Jack London
Interesting excerpt
The capitalist, or rather oligarch-industrialist, Roger Vanderwater, of whom this narrative will be discussed, is, as established, the ninth of the Vanderwater family who controlled the cotton industry in the Southern States for several hundred years.
This Roger Vanderwater flourished in last decades twenty-sixth century of the Christian era, that is, in the fifth century of the terrifying oligarchy of industrialists created on the ruins of the former Republic.
We have sufficient evidence to say that the following narrative was not written before the twenty-ninth century. Not only was it illegal to write or print such things during this period, but the working class was so illiterate that only in rare cases were its members able to read and write. It was the gloomy kingdom of the chief overseer, in whose language the vast majority of the people were designated by the nickname “herd animals.” They looked askance at literacy and tried to eradicate it. From the legislation of that time, I recall a terrible law that considered it a criminal offense for everyone (regardless of class) to teach a worker at least the alphabet. Such a narrow concentration of enlightenment in the ruling class alone was necessary so that this class could remain in power.
One of the results of this event was the creation of a type of professional storyteller. These storytellers were paid by the oligarchs, and the tales they told were of legendary, mythical, romantic - in a word, harmless content. But the spirit of freedom could never dry up, and agitators, under the guise of storytellers, preached an uprising among the slaves. The following story was banned by the oligarchs. The evidence is the Ashbury police criminal record. From this record we see that on November 27, 2734, one John Terney, found guilty of telling this story in a working tavern, was sentenced to five years of hard labor in the mines of the Arizona desert. Publisher's Notenote 2.
* *Listen, brothers, I will tell you the story of the hand. It was Tom Dixon's hand; and Tom Dixon was a first-class weaver in the factory of that hell-hound, owner Roger Vanderwater. This factory was called “The Bottom of Hell”... among the slaves who worked there; and I think they knew what they were talking about. It was located in Kingsbury, at the opposite end of town from where summer palace Vanderwater. Do you know where Kingsbury is? There are many things, O brothers, that you do not know, and this is very sad.
You are slaves precisely because you do not know. When I tell you this story, I will be happy to organize courses for you in the study of written and printed speech. Our hosts read and write; they have a lot of books. That is why they are our masters and live in palaces and do not work. When workers - all workers - learn to read and write, they will become strong. Then they will use their powers to break the bonds, and there will be no more masters or slaves.
Kingsbury, my brethren, is in the ancient state of Alabama. For three hundred years, the Vanderwaters owned Kingsbury and its slave pens and factories, as well as slave pens and factories in many other cities in the States. You've heard of the Vanderwaters. Who hasn't heard of them? But let me tell you things you know nothing about. The first Vanderwater was a slave, like you and me. Do you understand? He was a slave; this was more than three hundred years ago. His father was a machinist in Alexander Burelle's pen, and his mother was a laundress in the same pen. This is an undeniable fact. I'm telling you the truth. This is history. It is printed verbatim in the history books of our masters, which you cannot read, because the masters forbid you to learn to read. You can easily understand why they do not allow you to learn to read, since such things are written in the books. They know it; they are very wise. If you read such things, you could lose respect for your masters, and this would be very dangerous... for your masters. But I know this, because I can read; and here I am telling you what I read with my own eyes in the history books of our hosts.
The first Vanderwater's name was not "Vanderwater"; his name was Vange, Bill Vange, son of Iergis Vange, a machinist, and Laura Carnley, a washerwoman. Young Bill Vange was strong. He could have stayed among the slaves and led them to freedom. Instead, he served his masters and received good rewards. He began his service as a small child - as a spy in his native paddock. It is known that he denounced his own father for seditious speech. This is a fact. I read this with my own eyes in the protocols. He was too good a slave for the slave pen. Alexander Burrell took him from there, and he learned to read and write. He was trained in many things and entered the secret government service. Of course, he no longer wore slave clothes, except when he changed clothes to find out the secrets and conspiracies of the slaves. It was he - only eighteen years old - who betrayed the great hero and comrade Ralph Jacobus and condemned him to trial and execution in the electric chair. Of course, you have all heard the sacred name of Ralph Jacobus, you all know about his execution in the electric chair, but it is news to you that he was destroyed by the first Vanderwater, whose name was Vange. I know. I read this in books. There are many such interesting things in the books.
And so, after Ralph Jacobus died an ignominious death, the name of Bill Vange began to undergo the many changes which it was destined to undergo. He was known everywhere as "The Rogue Vange." He advanced greatly in the secret service and was generously rewarded; but still he was not yet a member of the master class. The men agreed to his entry; but the women of the ruling class refused to allow the Rogue Vange into their midst.
The rogue Vange kept up everywhere, penetrated into all the plans and plans, bringing these plans and ideas to failure, and the leaders to the electric chair. In 2255 his name was changed. This was the year of the Great Revolt. In the region west of the Rocky Mountains, seventeen million slaves fought bravely to overthrow their masters. Who knows, if the Rogue Vange had not been alive, they might have triumphed. But, alas, the Rogue Vange was alive. The owners handed him command. During the eight months of struggle, one million three hundred fifteen thousand slaves were killed. Vange, Bill Vange, Rogue Vange killed them and broke the Great Rebellion. He was generously rewarded, and his hands were so red with the blood of slaves that from then on he was called “Bloody Vange.”
Bloody Vange lived to an old age and all the time - until the very end of his days - he participated in the Council of Masters; but they did not make him master; he, you see, saw the light in the slave pen. But how well he was rewarded! He had a dozen palaces in which he could live. Without being a master, he owned thousands of slaves. He had a yacht at sea - a real floating palace; he owned an entire island where ten thousand slaves worked on his coffee plantation. But in his old age he was alone - hated by his fellow slaves and despised by those whom he served and who did not want to become his brothers. The masters despised him because he was born a slave.
But things were different with his children. They were not born in a slave pen, and by a special order of the Supreme Oligarch they were assigned to the state class. And then the name Vange disappeared from the pages of history. It turned into Vanderwater, and Jason Vange, the son of Bloody Vange, into Jason Vanderwater, the founder of the Vanderwater family.
