________________________________________________
_
CHAPTER XI - THE NATURE MAN
I first met him on Market Street in San Francisco. It was a wet and
drizzly afternoon, and he was striding along, clad solely in a pair
of abbreviated knee-trousers and an abbreviated shirt, his bare feet
going slick-slick through the pavement-slush. At his heels trooped
a score of excited gamins. Every head--and there were thousands--
turned to glance curiously at him as he went by. And I turned, too.
Never had I seen such lovely sunburn. He was all sunburn, of the
sort a blond takes on when his skin does not peel. His long yellow
hair was burnt, so was his beard, which sprang from a soil
unploughed by any razor. He was a tawny man, a golden-tawny man,
all glowing and radiant with the sun. Another prophet, thought I,
come up to town with a message that will save the world.
A few weeks later I was with some friends in their bungalow in the
Piedmont hills overlooking San Francisco Bay. "We've got him, we've
got him," they barked. "We caught him up a tree; but he's all right
now, he'll feed from the hand. Come on and see him." So I
accompanied them up a dizzy hill, and in a rickety shack in the
midst of a eucalyptus grove found my sunburned prophet of the city
pavements.
He hastened to meet us, arriving in the whirl and blur of a
handspring. He did not shake hands with us; instead, his greeting
took the form of stunts. He turned more handsprings. He twisted
his body sinuously, like a snake, until, having sufficiently
limbered up, he bent from the hips, and, with legs straight and
knees touching, beat a tattoo on the ground with the palms of his
hands. He whirligigged and pirouetted, dancing and cavorting round
like an inebriated ape. All the sun-warmth of his ardent life
beamed in his face. I am so happy, was the song without words he
sang.
He sang it all evening, ringing the changes on it with an endless
variety of stunts. "A fool! a fool! I met a fool in the forest!"
thought I, and a worthy fool he proved. Between handsprings and
whirligigs he delivered his message that would save the world. It
was twofold. First, let suffering humanity strip off its clothing
and run wild in the mountains and valleys; and, second, let the very
miserable world adopt phonetic spelling. I caught a glimpse of the
great social problems being settled by the city populations swarming
naked over the landscape, to the popping of shot-guns, the barking
of ranch-dogs, and countless assaults with pitchforks wielded by
irate farmers.
The years passed, and, one sunny morning, the Snark poked her nose
into a narrow opening in a reef that smoked with the crashing impact
of the trade-wind swell, and beat slowly up Papeete harbour. Coming
off to us was a boat, flying a yellow flag. We knew it contained
the port doctor. But quite a distance off, in its wake, was a tiny
out rigger canoe that puzzled us. It was flying a red flag. I
studied it through the glasses, fearing that it marked some hidden
danger to navigation, some recent wreck or some buoy or beacon that
had been swept away. Then the doctor came on board. After he had
examined the state of our health and been assured that we had no
live rats hidden away in the Snark, I asked him the meaning of the
red flag. "Oh, that is Darling," was the answer.
And then Darling, Ernest Darling flying the red flag that is
indicative of the brotherhood of man, hailed us. "Hello, Jack!" he
called. "Hello, Charmian! He paddled swiftly nearer, and I saw
that he was the tawny prophet of the Piedmont hills. He came over
the side, a sun-god clad in a scarlet loin-cloth, with presents of
Arcady and greeting in both his hands--a bottle of golden honey and
a leaf-basket filled WITH great golden mangoes, golden bananas
specked with freckles of deeper gold, golden pine-apples and golden
limes, and juicy oranges minted from the same precious ore of sun
and soil. And in this fashion under the southern sky, I met once
more Darling, the Nature Man.
Tahiti is one of the most beautiful spots in the world, inhabited by
thieves and robbers and liars, also by several honest and truthful
men and women. Wherefore, because of the blight cast upon Tahiti's
wonderful beauty by the spidery human vermin that infest it, I am
minded to write, not of Tahiti, but of the Nature Man. He, at
least, is refreshing and wholesome. The spirit that emanates from
him is so gentle and sweet that it would harm nothing, hurt nobody's
feelings save the feelings of a predatory and plutocratic
capitalist.
"What does this red flag mean?" I asked.
"Socialism, of course."
"Yes, yes, I know that," I went on; "but what does it mean in your
hands?"
"Why, that I've found my message."
"And that you are delivering it to Tahiti?" I demanded
incredulously.
"Sure," he answered simply; and later on I found that he was, too.
When we dropped anchor, lowered a small boat into the water, and
started ashore, the Nature Man joined us. Now, thought I, I shall
be pestered to death by this crank. Waking or sleeping I shall
never be quit of him until I sail away from here.
