Love of Life, and Other Stories E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

LOVE OF LIFE, AND OTHER STORIES
Jack London 


LOVE OF LIFE
“This out of all will remain— They have lived and have tossed:
So much of the game will be gain,
Though the gold of the dice has been lost.”
They limped painfully down the bank, and once the foremost of the two men staggered among the rough-strewn rocks. They were tired and weak, and their faces had the drawn expression of patience which comes of hardship long endured. They were heavily burdened with blanket packs which were strapped to their shoulders. Head-straps, passing across the forehead, helped support these packs. Each man carried a rifle. They walked in a stooped posture, the shoulders well forward, the head still farther forward, the eyes bent upon the ground.
“I wish we had just about two of them cartridges that’s layin’ in that cache of ourn,” said the second man.
His   voice   was   utterly   and   drearily   expressionless.   He   spoke   without

Leseprobe

LoveofLifeandOther Stories

ByJackLondon

Publisher: ShadowPOET

LOVEOFLIFE,ANDOTHERSTORIES

LOVEOFLIFE

“Thisoutofallwillremain—Theyhavelivedandhavetossed:

Somuchofthegamewillbegain,

Thoughthegoldofthedicehasbeenlost.”

They limped painfully down the bank, and once the foremost of the two menstaggered among the rough-strewn rocks. They were tired and weak, and theirfaces had the drawn expression of patience which comes of hardship longendured.They were heavily burdened with blanket packs which werestrapped to their shoulders. Head-straps, passing across the forehead, helpedsupport these packs.Each man carried a rifle.They walked in a stoopedposture, the shoulders well forward, theheadstillfartherforward,theeyesbentupontheground.

“Iwishwehadjustabouttwoofthemcartridgesthat’slayin’inthatcacheofourn,”saidthesecondman.

Hisvoicewasutterlyanddrearilyexpressionless.Hespokewithout

enthusiasm; and the first man, limping into the milky stream that foamed overtherocks,vouchsafednoreply.

The other man followed at his heels. They did not remove their foot-gear,though the water was icy cold—so cold that their ankles ached and their feetwent numb. In places the water dashed against their knees, and both menstaggeredforfooting.

Themanwhofollowedslippedonasmoothboulder,nearlyfell,butrecoveredhimself with a violent effort, at the same time uttering a sharp exclamation ofpain. He seemed faint and dizzy and put out his free hand while he reeled, asthough seeking support against the air.When he had steadied himself hesteppedforward,butreeledagainandnearlyfell.Thenhestoodstillandlookedattheotherman,whohadneverturnedhishead.

Themanstoodstillforfullyaminute,asthoughdebatingwithhimself.Thenhecalledout:

“Isay,Bill,I’vesprainedmyankle.”

Bill staggered on through the milky water. He did not look around. The manwatchedhimgo,andthoughhisfacewasexpressionlessasever,hiseyeswereliketheeyesofawoundeddeer.

The other man limped up the farther bank and continued straight on withoutlookingback.Themaninthestreamwatchedhim.Hislipstrembledalittle,sothat the rough thatch of brown hair which covered them was visibly agitated.Histongueevenstrayedouttomoistenthem.

“Bill!”hecriedout.

Itwasthepleadingcryofastrongmanindistress,butBill’sheaddidnotturn.The man watched him go, limping grotesquely and lurching forward withstammering gait up the slow slope toward the soft sky-line of the low-lyinghill. He watched him go till he passed over the crest and disappeared. Then heturned his gaze and slowly took in the circle of the world that remained to himnowthatBillwasgone.

Nearthehorizonthesunwassmoulderingdimly,almostobscuredbyformlessmists and vapors, which gave an impression of mass and density withoutoutline or tangibility. The man pulled out his watch, the while resting hisweight on one leg. It was four o’clock, and as the season was near the last ofJuly or first of August,—he did not know the precise date within a week ortwo,—he knew that the sun roughly marked the northwest. He looked to thesouth and knew that somewhere beyond those bleak hills lay the Great BearLake; also, he knew that in that direction the Arctic Circle cut its forbiddingway across the Canadian Barrens. This stream in which he stood was a feedertotheCoppermineRiver,whichinturnflowednorthandemptiedinto

Coronation Gulf and the Arctic Ocean. He had never been there, but he hadseenit,once,onaHudsonBayCompanychart.

Again his gaze completed the circle of the world about him. It was not aheartening spectacle. Everywhere was soft sky-line. The hills were all low-lying. There were no trees, no shrubs, no grasses—naught but a tremendousandterribledesolationthatsentfearswiftlydawningintohiseyes.

“Bill!”hewhispered,onceandtwice;“Bill!”

He cowered in the midst of the milky water, as though the vastness werepressing in upon him with overwhelming force, brutally crushing him with itscomplacent awfulness. He began to shake as with an ague-fit, till the gun fellfrom his hand with a splash. This served to rouse him. He fought with his fearand pulled himself together, groping in the water and recovering the weapon.He hitched his pack farther over on his left shoulder, so as to take a portion ofitsweightfromofftheinjuredankle.Thenheproceeded,slowlyandcarefully,wincingwithpain,tothebank.

He did not stop. With a desperation that was madness, unmindful of the pain,he hurried up the slope to the crest of the hill over which his comrade haddisappeared—more grotesque and comical by far than that limping, jerkingcomrade. But at the crest he saw a shallow valley, empty of life. He foughtwith his fear again, overcame it, hitched the pack still farther over on his leftshoulder,andlurchedondowntheslope.

The bottom of the valley was soggy with water, which the thick moss held,spongelike, close to the surface. This water squirted out from under his feet atevery step, and each time he lifted a foot the action culminated in a suckingsound as the wet moss reluctantly released its grip. He picked his way frommuskeg to muskeg, and followed the other man’s footsteps along and acrosstherockyledgeswhichthrustlikeisletsthroughtheseaofmoss.

Though alone, he was not lost.Farther on he knew he would come to wheredead spruce and fir, very small and weazened, bordered the shore of a littlelake,thetitchin-nichilie,inthetongueofthecountry,the“landoflittlesticks.”Andintothatlakeflowedasmallstream,thewaterofwhichwasnotmilky.

There was rush-grass on that stream—this he remembered well—but notimber,andhewouldfollowittillitsfirsttrickleceasedatadivide.Hewouldcrossthisdividetothefirsttrickleofanotherstream,flowingtothewest,whichhewouldfollowuntilitemptiedintotheriverDease,andherehewouldfindacacheunderanupturnedcanoeandpiledoverwithmanyrocks.Andinthiscachewouldbeammunitionforhisemptygun,fish-hooksandlines,asmallnet—alltheutilitiesforthekillingandsnaringoffood.Also,hewouldfindflour,—notmuch,—apieceofbacon,andsomebeans.

Billwouldbewaitingforhimthere,andtheywouldpaddleawaysouthdown

the Dease to the Great Bear Lake. And south across the lake they would go,ever south, till they gained the Mackenzie. And south, still south, they wouldgo, while the winter raced vainly after them, and the ice formed in the eddies,and the days grew chill and crisp, south to some warm Hudson Bay Companypost,wheretimbergrewtallandgenerousandtherewasgrubwithoutend.

Thesewerethethoughtsofthemanashestroveonward.Buthardashestrovewith his body, he strove equally hard with his mind, trying to think that Billhad not deserted him, that Bill would surely wait for him at the cache. He wascompelled to think this thought, or else there would not be any use to strive,and he would have lain down and died. And as the dim ball of the sun sankslowlyintothenorthwesthecoveredeveryinch—andmanytimes—ofhisandBill’s flight south before the downcoming winter. And he conned the grub ofthe cache and the grub of the Hudson Bay Company post over and over again.He had not eaten for two days; for a far longer time he had not had all hewanted to eat. Often he stooped and picked pale muskeg berries, put them intohis mouth, and chewed and swallowed them. A muskeg berry is a bit of seedenclosed in a bit of water. In the mouth the water melts away and the seedchews sharp and bitter. Themanknewtherewasnonourishmentintheberries, but he chewed them patiently with a hope greater than knowledge anddefyingexperience.

At nine o’clock he stubbed his toe on a rocky ledge, and from sheer wearinessand weakness staggered and fell. He lay for some time, without movement, onhisside.Thenheslippedoutofthepack-strapsandclumsilydraggedhimselfintoasittingposture.Itwasnotyetdark,andinthelingeringtwilighthegropedaboutamongtherocksforshredsofdrymoss.Whenhehadgatheredaheaphebuiltafire,—asmouldering,smudgyfire,—andputatinpotofwaterontoboil.

He unwrapped his pack and the first thing he did was to count his matches.Thereweresixty-seven.Hecountedthemthreetimestomakesure.Hedividedthemintoseveralportions,wrappingtheminoilpaper,disposingofonebunchinhisemptytobaccopouch,ofanotherbunchintheinsidebandofhisbatteredhat, of a third bunch under his shirt on the chest. This accomplished, a paniccame upon him, and he unwrapped them all and counted them again. Therewerestillsixty-seven.

He dried his wet foot-gear by the fire. The moccasins were in soggy shreds.The blanket socks were worn through in places, and his feet were raw andbleeding. His ankle was throbbing, and he gave it an examination. It hadswollen to the size of his knee. He tore a long strip from one of his twoblankets and bound the ankle tightly. He tore other strips and bound themabout his feet to serve for both moccasins and socks. Then he drank the pot ofwater,steaminghot,woundhiswatch,andcrawledbetweenhisblankets.

He slept like a dead man. The brief darkness around midnight came and went.The sun arose in the northeast—at least the day dawned in that quarter, for thesunwashiddenbygrayclouds.

At six o’clock he awoke, quietly lying on his back. He gazed straight up intothe gray sky and knew that he was hungry. As he rolled over on his elbow hewas startled by a loud snort, and saw a bull caribou regarding him with alertcuriosity. The animal was not mere than fifty feet away, and instantly into theman’s mind leaped the vision and the savor of a caribou steak sizzling andfrying over a fire. Mechanically he reached for the empty gun, drew a bead,andpulledthetrigger.Thebullsnortedandleapedaway,hishoofsrattlingandclatteringashefledacrosstheledges.

The man cursed and flung the empty gun from him. He groaned aloud as hestartedtodraghimselftohisfeet.Itwasaslowandarduoustask.

His joints were like rusty hinges. They worked harshly in their sockets, withmuchfriction,andeachbendingorunbendingwasaccomplishedonlythrougha sheer exertion of will. When he finally gained his feet, another minute or sowasconsumedinstraighteningup,sothathecouldstanderectasamanshouldstand.

He crawled up a small knoll and surveyed the prospect. There were no trees,no bushes, nothing but a gray sea of moss scarcely diversified by gray rocks,gray lakelets, and gray streamlets. The sky was gray. There was no sun norhint of sun. He had no idea of north, and he had forgotten the way he hadcome to this spot the night before. But he was not lost. He knew that. Soon hewould come to the land of the little sticks. He felt that it lay off to the leftsomewhere,notfar—possiblyjustoverthenextlowhill.

He went back to put his pack into shape for travelling. He assured himself oftheexistenceofhisthreeseparateparcelsofmatches,thoughhedidnotstopto count them. But he did linger, debating, over a squat moose-hide sack. Itwas not large. He could hide it under his two hands. He knew that it weighedfifteen pounds,—as much as all the rest of the pack,—and it worried him. Hefinally set it to one side and proceeded to roll the pack. He paused to gaze atthe squat moose-hide sack. He picked it up hastily with a defiant glance abouthim, as though the desolation were trying to rob him of it; and when he rose tohisfeettostaggeronintotheday,itwasincludedinthepackonhisback.

He bore away to the left, stopping now and again to eat muskeg berries. Hisankle had stiffened, his limp was more pronounced, but the pain of it was asnothing compared with the pain of his stomach. The hunger pangs were sharp.They gnawed and gnawed until he could not keep his mind steady on thecourse he must pursue to gain the land of little sticks. The muskeg berries didnotallaythisgnawing,whiletheymadehistongueandtheroofofhismouth

sorewiththeirirritatingbite.

He came upon a valley where rock ptarmigan rose on whirring wings from theledges and muskegs.Ker—ker—ker was the cry they made.He threw stonesat them, but could not hit them. He placed his pack on the ground and stalkedthem as a cat stalks a sparrow. The sharp rocks cut through his pants’ legs tillhiskneesleftatrailofblood;butthehurtwaslostinthehurtofhishunger.Hesquirmed over the wet moss, saturating his clothes and chilling his body; buthe was not aware of it, so great was his fever for food. And always theptarmigan rose, whirring, before him, till their ker—ker—ker became a mocktohim,andhecursedthemandcriedaloudatthemwiththeirowncry.

Once he crawled upon one that must have been asleep. He did not see it till itshotupinhisfacefromitsrockynook.Hemadeaclutchasstartledaswastherise of the ptarmigan, and there remained in his hand three tail-feathers. As hewatched its flight he hated it, as though it had done him some terrible wrong.Thenhereturnedandshoulderedhispack.

As the day wore along he came into valleys or swales where game was moreplentiful. A band of caribou passed by, twenty and odd animals, tantalizinglywithin rifle range. He felt a wild desire to run after them, a certitude that hecould run them down. A black fox came toward him, carrying a ptarmigan inhis mouth. The man shouted. It was a fearful cry, but the fox, leaping away infright,didnotdroptheptarmigan.

