"Joe Haldeman - Guardian" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

We spent the next day wandering around St. Paul, which was more pleasant than I'd
expected. The city had an all-electric tramway that only cost a nickel (a tenth the cost of
the short cab ride to the hotel). We climbed to the top of the capitol dome, which was
arduous but resulted in a splendid view. Having seen Minneapolis in the distance, we
resolved to have lunch there, so we took the interurban tram, also electric, over the
Mississippi.
(That was an hour each way, but it was pleasant—especially compared to the
railroad—bright and well ventilated, the gentlemen using spittoons or the open window. I
read much of the time, having brought the Stevenson and a new copy of Life on the
Mississippi, its garish board covers and cheap saffron paper a stark contrast to the
leather-and-vellum edition I'd read from Edward's library.)
We spent the afternoon out at the Indian Mounds, where Daniel went off on a
fruitless search for arrowheads, while I sat at Carver's Cave and attempted a drawing that
was no more successful. Dinner at the hotel cafe, and early to bed.
The age of the steamboat, as I've said, was long past. This is how Mark Twain put
it in 1883, eleven years before our voyage:

Mississippi steamboating -was born about 1812; at the end of thirty years it
had grown to mighty proportions, and in less than thirty years, it was dead! A
strangely short life for so majestic a creature. Of course it is not absolutely
dead; neither is a crippled octogenarian who could once jump twenty-two feet
on level ground-but as contrasted with what it was in its prime vigor,
Mississippi steamboating may be called dead.

We boarded the Davenport after breakfast, and I was relieved to find it a clean
and apparently well maintained vessel. The captain and several others wore blue
uniforms with sharp creases and lots of shiny brass.
Two boys younger than Daniel were engaged in tacking up bunting of red, white,
and blue, as it was July 4th. We asked if there would be fireworks, and got the obvious
answer: "Aboard a boat? I should hope not!"
Out room was small and close but clean, and had a window that could be opened
partway. At precisely nine, the whistle shrieked, and we departed with surprising speed.
Daniel ran off to explore the boat. I looked in the lounge, but it was full of loud men
smoking and drinking coffee, so I went on up to the very top, the "hurricane" deck. It was
quite fresh; I had to go back to the cabin for a wrap.
Coming back up, I glimpsed Daniel in the lounge, puffing on a cigarillo. I
resolved not to be so much of an old hen about it. The effect on his body probably
bothered me less than the resemblance to his father it gave him.
We passed under four or five bridges on the way out of St. Paul. The scenery was
engaging, but soon I was totally absorbed in rereading the Mark Twain book, in this most
appropriate of settings.
One of the boys brought me a pot of tea, and I was comfortable on a fabric folding
chair, tea and book on a table in front of me. After awhile, a handsome man sat down
across from me and attempted to start up a conversation. He was about my age, but wore
old-fashioned muttonchops and a big flowing moustache. Rather like Mark Twain,
actually.
 He was probably an interesting man, but of course that was not a complication I
needed at the time. I rebuffed him, less gently than I should have. In the safety of my own
parlor, I would have enjoyed chatting and even flirting with him. But the Davenport was
a small space to share with a few dozen men for four days. I would be a virtuous married