But never in my life was I more mistaken. I took a house and went
to live and work in it, and the Nature Man never came near me. He
was waiting for the invitation. In the meantime he went aboard the
Snark and took possession of her library, delighted by the quantity
of scientific books, and shocked, as I learned afterwards, by the
inordinate amount of fiction. The Nature Man never wastes time on
fiction.
After a week or so, my conscience smote me, and I invited him to
dinner at a downtown hotel.
He arrived, looking unwontedly stiff and uncomfortable in a cotton
jacket. When invited to peel it off, he beamed his gratitude and
joy, and did so, revealing his sun-gold skin, from waist to
shoulder, covered only by a piece of fish-net of coarse twine and
large of mesh. A scarlet loin-cloth completed his costume. I began
my acquaintance with him that night, and during my long stay in
Tahiti that acquaintance ripened into friendship.
"So you write books," he said, one day when, tired and sweaty, I
finished my morning's work.
"I, too, write books," he announced.
Aha, thought I, now at last is he going to pester me with his
literary efforts. My soul was in revolt. I had not come all the
way to the South Seas to be a literary bureau.
"This is the book I write," he explained, smashing himself a
resounding blow on the chest with his clenched fist. "The gorilla
in the African jungle pounds his chest till the noise of it can be
heard half a mile away."
"A pretty good chest," quoth I, admiringly; "it would even make a
gorilla envious."
And then, and later, I learned the details of the marvellous book
Ernest Darling had written. Twelve years ago he lay close to death.
He weighed but ninety pounds, and was too weak to speak. The
doctors had given him up. His father, a practising physician, had
given him up. Consultations with other physicians had been held
upon him. There was no hope for him. Overstudy (as a school-
teacher and as a university student) and two successive attacks of
pneumonia were responsible for his breakdown. Day by day he was
losing strength. He could extract no nutrition from the heavy foods
they gave him; nor could pellets and powders help his stomach to do
the work of digestion. Not only was he a physical wreck, but he was
a mental wreck. His mind was overwrought. He was sick and tired of
medicine, and he was sick and tired of persons. Human speech jarred
upon him. Human attentions drove him frantic. The thought came to
him that since he was going to die, he might as well die in the
open, away from all the bother and irritation. And behind this idea
lurked a sneaking idea that perhaps he would not die after all if
only he could escape from the heavy foods, the medicines, and the
well-intentioned persons who made him frantic.
So Ernest Darling, a bag of bones and a death's-head, a
perambulating corpse, with just the dimmest flutter of life in it to
make it perambulate, turned his back upon men and the habitations of
men and dragged himself for five miles through the brush, away from
the city of Portland, Oregon. Of course he was crazy. Only a
lunatic would drag himself out of his death-bed.
But in the brush, Darling found what he was looking for--rest.
Nobody bothered him with beefsteaks and pork. No physicians
lacerated his tired nerves by feeling his pulse, nor tormented his
tired stomach with pellets and powders. He began to feel soothed.
The sun was shining warm, and he basked in it. He had the feeling
that the sun shine was an elixir of health. Then it seemed to him
that his whole wasted wreck of a body was crying for the sun. He
stripped off his clothes and bathed in the sunshine. He felt
better. It had done him good--the first relief in weary months of
pain.
As he grew better, he sat up and began to take notice. All about
him were the birds fluttering and chirping, the squirrels chattering
and playing. He envied them their health and spirits, their happy,
care-free existence. That he should contrast their condition with
his was inevitable; and that he should question why they were
splendidly vigorous while he was a feeble, dying wraith of a man,
was likewise inevitable. His conclusion was the very obvious one,
namely, that they lived naturally, while he lived most unnaturally
therefore, if he intended to live, he must return to nature.
Alone, there in the brush, he worked out his problem and began to
apply it. He stripped off his clothing and leaped and gambolled
about, running on all fours, climbing trees; in short, doing
physical stunts,--and all the time soaking in the sunshine. He
imitated the animals. He built a nest of dry leaves and grasses in
which to sleep at night, covering it over with bark as a protection
against the early fall rains. "Here is a beautiful exercise," he
told me, once, flapping his arms mightily against his sides; "I
learned it from watching the roosters crow." Another time I
remarked the loud, sucking intake with which he drank cocoanut-milk.
He explained that he had noticed the cows drinking that way and
concluded there must be something in it. He tried it and found it
good, and thereafter he drank only in that fashion.
He noted that the squirrels lived on fruits and nuts. He started on
a fruit-and-nut diet, helped out by bread, and he grew stronger and
put on weight. For three months he continued his primordial
existence in the brush, and then the heavy Oregon rains drove him
back to the habitations of men. Not in three months could a ninety-
pound survivor of two attacks of pneumonia develop sufficient
ruggedness to live through an Oregon winter in the open.
He had accomplished much, but he had been driven in. There was no
place to go but back to his father's house, and there, living in
close rooms with lungs that panted for all the air of the open sky,
he was brought down by a third attack of pneumonia. He grew weaker
even than before. In that tottering tabernacle of flesh, his brain
collapsed. He lay like a corpse, too weak to stand the fatigue of
speaking, too irritated and tired in his miserable brain to care to
listen to the speech of others. The only act of will of which he
was capable was to stick his fingers in his ears and resolutely to
refuse to hear a single word that was spoken to him. They sent for
the insanity experts. He was adjudged insane, and also the verdict
was given that he would not live a month.
By one such mental expert he was carted off to a sanatorium on Mt.
Tabor. Here, when they learned that he was harmless, they gave him
his own way. They no longer dictated as to the food he ate, so he
resumed his fruits and nuts--olive oil, peanut butter, and bananas
the chief articles of his diet. As he regained his strength he made
up his mind to live thenceforth his own life. If he lived like
others, according to social conventions, he would surely die. And
he did not want to die. The fear of death was one of the strongest
factors in the genesis of the Nature Man. To live, he must have a
natural diet, the open air, and the blessed sunshine.
Now an Oregon winter has no inducements for those who wish to return
to Nature, so Darling started out in search of a climate. He
mounted a bicycle and headed south for the sunlands. Stanford
University claimed him for a year. Here he studied and worked his
way, attending lectures in as scant garb as the authorities would
allow and applying as much as possible the principles of living that
he had learned in squirrel-town. His favourite method of study was
to go off in the hills back of the University, and there to strip
off his clothes and lie on the grass, soaking in sunshine and health
at the same time that he soaked in knowledge.
But Central California has her winters, and the quest for a Nature
Man's climate drew him on. He tried Los Angeles and Southern
California, being arrested a few times and brought before the
insanity commissions because, forsooth, his mode of life was not
modelled after the mode of life of his fellow-men. He tried Hawaii,
where, unable to prove him insane, the authorities deported him. It
was not exactly a deportation. He could have remained by serving a
year in prison. They gave him his choice. Now prison is death to
the Nature Man, who thrives only in the open air and in God's
sunshine. The authorities of Hawaii are not to be blamed. Darling
was an undesirable citizen. Any man is undesirable who disagrees
with one. And that any man should disagree to the extent Darling
did in his philosophy of the simple life is ample vindication of the
Hawaiian authorities verdict of his undesirableness.
So Darling went thence in search of a climate which would not only
be desirable, but wherein he would not be undesirable. And he found
it in Tahiti, the garden-spot of garden-spots. And so it was,
according to the narrative as given, that he wrote the pages of his
book. He wears only a loin-cloth and a sleeveless fish-net shirt.
His stripped weight is one hundred and sixty-five pounds. His
health is perfect. His eyesight, that at one time was considered
ruined, is excellent. The lungs that were practically destroyed by
three attacks of pneumonia have not only recovered, but are stronger
than ever before.
I shall never forget the first time, while talking to me, that he
squashed a mosquito. The stinging pest had settled in the middle of
his back between his shoulders. Without interrupting the flow of
conversation, without dropping even a syllable, his clenched fist
shot up in the air, curved backward, and smote his back between the
shoulders, killing the mosquito and making his frame resound like a
bass drum. It reminded me of nothing so much as of horses kicking
the woodwork in their stalls.
"The gorilla in the African jungle pounds his chest until the noise
of it can be heard half a mile away," he will announce suddenly, and
thereat beat a hair-raising, devil's tattoo on his own chest.
One day he noticed a set of boxing-gloves hanging on the wall, and
promptly his eyes brightened.
"Do you box?" I asked.
"I used to give lessons in boxing when I was at Stanford," was the
reply.
And there and then we stripped and put on the gloves. Bang! a long,
gorilla arm flashed out, landing the gloved end on my nose. Biff!
he caught me, in a duck, on the side of the head nearly knocking me
over sidewise. I carried the lump raised by that blow for a week.
I ducked under a straight left, and landed a straight right on his
stomach. It was a fearful blow. The whole weight of my body was
behind it, and his body had been met as it lunged forward. I looked
for him to crumple up and go down. Instead of which his face beamed
approval, and he said, "That was beautiful." The next instant I was
covering up and striving to protect myself from a hurricane of
hooks, jolts, and uppercuts. Then I watched my chance and drove in
for the solar plexus. I hit the mark. The Nature Man dropped his
arms, gasped, and sat down suddenly.
