Chapter Chapter 53 · BOOK IV CHAPTER VI

It is with shame I write the following pages. Would I could blot them

out of my life. To this day there must be many who remember my meteoric

career in the firmament of fast life. It did not last long, but in less

than a week I managed to squander a small fortune.

Those were the days when Dawson might fitly have been called the

dissolute. It was the regime of the dance-hall girl, and the taint of

the tenderloin was over the town. So far there were few decent women to

be seen on the streets. Respectable homes were being established, but

even there social evils were discussed with an astonishing frankness and

indifference. In the best society men were welcomed who were known to be

living in open infamy. A general callousness to social corruption

prevailed.

For Dawson was at this time the Mecca of the gambler and the courtesan.

Of its population probably two-thirds began their day when most people

finished it. It was only towards nightfall that the town completely

roused up, that the fever of pleasure providing began. Nearly every one

seemed to be affected by the spirit of degeneracy. On the faces of many

of the business men could be seen the stamp of the pace they were going.

Cases in Court had to be adjourned because of the debauches of lawyers.

Bank tellers stepped into their cages sleepless from all-night orgies.

Government officials lived openly with wanton women. High and low were

attainted by the corruption. In those days of headstrong excitement, of

sudden fortune, of money to be had almost for the picking up, when the

gold-camp was a reservoir into which poured by a thousand channels the

treasure of the valley, few were those among the men who kept a steady

head, whose private records were pure and blameless.

No town of its size has ever broken up more homes. Men in the

intoxication of fast-won wealth in that far-away land gave way to

excesses of every kind. Fathers of families paraded the streets arm in

arm with demi-mondaines. To be seen talking to a loose woman was

unworthy of comment, not to have a mistress was not to be in the swim.

Words cannot express the infinite and general degradation. It is

scarcely possible to exaggerate it. That teeming town at the mouth of

the Klondike set a pace in libertinism that has never been equalled.

I would divide its population into three classes: the sporting

fraternity, whose business it was to despoil and betray; the business

men, drawn more or less into the vortex of dissipation; the miners from

the creeks, the Man with the Poke, here to-day, gone, to-morrow, and of

them all the most worthy of respect. He was the prop and mainstay of the

town. It was like a vast trap set to catch him. He would "blow in"

brimming with health and high spirits; for a time he would "get into the

game;" sooner or later he would cut loose and "hit the high places";

then, at last, beggared and broken, he would crawl back in shame and

sorrow to the claim. O, that grey city! could it ever tell its woes and

sorrows the great, white stars above would melt into compassionate

tears.

Ah well, to the devil with all moralising! A short life and a merry one.

Switch on the lights! Ring up the curtain! On with the play!

* * * * *

In the casino a crowd is gathering round the roulette wheel. Three-deep

they stand. A woman rushes out from the dance-hall and pushes her way

through the throng. She is very young, very fair and redundant of life.

A man jostles her. From frank blue eyes she flashes a look at him, and

from lips sweet as those of a child there comes the remonstrance: "Curse

you; take care."

The men make way for her, and she throws a poke of dust on the red. "A

hundred dollars out of that," she says. The coupier nods; the wheel

spins round; she loses.

"Give me another two hundred in chips," she cries eagerly. The dealer

hands them to her, and puts her poke in a drawer. Again and again she

plays, placing chips here and there round the table. Sometimes she wins,

sometimes she loses. At last she has quite a pile of chips before her.

She laughs gleefully. "I guess I'll cash in now," she says. "That's good

enough for to-night."

The man hands her back her poke, writes out a cheque for her winnings,

and off she goes like a happy child.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"That? that's Blossom. She's a 'bute,' she is. Want a knockdown? Come on

round to the dance-hall."

* * * * *

Once more I see the Youth. He is nearing the end of his tether. He

borrows a few hundred dollars from me. "One more night," he says with a

bitter grin, "and the hog goes back to wallow in the mire. They've got

you going too-- Oh, Lord, it's a great game! Ha! ha!"

He goes off unsteadily; then from out of the luminous mists there

appears the Jam-wagon. In a pained way he looks at me. "Here, chuck it,

old man," he says; "come home to my cabin and straighten up."

"All right," I answer; "just one drink more."

One more means still one more. Poor old Jam-wagon! It's the blind

leading the blind.

Mosher haunts me with his gleaming bald head and his rat-like eyes. He

is living with the little ninety-five-pound woman, the one with the mop

of hair.

Oh, it is a hades of a life I am steeped in! I drink and I drink. It

seems to me I am always drinking. Rarely do I eat. I am one of half a

dozen spectacular "live ones." All the camp is talking of us, but it

seems to me I lead the bunch in the race to ruin. I wonder what Berna

thinks of it all. Was there ever such a sensitive creature? Where did

she get that obstinate pride? Child of misfortune! She minded me of a

delicate china cup that gets mixed in with the coarse crockery of a hash

joint.

Remonstrantly the Prodigal speeds to town.

"Are you crazy?" he cries. "I don't mind you making an ass of yourself,

but lushing around all that coin the way you're doing--it's wicked; it

makes me sick. Come home at once."

"I won't," I say. "What if I am crazy? Isn't it my money? I've never

sown my wild oats yet. I'm trying to catch up, that's all. When the

money's done I'll quit. I'm having the time of my life. Don't come

spoiling it with your precepts. What a lot of fun I've missed by being

good. Come along; 'listen to the last word of human philosophy--have a

drink.'"