Lateintheafternoonhefollowedastream,milkywithlime,whichranthrough sparse patches of rush-grass. Grasping these rushes firmly near theroot, he pulled up what resembled a young onion-sprout no larger than ashingle-nail. Itwastender,andhisteethsankintoitwithacrunchthatpromised deliciously of food. But its fibers were tough. It was composed ofstringyfilamentssaturatedwithwater,liketheberries,anddevoidofnourishment. He threw off his pack and went into the rush-grass on hands andknees,crunchingandmunching,likesomebovinecreature.

He was very weary and often wished to rest—to lie down and sleep; but hewas continually driven on—not so much by his desire to gain the land of littlesticks as by his hunger. He searched little ponds for frogs and dug up the earthwith his nails for worms, though he knew in spite that neither frogs nor wormsexistedsofarnorth.

He looked into every pool of water vainly, until, as the long twilight came on,he discovered a solitary fish, the size of a minnow, in such a pool. He plungedhisarminuptotheshoulder,butiteludedhim.Hereachedforitwithbothhandsandstirredupthemilkymudatthebottom.Inhisexcitementhefellin,wettinghimselftothewaist.Thenthewaterwastoomuddytoadmitofhisseeingthefish,andhewascompelledtowaituntilthesedimenthadsettled.

The pursuit was renewed, till the water was again muddied. But he could notwait. He unstrapped the tin bucket and began to bale the pool. He baled wildlyat first, splashing himself and flinging the water so short a distance that it ranback into the pool. He worked more carefully, striving to be cool, though hisheart was pounding against his chest and his hands were trembling. At the endof half an hour the pool was nearly dry. Not a cupful of water remained. Andthere was no fish. He found a hidden crevice among the stones through whichit had escaped to the adjoining and larger pool—a pool which he could notemptyinanightandaday.Hadheknownofthecrevice,hecouldhavecloseditwitharockatthebeginningandthefishwouldhavebeenhis.

Thus he thought, and crumpled up and sank down upon the wet earth. At firsthe cried softly to himself, then he cried loudly to the pitiless desolation thatringedhimaround;andforalongtimeafterhewasshakenbygreatdrysobs.

He built a fire and warmed himself by drinking quarts of hot water, and madecamp on a rocky ledge in the same fashion he had the night before. The lastthing he did was to see that his matches were dry and to wind his watch. Theblankets were wet and clammy. His ankle pulsed with pain. But he knew onlythat he was hungry, and through his restless sleep he dreamed of feasts andbanquetsandoffoodservedandspreadinallimaginableways.

He awoke chilled and sick.There was no sun.The gray of earth and sky hadbecomedeeper,moreprofound.Arawwindwasblowing,andthefirst flurries of snow were whitening the hilltops. The air about him thickened andgrew white while he made a fire and boiled more water. It was wet snow, halfrain,andtheflakeswerelargeandsoggy.Atfirsttheymeltedassoonastheycameincontactwiththeearth,butevermorefell,coveringtheground,puttingoutthefire,spoilinghissupplyofmoss-fuel.

This was a signal for him to strap on his pack and stumble onward, he knewnot where. He was not concerned with the land of little sticks, nor with Billand the cache under the upturned canoe by the river Dease. He was masteredby the verb “to eat.” He was hunger-mad. He took no heed of the course hepursued, so long as that course led him through the swale bottoms. He felt hisway through the wet snow to the watery muskeg berries, and went by feel ashe pulled up the rush-grass by the roots. But it was tasteless stuff and did notsatisfy. He found a weed that tasted sour and he ate all he could find of it,which was not much, for it was a creeping growth, easily hidden under theseveralinchesofsnow.

Hehadnofirethatnight,norhotwater,andcrawledunderhisblankettosleepthebrokenhunger-sleep.Thesnowturnedintoacoldrain.Heawakenedmanytimestofeelitfallingonhisupturnedface.Daycame—agraydayandnosun.It had ceased raining. The keenness of his hunger had departed. Sensibility, asfarasconcernedtheyearningforfood,hadbeenexhausted.Therewasadull,

heavy ache in his stomach, but it did not bother him so much. He was morerational,andoncemorehewaschieflyinterestedinthelandoflittlesticksandthecachebytheriverDease.

Herippedtheremnantofoneofhisblanketsintostripsandboundhisbleedingfeet. Also, he recinched the injured ankle and prepared himself for a day oftravel. When he came to his pack, he paused long over the squat moose-hidesack,butintheenditwentwithhim.

The snow had melted under the rain, and only the hilltops showed white. Thesun came out, and he succeeded in locating the points of the compass, thoughhe knew now that he was lost. Perhaps, in his previous days’ wanderings, hehad edged away too far to the left. He now bore off to the right to counteractthepossibledeviationfromhistruecourse.