"I'll be all right," he said. "Just wait a moment."
And inside thirty seconds he was on his feet--ay, and returning the
compliment, for he hooked me in the solar plexus, and I gasped,
dropped my hands, and sat down just a trifle more suddenly than he
had.
All of which I submit as evidence that the man I boxed with was a
totally different man from the poor, ninety-pound weight of eight
years before, who, given up by physicians and alienists, lay gasping
his life away in a closed room in Portland, Oregon. The book that
Ernest Darling has written is a good book, and the binding is good,
too.
Hawaii has wailed for years her need for desirable immigrants. She
has spent much time, and thought, and money, in importing desirable
citizens, and she has, as yet, nothing much to show for it. Yet
Hawaii deported the Nature Man. She refused to give him a chance.
So it is, to chasten Hawaii's proud spirit, that I take this
opportunity to show her what she has lost in the Nature Man. When
he arrived in Tahiti, he proceeded to seek out a piece of land on
which to grow the food he ate. But land was difficult to find--that
is, inexpensive land. The Nature Man was not rolling in wealth. He
spent weeks in wandering over the steep hills, until, high up the
mountain, where clustered several tiny canyons, he found eighty
acres of brush-jungle which were apparently unrecorded as the
property of any one. The government officials told him that if he
would clear the land and till it for thirty years he would be given
a title for it.
Immediately he set to work. And never was there such work. Nobody
farmed that high up. The land was covered with matted jungle and
overrun by wild pigs and countless rats. The view of Papeete and
the sea was magnificent, but the outlook was not encouraging. He
spent weeks in building a road in order to make the plantation
accessible. The pigs and the rats ate up whatever he planted as
fast as it sprouted. He shot the pigs and trapped the rats. Of the
latter, in two weeks he caught fifteen hundred. Everything had to
be carried up on his back. He usually did his packhorse work at
night.
Gradually he began to win out. A grass-walled house was built. On
the fertile, volcanic soil he had wrested from the jungle and jungle
beasts were growing five hundred cocoanut trees, five hundred papaia
trees, three hundred mango trees, many breadfruit trees and
alligator-pear trees, to say nothing of vines, bushes, and
vegetables. He developed the drip of the hills in the canyons and
worked out an efficient irrigation scheme, ditching the water from
canyon to canyon and paralleling the ditches at different altitudes.
His narrow canyons became botanical gardens. The arid shoulders of
the hills, where formerly the blazing sun had parched the jungle and
beaten it close to earth, blossomed into trees and shrubs and
flowers. Not only had the Nature Man become self-supporting, but he
was now a prosperous agriculturist with produce to sell to the city-
dwellers of Papeete.
Then it was discovered that his land, which the government officials
had informed him was without an owner, really had an owner, and that
deeds, descriptions, etc., were on record. All his work bade fare
to be lost. The land had been valueless when he took it up, and the
owner, a large landholder, was unaware of the extent to which the
Nature Man had developed it. A just price was agreed upon, and
Darling's deed was officially filed.
Next came a more crushing blow. Darling's access to market was
destroyed. The road he had built was fenced across by triple barb-
wire fences. It was one of those jumbles in human affairs that is
so common in this absurdest of social systems. Behind it was the
fine hand of the same conservative element that haled the Nature Man
before the Insanity Commission in Los Angeles and that deported him
from Hawaii. It is so hard for self-satisfied men to understand any
man whose satisfactions are fundamentally different. It seems clear
that the officials have connived with the conservative element, for
to this day the road the Nature Man built is closed; nothing has
been done about it, while an adamant unwillingness to do anything
about it is evidenced on every hand. But the Nature Man dances and
sings along his way. He does not sit up nights thinking about the
wrong which has been done him; he leaves the worrying to the doers
of the wrong. He has no time for bitterness. He believes he is in
the world for the purpose of being happy, and he has not a moment to
waste in any other pursuit.
The road to his plantation is blocked. He cannot build a new road,
for there is no ground on which he can build it. The government has
restricted him to a wild-pig trail which runs precipitously up the
mountain. I climbed the trail with him, and we had to climb with
hands and feet in order to get up. Nor can that wild-pig trail be
made into a road by any amount of toil less than that of an
engineer, a steam-engine, and a steel cable. But what does the
Nature Man care? In his gentle ethics the evil men do him he
requites with goodness. And who shall say he is not happier than
they?
