THE INNER HOUSE
BY
WALTER BESANT
AUTHOR OF
"THE WORLD WENT VERY WELL THEN" "FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM"
"ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN" "HERR PAULUS" ETC.
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1888
THE INNER HOUSE.
PROLOGUE.
AT THE ROYAL INSTITUTION.
"Professor!" cried the Director, rushing to meet their guest and
lecturer as the door was thrown open, and the great man appeared, calm
and composed, as if there was nothing more in the wind than an ordinary
Scientific Discourse. "You are always welcome, my friend, always
welcome"--the two enthusiasts for science wrung hands--"and never more
welcome than to-night. Then the great mystery is to be solved at last.
The Theatre is crammed with people. What does it mean? You must tell me
before you go in."
The Physicist smiled.
"I came to a conviction that I was on the true line five years ago," he
said. "It is only within the last six months that I have demonstrated
the thing to a certainty. I will tell you, my friend," he whispered,
"before we go in."
Then he advanced and shook hands with the President.
"Whatever the importance of your Discovery, Professor," said the
President, "we are fully sensible of the honor you have done us in
bringing it before an English audience first of all, and especially
before an audience of the Royal Institution."
"Ja, Ja, Herr President. But I give my Discovery to all the world at
this same hour. As for myself, I announce it to my very good friends
of the Royal Institution. Why not to my other very good friends of the
Royal Society? Because it is a thing which belongs to the whole world,
and not to scientific men only."
It was in the Library of the Royal Institution. The President and
Council of the Institution were gathered together to receive their
illustrious lecturer, and every face was touched with interrogation and
anxiety. What was this Great Discovery?
* * * * *
For six months there had appeared, from time to time, mysterious
telegrams in the papers, all connected with this industrious
Professor's laboratory. Nothing definite, nothing certain: it was
whispered that a new discovery, soon about to be announced, would
entirely change the relations of man to man; of nation to nation.
Those who professed to be in the secret suggested that it might alter
all governments and abolish all laws. Why they said that I know not,
because certainly nobody was admitted to the laboratory, and the
Professor had no confidant. This big-headed man, with the enormous
bald forehead and the big glasses on his fat nose--it was long and
broad as well as fat--kept his own counsel. Yet, in some way, people
were perfectly certain that something wonderful was coming. So, when
Roger Bacon made his gunpowder, the monks might have whispered to
each other, only from the smell which came through the key-hole, that
now the Devil would at last be met upon his own ground. The telegrams
were continued with exasperating pertinacity, until over the whole
civilized world the eyes of all who loved science were turned upon that
modest laboratory in the little University of Ganzweltweisst am Rhein.
What was coming from it? One does not go so far as to say that all
interest in contemporary business, politics, art, and letters ceased;
but it is quite certain that every morning and every evening, when
everybody opened his paper, his first thought was to look for news from
Ganzweltweisst am Rhein.
But the days passed by, and no news came. This was especially hard on
the leader-writers, who were one and all waiting, each man longing
to have a cut in with the subject before anybody else got it. But
it was good for the people who write letters to the papers, because
they had so many opportunities of suggestion and surmise. And so
the leader-writers got something to talk about after all. For some
suggested that Prof. Schwarzbaum had found out a way to make food
artificially, by chemically compounding nitrogens, phosphates, and
so forth. And these philosophers built a magnificent Palace of
Imagination, in which dwelt a glorified mankind no longer occupied in
endless toil for the sake of providing meat and drink for themselves
and their families, but all engaged in the pursuit of knowledge, and
in Art of all kinds, such as Fiction, Poetry, Painting, Music, Acting,
and so forth, getting out of Life such a wealth of emotion, pleasure,
and culture as the world had never before imagined. Others there were
who thought that the great Discovery might be a method of instantaneous
transmission of matter from place to place; so that, as by the electric
wire one can send a message, so by some kind of electric method one
could send a human body from any one part of the world to any other in
a moment. This suggestion offered a fine field for the imagination; and
there was a novel written on this subject which had a great success,
until the Discovery itself was announced. Others, again, thought
that the new Discovery meant some great and wonderful development
of the Destructive Art; so that the whole of an army might be blown
into countless fragments by the touch of a button, the discharge of a
spring, the fall of a hammer. This took the fancy hugely, and it was
pleasant to read the imaginary developments of history as influenced by
this Discovery. But it seemed certain that the learned Professor would
keep it for the use of his own country. So that there was no longer any
room to doubt that, if this was the nature of the Discovery, the whole
of the habitable world must inevitably fall under the Teutonic yoke,
and an Empire of Armed Peace would set in, the like of which had never
before been witnessed upon the globe. On the whole, the prospect was
received everywhere, except in France and Russia, with resignation.
Even the United States remembered that they had already many millions
of Germans among them; and that the new Empire, though it would give
certainly all the places to these Germans, would also save them a
great many Elections, and therefore a good deal of trouble, and would
relieve the national conscience--long grievously oppressed in this
particular--of truckling to the Irish Vote. Dynamiters and anarchists,
however, were despondent, and Socialists regarded each other with an
ever-deepening gloom. This particular Theory of the great Discovery
met, in fact, with universal credence over the whole civilized globe.
From the great man himself there came no sign. Enterprising
interviewers failed to get speech with him. Scientific men wrote to
him, but got no real information in reply. And the minds of men grew
more and more agitated. Some great change was considered certain--but
what?
One morning--it was the morning of Thursday, June 20, 1890--there
appeared an advertisement in the papers. By the telegrams it was
discovered that a similar advertisement had been published in every
great city all over the world. That of the London papers differed from
others in one important respect--in this, namely: Professor Schwarzbaum
would himself, without any delay, read before a London audience a Paper
which should reveal his new Discovery. There was not, however, the
least hint in the announcement of the nature of this Discovery.
* * * * *
"Yes," said the Physicist, speaking slowly, "I have given the
particulars to my friends over the whole earth; and, as London is still
the centre of the world, I resolved that I would myself communicate it
to the English."
"But what is it?--what is it?" asked the President.
"The Discovery," the Professor continued, "is to be announced at the
same moment all over the world, so that none of the newspapers shall
have an unfair start. It is now close upon nine o'clock by London time.
In Paris it is ten minutes past nine; in Berlin it is six minutes
before ten; at St. Petersburg it is eleven o'clock; at New York it
is four o'clock in the afternoon. Very good. When the clock in your
theatre points to nine exactly, at that moment everywhere the same
Paper will be read."
In fact, at that moment the clock began to strike. The President led
the way to the Theatre, followed by the Council. The Director remained
behind with the Lecturer of the evening.
"My friend," said Professor Schwarzbaum, "my subject is nothing
less"--he laid his finger upon the Director's arm--"nothing less than
'The Prolongation of the Vital Energy.'"
"What! The Prolongation of the Vital Energy? Do you know what that
means?" The Director turned pale. "Are we to understand--"
"Come," said the Professor, "we must not waste the time."
Then the Director, startled and pale, took his German brother by
the arm and led him into the Theatre, murmuring, "Prolongation ...
Prolongation ... Prolongation ... of the Vital--the Vital--Energy!"
The Theatre was crowded. There was not a vacant seat: there was no
more standing room on the stairs; the very doors of the gallery were
thronged: the great staircase was thronged with those who could not get
in, but waited to get the first news. Nay, outside the Institution,
Albemarle Street was crowded with people waiting to hear what this
great thing might be which all the world had waited six months to
hear. Within the Theatre, what an audience! For the first time in
English history, no respect at all had been paid to rank: the people
gathered in the Theatre were all that the great City could boast that
was distinguished in science, art, and letters. Those present were the
men who moved the world. Among them, naturally, a sprinkling of the
men who are born to the best things of the world, and are sometimes
told that they help to move it. There were ladies among the company
too--ladies well known in scientific and literary circles, with certain
great ladies led by curiosity. On the left-hand side of the Theatre,
for instance, close to the door, sat two very great ladies, indeed--one
of them the Countess of Thordisá, and the other her only daughter, the
Lady Mildred Carera. Leaning against the pillar beside them stood a
young man of singularly handsome appearance, tall and commanding of
stature.
"To you, Dr. Linister," said the Countess, "I suppose everything that
the Professor has to tell us will be already well known?"
"That," said Dr. Linister, "would be too much to expect."
"For me," her Ladyship went on delicately, "I love to catch Science on
the wing--on the wing--in her lighter moods, when she has something
really popular to tell."
Dr. Linister bowed. Then his eyes met those of the beautiful girl
sitting below him, and he leaned and whispered,
"I looked for you everywhere last night. You had led me to understand--"
"We went nowhere, after all. Mamma fancied she had a bad cold."
"Then this evening. May I be quite--quite sure?"
His voice dropped, and his fingers met hers beneath the fan. She drew
them away quickly, with a blush.
"Yes," she whispered, "you may find me to-night at Lady Chatterton's or
Lady Ingleby's."
From which you can understand that this young Dr. Linister was quite
a man in society. He was young, he had already a great reputation for
Biological research, he was the only son of a fashionable physician,
and he would be very rich. Therefore, in the season, Harry Linister was
_of_ the season.
On most of the faces present there sat an expression of anxiety, and
even fear. What was this new thing? Was the world really going to be
turned upside down? And when the West End was so very comfortable and
its position so very well assured! But there were a few present who
rubbed their hands at the thought of a great upturn of everything.
Up with the scum first; when that had been ladled overboard, a new
arrangement would be possible, to the advantage of those who rubbed
their hands.
When the clock struck nine, a dead silence fell upon the Theatre; not a
breath was heard; not a cough; not the rustle of a dress. Their faces
were pale with expectancy; their lips were parted; their very breathing
seemed arrested.
Then the President and the Council walked in and took their places.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," said the President shortly, "the learned
Professor will himself communicate to you the subject and title of his
Paper, and we may be certain beforehand that this subject and matter
will adorn the motto of the Society--_Illustrous commoda vitæ._"
Then Dr. Schwarzbaum stood at the table before them all, and looked
round the room. Lady Mildred glanced at the young man, Harry Linister.
He was staring at the German like the rest, speechless. She sighed.
Women did not in those days like love-making to be forgotten or
interrupted by anything, certainly not by science.
The learned German carried a small bundle of papers, which he laid on
the table. He carefully and slowly adjusted his spectacles. Then he
drew from his pocket a small leather case. Then he looked round the
room and smiled. That is to say, his lips were covered with a full
beard, so that the sweetness of the smile was mostly lost; but it was
observed under and behind the beard. The mere ghost of a smile; yet a
benevolent ghost.
The Lecturer began, somewhat in copy-book fashion, to remind his
audience that everything in Nature is born, grows slowly to maturity,
enjoys a brief period of full force and strength, then decays, and
finally dies. The tree of life is first a green sapling, and last a
white and leafless trunk. He expatiated at some length on the growth
of the young life. He pointed out that methods had been discovered to
hinder that growth, turn it into unnatural forms, even to stop and
destroy it altogether. He showed how the body is gradually strengthened
in all its parts; he showed, for his unscientific hearers, how the
various parts of the structure assume strength. All this was familiar
to most of his audience. Next he proceeded to dwell upon the period of
full maturity of bodily and mental strength, which, in a man, should
last from twenty-five to sixty, and even beyond that time. The decay
of the bodily, and even of the mental organs, may have already set
in, even when mind and body seem the most vigorous. At this period of
the discussion most of the audience were beginning to flag in their
attention. Was such a gathering as this assembled only to hear a
discussion on the growth and decay of the faculties? But the Director,
who knew what was coming, sat bolt upright, expectant. It was strange,
the people said afterwards, that no one should have suspected what was
coming. There was to be, everybody knew, a great announcement. That
was certain. Destruction, Locomotion, Food, Transmission of Thought,
Substitution of Speech for Writing--all these things, as has been seen,
had been suggested. But no one even guessed the real nature of the
Discovery. And now, with the exception of the people who always pretend
to have known all along, to have been favored with the Great Man's
Confidence, to have guessed the thing from the outset, no one had the
least suspicion.
Therefore, when the Professor suddenly stopped short, after a prolix
description of wasting power and wearied organs, and held up an
admonitory finger, everybody jumped, because now the Secret was to be
divulged. They had come to hear a great Secret.