And now, brothers, I return to the beginning of my story - to the story of Tom Dixon's hand. Roger Vanderwater's factory in Kingsbury was deservedly called the "Bottom of Hell", but the people who worked there were, as you will now see, real people. Women and children—little children—worked there as well. All those who worked there enjoyed established rights before the law, but... only before the law, because many of these rights were deprived of them by two ruthless overseers of the “Bottom of Hell” - Joseph Clancy and Adolph Munster.
It's a long story, but I won't tell you the whole story. I'll only talk about the hand. There was a rule that part of the meager wages for work was withheld monthly and transferred to a certain fund. This fund was intended to help ill-fated comrades who suffered accidents or fell ill. As you yourself know, such funds are managed by overseers. This is the law. That is why the fund in the “Day of Hell” was under the control of these two, damned memory, overseers.
So Clancy and Munster used this fund for personal needs. When misfortunes befell individual workers, their comrades, according to custom, decided to give them subsidies from the fund; but the overseers refused to pay these subsidies. What could the slaves do? They had rights - according to the law; but there was no access to the law. Those who complained about the overseers were punished. You yourself know what form such punishment takes: a fine for poor quality work, which is in fact good quality; reporting overload; mistreatment of the worker's wife and children; his assignment to bad machines, at which - work as you want, you will still die of hunger.
The industrialist, Roger Vanderwater, the subject of this narrative, is identified as the ninth of the Vanderwater line that controlled the cotton industry in the Southern States for several hundred years.
This Roger Vanderwater flourished in the last decades of the twenty-sixth century of the Christian era, that is, in the fifth century of the terrifying oligarchy of industrialists created from the ruins of the former Republic.
We have sufficient evidence to say that the following narrative was not written before the twenty-ninth century. Not only was it illegal to write or print such things during this period, but the working class was so illiterate that only in rare cases were its members able to read and write. It was the gloomy kingdom of the chief overseer, in whose language the vast majority of the people were designated by the nickname “herd animals.” They looked askance at literacy and tried to eradicate it. From the legislation of that time, I recall a terrible law that considered it a criminal offense for everyone (regardless of class) to teach a worker at least the alphabet. Such a narrow concentration of enlightenment in the ruling class alone was necessary so that this class could remain in power.
One of the results of this event was the creation of a type of professional storyteller. These storytellers were paid by the oligarchs, and the tales they told were of legendary, mythical, romantic - in a word, harmless content. But the spirit of freedom could never dry up, and agitators, under the guise of storytellers, preached an uprising among the slaves. The following story was banned by the oligarchs. The evidence is the Ashbury police criminal record. From this record we see that on November 27, 2734, one John Terney, found guilty of telling this story in a working tavern, was sentenced to five years of hard labor in the mines of the Arizona desert. Publisher's Note.
* *
Listen, brothers, I will tell you the story of the hand. It was Tom Dixon's hand; and Tom Dixon was a first-class weaver in the factory of that hell-hound, owner Roger Vanderwater. This factory was called “The Bottom of Hell”... among the slaves who worked there; and I think they knew what they were talking about. It was located in Kingsbury, at the opposite end of the city from where Vanderwater's summer palace stood. Do you know where Kingsbury is? There are many things, O brothers, that you do not know, and this is very sad.You are slaves precisely because you do not know. When I tell you this story, I will be happy to organize courses for you in the study of written and printed speech. Our hosts read and write; they have a lot of books. That is why they are our masters and live in palaces and do not work. When workers - all workers - learn to read and write, they will become strong. Then they will use their powers to break the bonds, and there will be no more masters or slaves.
Kingsbury, my brethren, is in the ancient state of Alabama. For three hundred years, the Vanderwaters owned Kingsbury and its slave pens and factories, as well as slave pens and factories in many other cities in the States. You've heard of the Vanderwaters. Who hasn't heard of them? But let me tell you things you know nothing about. The first Vanderwater was a slave, like you and me. Do you understand? He was a slave; this was more than three hundred years ago. His father was a machinist in Alexander Burelle's pen, and his mother was a laundress in the same pen. This is an undeniable fact. I'm telling you the truth. This is history. It is printed verbatim in the history books of our masters, which you cannot read, because the masters forbid you to learn to read. You can easily understand why they do not allow you to learn to read, since such things are written in the books. They know it; they are very wise. If you read such things, you could lose respect for your masters, and this would be very dangerous... for your masters. But I know this, because I can read; and here I am telling you what I read with my own eyes in the history books of our hosts.
The first Vanderwater's name was not "Vanderwater"; his name was Vange, Bill Vange, son of Iergis Vange, a machinist, and Laura Carnley, a washerwoman. Young Bill Vange was strong. He could have stayed among the slaves and led them to freedom. Instead, he served his masters and received good rewards. He began his service as a small child - as a spy in his native paddock. It is known that he denounced his own father for seditious speech. This is a fact. I read this with my own eyes in the protocols. He was too good a slave for the slave pen. Alexander Burrell took him from there, and he learned to read and write. He was trained in many things and entered the secret government service. Of course, he no longer wore slave clothes, except when he changed clothes to find out the secrets and conspiracies of the slaves. It was he - only eighteen years old - who betrayed the great hero and comrade Ralph Jacobus and condemned him to trial and execution in the electric chair. Of course, you have all heard the sacred name of Ralph Jacobus, you all know about his execution in the electric chair, but it is news to you that he was destroyed by the first Vanderwater, whose name was Vange. I know. I read this in books. There are many such interesting things in the books.
And so, after Ralph Jacobus died an ignominious death, the name of Bill Vange began to undergo the many changes which it was destined to undergo. He was known everywhere as "The Rogue Vange." He advanced greatly in the secret service and was generously rewarded; but still he was not yet a member of the master class. The men agreed to his entry; but the women of the ruling class refused to allow the Rogue Vange into their midst.
The rogue Vange kept up everywhere, penetrated into all the plans and plans, bringing these plans and ideas to failure, and the leaders to the electric chair. In 2255 his name was changed. This was the year of the Great Revolt. In the region west of the Rocky Mountains, seventeen million slaves fought bravely to overthrow their masters. Who knows, if the Rogue Vange had not been alive, they might have triumphed. But, alas, the Rogue Vange was alive. The owners handed him command. During the eight months of struggle, one million three hundred fifteen thousand slaves were killed. Vange, Bill Vange, Rogue Vange killed them and broke the Great Rebellion. He was generously rewarded, and his hands were so red with the blood of slaves that from then on he was called “Bloody Vange.”
Bloody Vange lived to an old age and all the time - until the very end of his days - he participated in the Council of Masters; but they did not make him master; he, you see, saw the light in the slave pen. But how well he was rewarded! He had a dozen palaces in which he could live. Without being a master, he owned thousands of slaves. He had a yacht at sea - a real floating palace; he owned an entire island where ten thousand slaves worked on his coffee plantation. But in his old age he was alone - hated by his fellow slaves and despised by those whom he served and who did not want to become his brothers. The masters despised him because he was born a slave.
But things were different with his children. They were not born in a slave pen, and by a special order of the Supreme Oligarch they were assigned to the state class. And then the name Vange disappeared from the pages of history. It turned into Vanderwater, and Jason Vange, the son of Bloody Vange, into Jason Vanderwater, the founder of the Vanderwater family.
And now, brothers, I return to the beginning of my story - to the story of Tom Dixon's hand. Roger Vanderwater's factory in Kingsbury was deservedly called the "Bottom of Hell", but the people who worked there were, as you will now see, real people. Women and children—little children—worked there as well. All those who worked there enjoyed established rights before the law, but... only before the law, because many of these rights were deprived of them by two ruthless overseers of the “Bottom of Hell” - Joseph Clancy and Adolph Munster.
It's a long story, but I won't tell you the whole story. I'll only talk about the hand. There was a rule that part of the meager wages for work was withheld monthly and transferred to a certain fund. This fund was intended to help ill-fated comrades who suffered accidents or fell ill. As you yourself know, such funds are managed by overseers. This is the law. That is why the fund in the “Day of Hell” was under the control of these two, damned memory, overseers.
So Clancy and Munster used this fund for personal needs. When misfortunes befell individual workers, their comrades, according to custom, decided to give them subsidies from the fund; but the overseers refused to pay these subsidies. What could the slaves do? They had rights - according to the law; but there was no access to the law. Those who complained about the overseers were punished. You yourself know what form such punishment takes: a fine for poor quality work, which is in fact good quality; reporting overload; mistreatment of the worker's wife and children; his assignment to bad machines, at which - work as you want, you will still die of hunger.
One day, the slaves of “The Bottom” protested to Vanderwater. It was at that time of year when he spent several months in Kingsbury. One of the slaves knew how to write; his mother was literate - by chance, and she secretly taught him, just as her mother taught her. So this slave wrote a collective statement containing all their complaints, and all the slaves signed signs. Having provided the envelope with the appropriate stamps, they sent it to Vanderwater. And Roger Vanderwater took it and passed the statement on to both overseers. Clancy and Munster went wild. At night they sent guards to the paddock. The guards were armed with spade handles. And the next day, only half of the slaves were able to work on the “Den”. They were beaten well. The slave, who knew how to write, was so beaten that he lived only three months. But before his death, he wrote again, and you will now hear for what purpose.
Four or five weeks later, a certain slave named Tom Dixon had his arm torn off by a drive belt at the Bottom. His comrades, as usual, decided to give him a subsidy from the funds of the fund; and Clancy and Munster - also as usual - refused to pay it. The slave who knew how to write, who was then just about to die, again wrote a list of their complaints. This document was placed between the fingers of the hand torn from Tom Dixon's body.
It happened that Roger Vanderwater lay ill in his palace at the opposite end of Kingsbury. It was not that merciless illness that knocks you and me down, my brothers, but simply a small spill of bile or, perhaps, a severe headache because he ate too much or drank too much. But this was enough for him, for he was gentle and soft from too subtle an upbringing. Such people, wrapped in cotton wool all their lives, are extremely gentle and soft-bodied. Believe me, brothers, Roger Vanderwater suffered - or thought he suffered - from a headache, like Tom Dixon from his arm, torn off at the very shoulder.
Roger Vanderwater was a great lover of agriculture, and on his farm, three miles from Kingsbury, he managed to grow new look strawberries He was very proud of his strawberries and would willingly go to look at them and pick the first ripe berries; but his illness prevented him. Because of this illness, he ordered an old slave from the farm to personally bring him a basket of berries.
The slave who could write, almost dying from the beating, said that he would bear the hand of Tom Dixon. He also said that he had to die anyway and that it didn’t matter if he died a little earlier.
So, five slaves that night secretly left the pen after the last round of the guards. One of them was the one who could write. They lay in the dead wood on the edge of the road until the morning, when an old slave from the farm arrived in a cart, carrying precious berries for his master. Since the farm slave was old and suffered from rheumatism, and the slave who knew how to write was crippled from beatings, their gait was almost the same. The slave, who knew how to write, changed into the old man's dress, pulled his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes and rode into the city.
Meanwhile, Roger Vanderwater lay waiting for berries in his magnificent bedchamber. There were such miracles that would probably have blinded the eyes of you or me, who had never seen anything like it. The slave, who knew how to write, later said that it was something like a heavenly vision. Why not? The labor and lives of ten thousand slaves were given to the creation of this bedroom, while they themselves lay in vile lairs, like wild animals. A slave who could write brought the berries there on a silver tray. Roger Vanderwater wanted to talk to him personally about strawberries.
The slave, who could write, dragged his dying body across the wonderful room and knelt by Vanderwater's bed, holding the tray before him. Large green leaves covered the top of the tray. The valet standing nearby took them off.
And Roger Vanderwater, raising himself on his elbow, saw. He saw fresh, wonderful berries lying like precious stones, and among them lay the hand of Tom Dixon, the same as it was torn from the body, but, of course, my brothers, well washed and sharply different in whiteness from the blood-red berries. And then he saw a petition clutched in his ossified, dead fingers.
“Take it and read it,” said the slave who knew how to write. And at the same moment when the owner accepted the petition, the valet, who had initially frozen in amazement, hit the kneeling slave in the teeth.
“Throw him alive to be devoured by the dogs,” he shouted in great anger, “live to be devoured by the dogs!”
But Roger Vanderwater, forgetting about his headache, ordered everyone to be silent and continued to read the petition. And while he read, silence reigned; everyone was on their feet: the angry valet, the palace guards, and among them a slave with a bloody mouth, still holding Tom Dixon's hand. And when Roger Vanderwater finished reading, he turned to the slave and said:
- If there is even a grain of lies in this paper, you will regret that you were born.
And the slave said:
“You did the worst thing you could have done to me.” I'm dying. In a week I'll be dead. Therefore, I don’t care whether you kill me now or not...
-Where are you going to put this? - asked the owner, pointing to his hand, and the slave answered:
“I’ll take her back to the pen to bury her.” Tom Dixon was my friend. We worked side by side at the machines.
I have little left to tell you, brothers. The slave and hand were carted back to the pen. None of the slaves were punished for what they did. On the contrary, Roger Vanderwater ordered an investigation and punished both overseers, Joseph Clancy and Adolph Munster. Their property was taken away, both were branded on their foreheads, their right hands were cut off and released to high road so that they wander until death, begging for alms.
After that, the fund functioned for some time... only for a while, my brothers. For after Roger Vanderwater his son Albert reigned, who was a cruel master and half mad.
And the message that I bring to you, brothers, is that the time is approaching when everything in the world will be good, and there will be neither masters nor slaves. And you must prepare for these good times, learn to read. There is power in the printed word. And here I am to teach you to read; and when I go my way, there will be others who will make sure that you get books - historical books. From them you will learn everything about your masters and learn to be strong like them.
Publisher's Note: Extracted from Historical Fragments and Sketches, first published in 15 volumes in 4427 and now, two hundred years later, republished by the National Committee of Historical Research for historical value.
Real name John Griffith Cheney(John Griffith Chaney). Born January 12, 1876 in San Francisco. The future writer's mother, Flora Wellman, was a music teacher and was interested in spiritualism, claiming that she had a spiritual connection with an Indian leader. She became pregnant by astrologer William Cheney, with whom she lived for some time in San Francisco. Having learned about Flora's pregnancy, William began to insist that she have an abortion, but she categorically refused and, in a fit of despair, tried to shoot herself, but only slightly injured herself.
After the birth of the baby, Flora left him for some time in the care of her former slave Virginia Prentiss, who remained an important person for London throughout his life. At the end of the same 1876, Flora married John London, a disabled veteran Civil War to the USA, after which she took the baby back to her place. The boy's name began to be John London (Jack is a diminutive form of the name John). After some time, the family moved to the city of Oakland, neighboring San Francisco, where London eventually graduated from school.
Jack London began an independent working life full of hardships early. As a schoolboy, he sold morning and evening newspapers. Upon completion primary school At the age of fourteen he entered a canning factory as a worker. The work was very hard, and he left the factory. He was an “oyster pirate,” illegally catching oysters in San Francisco Bay (described in “Tales of the Fishing Patrol”). In 1893, he hired himself as a sailor on a fishing schooner, going to catch seals on the shores of Japan and in the Bering Sea. The first voyage gave London a lot vivid impressions, which then formed the basis of many of his sea stories and novels (“ Sea wolf", etc.). Subsequently, he also worked as an ironer in a laundry and as a fireman (described in Martin Eden).
London's first essay, "Typhoon off the Coast of Japan", which served as the beginning of his literary career, for which he received first prize from a San Francisco newspaper, was published on November 12, 1893.
In 1894 he took part in the march of the unemployed on Washington (essay “Hold On!”), after which he spent a month in prison for vagrancy (“Straitjacket”). In 1895 he joined the Socialist Workers Party of the USA, from 1900 (some sources indicate 1901) - a member of the Socialist Party of the USA, from which he left in 1914 (some sources indicate 1916); The statement cited the loss of faith in its “fighting spirit” as the reason for the break with the party.
Having prepared independently and successfully passed the entrance exams, Jack London entered the University of California, but after the 3rd semester, due to lack of funds for his studies, he was forced to leave. In the spring of 1897, Jack London succumbed to the Gold Rush and left for Alaska. He returned to San Francisco in 1898, having experienced all the delights of the northern winter. Instead of gold, fate gifted Jack London with meetings with the future heroes of his works.
He began to study literature more seriously at the age of 23, after returning from Alaska: his first northern stories were published in 1899, and already in 1900 his first book was published - a collection of stories “Son of the Wolf”. This was followed by the following collections of stories: “The God of His Fathers” (Chicago, 1901), “Children of the Frost” (New York, 1902), “Faith in Man” (New York, 1904), “The Face of the Moon” (New York) , 1906), “The Lost Face” (New York, 1910), as well as the novels “Daughter of the Snows” (1902), “The Sea Wolf” (1904), “Martin Eden” (1909), which created the widest popularity for the writer. The writer worked very hard, 15-17 hours a day. And he managed to write about 40 magnificent books throughout his not very long writing career.
In 1902, London visited England, actually London, which gave him material for writing the book People of the Abyss, which, to the surprise of many, was successful in the USA, unlike England. Upon returning to America, he reads in different cities lectures, predominantly of a socialist nature, and organizes departments of the “General Student Society”. In 1904-05 London works as a war correspondent during the Russo-Japanese War. In 1907 the writer undertakes trip around the world. By this time, thanks high fees, London is becoming wealthy.
Jack London was very popular in the USSR and in Russia, not least due to his sympathies for the ideas of socialism, membership in the Socialist Workers' Party, and also as a writer who praised the inflexibility of the spirit and life values intangible nature (friendship, honesty, hard work, justice), which was promoted in the socialist state and was natural for the mentality of the Russian people, which was formed within the Russian community. The attention of Soviet readers was not focused on the fact that he was the highest paid writer in America. His fee reached up to 50 thousand dollars per book, which was a fantastic amount. However, the writer himself never gave anyone any reason to accuse himself of writing for money. He missed them - it would be more accurate to put it that way. And in the novel “Martin Eden,” the most autobiographical of all his works, Jack London showed the death of the soul of the young writer and his beloved under the influence of the thirst for money. The thirst for life was the idea of his works, but not the thirst for gold.
In recent years London has been experiencing creative crisis, and therefore began to abuse alcohol (later quit). Because of the crisis, the writer was even forced to buy a plot for a new novel. Such a plot was sold to London to beginners American writer Sinclair Lewis. London managed to give the future novel a title - “The Murder Bureau” - but he managed to write very little, since he soon died.
London died on November 22, 1916 in Glen Ellen, California. Recent years he suffered from kidney disease (uremia) and died from poisoning from prescribed morphine.
The most famous version among the public is suicide, but doctors note that London did not have sufficient knowledge to calculate the lethal dose of morphine, nor serious grounds for suicide (he did not leave a suicide note and chose a completely “unmanly” method). Deliberate self-poisoning began to spread in later times - just remember the fate of Sigmund Freud. But the fact that the very reasoning about the sources of suicide existed in his head is unambiguous. Thus, his beloved hero Martin Eden quite meaningfully commits suicide, being in a depressed state due to unfulfilled expectations about the principles of the existence of “higher” American society and psychological fatigue from work. The story “Semper Idem” is also devoted to a similar theme; London also mentions his thoughts about suicide in the biographical story “John Barleycorn.”
Fantastic in creativity.
Despite the fact that Jack London’s main fame came from his “northern stories,” in his work he repeatedly addressed the themes and problems of SF. Already in the first published story, “A Thousand Deaths,” a scientist uses his own son as a test subject, conducting experiments on rejuvenation; dedicated to the same topic humorous story"The Rejuvenation of Major Rathbone" (1899). In “The Shadow and the Flash,” the idea of an invisible man is realized using scientific methods, and in the story “The Enemy of the Whole World” (1908) - a superweapon that gives power over the world. Main character story "The Red Deity" (1918), discovers a tribe lost in the jungle who worship a mysterious sphere from outer space. Racist ideas of "burden" white man”, at one time shared by London, found expression in the story “An Unusual Invasion” (1910), in which the “white” nations carry out genocide against the Chinese (the latter are simply poisoned like insects from the air) in order to establish a utopia on Earth.
Some famous works London is devoted to the problems of evolution. In Before Adam (1906), which undoubtedly inspired William Golding's The Descendants, genetic memory allows consciousness modern man travel to the prehistoric past, where “progress” (People of Fire) is gradually displacing the innocent children of Nature from the historical scene. The stories “The Power of the Strong” (1911) and “When the World Was Young” (1910) are devoted to the same theme. And in the story “A Splinter of the Tertiary Epoch” we talk about another relic - a mammoth that has survived to this day.
The soul of the hero of the novel “Interstellar Wanderer” (1915), a prisoner in an American prison, without any scientific justification is capable of “spiritually” traveling through time, incarnating in previous reincarnations of the hero, from a Roman legionnaire to an American pioneer settler. The world after the catastrophe, which has returned to primitive barbarism, is impressively depicted in the story “The Scarlet Plague” (1912).
London’s political views determined the appearance of his utopian works, of which the most famous, the novel “The Iron Heel” (1907), belongs to the peaks of the writer’s creativity and literary utopia (or dystopia) of the beginning of the century. Back in the 27th century, historians are studying documents dating back to the end of the 20th century, in which the United States groans under the rule of a fascist oligarchy; The struggle of the oppressed proletariat against capital is just heating up, but from the prologue it is clear that over time it will lead to success. London has written a number of stories on the same theme: “A Curious Passage” (1907), again introducing the sinister figure of the oligarch ruler; “Goliath” (1908), the hero of which invents a new source of energy and with its help establishes a worldwide “proletarian dictatorship”; in the treatise story “Debs's Dream” (1909), the socialist revolution wins throughout the world as a result of a general strike.
Collections of Jack London's fantastic works were repeatedly published abroad, the composition of which varied markedly, depending on the task of the compiler. A similar collection was published in Russian in 1993, when the compiler Vil Bykov tried to collect all the translated short fiction of Jack London under one cover.
(V. Gakov, with changes)
But after the fight with the lynx, the fighting stopped. White Fang no longer had anyone to fight with - no one could unleash a worthy opponent on him. And he sat in the cage until spring, and in the spring a certain Tim Keenan, a card player by profession, came to Dawson. Keenen brought with him a bulldog - the first bulldog to appear in the Klondike.
The meeting of White Fang with this dog was inevitable, and for some inhabitants of the city the upcoming fight between them served for a whole week main theme conversations.
Handsome Smith took off his chain and stepped back. And for the first time, White Fang did not immediately rush into battle. He stood rooted to the spot, his ears pricked up, and peered with curiosity at strange creature, appeared before him. He had never seen such a dog.
Tim Keenan pushed the bulldog forward and said:
Take him! The squat, clumsy dog hobbled into the middle of the circle and, blinking his eyes, stopped in front of White Fang.
The crowd shouted:
Take it, Cherokee! Give him a good dose! Take it, take it!
But Cherokee, apparently, did not have the slightest desire to fight. He turned his head, looked at the screaming people and wagged his stump of his tail good-naturedly.
Cherokee was not afraid of White Fang, he was just too lazy to start a fight. In addition, he was not sure that he should engage in a fight with the dog standing in front of him. Cherokee was not used to meeting such opponents and was waiting for a real fighter to be brought to him.
Tim Keenan entered the circle and, bending over the bulldog, began stroking it against the grain and gently pushing it forward. These movements were meant to incite the Cherokees. And they not only encouraged him, but also angered him.
A low, muffled growl was heard. The movements of the man's hands exactly coincided with the growl of the dog. When the hands pushed Cherokee forward, he began to growl, then fell silent, but responded in kind to the next touch.
Each movement of the hands, stroking Cherokee against the grain, ended with a slight push, and just like a push, a growl escaped from his throat.
White Fang could not remain indifferent to all this. The fur on his neck and back stood on end. Tim Keenan gave Cherokee one last push and stepped back. Having run several steps forward by inertia, the bulldog did not stop and, quickly moving its crooked paws, jumped out into the middle of the circle. At that moment White Fang rushed at him. The audience screamed in admiration.
White Fang, with the ease of a cat, covered the entire distance between himself and the enemy in one leap, with the same feline agility he tore him with his teeth and jumped to the side.
Blood appeared on the bulldog's thick neck, near the ear. As if not noticing this, without even growling, Cherokee turned and ran after White Fang.
The agility of the White Fang and the tenacity of the Cherokee inflamed the passions of the crowd. Spectators made new bets and increased their stakes. White Fang jumped on the bulldog again and again, pulled him with his teeth and jumped to the side unharmed, and this unusual opponent continued to calmly and as if busily run after him, not in a hurry, but not slowing down either.
There was a certain purpose in Cherokee's behavior, from which nothing could distract him.
All his movements, all his habits were imbued with this goal. He confused White Fang. He had never seen such a dog in his life.
Her fur was very short, blood showed on her soft body from the slightest scratch. And where is the fluffy fur that gets in the way in fights? White Fang's teeth easily dug into the supple body of the bulldog, who, apparently, did not know how to defend himself at all. And why doesn’t he squeal or bark, as all dogs do in such cases? Apart from a dull growl, the bulldog endured the bites in silence and did not stop chasing the enemy for a minute.
Cherokee could not be accused of being slow. He turned and scurried from side to side, but White Fang still eluded him. Cherokee was also confused. He had never had to fight with a dog that wouldn't let him get close to him. The desire to hook up with each other has always been mutual until now. But this dog kept his distance all the time, jumping back and forth and dodging him. And even after tearing at Cherokee with her teeth, she immediately unclenched her jaws and jumped away.
And White Fang could not reach his opponent’s throat. The bulldog was too short; in addition, his protruding jaw served him as good protection. White Fang rushed at him and jumped to the side, managing not to get a single scratch, and the number of wounds on Cherokee’s body grew and grew. His head and neck were slashed on both sides, blood was gushing from the wounds, but Cherokee showed no signs of the slightest sign anxiety. He still stubbornly, just as conscientiously, chased after White Fang and during all this time he stopped only once to look at the people in bewilderment and wave the stump of his tail as a sign of his readiness to continue the fight.
At that moment, White Fang flew at Cherokee and, tearing him by the ear, already torn to shreds, jumped to the side. Beginning to get angry, Cherokee again gave chase, running inside the circle that White Fang was describing, and trying to grab his throat with a stranglehold. The Bulldog missed by the slightest, and White Fang, causing loud approval from the crowd, saved himself only by making an unexpected leap in the opposite direction.
Time passed. White Fang danced and twirled around Cherokee, every now and then biting him and immediately jumping away. And the bulldog continued to run after him with gloomy persistence. Sooner or later, he will achieve his goal and, grabbing White Fang by the throat, will decide the outcome of the battle. For now, he had no choice but to patiently endure all enemy attacks. His short ears hung in a fringe, his neck and shoulders were covered with many wounds, and even his lips were torn and covered in blood - and all this was done by the lightning bites of the White Fang, which could neither be foreseen nor avoided.
Many times White Fang tried to knock Cherokee down, but the difference in height between them was too great. Cherokee was stocky and squat. And this time happiness changed for White Fang. Jumping and spinning like a top near Cherokee, he seized the moment when the enemy, not having time to make a sharp turn, moved his head to the side and left his shoulder unprotected. White Fang rushed forward, but his own shoulder was much higher than the enemy’s shoulder, he could not resist and flew over his back with all his might. And for the first time in White Fang’s entire fighting career, people witnessed how the “fighting wolf” was unable to stay on his feet - He twisted in the air like a cat, and only this prevented him from falling backwards. He fell onto his side and the next moment he was on his feet again, but Cherokee's teeth were already in his throat.
The grip was not entirely successful, it came too low, closer to the chest, but Cherokee did not unclench his jaws. White Fang rushed from side to side, trying to shake off the bulldog. This weight dragging behind him drove him crazy. She bound his movements, deprived him of his freedom, as if he had fallen into a trap. His instinct rebelled against this. He didn't remember himself. The thirst for life took possession of him. His body imperiously demanded freedom.
The brain, the mind did not participate in this struggle, retreating before the blind craving for life, for movement - first of all, for movement, for it is in this that life manifests itself.
Without stopping for a second. White Fang was spinning, jumping back and forth, trying to shake off the fifty-pound weight hanging around his neck. But only one thing was important for the bulldog: not to unclench his jaws. Occasionally, when he managed to touch the ground with his paws for an instant, he tried to resist White Fang and immediately described a circle in the air, obeying every movement of the maddened enemy. Cherokee did as his instinct told him. He knew that he was doing the right thing, that he couldn’t unclench his jaw, and at times he shuddered with pleasure. At such moments, he even closed his eyes and, regardless of the pain, allowed White Fang to spin him to the right and then to the left. None of this mattered. Now one thing was important for Cherokee: not to unclench his teeth, and he did not unclench them.
White Fang stopped thrashing around only when he was completely exhausted. He could no longer do anything, could not understand anything. Never in his entire life had he experienced anything like this. The dogs he had fought with before behaved completely differently. You had to act like this with them: grab it, pull it with your teeth, jump back, grab it, pull it with your teeth, jump away. Breathing heavily. White Fang was reclining on the ground. Without unclenching his teeth, Cherokee leaned on him with his whole body, trying to throw him on his back. White Fang resisted and felt the bulldog's jaws, as if chewing his skin, moving higher and higher. With every minute they were getting closer to my throat. The bulldog acted prudently: trying not to lose what he had captured, he took advantage of the slightest opportunity to capture more. This opportunity was given to him when White Fang lay calm, but as soon as he began to tear, the bulldog immediately clenched his jaws.
White Fang could only reach Cherokee's scruff. He stuck his teeth above the shoulder, but could not move them, as if chewing the skin - this method was unfamiliar to him, and his jaws were not adapted for such a grip. He frantically tore the Cherokees with his teeth and suddenly felt that their position had changed. Cherokee knocked him onto his back and, still not unclenching his jaws, managed to stand over him. White Fang bent his hind legs and, like a cat, began to tear at his enemy with his claws. Cherokee risked being left with his belly torn open and was saved only by jumping to the side, at right angles to White Fang.
It was impossible to free himself from his grip. She shackled with the inexorability of fate. Cherokee's teeth moved slowly upward along the vein.
White Fang was protected from death only by wide folds of skin and thick fur on his neck. Cherokee filled his entire mouth with his skin, but this did not stop him from taking the slightest opportunity to capture it even more. He was strangling White Fang, and it was becoming more and more difficult for him to breathe every minute.
The fight was apparently drawing to a close. Those who bet on Cherokee were overjoyed and offered monstrous bets. The White Fang supporters became disheartened and refused to bet ten to one or twenty to one. But there was one person who risked accepting a bet of fifty against one. It was Handsome Smith. He entered the circle and, pointing his finger at White Fang, began to laugh contemptuously at him. This had its effect. White Fang went mad with rage. He gathered his last strength and rose to his feet. But as soon as he ran around in circles with a fifty-pound weight hanging around his neck, that rage gave way to horror. The thirst for life again took possession of him, and his mind went out, obeying the dictates of his body. He ran in a circle, stumbling, falling and getting up again, rearing up, throwing his enemy up, and yet all his attempts to shake off the tenacious death were in vain.
Finally, White Fang fell backwards, and the bulldog immediately grabbed his teeth even higher and, taking his skin with his mouth, almost did not allow him to catch his breath. Thunderous applause greeted the winner, and the crowd shouted: “Cherokee! Cherokee!” The bulldog zealously wagged its stump of tail. But the applause did not stop him. The tail and massive jaws acted completely independently of each other. The tail moved from side to side, and the jaws squeezed White Fang's throat harder and harder.
White Fang stopped fighting. From time to time he began to beat convulsively, but now all resistance was pointless. The merciless jaws of the bulldog squeezed his throat more and more, there was not enough air, his breathing became more and more intermittent. Cherokee would have bitten his vein long ago if his teeth had not been so close to his chest from the very beginning. He grabbed them higher and higher, getting closer to the throat, but this took a lot of time, and besides, his mouth was completely clogged with thick folds of White Fang’s skin.
Meanwhile, the brutal cruelty of Handsome Smith drove out the last vestiges of reason in him. Seeing that White Fang’s eyes were already clouded with a veil, he realized that the battle was lost. As if he had broken free, he rushed towards White Fang and began to kick him furiously. The spectators screamed and whistles were heard, but that was all. Ignoring these protests.
Handsome Smith continued to beat White Fang. But suddenly there was some movement in the crowd: a tall young man made his way forward, unceremoniously pushing everyone away to the right and left. He entered the circle just as Beauty Smith was raising his right leg for another blow; having transferred all the weight to his left, he was in a state of unstable balance. At that moment, the young man punched him in the face with crushing force.
Handsome Smith could not resist and, jumping in the air, fell onto the snow.
The young man turned to the crowd.
Underpants! - he shouted. - Scoundrels!
He couldn't remember himself from anger, that anger with which only a sane person burns. His gray eyes sparkled with a steely sheen. Handsome Smith stood up and timidly moved towards him. The stranger did not understand his intention. Not suspecting that he was a desperate coward, he decided that Handsome Smith wanted to fight, and, shouting: “Scoundrel!” knocked him over a second time. Handsome Smith realized that it was safer to lie in the snow, and no longer made any attempts to get to his feet.
Matt, help me! - the stranger said to the driver, who entered the circle with him.
They both bent over the dogs. Matt prepared to pull White Fang aside as soon as Cherokee loosened his stranglehold. The young man began to unclench the bulldog's teeth. But all his efforts were in vain. Trying to open his jaws, he kept repeating in a low voice: “Scoundrels!”
The spectators became agitated, and some were already beginning to protest against such uninvited interference. But as soon as the stranger raised his head and looked at the crowd, the protesting voices fell silent.
You are such bastards! - he shouted again and got down to business.
There's no point in trying, Mr. Scott. “That way we’ll never separate them,” Matt finally said.
They straightened up and examined the grappling dogs.
A little blood came out, Matt said, but it didn’t get to his throat yet.
“He’ll get there soon enough,” Scott answered. - Have you seen it? He intercepted it even higher.
Excitement young man and his fear for the fate of the White Fang grew every minute. He hit Cherokee on the head - once, twice. But it didn't help. Cherokee wagged his stump of his tail as a sign that, perfectly understanding the meaning of these blows, he would still fulfill his duty to the end and would not open his jaws.
Someone help! - Scott shouted, desperately addressing the crowd.
But not a single person moved. The audience began to make fun of him and bombarded him with a whole hail of caustic advice.
“Put something in his mouth,” Matt advised.
He somehow squeezed the muzzle of the bulldog between the teeth and now tried to push it further so that it would come out on the other side.
Having achieved this. Scott began to carefully, slowly unclench the bulldog's jaws, while Matt, meanwhile, freed the folds of White Fang's skin from his mouth.
Hold your dog! - Scott commanded Tim.
Cherokee's owner obediently bent down and grabbed the bulldog with both hands.
Well! - Scott shouted, making one last effort.
The dogs were pulled in different directions. The bulldog resisted desperately.
Take him away,” Scott ordered, and Tim Keenan led Cherokee into the crowd.
White Fang tried to get up - once, twice. But his weakened legs gave way under him, and he slowly fell onto the snow. His half-closed eyes dimmed, his lower jaw dropped, his tongue lolled out... A strangled dog. Matt looked him over.
“A little alive,” he said, “but still breathing.”
Jack London
Interesting excerpt
The capitalist, that is, industrial oligarch, Roger Wenderwater, mentioned in this story, is the ninth representative of the Wenderwater family, who owned the textile mills of the South for centuries.
The main period of Roger Wenderwater's activity dates back to the second half of the twenty-sixth century AD, which was the fifth century of the existence of a brutal industrial oligarchy that grew out of the ruins of the former Republic.
From the story itself it is clear that it was written down only in the twenty-ninth century. And this happened not only because until that time it was forbidden to write or print such things, but also because the working class was so illiterate that rarely any of its representatives could read or write. That was dark time reign of the “superman”, who called the workers who make up most of population, "cattle". Literacy was persecuted. In the code of laws of that time there was even such a terrible law, according to which any person, regardless of his class affiliation, who taught at least the alphabet to a representative of the working class, thereby committed a crime punishable by death. Such a strict limitation of education within ruling class was necessary for this class to continue to remain in power.
As a result of the above, professional storytellers emerged. These storytellers were paid by the oligarchy, and they told completely harmless legendary, mythical and romantic stories. But the spirit of freedom never died, and under the guise of storytellers, agitators acted, calling on slaves to revolt. That this story was banned by the oligarchs is confirmed by the documents of the criminal police court in Ashbury, where it is reported that on January 27, 2734, a certain John Thorney was found guilty of telling it in a drinking establishment for workers, and was sentenced to five years' hard labor. in boron mines in the Arizona desert. - Editor's note].
