Lost Face E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: SoTo
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Lost Face is a collection of seven short stories by Jack London. It takes its name from the first short story in the book, about a European adventurer in the Yukon who outwits his (American) Indian captors' plans to torture him. The book includes London's best-known short story, "To Build a Fire".

Leseprobe

LOST FACE

by JACK LONDON

Stories

Titel

LOST FACE

TRUST

TO BUILD A FIRE

THAT SPOT

FLUSH OF GOLD

THE PASSING OF MARCUS O’BRIEN

THE WIT OF PORPORTUK

Impressum

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.