Though the hunger pangs were no longer so exquisite, he realized that he wasweak.He was compelled to pause for frequent rests, when he attacked themuskeg berries and rush-grass patches.His tongue felt dry and large, asthoughcoveredwithafinehairygrowth,andittastedbitterinhismouth.Hisheart gavehimagreatdealof trouble.Whenhehadtravelledafewminutesitwouldbeginaremorselessthump,thump,thump,andthenleapupandawayinapainfulflutterofbeatsthatchokedhimandmadehimgofaintanddizzy.

In the middle of the day he found two minnows in a large pool. It wasimpossibletobaleit,buthewascalmernowandmanagedtocatchtheminhistinbucket.Theywerenolongerthanhislittlefinger,buthewasnotparticularly hungry. The dull ache in his stomach had been growing duller andfainter. It seemed almost that his stomach was dozing. He ate the fish raw,masticating with painstaking care, for the eating was an act of pure reason.Whilehehadnodesiretoeat,heknewthathemusteattolive.

In the evening he caught three more minnows, eating two and saving the thirdforbreakfast.Thesunhaddriedstrayshredsofmoss,andhewasabletowarmhimself with hot water. He had not covered more than ten miles that day; andthe next day, travelling whenever his heart permitted him, he covered no morethan five miles. But his stomach did not give him the slightest uneasiness. Ithad gone to sleep. He was in a strange country, too, and the caribou weregrowing more plentiful, also the wolves. Often their yelps drifted across thedesolation,andoncehesawthreeofthemslinkingawaybeforehispath.

Another night; and in the morning, being more rational, he untied the leatherstring that fastened the squat moose-hide sack. From its open mouth poured ayellow stream of coarse gold-dust and nuggets. He roughly divided the gold inhalves, caching one half on a prominent ledge, wrapped in a piece of blanket,and returning the other half to the sack. He also began to use strips of the oneremainingblanketforhisfeet.Hestillclungtohisgun,fortherewere

cartridgesinthatcachebytheriverDease.

This was a day of fog, and this day hunger awoke in him again. He was veryweak and was afflicted with a giddiness which at times blinded him. It was nouncommon thing now for him to stumble and fall; and stumbling once, he fellsquarely into a ptarmigan nest. There were four newly hatched chicks, a dayold—littlespecksofpulsatinglifenomorethanamouthful;andheatethemravenously,thrustingthemaliveintohismouthandcrunchingthemlikeegg-shellsbetweenhisteeth.Themotherptarmiganbeatabouthimwithgreatoutcry.Heusedhisgunasaclubwithwhichtoknockherover,butshedodgedoutofreach.Hethrewstonesatherandwithonechanceshotbrokeawing.Thensheflutteredaway,running,trailingthebrokenwing,withhiminpursuit.

The little chicks hadno more thanwhettedhis appetite.He hopped andbobbed clumsily along on his injured ankle, throwing stones and screaminghoarsely at times; at other times hopping and bobbing silently along, pickinghimselfupgrimlyandpatientlywhenhefell,orrubbinghiseyeswithhishandwhenthegiddinessthreatenedtooverpowerhim.

The chase led him across swampy ground in the bottom of the valley, and hecameuponfootprintsinthesoggymoss.Theywerenothisown—hecouldseethat. They must be Bill’s. But he could not stop, for the mother ptarmigan wasrunningon.Hewouldcatchherfirst,thenhewouldreturnandinvestigate.

Heexhaustedthemotherptarmigan;butheexhaustedhimself.Shelaypantingon her side. He lay panting on his side, a dozen feet away, unable to crawl toher. And as he recovered she recovered, fluttering out of reach as his hungryhand went out to her. The chase was resumed. Night settled down and sheescaped. He stumbled from weakness and pitched head foremost on his face,cutting his cheek, his pack upon his back. He did not move for a long while;thenherolledoveronhisside,woundhiswatch,andlaythereuntilmorning.

Another day of fog. Half of his last blanket had gone into foot-wrappings. Hefailed to pick up Bill’s trail. It did not matter. His hunger was driving him toocompellingly—only—only he wondered if Bill, too, were lost. By midday theirk of his pack became too oppressive. Again he divided the gold, this timemerely spilling half of it on the ground. In the afternoon he threw the rest of itaway, there remaining to him only the half-blanket, the tin bucket, and therifle.

An hallucination began to trouble him. He felt confident that one cartridgeremained to him. It was in the chamber of the rifle and he had overlooked it.Ontheotherhand,heknewallthetimethatthechamberwasempty.Butthehallucination persisted. He fought it off for hours, then threw his rifle openandwasconfrontedwithemptiness.Thedisappointmentwasasbitteras