The Human Drift by Jack London (uplifting book club books .txt) π
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merchant officers of to-day ever make a lunar observation, and that a large percentage are unable to do it.
"Sept. 22nd., upon coming on deck at seven bells in the morning we found the other watch aloft throwing water upon the sails, and looking astern we saw a small, clipper-built brig with a black hull heading directly after us. We went to work immediately, and put all the canvas upon the brig which we could get upon her, rigging out oars for studding-sail yards; and contined wetting down the sails by buckets of water whipped up to the mast-head . . . She was armed, and full of men, and showed no colours."
The foregoing sounds like a paragraph from "Midshipman Easy" or the "Water Witch," rather than a paragraph from the soberest, faithfullest, and most literal chronicle of the sea ever written. And yet the chase by a pirate occurred, on board the brig Pilgrim , on September 22nd, 1834--something like only two generations ago.
Dana was the thorough-going type of man, not overbalanced and erratic, without quirk or quibble of temperament. He was efficient, but not brilliant. His was a general all-round efficiency. He was efficient at the law; he was efficient at college; he was efficient as a sailor; he was efficient in the matter of pride, when that pride was no more than the pride of a forecastle hand, at twelve dollars a month, in his seaman's task well done, in the smart sailing of his captain, in the clearness and trimness of his ship.
There is no sailor whose cockles of the heart will not warm to Dana's description of the first time he sent down a royal yard. Once or twice he had seen it done. He got an old hand in the crew to coach him. And then, the first anchorage at Monterey, being pretty thick with the second mate, he got him to ask the mate to be sent up the first time the royal yards were struck. "Fortunately," as Dana describes it, "I got through without any word from the officer; and heard the 'well done' of the mate, when the yard reached the deck, with as much satisfaction as I ever felt at Cambridge on seeing a 'bene' at the foot of a Latin exercise."
"This was the first time I had taken a weather ear-ring, and I felt not a little proud to sit astride of the weather yard-arm, past the ear-ring, and sing out 'Haul out to leeward!'" He had been over a year at sea before he essayed this able seaman's task, but he did it, and he did it with pride. And with pride, he went down a four-hundred foot cliff, on a pair of top-gallant studding-sail halyards bent together, to dislodge several dollars worth of stranded bullock hides, though all the acclaim he got from his mates was: "What a d-d fool you were to risk your life for half a dozen hides!"
In brief, it was just this efficiency in pride, as well as work, that enabled Dana to set down, not merely the photograph detail of life before the mast and hide-droghing on the coast of California, but of the untarnished simple psychology and ethics of the forecastle hands who droghed the hides, stood at the wheel, made and took in sail, tarred down the rigging, holystoned the decks, turned in all-standing, grumbled as they cut about the kid, criticised the seamanship of their officers, and estimated the duration of their exile from the cubic space of the hide- house.
JACK LONDON Glen Ellen, California, August 13, 1911.
A WICKED WOMAN (Curtain Raiser) BY JACK LONDON
Scene--California.
Time--Afternoon of a summer day.
CHARACTERS
LORETTA, A sweet, young thing. Frightfully innocent. About nineteen years old. Slender, delicate, a fragile flower. Ingenuous.
NED BASHFORD, A jaded young man of the world, who has philosophised his experiences and who is without faith in the veracity or purity of women.
BILLY MARSH, A boy from a country town who is just about as innocent as Loretta. Awkward. Positive. Raw and callow youth.
ALICE HEMINGWAY, A society woman, good-hearted, and a match-maker.
JACK HEMINGWAY, Her husband.
MAID.
A WICKED WOMAN
[Curtain rises on a conventional living room of a country house in California. It is the Hemingway house at Santa Clara. The room is remarkable for magnificent stone fireplace at rear centre. On either side of fireplace are generous, diamond-paned windows. Wide, curtained doorways to right and left. To left, front, table, with vase of flowers and chairs. To right, front, grand piano.]
[Curtain discovers LORETTA seated at piano, not playing, her back to it, facing NED BASHFORD, who is standing.]
LORETTA. [Petulantly, fanning herself with sheet of music.] No, I won't go fishing. It's too warm. Besides, the fish won't bite so early in the afternoon.
NED. Oh, come on. It's not warm at all. And anyway, we won't really fish. I want to tell you something.
LORETTA. [Still petulantly.] You are always wanting to tell me something.
NED. Yes, but only in fun. This is different. This is serious. Our . . . my happiness depends upon it.
LORETTA. [Speaking eagerly, no longer petulant, looking, serious and delighted, divining a proposal.] Then don't wait. Tell me right here.
