The Iron Heel Page #3

"The Iron Heel" by Jack London, published in 1908, is a dystopian political novel that explores themes of authoritarianism, class struggle, and revolution. It is considered one of the earliest examples of dystopian fiction, influencing later works like 1984 and Brave New World.

• Novel

								

suit of dark cloth that was ill adjusted to his body. In fact, no
ready-made suit of clothes ever could fit his body. And on this night,
as always, the cloth bulged with his muscles, while the coat between
the shoulders, what of the heavy shoulder-development, was a maze of
wrinkles. His neck was the neck of a prize-fighter,[6] thick and
strong. So this was the social philosopher and ex-horseshoer my father
had discovered, was my thought. And he certainly looked it with those
bulging muscles and that bull-throat. Immediately I classified him—a
sort of prodigy, I thought, a Blind Tom[7] of the working class.

 [6] In that day it was the custom of men to compete for purses of
 money. They fought with their hands. When one was beaten into
 insensibility or killed, the survivor took the money.

 [7] This obscure reference applies to a blind negro musician who took
 the world by storm in the latter half of the nineteenth century of the
 Christian Era.

And then, when he shook hands with me! His handshake was firm and
strong, but he looked at me boldly with his black eyes—too boldly, I
thought. You see, I was a creature of environment, and at that time had
strong class instincts. Such boldness on the part of a man of my own
class would have been almost unforgivable. I know that I could not
avoid dropping my eyes, and I was quite relieved when I passed him on
and turned to greet Bishop Morehouse—a favorite of mine, a sweet and
serious man of middle age, Christ-like in appearance and goodness, and
a scholar as well.

But this boldness that I took to be presumption was a vital clew to the
nature of Ernest Everhard. He was simple, direct, afraid of nothing,
and he refused to waste time on conventional mannerisms. “You pleased
me,” he explained long afterward; “and why should I not fill my eyes
with that which pleases me?” I have said that he was afraid of nothing.
He was a natural aristocrat—and this in spite of the fact that he was
in the camp of the non-aristocrats. He was a superman, a blond beast
such as Nietzsche[8] has described, and in addition he was aflame with
democracy.

 [8] Friederich Nietzsche, the mad philosopher of the nineteenth
 century of the Christian Era, who caught wild glimpses of truth, but
 who, before he was done, reasoned himself around the great circle of
 human thought and off into madness.

In the interest of meeting the other guests, and what of my unfavorable
impression, I forgot all about the working-class philosopher, though
once or twice at table I noticed him—especially the twinkle in his eye
as he listened to the talk first of one minister and then of another.
He has humor, I thought, and I almost forgave him his clothes. But the
time went by, and the dinner went by, and he never opened his mouth to
speak, while the ministers talked interminably about the working class
and its relation to the church, and what the church had done and was
doing for it. I noticed that my father was annoyed because Ernest did
not talk. Once father took advantage of a lull and asked him to say
something; but Ernest shrugged his shoulders and with an “I have
nothing to say” went on eating salted almonds.

But father was not to be denied. After a while he said:

“We have with us a member of the working class. I am sure that he can
present things from a new point of view that will be interesting and
refreshing. I refer to Mr. Everhard.”

The others betrayed a well-mannered interest, and urged Ernest for a
statement of his views. Their attitude toward him was so broadly
tolerant and kindly that it was really patronizing. And I saw that
Ernest noted it and was amused. He looked slowly about him, and I saw
the glint of laughter in his eyes.

“I am not versed in the courtesies of ecclesiastical controversy,” he
began, and then hesitated with modesty and indecision.

“Go on,” they urged, and Dr. Hammerfield said: “We do not mind the
truth that is in any man. If it is sincere,” he amended.

“Then you separate sincerity from truth?” Ernest laughed quickly.

Dr. Hammerfield gasped, and managed to answer, “The best of us may be
mistaken, young man, the best of us.”

Ernest’s manner changed on the instant. He became another man.

“All right, then,” he answered; “and let me begin by saying that you
are all mistaken. You know nothing, and worse than nothing, about the
working class. Your sociology is as vicious and worthless as is your
method of thinking.”

It was not so much what he said as how he said it. I roused at the
first sound of his voice. It was as bold as his eyes. It was a
clarion-call that thrilled me. And the whole table was aroused, shaken
alive from monotony and drowsiness.

“What is so dreadfully vicious and worthless in our method of thinking,
young man?” Dr. Hammerfield demanded, and already there was something
unpleasant in his voice and manner of utterance.

“You are metaphysicians. You can prove anything by metaphysics; and
having done so, every metaphysician can prove every other metaphysician
wrong—to his own satisfaction. You are anarchists in the realm of
thought. And you are mad cosmos-makers. Each of you dwells in a cosmos
of his own making, created out of his own fancies and desires. You do
not know the real world in which you live, and your thinking has no
place in the real world except in so far as it is phenomena of mental
aberration.

“Do you know what I was reminded of as I sat at table and listened to
you talk and talk? You reminded me for all the world of the scholastics
of the Middle Ages who gravely and learnedly debated the absorbing
question of how many angels could dance on the point of a needle. Why,
my dear sirs, you are as remote from the intellectual life of the
twentieth century as an Indian medicine-man making incantation in the
primeval forest ten thousand years ago.”

As Ernest talked he seemed in a fine passion; his face glowed, his eyes
snapped and flashed, and his chin and jaw were eloquent with
aggressiveness. But it was only a way he had. It always aroused people.
His smashing, sledge-hammer manner of attack invariably made them
forget themselves. And they were forgetting themselves now. Bishop
Morehouse was leaning forward and listening intently. Exasperation and
anger were flushing the face of Dr. Hammerfield. And others were
exasperated, too, and some were smiling in an amused and superior way.
As for myself, I found it most enjoyable. I glanced at father, and I
was afraid he was going to giggle at the effect of this human bombshell
he had been guilty of launching amongst us.

“Your terms are rather vague,” Dr. Hammerfield interrupted. “Just
precisely what do you mean when you call us metaphysicians?”

“I call you metaphysicians because you reason metaphysically,” Ernest
went on. “Your method of reasoning is the opposite to that of science.

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes