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The Silverado Squatters-Part1_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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PART I - IN THE VALLEY

CHAPTER I - CALISTOGA



IT is difficult for a European to imagine Calistoga, the

whole place is so new, and of such an accidental pattern; the



very name, I hear, was invented at a supper-party by the man

who found the springs.



The railroad and the highway come up the valley about

parallel to one another. The street of Calistoga joins the



perpendicular to both - a wide street, with bright, clean,

low houses, here and there a verandah over the sidewalk, here



and there a horse-post, here and there lounging townsfolk.

Other streets are marked out, and most likely named; for



these towns in the New World begin with a firm resolve to

grow larger, Washington and Broadway, and then First and



Second, and so forth, being boldly plotted out as soon as the

community indulges in a plan. But, in the meanwhile, all the



life and most of the houses of Calistoga are concentrated

upon that street between the railway station and the road. I



never heard it called by any name, but I will hazard a guess

that it is either Washington or Broadway. Here are the



blacksmith's, the chemist's, the general merchant's, and Kong

Sam Kee, the Chinese laundryman's; here, probably, is the



office of the local paper (for the place has a paper - they

all have papers); and here certainly is one of the hotels,



Cheeseborough's, whence the daring Foss, a man dear to

legend, starts his horses for the Geysers.



It must be remembered that we are here in a land of stage-

drivers and highwaymen: a land, in that sense, like England



a hundred years ago. The highwayrobber - road-agent, he is

quaintly called - is still busy in these parts. The fame of



Vasquez is still young. Only a few years go, the Lakeport

stage was robbed a mile or two from Calistoga. In 1879, the



dentist of Mendocino City, fifty miles away upon the coast,

suddenly threw off the garments of his trade, like Grindoff,



in THE MILLER AND HIS MEN, and flamed forth in his second

dress as a captain of banditti. A great robbery was followed



by a long chase, a chase of days if not of weeks, among the

intricate hill-country; and the chase was followed by much



desultory fighting, in which several - and the dentist, I

believe, amongst the number - bit the dust. The grass was



springing for the first time, nourished upon their blood,

when I arrived in Calistoga. I am reminded of another



highwayman of that same year. "He had been unwell," so ran

his humorous defence, "and the doctor told him to take



something, so he took the express-box."

The cultus of the stage-coachman always flourishes highest



where there are thieves on the road, and where the guard

travels armed, and the stage is not only a link between



country and city, and the vehicle of news, but has a faint

warfaring aroma, like a man who should be brother to a



soldier. California boasts her famous stage-drivers, and

among the famous Foss is not forgotten. Along the unfenced,



abominable mountain roads, he launches his team with small

regard to human life or the doctrine of probabilities.



Flinching travellers, who behold themselves coasting eternity

at every corner, look with natural admiration at their



driver's huge, impassive, fleshy countenance. He has the

very face for the driver in Sam Weller's anecdote, who upset



the election party at the required point. Wonderful tales

are current of his readiness and skill. One in particular,



of how one of his horses fell at a ticklish passage of the

road, and how Foss let slip the reins, and, driving over the



fallen animal, arrived at the next stage with only three.

This I relate as I heard it, without guarantee.



I only saw Foss once, though, strange as it may sound, I have

twice talked with him. He lives out of Calistoga, at a



ranche called Fossville. One evening, after he was long gone

home, I dropped into Cheeseborough's, and was asked if I



should like to speak with Mr. Foss. Supposing that the

interview was impossible, and that I was merely called upon



to subscribe the general sentiment, I boldly answered "Yes."

Next moment, I had one instrument at my ear, another at my



mouth and found myself, with nothing in the world to say,

conversing with a man several miles off among desolate hills.






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