NED. [Almost threateningly.] Shall I?
LORETTA. [Challenging.] Yes.
[He looks around apprehensively as though fearing interruption, clears his throat, takes resolution, also takes LORETTA's hand.]
[LORETTA is startled, timid, yet willing to hear, naively unable to conceal her love for him.]
NED. [Speaking softly.] Loretta . . . I, . . . ever since I met you I have--
[JACK HEMINGWAY appears in the doorway to the left, just entering.]
[NED suddenly drops LORETTA's hand. He shows exasperation.]
[LORETTA shows disappointment at interruption.]
NED. Confound it
LORETTA. [Shocked.] Ned! Why will you swear so?
NED. [Testily.] That isn't swearing.
LORETTA. What is it, pray?
NED. Displeasuring.
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Who is crossing over to right.] Squabbling again?
LORETTA. [Indignantly and with dignity.] No, we're not.
NED. [Gruffly.] What do you want now?
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Enthusiastically.] Come on fishing.
NED. [Snappily.] No. It's too warm.
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Resignedly, going out right.] You needn't take a fellow's head off.
LORETTA. I thought you wanted to go fishing.
NED. Not with Jack.
LORETTA. [Accusingly, fanning herself vigorously.] And you told me it wasn't warm at all.
NED. [Speaking softly.] That isn't what I wanted to tell you, Loretta. [He takes her hand.] Dear Loretta--
[Enter abruptly ALICE HEMINGWAY from right.]
[LORETTA sharply jerks her hand away, and looks put out.]
[NED tries not to look awkward.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Goodness! I thought you'd both gone fishing!
LORETTA. [Sweetly.] Is there anything you want, Alice?
NED. [Trying to be courteous.] Anything I can do?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Speaking quickly, and trying to withdraw.] No, no. I only came to see if the mail had arrived.
LORETTA AND NED
[Speaking together.] No, it hasn't arrived.
LORETTA. [Suddenly moving toward door to right.] I am going to see.
[NED looks at her reproachfully.]
[LORETTA looks back tantalisingly from doorway and disappears.]
[NED flings himself disgustedly into Morris chair.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Moving over and standing in front of him. Speaks accusingly.] What have you been saying to her?
NED. [Disgruntled.] Nothing.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Threateningly.] Now listen to me, Ned.
NED. [Earnestly.] On my word, Alice, I've been saying nothing to her.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With sudden change of front.] Then you ought to have been saying something to her.
NED. [Irritably. Getting chair for her, seating her, and seating himself again.] Look here, Alice, I know your game. You invited me down here to make a fool of me.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Nothing of the sort, sir. I asked you down to meet a sweet and unsullied girl--the sweetest, most innocent and ingenuous girl in the world.
NED. [Dryly.] That's what you said in your letter.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. And that's why you came. Jack had been trying for a year to get you to come. He did not know what kind of a letter to write.
NED. If you think I came because of a line in a letter about a girl I'd never seen--
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Mockingly.] The poor, jaded, world-worn man, who is no longer interested in women . . . and girls! The poor, tired pessimist who has lost all faith in the goodness of women--
NED. For which you are responsible.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Incredulously.] I?
NED. You are responsible. Why did you throw me over and marry Jack?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Do you want to know?
NED. Yes.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Judiciously.] First, because I did not love you. Second, because you did not love me. [She smiles at his protesting hand and at the protesting expression on his face.] And third, because there were just about twenty-seven other women at that time that you loved, or thought you loved. That is why I married Jack. And that is why you lost faith in the goodness of women. You have only yourself to blame.
NED. [Admiringly.] You talk so convincingly. I almost believe you as I listen to you. And yet I know all the time that you are like all the rest of your sex--faithless, unveracious, and . . .
[He glares at her, but does not proceed.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Go on. I'm not afraid.
NED. [With finality.] And immoral.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Oh! You wretch!
NED. [Gloatingly.] That's right. Get angry. You may break the furniture if you wish. I don't mind.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With sudden change of front, softly.] And how about Loretta?
[NED gasps and remains silent.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. The depths of duplicity that must lurk under that sweet and innocent exterior . . . according to your philosophy!
NED. [Earnestly.] Loretta is an exception, I confess. She is all that you said in your letter. She is a little fairy, an angel. I never dreamed of anything like her. It is remarkable to find such a woman in this age.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Encouragingly.] She is so naive.
NED. [Taking the bait.] Yes, isn't she? Her face and her tongue betray all her secrets.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Nodding her head.] Yes, I have noticed it.
NED. [Delightedly.] Have you?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. She cannot conceal anything. Do you know that she loves you?
