Created He Them

"Created He Them" is a novella by Jack London that explores themes of humanity, freedom, and the primal instincts of man and beast. Set against the backdrop of the wilderness, the story follows a group of characters who grapple with their innate instincts and societal expectations. Through vivid imagery and compelling character development, London examines the tension between civilization and nature, ultimately questioning what it means to be truly free. The novella is a thought-provoking reflection on the struggle for identity and the impact of both environment and evolution on human behavior.

• Novel

								
She met him at the door.

"I did not think you would be so early."

"It is half past eight." He looked at his watch. "The train leaves at
9.12."

He was very businesslike, until he saw her lips tremble as she abruptly
turned and led the way.

"It'll be all right, little woman," he said soothingly. "Doctor
Bodineau's the man. He'll pull him through, you'll see."

They entered the living-room. His glance quested apprehensively about,
then turned to her.

"Where's Al?"

She did not answer, but with a sudden impulse came close to him and
stood motionless. She was a slender, dark-eyed woman, in whose face
was stamped the strain and stress of living. But the fine lines and the
haunted look in the eyes were not the handiwork of mere worry. He knew
whose handiwork it was as he looked upon it, and she knew when she
consulted her mirror.

"It's no use, Mary," he said. He put his hand on her shoulder. "We've
tried everything. It's a wretched business, I know, but what else can we
do? You've failed. Doctor Bodineau's all that's left."

"If I had another chance..." she began falteringly.

"We've threshed that all out," he answered harshly. "You've got to buck
up, now. You know what conclusion we arrived at. You know you haven't
the ghost of a hope in another chance."

She shook her head. "I know it. But it is terrible, the thought of his
going away to fight it out alone."

"He won't be alone. There's Doctor Bodineau. And besides, it's a
beautiful place."

She remained silent.

"It is the only thing," he said.

"It is the only thing," she repeated mechanically.

He looked at his watch. "Where's Al?"

"I'll send him."

When the door had closed behind her, he walked over to the window and
looked out, drumming absently with his knuckles on the pane.

"Hello."

He turned and responded to the greeting of the man who had just entered.
There was a perceptible drag to the man's feet as he walked across
toward the window and paused irresolutely halfway.

"I've changed my mind, George," he announced hurriedly and nervously.
"I'm not going."

He plucked at his sleeve, shuffled with his feet, dropped his eyes, and
with a strong effort raised them again to confront the other.

George regarded him silently, his nostrils distending and his lean
fingers unconsciously crooking like an eagle's talons about to clutch.

In line and feature, there was much of resemblance between the two men;
and yet, in the strongest resemblances there was a radical difference.
Theirs were the same black eyes, but those of the man at the window were
sharp and straight looking, while those of the man in the middle of the
room were cloudy and furtive. He could not face the other's gaze, and
continually and vainly struggled with himself to do so. The high cheek
bones with the hollows beneath were the same, yet the texture of the
hollows seemed different. The thin-lipped mouths were from the same
mould, but George's lips were firm and muscular, while Al's were soft
and loose--the lips of an ascetic turned voluptuary. There was also a
sag at the corners. His flesh hinted of grossness, especially so in the
eagle-like aquiline nose that must once have been like the other's, but
that had lost the austerity the other's still retained.

Al fought for steadiness in the middle of the floor. The silence
bothered him. He had a feeling that he was about to begin swaying back
and forth. He moistened his lips with his tongue.

"I'm going to stay," he said desperately.

He dropped his eyes and plucked again at his sleeve.

"And you are only twenty-six years old," George said at last. "You poor,
feeble old man."

"Don't be so sure of that," Al retorted, with a flash of belligerence.

"Do you remember when we swam that mile and a half across the channel?"

"Well, and what of it?" A sullen expression was creeping across Al's
face.

"And do you remember when we boxed in the barn after school?"

"I could take all you gave me."

"All I gave you!" George's voice rose momentarily to a higher pitch.
"You licked me four afternoons out of five. You were twice as strong as
I--three times as strong. And now I'd be afraid to land on you with a
sofa cushion; you'd crumple up like a last year's leaf. You'd die, you
poor, miserable old man."

"You needn't abuse me just because I've changed my mind," the other
protested, the hint of a whine in his voice.

His wife entered, and he looked appealingly to her; but the man at the
window strode suddenly up to him and burst out--

"You don't know your own mind for two successive minutes! You haven't
any mind, you spineless, crawling worm!"

"You can't make me angry." Al smiled with cunning, and glanced
triumphantly at his wife. "You can't make me angry," he repeated, as
though the idea were thoroughly gratifying to him. "I know your game.
It's my stomach, I tell you. I can't help it. Before God, I can't! Isn't
it my stomach, Mary?"

She glanced at George and spoke composedly, though she hid a trembling
hand in a fold of her skirt.

"Isn't it time?" she asked softly.

Her husband turned upon her savagely. "I'm not going to go!" he cried.
"That's just what I've been telling... him. And I tell you again, all of
you, I'm not going. You can't bully me."

"Why, Al, dear, you said--" she began.

"Never mind what I said!" he broke out. "I've said something else right
now, and you've heard it, and that settles it."

He walked across the room and threw himself with emphasis into a Morris
chair. But the other man was swiftly upon him. The talon-like fingers
gripped his shoulders, jerked him to his feet, and held him there.

"You've reached the limit, Al, and I want you to understand it. I've
tried to treat you like... like my brother, but hereafter I shall treat
you like the thing that you are. Do you understand?"

The anger in his voice was cold. The blaze in his eyes was cold. It was
vastly more effective than any outburst, and Al cringed under it and
under the clutching hand that was bruising his shoulder muscles.

"It is only because of me that you have this house, that you have the
food you eat. Your position? Any other man would have been shown the
door a year ago--two years ago. I have held you in it. Your salary has
been charity. It has been paid out of my pocket. Mary... her dresses...
that gown she has on is made over; she wears the discarded dresses of
her sisters, of my wife. Charity--do you understand? Your children--they
are wearing the discarded clothes of my children, of the children of my
neighbours who think the clothes went to some orphan asylum. And it is
an orphan asylum... or it soon will be."

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