White Fang, Jack London [classic romance novels .txt] 📗

thieves and honest men, to appraise the true value of step and carriage.  The man who travelled, loud-stepping, the direct line to the cabin door, he let alone—though he watched him vigilantly until the door opened and he received the endorsement of the master.  But the man who went softly, by circuitous ways, peering with caution, seeking after secrecy—that was the man who received no suspension of judgment from White Fang, and who went away abruptly, hurriedly, and without dignity.

Weedon Scott had set himself the task of redeeming White Fang—or rather, of redeeming mankind from the wrong it had done White Fang.  It was a matter of principle and conscience.  He felt that the ill done White Fang was a debt incurred by man and that it must be paid.  So he went out of his way to be especially kind to the Fighting Wolf.  Each day he made it a point to caress and pet White Fang, and to do it at length.

At first suspicious and hostile, White Fang grew to like this petting.  But there was one thing that he never outgrew—his growling.  Growl he would, from the moment the petting began till it ended.  But it was a growl with a new note in it.  A stranger could not hear this note, and to such a stranger the growling of White Fang was an exhibition of primordial savagery, nerve-racking and blood-curdling.  But White Fang’s throat had become harsh-fibred from the making of ferocious sounds through the many years since his first little rasp of anger in the lair of his cubhood, and he could not soften the sounds of that throat now to express the gentleness he felt.  Nevertheless, Weedon Scott’s ear and sympathy were fine enough to catch the new note all but drowned in the fierceness—the note that was the faintest hint of a croon of content and that none but he could hear.

As the days went by, the evolution of like into love was accelerated.  White Fang himself began to grow aware of it, though in his consciousness he knew not what love was.  It manifested itself to him as a void in his being—a hungry, aching, yearning void that clamoured to be filled.  It was a pain and an unrest; and it received easement only by the touch of the new god’s presence.  At such times love was joy to him, a wild, keen-thrilling satisfaction.  But when away from his god, the pain and the unrest returned; the void in him sprang up and pressed against him with its emptiness, and the hunger gnawed and gnawed unceasingly.

White Fang was in the process of finding himself.  In spite of the maturity of his years and of the savage rigidity of the mould that had formed him, his nature was undergoing an expansion.  There was a burgeoning within him of strange feelings and unwonted impulses.  His old code of conduct was changing.  In the past he had liked comfort and surcease from pain, disliked discomfort and pain, and he had adjusted his actions accordingly.  But now it was different.  Because of this new feeling within him, he ofttimes elected discomfort and pain for the sake of his god.  Thus, in the early morning, instead of roaming and foraging, or lying in a sheltered nook, he would wait for hours on the cheerless cabin-stoop for a sight of the god’s face.  At night, when the god returned home, White Fang would leave the warm sleeping-place he had burrowed in the snow in order to receive the friendly snap of fingers and the word of greeting.  Meat, even meat itself, he would forego to be with his god, to receive a caress from him or to accompany him down into the town.

Like had been replaced by love.  And love was the plummet dropped down into the deeps of him where like had never gone.  And responsive out of his deeps had come the new thing—love.  That which was given unto him did he return.  This was a god indeed, a love-god, a warm and radiant god, in whose light White Fang’s nature expanded as a flower expands under the sun.

But White Fang was not demonstrative.  He was too old, too firmly moulded, to become adept at expressing himself in new ways.  He was too self-possessed, too strongly poised in his own isolation.  Too long had he cultivated reticence, aloofness, and moroseness.  He had never barked in his life, and he could not now learn to bark a welcome when his god approached.  He was never in the way, never extravagant nor foolish in the expression of his love.  He never ran to meet his god.  He waited at a distance; but he always waited, was always there.  His love partook of the nature of worship, dumb, inarticulate, a silent adoration.  Only by the steady regard of his eyes did he express his love, and by the unceasing following with his eyes of his god’s every movement.  Also, at times, when his god looked at him and spoke to him, he betrayed an awkward self-consciousness, caused by the struggle of his love to express itself and his physical inability to express it.

He learned to adjust himself in many ways to his new mode of life.  It was borne in upon him that he must let his master’s dogs alone.  Yet his dominant nature asserted itself, and he had first to thrash them into an acknowledgment of his superiority and leadership.  This accomplished, he had little trouble with them.  They gave trail to him when he came and went or walked among them, and when he asserted his will they obeyed.

In the same way, he came to tolerate Matt—as a possession of his master.  His master rarely fed him.  Matt did that, it was his business; yet White Fang divined that it was his master’s food he ate and that it was his master who thus fed him vicariously.  Matt it was who tried to put him into the harness and make him haul sled with the other dogs.  But Matt failed.  It was not until Weedon Scott put the harness on White Fang and worked him, that he understood.  He took it as his master’s will that Matt should drive him and work him just as he drove and worked his master’s other dogs.