NED. [Falling into the trap, eagerly.] Do you think so?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Laughing and rising.]
"Sept. 22nd., upon coming on deck at seven bells in the morning we found the other watch aloft throwing water upon the sails, and looking astern we saw a small, clipper-built brig with a black hull heading directly after us. We went to work immediately, and put all the canvas upon the brig which we could get upon her, rigging out oars for studding-sail yards; and contined wetting down the sails by buckets of water whipped up to the mast-head . . . She was armed, and full of men, and showed no colours."
The foregoing sounds like a paragraph from "Midshipman Easy" or the "Water Witch," rather than a paragraph from the soberest, faithfullest, and most literal chronicle of the sea ever written. And yet the chase by a pirate occurred, on board the brig Pilgrim , on September 22nd, 1834--something like only two generations ago.
Dana was the thorough-going type of man, not overbalanced and erratic, without quirk or quibble of temperament. He was efficient, but not brilliant. His was a general all-round efficiency. He was efficient at the law; he was efficient at college; he was efficient as a sailor; he was efficient in the matter of pride, when that pride was no more than the pride of a forecastle hand, at twelve dollars a month, in his seaman's task well done, in the smart sailing of his captain, in the clearness and trimness of his ship.
There is no sailor whose cockles of the heart will not warm to Dana's description of the first time he sent down a royal yard. Once or twice he had seen it done. He got an old hand in the crew to coach him. And then, the first anchorage at Monterey, being pretty thick with the second mate, he got him to ask the mate to be sent up the first time the royal yards were struck. "Fortunately," as Dana describes it, "I got through without any word from the officer; and heard the 'well done' of the mate, when the yard reached the deck, with as much satisfaction as I ever felt at Cambridge on seeing a 'bene' at the foot of a Latin exercise."
"This was the first time I had taken a weather ear-ring, and I felt not a little proud to sit astride of the weather yard-arm, past the ear-ring, and sing out 'Haul out to leeward!'" He had been over a year at sea before he essayed this able seaman's task, but he did it, and he did it with pride. And with pride, he went down a four-hundred foot cliff, on a pair of top-gallant studding-sail halyards bent together, to dislodge several dollars worth of stranded bullock hides, though all the acclaim he got from his mates was: "What a d-d fool you were to risk your life for half a dozen hides!"
In brief, it was just this efficiency in pride, as well as work, that enabled Dana to set down, not merely the photograph detail of life before the mast and hide-droghing on the coast of California, but of the untarnished simple psychology and ethics of the forecastle hands who droghed the hides, stood at the wheel, made and took in sail, tarred down the rigging, holystoned the decks, turned in all-standing, grumbled as they cut about the kid, criticised the seamanship of their officers, and estimated the duration of their exile from the cubic space of the hide- house.
JACK LONDON Glen Ellen, California, August 13, 1911.
A WICKED WOMAN (Curtain Raiser) BY JACK LONDON
Scene--California.
Time--Afternoon of a summer day.
CHARACTERS
LORETTA, A sweet, young thing. Frightfully innocent. About nineteen years old. Slender, delicate, a fragile flower. Ingenuous.
NED BASHFORD, A jaded young man of the world, who has philosophised his experiences and who is without faith in the veracity or purity of women.
BILLY MARSH, A boy from a country town who is just about as innocent as Loretta. Awkward. Positive. Raw and callow youth.
ALICE HEMINGWAY, A society woman, good-hearted, and a match-maker.
JACK HEMINGWAY, Her husband.
MAID.
A WICKED WOMAN
[Curtain rises on a conventional living room of a country house in California. It is the Hemingway house at Santa Clara. The room is remarkable for magnificent stone fireplace at rear centre. On either side of fireplace are generous, diamond-paned windows. Wide, curtained doorways to right and left. To left, front, table, with vase of flowers and chairs. To right, front, grand piano.]
[Curtain discovers LORETTA seated at piano, not playing, her back to it, facing NED BASHFORD, who is standing.]
LORETTA. [Petulantly, fanning herself with sheet of music.] No, I won't go fishing. It's too warm. Besides, the fish won't bite so early in the afternoon.
NED. Oh, come on. It's not warm at all. And anyway, we won't really fish. I want to tell you something.
LORETTA. [Still petulantly.] You are always wanting to tell me something.
NED. Yes, but only in fun. This is different. This is serious. Our . . . my happiness depends upon it.
LORETTA. [Speaking eagerly, no longer petulant, looking, serious and delighted, divining a proposal.] Then don't wait. Tell me right here.
NED. [Almost threateningly.] Shall I?
LORETTA. [Challenging.] Yes.
