вторник, 12 августа 2014
13:53

Jack London "White Fang"

Jurtai
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" The trail of the Meat".
Dark spruce forest frowned on the either side the frozen waterway. Thr trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white coveringoffrost,and they seemed to lean toward each other, black and omnious, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The landitselfwasdesolation, lifeless, without mouvement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it oflaughter,but alaughter more terrible than any sadness - a laughter that was mirthless as a smile of Sphinx, a laughter cold as frost and partakingof thegrimnessof infallibility. It was the masterfull and incommunicable wisdom of enternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort oflife. Itwasthe Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

...

In advance of the dogs , on wide snowshoes, toiled a man . A the rear of the sled toiled a second man. On the sled, in a box, lay a thirdmanwhosetoil was over,- a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten down until he would never mouve or struggle again. It is not the way oftheWild tolike movement. Life is an offence to it, for life is movement; and the Wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes thewatertoprevent it running to the sea,; it drives the sap out of trees till they are frozen to their mighty hearts; and most ferociously and terribleofalldoes the Wild harry and crush into submission man- man, who is the most restless of life, ever in revolt against the dictum that allmovementmustin the end come to the cessation of movement.

The Battle of the Fangs.

The young leader snarled terribly, but his snarl broke midmost into a tickling cough. Bleeding and coughing, already striken, ha sprang attheelderand fought while life faded from him, his legs going weak beneath him , the light of day dulling on his eyes, his blows and springsfallingshorterand shorter.
And all the while tha she-wolf sat on her haunches and smiled. She was made glad in vague ways by the battle, for this was the love-makingoftheWild, the sex-tragedy of the natural world that was the tragedy only to those that died. To t hose that survived it was not tragedy,butrealization and achievement.

The Law of Meat.

Beside the law of meat, there was a myriad other and lesser laws for him to lear and obey. The world was filled with surprise. The stirof the life that was in him , the play of his muscules, was an unending happiness. to run dow meat was to experience thrills and elations.Hisragesand battles were pleasures. Terror itself, and the mistery of unknown , lent to his living.
And there were easements and satisfactions. To have full stomach, to doze lazily in the sunshine - such thingz were remuneration in fullforhisardos and toils, while his ardos and toils were in themselves self-remunerative. They were expressions of life, and life is alwayshappywhenitis expressing itself. So the cub had no quarrel with his hostile environment. He was very much alive, very happy and veryproudof himself.

The Boundage.

Unlike man, whose gods are of the unseen and the overguessed, vapors and mists of fancy eluding the garmenture of reality, wonderingwraithaofdesired goodness and power, intangible outcroppings of self into the realm of spirit - unlike man, the wolf and the wild dog that have come intothe fire find thier gods in the living flesh, solid to the touch, occupying earth-space and requiring time for the accomplishementoftheirexistence. No effort of faith is necessary to believe in such a god; no effort of will can possbly induce disbelieve in such a god. Thereis no getting away from it. There it stands, on its two hind-legs, club in hand, immensely potential, passionate and wrathfuland loving, gos and mystery and power all wrapped up and around by flesh that bleeds when it is torn and that is good to eat like any flesh.

The Love-Master.

In short, when all things were considered, he had to achieve an orientation far vaster than the one he had achieved at the timehe came voluntarily in from the Wild and accepted Gray Beaver as his lord. At that time he was a mere puppy, soft from the making,without form, ready for the thumb of circumstances to begin its work upon him. But now it was different. the thumb of circumstanceshad done itswork only too well. By it he had be formed and hardened into the Fightong Wolf, fierce and implacable, unloving and unloveable.To accomplishthe change was like a reflux of being, and this when the plasticity of youth was no longer his; when the fibre of him hadbecometough and knotty; when the wrap and the woof of him had made him an adamantine texture, harash and unyielding; when the face of his spirit had becomeiron and all his instincts and axioms had crystallized into set rules, cautions, dislikes, and desires.
Yet again, in this new orientation, it was the thumb of circumstance that pressed and prodded him, softering that which had becomehardandremoulding it into fairer form. Weedon Smith was in truth this thumb. He had gone to the roots of White Fang's nature, andwith kidnesstouched to life potencies that had languished and wellnigh periched. One such potency was love. It took the place of like,whichlatterhad been the highest feeling that thrilled him in his intercource with the goods.

...

But now it was different. Because of this new feeling whithing him , he oftimes elected discomfort and pain for the sake of his god.Thus,inthe early morning, instead of roaming and foraging, or lying in a sheltered nook, he would wait for hours on the cheerless cabin-stopforthe sight of the god's face. At night, when the god returned home, White Fang would leave the warm sleeping-place he had burrowed inthe snowin order to receive the friendly snap of fingers and the word of greeting. Meat, even meat itself, he would forego to be with his god,toreceive a caress from him or to accompany him down into the town.
Like had been replaced by love. And love was the plummet dropped down into the deeps of him where like had never gone. And responsive,outof his deeps had come the new thing- love. This was a god indeed, a love-god, a warm and radiant god, in whose lightWhite Fang's natureexpanded as a flower expands under the sun.
But White Fang was not demonstrative. He was too old, too firmly moulded, to become adept at expressing himself in new ways. He was tooself-possessed, too strongly poised in his own isolation. Too long he had cultivate reticence, aloofness, ans moroseness. He had never barked inhislife, and he could not now learnto bark a welcome when his god approached. He was never in the way, never extravagant nor foolishintheexpression of his love. He never run to meet his god. He waited in a distance; but he always waited, was always there. His love partookof the nature of worship, bumb, inarticulate, a silent adoration. Only by the steady regard of his eyes did he expressed his love,and by theunceasing following with his eyes of his god's every movement. Also, at times, when his god looked at him and spoke to him,he betrayed anawkward self-consciousness, caused by the struggle of his love to express itself and his physical inability ot express it.

The Call of Kind.

White Fang had never been demostartive. Beyond his snuggling and the throwing of a crooning note into his love-growl, he had no wayofexpressinghis love. Yet it was given him to discover the third way. He had always been susceptible to the laughter of the gods. Laughterhadaffectedhim with madness, made him frantic with rage. But he did not have it in him to be angry with the love-master, and when thatgodelected tolaught at him in a good-natured, bantering way, he was nonplussed. He strove to rise up in him, but it strove against love.He could not be angry; yet he had to do something. At first he was dignified, and the master laughed the harder. Then he tried to be moredignified, and the master laughed harder than before. In the end, the master laughed him out of his dignity. His jaws slightly parted, his lipslifted alittle, a quizzical expression that was more love than humor came into his eyes. He had learn to laugh.
Likewise he learned to romp with the master, to be tumbled down and rolled over, and be the victim of innumerable rough tricks. In return he feigned anger, bristling and growling ferociously, and clipping his teeth together in snap that had all seeming of deadly intention. But he never forgot himself. Those snaps were always delivered on the empty air. At the end of such a romp, when blow and cuff and snap and snarl were fast and furious, they would breal off suddenly and stand several feet apart, glaring at each other. And then, just as suddenly , ike the sun rising on a stormy sea, they would begin to laugh. This would always culminate with the master's arms going around White Fang's neck and shoulders while the latter crooned and growl his love-song.






@темы: Jack London

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13.02.2024 в 00:09

Гость
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