"What is this Decay?" he asked. "What is it? Why does it begin? What
laws regulate it? What check can we place upon it? How can we prevent
it? How can we stay its progress? Can Science, which has done so much
to make Life happy--which has found out so many things by which Man's
brief span is crowded with delightful emotions--can Science do no more?
Cannot Science add to these gifts that more precious gift of all--the
lengthening of that brief span?"
Here everybody gasped.
"I ask," the speaker went on, "whether Science cannot put off that
day which closes the eyes and turns the body into a senseless lump?
Consider: we are no sooner arrived at the goal of our ambitions than
we have to go away; we are no sooner at the plenitude of our wisdom
and knowledge than we have to lay down all that we have learned and
go away--nay, we cannot even transmit to others our accumulations
of knowledge. They are lost. We are no sooner happy with those we
love than we have to leave them. We collect, but cannot enjoy; we
inherit--it is but for a day; we learn, but we have no time to use our
learning; we love--it is but for an hour; we pass our youth in hope,
our manhood in effort, and we die before we are old; we are strong,
but our strength passes like a dream; we are beautiful, but our beauty
perishes in a single day. Cannot, I ask again--cannot Science prolong
the Vital Force, and stay the destroying hand of Decay?"
At this point a wonderful passion seized upon many of the people
present; for some sprang to their feet and lifted hands and shouted,
some wept aloud, some clasped each other by the hand; there were lovers
among the crowd who fell openly into each other's arms; there were men
of learning who hugged imaginary books and looked up with wild eyes;
there were girls who smiled, thinking that their beauty might last
longer than a day; there were women down whose cheeks rolled the tears
of sorrow for their vanished beauty; there were old men who heard and
trembled.
One of them spoke--out of all this crowd only one found words. It was
an old statesman; an old man eloquent. He rose with shaking limbs.
"Sir," he cried, his voice still sonorous, "give me back my manhood!"
The Professor continued, regardless:
"Suppose," he said, "that Science had found out the way, not to restore
what is lost, but to arrest further loss; not to give back what is
gone--you might as well try to restore a leg that has been cut off--but
to prevent further loss. Consider this for a moment, I pray you. Those
who search into Nature's secrets might, if this were done for them,
carry on their investigations far beyond any point which had yet been
reached; those who cultivate Art might attain to a greater skill of
hand and truth of sight than has ever yet been seen; those who study
human nature might multiply their observations; those who love might
have a longer time for their passion; men who are strong might remain
strong; women who are beautiful might remain beautiful--"
"Sir," cried again the old man eloquent, "give me back my manhood!"
The Lecturer made no reply, but went on:
"The rich might have a time--a sensible length of time--in which to
enjoy their wealth; the young might remain young; the old might grow
no older; the feeble might not become more feeble--all for a prolonged
time. As for those whose lives could never become anything but a
burden to themselves and to the rest of the world--the crippled, the
criminal, the poor, the imbecile, the incompetent, the stupid, and the
frivolous--they would live out their allotted lives and die. It would
be for the salt of the earth, for the flower of mankind, for the men
strong of intellect and endowed above the common herd, that Science
would reserve this precious gift."
"Give me back my manhood!" cried again the old man eloquent.
But he was not alone, for they all sprang to their feet together
and cried aloud, shrieking, weeping, stretching forth hands,
"Give--give--give!" But the Director, who knew that what was asked for
would be given, sat silent and self-possessed.
The Speaker motioned them all to sit down again.
"I would not," he said, "limit this great gift to those alone whose
intellect leads the world. I would extend it to all who help to make
life beautiful and happy; to lovely women"--here the men heaved a sigh
so deep, so simultaneous, that it fell upon the ear like the voice
of thanksgiving from a Cathedral choir--"to those who love only the
empty show and pleasures and vainglories of life"--here many smiled,
especially of the younger sort--"even to some of those who desire
nothing of life but love and song and dalliance and laughter." Again
the younger sort smiled, and tried to look as if they had no connection
at all with that band. "I would extend this gift, I repeat, to all who
can themselves be happy in the sunshine and the light, and to all who
can make the happiness of others. Then, again, consider. When you have
enjoyed those things for a while; when your life has been prolonged, so
that you have enjoyed all that you desire in full measure and running
over; when not two or three years have passed, but perhaps two or three
centuries, you would then, of your own accord, put aside the aid of
Science and suffer your body to fall into the decay which awaits all
living matter. Contented and resigned, you would sink into the tomb,
not satiated with the joys of life, but satisfied to have had your
share. There would be no terror in death, since it would take none but
those who could say, 'I have had enough.' That day would surely come to
every one. There is nothing--not research and discovery, not the beauty
of Nature, not love and pleasure, not art, not flowers and sunshine
and perpetual youth--of which we should not in time grow weary.