[He looks around apprehensively as though fearing interruption, clears his throat, takes resolution, also takes LORETTA's hand.]
[LORETTA is startled, timid, yet willing to hear, naively unable to conceal her love for him.]
NED. [Speaking softly.] Loretta . . . I, . . . ever since I met you I have--
[JACK HEMINGWAY appears in the doorway to the left, just entering.]
[NED suddenly drops LORETTA's hand. He shows exasperation.]
[LORETTA shows disappointment at interruption.]
NED. Confound it
LORETTA. [Shocked.] Ned! Why will you swear so?
NED. [Testily.] That isn't swearing.
LORETTA. What is it, pray?
NED. Displeasuring.
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Who is crossing over to right.] Squabbling again?
LORETTA. [Indignantly and with dignity.] No, we're not.
NED. [Gruffly.] What do you want now?
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Enthusiastically.] Come on fishing.
NED. [Snappily.] No. It's too warm.
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Resignedly, going out right.] You needn't take a fellow's head off.
LORETTA. I thought you wanted to go fishing.
NED. Not with Jack.
LORETTA. [Accusingly, fanning herself vigorously.] And you told me it wasn't warm at all.
NED. [Speaking softly.] That isn't what I wanted to tell you, Loretta. [He takes her hand.] Dear Loretta--
[Enter abruptly ALICE HEMINGWAY from right.]
[LORETTA sharply jerks her hand away, and looks put out.]
[NED tries not to look awkward.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Goodness! I thought you'd both gone fishing!
LORETTA. [Sweetly.] Is there anything you want, Alice?
NED. [Trying to be courteous.] Anything I can do?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Speaking quickly, and trying to withdraw.] No, no. I only came to see if the mail had arrived.
LORETTA AND NED
[Speaking together.] No, it hasn't arrived.
LORETTA. [Suddenly moving toward door to right.] I am going to see.
[NED looks at her reproachfully.]
[LORETTA looks back tantalisingly from doorway and disappears.]
[NED flings himself disgustedly into Morris chair.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Moving over and standing in front of him. Speaks accusingly.] What have you been saying to her?
NED. [Disgruntled.] Nothing.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Threateningly.] Now listen to me, Ned.
NED. [Earnestly.] On my word, Alice, I've been saying nothing to her.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With sudden change of front.] Then you ought to have been saying something to her.
NED. [Irritably. Getting chair for her, seating her, and seating himself again.] Look here, Alice, I know your game. You invited me down here to make a fool of me.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Nothing of the sort, sir. I asked you down to meet a sweet and unsullied girl--the sweetest, most innocent and ingenuous girl in the world.
NED. [Dryly.] That's what you said in your letter.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. And that's why you came. Jack had been trying for a year to get you to come. He did not know what kind of a letter to write.
NED. If you think I came because of a line in a letter about a girl I'd never seen--
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Mockingly.] The poor, jaded, world-worn man, who is no longer interested in women . . . and girls! The poor, tired pessimist who has lost all faith in the goodness of women--
NED. For which you are responsible.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Incredulously.] I?
NED. You are responsible. Why did you throw me over and marry Jack?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Do you want to know?
NED. Yes.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Judiciously.] First, because I did not love you. Second, because you did not love me. [She smiles at his protesting hand and at the protesting expression on his face.] And third, because there were just about twenty-seven other women at that time that you loved, or thought you loved. That is why I married Jack. And that is why you lost faith in the goodness of women. You have only yourself to blame.
NED. [Admiringly.] You talk so convincingly. I almost believe you as I listen to you. And yet I know all the time that you are like all the rest of your sex--faithless, unveracious, and . . .
[He glares at her, but does not proceed.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Go on. I'm not afraid.
NED. [With finality.] And immoral.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Oh! You wretch!
NED. [Gloatingly.] That's right. Get angry. You may break the furniture if you wish. I don't mind.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With sudden change of front, softly.] And how about Loretta?
[NED gasps and remains silent.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. The depths of duplicity that must lurk under that sweet and innocent exterior . . . according to your philosophy!
NED. [Earnestly.] Loretta is an exception, I confess. She is all that you said in your letter. She is a little fairy, an angel. I never dreamed of anything like her. It is remarkable to find such a woman in this age.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Encouragingly.] She is so naive.
NED. [Taking the bait.] Yes, isn't she? Her face and her tongue betray all her secrets.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Nodding her head.] Yes, I have noticed it.
NED. [Delightedly.] Have you?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. She cannot conceal anything. Do you know that she loves you?
NED. [Falling into the trap, eagerly.] Do you think so?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Laughing and rising.]
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