A Curious Fragment Page #3

"A Curious Fragment" is a short story by Jack London that explores themes of existentialism and the human condition. The narrative unfolds through a series of introspective observations made by the protagonist, delving into the complexities of life, nature, and the inevitability of death. Through vivid imagery and poignant reflections, London captures the essence of human curiosity and the search for meaning in a chaotic world, ultimately offering a contemplative take on existence and our place within it. The story is a testament to London's literary prowess, showcasing his ability to intertwine philosophical musings with engaging storytelling.

• Novel

								

guards had made their last rounds. One of the slaves was the man who
could write. They lay in the brush by the roadside until late in the
morning, when the old farm slave came driving to town with the precious
fruit for the master. What of the farm slave being old and rheumatic,
and of the slave who could write being stiff and injured from his
beating, they moved their bodies about when they walked, very much in
the same fashion. The slave who could write put on the other's clothes,
pulled the broad-brimmed hat over his eyes, climbed upon the seat of the
wagon, and drove on to town. The old farm slave was kept tied all day
in the bushes until evening, when the others loosed him and went back to
the slave pen to take their punishment for having broken bounds.

In the meantime, Roger Vanderwater lay waiting for the berries in his
wonderful bedroom--such wonders and such comforts were there that they
would have blinded the eyes of you and me who have never seen such
things. The slave who could write said afterward that it was like
a glimpse of Paradise! And why not? The labour and the lives of ten
thousand slaves had gone to the making of that bedchamber, while they
themselves slept in vile lairs like wild beasts. The slave who could
write brought in the berries on a silver tray or platter--you see, Roger
Vanderwater wanted to speak with him in person about the berries.

The slave who could write tottered his dying body across the wonderful
room and knelt by the couch of Vanderwater, holding out before him the
tray. Large green leaves covered the top of the tray, and these the
body-servant alongside whisked away so that Vanderwater could see.
And Roger Vanderwater, propped upon his elbow, saw. He saw the fresh,
wonderful fruit lying there like precious jewels, and in the midst of it
the arm of Tom Dixon as it had been torn from his body, well washed,
of course, my brothers, and very white against the blood-red fruit. And
also he saw, clutched in the stiff, dead fingers, the petition of his
slaves who toiled in Hell's Bottom.

"Take and read," said the slave who could write. And even as the master
took the petition, the body-servant, who till then had been motionless
with surprise, struck with his fist the kneeling slave upon the mouth.
The slave was dying anyway, and was very weak, and did not mind. He made
no sound, and, having fallen over on his side, he lay there quietly,
bleeding from the blow on the mouth. The physician, who had run for the
palace guards, came back with them, and the slave was dragged upright
upon his feet. But as they dragged him up, his hand clutched Tom Dixon's
arm from where it had fallen on the floor.

"He shall be flung alive to the hounds!" the body-servant was crying in
great wrath. "He shall be flung alive to the hounds!"

But Roger Vanderwater, forgetting his headache, still leaning on his
elbow, commanded silence, and went on reading the petition. And while
he read, there was silence, all standing upright, the wrathful
body-servant, the physician, the palace guards, and in their midst the
slave, bleeding at the mouth and still holding Tom Dixon's arm. And when
Roger Vanderwater had done, he turned upon the slave, saying--

"If in this paper there be one lie, you shall be sorry that you were
ever born."

And the slave said, "I have been sorry all my life that I was born."

Roger Vanderwater looked at him closely, and the slave said--

"You have done your worst to me. I am dying now. In a week I shall be
dead, so it does not matter if you kill me now."

"What do you with that?" the master asked, pointing to the arm; and the
slave made answer--

"I take it back to the pen to give it burial. Tom Dixon was my friend.
We worked beside each other at our looms."

There is little more to my tale, brothers. The slave and the arm were
sent back in a cart to the pen. Nor were any of the slaves punished for
what they had done. Indeed, Roger Vanderwater made investigation and
punished the two overseers, Joseph Clancy and Adolph Munster. Their
freeholds were taken from them. They were branded, each upon the
forehead, their right hands were cut off, and they were turned loose
upon the highway to wander and beg until they died. And the fund was
managed rightfully thereafter for a time--for a time only, my brothers;
for after Roger Vanderwater came his son, Albert, who was a cruel master
and half mad.

Brothers, that slave who carried the arm into the presence of the master
was my father. He was a brave man. And even as his mother secretly
taught him to read, so did he teach me. Because he died shortly after
from the pick-handle beating, Roger Vanderwater took me out of the slave
pen and tried to make various better things out of me. I might
have become an overseer in Hell's Bottom, but I chose to become a
story-teller, wandering over the land and getting close to my brothers,
the slaves, everywhere. And I tell you stories like this, secretly,
knowing that you will not betray me; for if you did, you know as well as
I that my tongue will be torn out and that I shall tell stories no more.
And my message is, brothers, that there is a good time coming, when all
will be well in the world and there will be neither masters nor slaves.
But first you must prepare for that good time by learning to read. There
is power in the printed word. And here am I to teach you to read, and as
well there are others to see that you get the books when I am gone
along upon my way--the history books wherein you will learn about your
masters, and learn to become strong even as they.

[EDITOR'S NOTE.--From "Historical Fragments and Sketches," first
published in fifty volumes in 4427, and now, after two hundred years,
because of its accuracy and value, edited and republished by the
National Committee on Historical Research.]
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