. I used to lie on the deck of ships at night and think and think how I'd talk arid boast when only I came home again-but it's more like a child, I am, come home to cry. Can you understand that, Robert?

Can you understand that at all?" He was leaning forward eagerly.

"I'll tell you. We took the tall plate ship they call a galleon, and we with only pistols and the long knives they have for cutting trails in the jungle. Twenty-four of us there was-only twenty-four and ragged-but, Robert, we did horrid things with those same long knives. It's no good for a man that was a farm lad to be doing such things and then thinking about them. There was a fine captain-and we hung him up by his thumbs before we killed him. I don't know why we did it; I helped and I don't know why. Some said he was a damned Papist, but then, so was Pierre le Grand, I think.

"Some we pushed into the sea with their breast plates shining and shimmering as they went down-grand Spanish soldiers and bubbles coming out of their mouths. You can see deep into the water there." Dafydd ceased and looked at the floor.

"You see, I don't want to be hurting you with these things, Robert, but it's like something alive hidden in my chest under my ribs, and it's biting and scratching to get out of me. I'm rich of the venturing sure, but most times that doesn't seem enough, I'm richer, maybe, than your own brother, Sir Edward."

Robert was smiling with tightened lips. Now and then his eyes wandered to the boy where he knelt on the hearth.. Henry was taut with attention, gluttonously feeding on the words. When Robert spoke, he avoided Dafydd's eyes.

"Your soul's burdening you," he said. "You'd best have a talk with the Curate the morning-but about what I don't know."

"No, no; It's not my soul at all," Dafydd went on quickly. "That soul leaks out of a man the very first thing in the Indies, and leaves him with a dry, shrunken feeling where it was. It's not my soul at all; it's the poison that's in me, in my blood and in my brain. Robert, it's shriveling me like an old orange. The crawling things there and the litt1e flying beasts that come to your fire of nights, and the great pale flowers, all poisonous. They do horrible things to a man. My blood is like cold needles sliding in my veins the moment, and the fine fire before me. All this-all-is because of the dank breathing of the jungle.

You cannot sleep in it nor lie in it, nor live in it at all but it breathes on you and withers you.

"And the brown Indians-why, look!" He rolled back his sleeve, and Robert in disgust motioned him to cover the sick white horror which festered on his arm.

"It was only a little scratch of an arrow-you could hardly see it; but it'll be killing me before years, I guess. There's other things in me, Robert. Even the humans are poisonous, and a song the sailors sing about that."

Now young Henry started up excitedly.

"But the Indians," he cried; "those Indians and their arrows. Tell me about them! Do they fight much?

How do they look?"

"Fight?" said Dafydd. "Yes, they fight always; fight for a love that's in it. When they do not be fighting the men of Spain, they're at killing amongst themselves. Lithe as snakes they are, and quick and quiet and brown as ferrets; the very devil for getting out of sight before a man might get a shot at them.

"But they're a brave, strong people with the fear in them for only two things-dogs and slavery."

Dafydd was immersed in his tale. "Why, boy, can you think what they would be doing to a man that might get himself taken in a skirmish? They stick him full of long jungle thorns from his head to his toes, and on the thick end of every thorn a ball of fluff like wool. Then the poor captive man stands in a circle of naked savages while they set light to the fluff. And that Indian that does not be singing while he burns there like a torch, is cursed and called a coward. Now, can you imagine any white man doing that?

"But dogs they fear, because the Spaniards hunt them with huge mastiffs when they're at slave gathering for the mines; and slavery is horrible to them. To go chained body to body into the wet earth, year on the crown of year, until they die of the damp ague-rather would they be singing under the burning thorns, and dying in afla me."