Science cannot alter the Laws of Nature. Of all things there must be
an end. But she can prolong; she can avert; she can--Yes, my friends.
This is my Discovery; this is my Gift to Humanity; this is the fruit,
the outcome of my life; for me this great thing has been reserved.
Science can arrest decay. She can make you live--live on--live for
centuries--nay, I know not--why not?--she can, if you foolishly desire
it, make you live forever."
Now, when these words were spoken there fell a deep silence upon the
crowd. No one spoke; no one looked up; they were awed; they could not
realize what it meant that would be given them; they were suddenly
relieved of a great terror, the constant dread that lies in man's
heart, ever present, though we conceal it--the dread of Death; but they
could not, in a moment, understand that it was given.
But the Director sprang to his feet, and grasped his brother physicist
by the hand.
"Of all the sons of Science," he said, solemnly, "thou shalt be
proclaimed the first and best."
The assembly heard these words, but made no sign. There was no
applause--not a murmur, not a voice. They were stricken dumb with
wonder and with awe. They were going to live--to live on--to live for
centuries, nay, why not?--to live forever!
"You all know," the Professor continued, "how at a dinner a single
glass of champagne revives the spirits, looses the tongue, and brings
activity to the brain. The guests were weary; they were in decay;
the Champagne arrests that decay. My discovery is of another kind of
Champagne, which acts with a more lasting effect. It strengthens the
nerves, hardens the muscles, quickens the blood, and brings activity to
the digestion. With new strength of the body returns new strength to
the mind; mind and body are one." He paused a moment. Then he gave the
leather case into the hands of the Director. "This is my gift, I say. I
give to my brother full particulars and the history of the invention. I
seek no profit for myself. It is your own. This day a new epoch begins
for humanity. We shall not die, but live. Accident, fire, lightning,
may kill us. Against these things we cannot guard. But old age shall no
more fall upon us; decay shall no more rob us of our life and strength;
and death shall be voluntary. This is a great change. I know not if I
have done aright. That is for you to determine. See that you use this
gift aright."
Then, before the people had understood the last words, the speaker
stepped out of the Theatre and was gone.
But the Director of the Royal Institution stood in his place, and in
his hand was the leather case containing the GIFT OF LIFE.
* * * * *
The Countess of Thordisá, who had been asleep throughout the lecture,
woke up when it was finished.
"How deeply interesting!" she sighed. "This it is, to catch Science on
the wing." Then she looked round. "Mildred, dear," she said, "has Dr.
Linister gone to find the carriage? Dear me! what a commotion! And at
the Royal Institution, of all places in the world!"
"I think, Mamma," said Lady Mildred, coldly, "that we had better get
some one else to find the carriage. Dr. Linister is over there. He is
better engaged."
He was; he was among his brother physicists; they were eagerly asking
questions and crowding round the Director. And the Theatre seemed
filled with mad people, who surged and crowded and pushed.
"Come, Mamma," said Lady Mildred, pale, but with a red spot on either
cheek, "we will leave them to fight it out."
Science had beaten love. She did not meet Harry Linister again that
night. And when they met again, long years afterwards, he passed her by
with eyes that showed he had clean forgotten her existence, unaltered
though she was in face and form.
CHAPTER I.
THE SUPPER-BELL.
When the big bell in the Tower of the House of Life struck the hour of
seven, the other bells began to chime as they had done every day at
this hour for I know not how many years. Very likely in the Library,
where we still keep a great collection of perfectly useless books,
there is preserved some History which may speak of these Bells, and
of the builders of the House. When these chimes began, the swifts and
jackdaws which live in the Tower began to fly about with a great show
of hurry, as if there was barely time for supper, though, as it was yet
only the month of July, the sun would not be setting for an hour or
more.