He goes away shaking his head. There's no fear of him ever breaking

loose. He, with his smile of sunshine, would make misfortune pay. He is

a rolling stone that gathers no moss, but manages to glue itself to

greenbacks at every turn.

* * * * *

I am in a box at the Palace Grand. The place is packed with rowdy men

and ribald women. I am at the zenith of my shame. Right and left I am

buying wine. Like vultures at a feast they bunch into the box. Like

carrion flies they buzz around me. That is what I feel myself to

be--carrion.

How I loathe myself! but I think of Berna, and the thought goads me to

fresh excesses. I will go on till flesh and blood can stand it no

longer, till I drop in my tracks. I realise that somehow I must make

her pity me, must awake in her that guardian angel which exists in every

woman. Only in that way can I break down the barrier of her pride and

arouse the love latent in her heart.

There are half a dozen girls in the box, a bevy of beauties, and I buy a

case of wine for each, over a thousand dollars' worth. Screaming with

laughter they toss it in bottles down to their friends in the audience.

It is a scene of riotous excitement. The audience roars, the girls

shriek, the orchestra tries to make itself heard. Madder and madder

grows the merriment. The fierce fever of it scorches in my veins. I am

mad to spend, to throw away money, to outdo all others in bitter,

reckless prodigality. I fling twenty-dollar gold pieces to the singers.

I open bottle after bottle of wine. The girls are spraying the crowd

with it, the floor of the box swims with it. I drop my pencil signing a

tab, and when I look down it is floating in a pool of champagne.

Then comes the last. The dance has begun. Men in fur caps, mackinaw

coats and mucklucks are waltzing with women clad in Paris gowns and

sparkling with jewels. The floor is thronged. I have a large,

hundred-ounce poke of dust, and I unloose the thong. Suddenly with a mad

shout I scatter its contents round the hall. Like a shower of golden

rain it falls on men and women alike. See how they grovel for it, the

brutes, the vampires! How they fight and grab and sprawl over it! How

they shriek and howl and curse! It is like an arena of wild beasts; it

is pandemonium. Oh, how I despise them! My gorge rises, but--to the end,

to the end. I must play my part.

* * * * *

Always amid that lurid carnival of sin floats the figure of Blossom,

Blossom with her child-face of dazzling fairness, her china-blue eyes,

her round, smooth cheeks. How different from the pinched pallid face of

Berna! Poor, poor Berna! I never see her, but amid all the saturnalia

she haunts me. The thought of her is agony, agony. I cannot bear to

think of her. I know she watches me. If she would only stoop and save me

now! Or have I not fallen low enough? What a faith I have in that deep

mother-love of hers that will redeem me in the end. I must go deeper

yet. Faster and faster must I swirl into the vortex.

Oh, these women, how in my heart I loathe them! I laugh with them, I

quaff with them, I let them rob me; but that's all.

* * * * *

In all that fierce madness of debauch, thank God, I retained my honour.

They beguiled me, they tried to lure me into their rooms; but at the

moment I went to enter I recoiled. It was as if an invisible arm

stretched across the doorway and barred me out.

And Blossom, she, too, tried so hard to lure me, and because I resisted

it inflamed her. Half angel, half devil was Blossom, a girl in years,

but woefully wise, a soft siren when pleased, a she-devil when roused.

She made me her special quarry. She fought for me. She drove off all

the other girls. We talked together, we drank together, we "played the

tables" together, but nothing more. She would coax me with the

prettiest gestures, and cajole me with the sweetest endearments; then,

when I steadfastly resisted her, she would fly into a fury and flout me

with the foulness of the stews. She was beautiful, but born to be bad.

No power on heaven or earth could have saved her. Yet in her badness she

was frank, natural and untroubled as a child.

It was in one of the corridors of the dance-hall in the early hours of

the morning. The place was deserted, strewed with debris of the night's

debauch. The air was fetid, and from the gambling-hall down below arose

the shouts of the players. We were up there, Blossom and I. I was in a

strange state of mind, a state bordering on frenzy. Not much longer, I

felt, could I keep up this pace. Something had to happen, and that soon.

She put her arms around me. I could feel her cheek pressed to mine. I

could see her bosom rise and fall.

"Come," she said.

She led me towards her room. No longer was I able to resist. My foot was

on the threshold and I was almost over when----

"Telegram, sir."

It was a messenger. Confusedly I took the flimsy envelope and tore it

open. Blankly I stared at the line of type. I stared like a man in a

dream. I was sober enough now.

"Ain't you coming?" said Blossom, putting her arms round me.

"No," I said hoarsely, "leave me, please leave me. Oh, my God!"

Her face changed, became vindictive, the face of a fury.

"Curse you!" she hissed, gnashing her teeth. "Oh, I knew. It's that

other, that white-faced doll you care for. Look at me! Am I not better

than her? And you scorn me. Oh, I hate you. I'll get even with you and

her. Curse you, curse you----"

She snatched up an empty wine bottle. Swinging it by the neck she struck

me square on the forehead. I felt a stunning blow, a warm rush of blood.

Then I fell limply forward, and all the lights seemed to go out.

There I lay in a heap, and the blood spurting from my wound soaked the

little piece of paper. On it was written:

"Mother died this morning. Garry."