Created He Them Page #3

"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

								

passenger who sat next to him.

In the train they sat in the smoking-car. George felt that it was
imperative. Also, having successfully caught the train, his heart
softened. He felt more kindly toward his brother, and accused himself of
unnecessary harshness. He strove to atone by talking about their mother,
and sisters, and the little affairs and interests of the family. But Al
was morose, and devoted himself to the bottle. As the time passed, his
mouth hung looser and looser, while the rings under his eyes seemed to
puff out and all his facial muscles to relax.

"It's my stomach," he said, once, when he finished the bottle and
dropped it under the seat; but the swift hardening of his brother's face
did not encourage further explanations.

The conveyance that met them at the station had all the dignity and
luxuriousness of a private carriage. George's eyes were keen for the ear
marks of the institution to which they were going, but his apprehensions
were allayed from moment to moment. As they entered the wide gateway
and rolled on through the spacious grounds, he felt sure that the
institutional side of the place would not jar upon his brother. It was
more like a summer hotel, or, better yet, a country club. And as they
swept on through the spring sunshine, the songs of birds in his ears,
and in his nostrils the breath of flowers, George sighed for a week
of rest in such a place, and before his eyes loomed the arid vista of
summer in town and at the office. There was not room in his income for
his brother and himself.

"Let us take a walk in the grounds," he suggested, after they had met
Doctor Bodineau and inspected the quarters assigned to Al. "The carriage
leaves for the station in half an hour, and we'll just have time."

"It's beautiful," he remarked a moment later. Under his feet was
the velvet grass, the trees arched overhead, and he stood in mottled
sunshine. "I wish I could stay for a month."

"I'll trade places with you," Al said quickly.

George laughed it off, but he felt a sinking of the heart.

"Look at that oak!" he cried. "And that woodpecker! Isn't he a beauty!"

"I don't like it here," he heard his brother mutter.

George's lips tightened in preparation for the struggle, but he said--

"I'm going to send Mary and the children off to the mountains. She needs
it, and so do they. And when you're in shape, I'll send you right on to
join them. Then you can take your summer vacation before you come back
to the office."

"I'm not going to stay in this damned hole, for all you talk about it,"
Al announced abruptly.

"Yes you are, and you're going to get your health and strength back
again, so that the look of you will put the colour in Mary's cheeks
where it used to be."

"I'm going back with you." Al's voice was firm. "I'm going to take the
same train back. It's about time for that carriage, I guess."

"I haven't told you all my plans," George tried to go on, but Al cut him
off.

"You might as well quit that. I don't want any of your soapy talking.
You treat me like a child. I'm not a child. My mind's made up, and I'll
show you how long it can stay made up. You needn't talk to me. I don't
care a rap for what you're going to say."

A baleful light was in his eyes, and to his brother he seemed for all
the world like a cornered rat, desperate and ready to fight. As George
looked at him he remembered back to their childhood, and it came to him
that at last was aroused in Al the same old stubborn strain that had
enabled him, as a child, to stand against all force and persuasion.

George abandoned hope. He had lost. This creature was not human. The
last fine instinct of the human had fled. It was a brute, sluggish
and stolid, impossible to move--just the raw stuff of life, combative,
rebellious, and indomitable. And as he contemplated his brother he felt
in himself the rising up of a similar brute. He became suddenly aware
that his fingers were tensing and crooking like a thug's, and he knew
the desire to kill. And his reason, turned traitor at last, counselled
that he should kill, that it was the only thing left for him to do.

He was aroused by a servant calling to him through the trees that the
carriage was waiting. He answered. Then, looking straight before him, he
discovered his brother. He had forgotten it was his brother. It had been
only a thing the moment before. He began to talk, and as he talked the
way became clear to him. His reason had not turned traitor. The brute in
him had merely orientated his reason.

"You are no earthly good, Al," he said. "You know that. You've made
Mary's life a hell. You are a curse to your children. And you have not
made life exactly a paradise for the rest of us."

"There's no use your talking," Al interjected. "I'm not going to stay
here."

"That's what I'm coming to," George continued. "You don't have to stay
here." (Al's face brightened, and he involuntarily made a movement, as
though about to start toward the carriage.) "On the other hand, it is
not necessary that you should return with me. There is another way."

George's hand went to his hip pocket and appeared with a revolver. It
lay along his palm, the butt toward Al, and toward Al he extended it. At
the same time, with his head, he indicated the near-by thicket.

"You can't bluff me," Al snarled.

"It is not a bluff, Al. Look at me. I mean it. And if you don't do it
for yourself, I shall have to do it for you."

They faced each other, the proffered revolver still extended. Al debated
for a moment, then his eyes blazed. With a quick movement he seized the
revolver.

"My God! I'll do it," he said. "I'll show you what I've got in me."

George felt suddenly sick. He turned away. He did not see his brother
enter the thicket, but he heard the passage of his body through the
leaves and branches.

"Good-bye, Al," he called.

"Good-bye," came from the thicket.

George felt the sweat upon his forehead. He began mopping his face with
his handkerchief. He heard, as from a remote distance, the voice of
the servant again calling to him that the carriage was waiting. The
woodpecker dropped down through the mottled sunshine and lighted on the
trunk of a tree a dozen feet away. George felt that it was all a dream,
and yet through it all he felt supreme justification. It was the right
thing to do. It was the only thing.

His whole body gave a spasmodic start, as though the revolver had been
fired. It was the voice of Al, close at his back.

"Here's your gun," Al said. "I'll stay."

The servant appeared among the trees, approaching rapidly and calling
anxiously. George put the weapon in his pocket and caught both his
brother's hands in his own.
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