"Never mind their pesky road," he said to me as we dragged ourselves
up a shelf of rock and sat down, panting, to rest. "I'll get an air
machine soon and fool them. I'm clearing a level space for a
landing stage for the airships, and next time you come to Tahiti you
will alight right at my door."
Yes, the Nature Man has some strange ideas besides that of the
gorilla pounding his chest in the African jungle. The Nature Man
has ideas about levitation. "Yes, sir," he said to me, "levitation
is not impossible. And think of the glory of it--lifting one's self
from the ground by an act of will. Think of it! The astronomers
tell us that our whole solar system is dying; that, barring
accidents, it will all be so cold that no life can live upon it.
Very well. In that day all men will be accomplished levitationists,
and they will leave this perishing planet and seek more hospitable
worlds. How can levitation be accomplished? By progressive fasts.
Yes, I have tried them, and toward the end I could feel myself
actually getting lighter."
The man is a maniac, thought I.
"Of course," he added, "these are only theories of mine. I like to
speculate upon the glorious future of man. Levitation may not be
possible, but I like to think of it as possible."
One evening, when he yawned, I asked him how much sleep he allowed
himself.
"Seven hours," was the answer. "But in ten years I'll be sleeping
only six hours, and in twenty years only five hours. You see, I
shall cut off an hour's sleep every ten years."
"Then when you are a hundred you won't be sleeping at all," I
interjected.
"Just that. Exactly that. When I am a hundred I shall not require
sleep. Also, I shall be living on air. There are plants that live
on air, you know."
"But has any man ever succeeded in doing it?"
He shook his head.
"I never heard of him if he did. But it is only a theory of mine,
this living on air. It would be fine, wouldn't it? Of course it
may be impossible--most likely it is. You see, I am not
unpractical. I never forget the present. When I soar ahead into
the future, I always leave a string by which to find my way back
again."
I fear me the Nature Man is a joker. At any rate he lives the
simple life. His laundry bill cannot be large. Up on his
plantation he lives on fruit the labour cost of which, in cash, he
estimates at five cents a day. At present, because of his
obstructed road and because he is head over heels in the propaganda
of socialism, he is living in town, where his expenses, including
rent, are twenty-five cents a day. In order to pay those expenses
he is running a night school for Chinese.
The Nature Man is not bigoted. When there is nothing better to eat
than meat, he eats meat, as, for instance, when in jail or on
shipboard and the nuts and fruits give out. Nor does he seem to
crystallize into anything except sunburn.
"Drop anchor anywhere and the anchor will drag--that is, if your
soul is a limitless, fathomless sea, and not dog-pound," he quoted
to me, then added: "You see, my anchor is always dragging. I live
for human health and progress, and I strive to drag my anchor always
in that direction. To me, the two are identical. Dragging anchor
is what has saved me. My anchor did not hold me to my death-bed. I
dragged anchor into the brush and fooled the doctors. When I
recovered health and strength, I started, by preaching and by
example, to teach the people to become nature men and nature women.
But they had deaf ears. Then, on the steamer coming to Tahiti, a
quarter-master expounded socialism to me. He showed me that an
economic square deal was necessary before men and women could live
naturally. So I dragged anchor once more, and now I am working for
the co-operative commonwealth. When that arrives, it will be easy
to bring about nature living.
"I had a dream last night," he went on thoughtfully, his face slowly
breaking into a glow. "It seemed that twenty-five nature men and
nature women had just arrived on the steamer from California, and
that I was starting to go with them up the wild-pig trail to the
plantation."
Ah, me, Ernest Darling, sun-worshipper and nature man, there are
times when I am compelled to envy you and your carefree existence.
I see you now, dancing up the steps and cutting antics on the
veranda; your hair dripping from a plunge in the salt sea, your eyes
sparkling, your sun-gilded body flashing, your chest resounding to
the devil's own tattoo as you chant: "The gorilla in the African
jungle pounds his chest until the noise of it can be heard half a
mile away." And I shall see you always as I saw you that last day,
when the Snark poked her nose once more through the passage in the
smoking reef, outward bound, and I waved good-bye to those on shore.
Not least in goodwill and affection was the wave I gave to the
golden sun-god in the scarlet loin-cloth, standing upright in his
tiny outrigger canoe.
Content of CHAPTER XI - THE NATURE MAN [Jack London's book: The Cruise of the Snark]
_
Read next: CHAPTER XII - THE HIGH SEAT OF ABUNDANCE
Read previous: CHAPTER X - TYPEE
Table of content of Cruise of the Snark
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