Different from the Mackenzie toboggans were the Klondike sleds with runners under them.  And different was the method of driving the dogs.  There was no fan-formation of the team.  The dogs worked in single file, one behind another, hauling on double traces.  And here, in the Klondike, the leader was indeed the leader.  The wisest as well as strongest dog was the leader, and the team obeyed him and feared him.  That White Fang should quickly gain this post was inevitable.  He could not be satisfied with less, as Matt learned after much inconvenience and trouble.  White Fang picked out the post for himself, and Matt backed his judgment with strong language after the experiment had been tried.  But, though he worked in the sled in the day, White Fang did not forego the guarding of his master’s property in the night.  Thus he was on duty all the time, ever vigilant and faithful, the most valuable of all the dogs.

“Makin’ free to spit out what’s in me,” Matt said one day, “I beg to state that you was a wise guy all right when you paid the price you did for that dog.  You clean swindled Beauty Smith on top of pushin’ his face in with your fist.”

A recrudescence of anger glinted in Weedon Scott’s grey eyes, and he muttered savagely, “The beast!”

In the late spring a great trouble came to White Fang.  Without warning, the love-master disappeared.  There had been warning, but White Fang was unversed in such things and did not understand the packing of a grip.  He remembered afterwards that his packing had preceded the master’s disappearance; but at the time he suspected nothing.  That night he waited for the master to return.  At midnight the chill wind that blew drove him to shelter at the rear of the cabin.  There he drowsed, only half asleep, his ears keyed for the first sound of the familiar step.  But, at two in the morning, his anxiety drove him out to the cold front stoop, where he crouched, and waited.

But no master came.  In the morning the door opened and Matt stepped outside.  White Fang gazed at him wistfully.  There was no common speech by which he might learn what he wanted to know.  The days came and went, but never the master.  White Fang, who had never known sickness in his life, became sick.  He became very sick, so sick that Matt was finally compelled to bring him inside the cabin.  Also, in writing to his employer, Matt devoted a postscript to White Fang.

Weedon Scott reading the letter down in Circle City, came upon the following:

“That dam wolf won’t work.  Won’t eat.  Aint got no spunk left.  All the dogs is licking him.  Wants to know what has become of you, and I don’t know how to tell him.  Mebbe he is going to die.”

It was as Matt had said.  White Fang had ceased eating, lost heart, and allowed every dog of the team to thrash him.  In the cabin he lay on the floor near the stove, without interest in food, in Matt, nor in life.  Matt might talk gently to him or swear at him, it was all the same; he never did more than turn his dull eyes upon the man, then drop his head back to its customary position on his fore-paws.

And then, one night, Matt, reading to himself with moving lips and mumbled sounds, was startled by a low whine from White Fang.  He had got upon his feet, his ears cocked towards the door, and he was listening intently.  A moment later, Matt heard a footstep.  The door opened, and Weedon Scott stepped in.  The two men shook hands.  Then Scott looked around the room.

“Where’s the wolf?” he asked.

Then he discovered him, standing where he had been lying, near to the stove.  He had not rushed forward after the manner of other dogs.  He stood, watching and waiting.

“Holy smoke!” Matt exclaimed.  “Look at ’m wag his tail!”

Weedon Scott strode half across the room toward him, at the same time calling him.  White Fang came to him, not with a great bound, yet quickly.  He was awakened from self-consciousness, but as he drew near, his eyes took on a strange expression.  Something, an incommunicable vastness of feeling, rose up into his eyes as a light and shone forth.

“He never looked at me that way all the time you was gone!” Matt commented.

Weedon Scott did not hear.  He was squatting down on his heels, face to face with White Fang and petting him—rubbing at the roots of the ears, making long caressing strokes down the neck to the shoulders, tapping the spine gently with the balls of his fingers.  And White Fang was growling responsively, the crooning note of the growl more pronounced than ever.

But that was not all.  What of his joy, the great love in him, ever surging and struggling to express itself, succeeded in finding a new mode of expression.  He suddenly thrust his head forward and nudged his way in between the master’s arm and body.  And here, confined, hidden from view all except his ears, no longer growling, he continued to nudge and snuggle.

The two men looked at each other.  Scott’s eyes were shining.

“Gosh!” said Matt in an awe-stricken voice.

A moment later, when he had recovered himself, he said, “I always insisted that wolf was a dog.  Look at ’m!”

With the return of the love-master, White Fang’s recovery was rapid.  Two nights and a day he spent in the cabin.  Then he sallied forth.  The sled-dogs had forgotten his prowess.  They remembered only the latest, which was his weakness and sickness.  At the