Listen, my brothers, I will tell you the story of the hand. This hand belonged to Tom Dixon, and Tom Dixon was a first-class weaver in the factory of that scoundrel Roger Wenderwater. The slaves who worked in it called this factory “The Underworld”, who knows how. The factory was located in Kingsbury, not where Wenderwater's summer palace was, but at the opposite end. Do you know where Kingsbury is? Unfortunately, you don’t know much, my brothers. And all because you don’t even know that you are slaves. After I tell you this story, I would like to organize a literacy group among you. Our masters know how to read and write, they own many books, that is why they are our masters, they live in palaces and do not work. When all the workers learn to read and write - absolutely everyone - they will become strong, and then they will be able to use their strength to break the shackles, and there will no longer be either masters or slaves in the world.
Kingsbury, my brethren, is in the old state of Alabama. For three hundred years the Wenderwaters owned Kingsbury and all the slave barracks and factories on its land, as well as slave barracks and factories in many other cities and states. You've heard of the Wenderwaters, of course - who hasn't? - but let me tell you something about them that you don't know. The first of the Wenderwaters was a slave, just like you and me, okay? Three hundred years ago he was a slave. His father was a mechanic on the estate of Alexander Berell, and his mother was a laundress. All this is absolutely accurate. I'm telling you the honest truth. It's all history. Every word of what I tell you is printed in the history books of our masters, which you cannot read because your masters do not allow you to learn to read. Now you understand why they do not allow you to learn to read, if there are such things in books. They know this, and they are not fools. If you read about such things, you would lose respect for your masters, and this would be dangerous... for them. But I know all this, because I can read, and what I am telling you now, I read with my own eyes in the historical books of our masters.
The first Wenderwater's name was not Wenderwater; his name was Wenge, Bill Wenge, son of Yergis Wenge, a mechanic, and Laura Carnley, a washerwoman. Young Bill Venge was strong. He could have stayed with the slaves and led their movement for freedom, but instead he sold out to his masters and was well rewarded. As a child, he began spying in his barracks. It is known that he reported on the rebellious speeches of his own father. This is a fact, I read about it in documents with my own eyes. He was too good a slave to be left in a slave barracks. Alexander Berell took him from there as a child and taught him to read and write. He was trained in many things and became a secret agent for the government. Of course, he stopped wearing slave clothes, except when he needed them as a disguise to find out the slaves' secrets and infiltrate their plots. It was he, when but eighteen years of age, who betrayed the great hero, Comrade Ralph Jacobus, who was tried and sentenced to death in the electric chair. Of course, you have all heard the sacred name of Ralph Jacobus, but news for you is that the first Wenderwater, whose last name was then Wenge, was to blame for his death. I know, I've read about it. There are a lot of interesting things in books like this.
And after Ralph Jacobus died horribly, Bill Wenge's nickname changed many times. He was known far and wide as the "Cunning Venge." He achieved high ranks as a secret agent and was generously rewarded, but still failed to become a member of the master class. The men agreed to consider him one of their own, but the women refused to accept the Insidious Wenge into their midst. The cunning Wenge faithfully served his masters. He was born a slave, so he knew the customs of slaves. It was not possible to carry it out. In those days the slaves were bolder than now, and they continually made attempts to achieve freedom. The insidious Wenge penetrated all their conspiracies and plans, and all these conspiracies and plans failed, and their leaders were executed in the electric chair. In 2255 he was given a new nickname. That year the Great Revolt took place. In the region west of the Rocky Mountains, seventeen million slaves fought bravely to free themselves from the oppression of their masters. If the Insidious Wenge had not been in the world, perhaps they would have achieved victory - who knows? But the Insidious Wenge did not sleep. The owners provided him full power. During the eight months of struggle, one million three hundred and fifty thousand slaves were killed. They were killed by Wenge, Bill Wenge, the Insidious Wenge, he alone suppressed the Great Rebellion. He received a high reward, and his hands were so stained with blood that from then on he was nicknamed “Bloody Wenge.” You see, my brothers, what interesting things you can learn from books if you know how to read them. Believe me, there are many other, even more interesting things in the books. If you just want, I will teach you to read and write within a year, and you will be able to read these books yourself. Some of you will be able to read even after six months.
Bloody Wenge lived to a ripe old age and always, until his death, participated in the meetings of the masters, but he himself was never made a master. He was born in a slave's hut. But he was generously rewarded! He had a dozen palaces, and, although not a master, he owned thousands of slaves. For pleasure trips on the sea, he had a large yacht - a real floating palace; he owned an entire island, where ten thousand slaves worked their backs on coffee plantations. But in his old age he was lonely because he lived a secluded life, his slave brothers hated him, and those he served looked down on him and refused to be his brothers. The masters despised him because he was born a slave. He died possessing untold wealth, but his death was terrible, for his conscience tormented him, making him regret everything that he had done and that had left a bloody stain on his name.
However, things were different with his children. They were not born in a slave's hut and, by special order of the Chief Oligarch of the time, John Morrison, were enrolled in the class of masters. And then the name Venj disappeared from the pages of history. It became Wenderwater, and Jason Wenge, son of Bloody Wenge, became known as Jason Wenderwater, founder of the Wenderwater line. That was three hundred years ago, and the Wenderwaters of today have forgotten their ancestors and imagine that they are cut from a different cloth than you and I and all the other slaves. I ask you, why does a slave become the master of another slave? Why does the son of a slave become the master of many slaves? You will find the answer to these questions yourself, and do not forget that the Wenderwater ancestors were slaves.
And now, my brothers, I return to the beginning of my story to tell you about the hand of Tom Dixon. Roger Wenderwater's Kingsbury factory was rightly nicknamed "The Underworld," but the slaves who worked there were, as you will see, real men. Women and children, very young children, also worked there. Everyone who worked there, by law, enjoyed the usual rights of slaves, but this was only stated in the law, in fact, the overseers of the “Underworld” Joseph Clancy and Adolph Munster deprived them of these rights.
It's a long story and I won't tell you all of it. I'll only talk about the hand. It was so customary that, according to the law, every month a part of the miserable earnings of slaves was withheld and deposited in the fund. This fund was intended to help those fellow workers who were victims of an accident or fell ill. As you know yourself, this fund is managed by overseers. This is the law, and in the Underworld there were two overseers in charge of this fund, damn them.
Clancy and Munster used this money to their advantage. When accidents occurred to workers, their comrades, as was customary, gave permission for benefits from the fund, but the supervisors refused to pay the money. What...