We have long since ceased to preach to the people, otherwise we might
make them learn a great deal from the animal world. They live, for
instance, from day to day; not only are their lives miserably short,
but they are always hungry, always fighting, always quarrelling, always
fierce in their loves and their jealousies. Watching the swifts, for
instance, which we may do nearly all day long, we ought to congratulate
ourselves on our own leisurely order, the adequate provision for food
made by the Wisdom of the College, the assurance of preservation also
established by that Wisdom, and our freedom from haste and anxiety, as
from the emotions of love, hatred, jealousy, and rivalry. But the time
has gone by for that kind of exhortation.
Thus, our people, who at this hour crowded the great Square, showed
in their faces, their attitudes, and their movements, the calm that
reigned in their souls. Some were lying on the grass; some were sitting
on the benches; some were strolling. They were for the most part alone;
if not alone--because habit often survives when the original cause of
the habit is gone--then in pairs.
In the old unhappy days there would have been restless activity--a
hurrying to and fro; there would have been laughter and
talking--everybody would have been talking; there would have been young
men eagerly courting the favors of young women, looking on them with
longing eyes, ready to fight for them, each for the girl he loved;
thinking each of the girl he loved as of a goddess or an angel--all
perfection. The girls themselves ardently desired this foolish worship.
Again, formerly, there would have been old men and old women looking
with melancholy eyes on the scenes they were about to quit, and
lamenting the days of their strength and their youth. And formerly
there would have been among the crowd beggars and paupers; there
would have been some masters and some servants; some noble and some
bourgeois; there would have been every conceivable difference in age,
rank, strength, intellect, and distinction.
Again, formerly there would have been the most insolent differences in
costume. Some of the men used to wear broadcloth, sleek and smooth,
with glossy hats and gloves, and flowers at their button-hole; while
beside them crawled the wretched half-clad objects pretending to sell
matches, but in reality begging for their bread. And some of the women
used to flaunt in dainty and expensive stuffs, setting off their
supposed charms (which were mostly made by the dress-maker's art)
with the curves and colors of their drapery. And beside them would be
crawling the wretched creatures to whom in the summer, when the days
were hot and fine, the Park was their only home, and rusty black their
only wear.
Now, no activity at all; no hurrying, no laughing, not even any
talking. That might have struck a visitor as one of the most remarkable
results of our system. No foolish talking. As for their dress, it
was all alike. The men wore blue flannel jackets and trousers, with
a flannel shirt and a flat blue cap; for the working hours they had
a rougher dress. The women wore a costume in gray, made of a stuff
called beige. It is a useful stuff, because it wears well; it is soft
and yet warm, and cannot be objected to by any of them on the score of
ugliness. What mutinies, what secret conspiracies, what mad revolts
had to be faced before the women could be made to understand that
Socialism--the only form of society which can now be accepted--must
be logical and complete! What is one woman more than another that she
should separate herself from her sisters by her dress? Therefore, since
their subjugation they all wear a gray beige frock, with a jacket of
the same, and a flat gray cap, like the men's, under which they are
made to gather up their hair.
This scene, indeed--the gathering of the People before the
supper-bell--is one of which I never tire. I look at all the eager,
hurrying swifts in the air, I remember the Past; and I think of the
Present when I gaze upon the great multitude, in which no one regardeth
his neighbor, none speaks to none. There are no individual aims, but
all is pure, unadulterated Socialism, with--not far distant--the
Ultimate Triumph of Science!
I desire to relate the exact circumstances connected with certain
recent events. It is generally known that they caused one deplorable
Death--one of our own Society, although not a Physician of the
HOUSE. I shall have to explain, before I begin the narrative,
certain points in our internal management which may differ from the
customs adopted elsewhere. We of the Later Era visit each other so
seldom that differences may easily grow up. Indeed, considering the
terrible dangers of travel--how, if one walks, there are the perils of
unfiltered water, damp beds, sprained ankles, byrsitis of the knee,
chills from frosts and showers; or if one gets into a wheeled vehicle,
the wheels may fall off, or the carriage may be overturned in a
ditch.... But why pursue the subject? I repeat, therefore, that I must
speak of the community and its order, but that as briefly as may be.
The Rebels have been driven forth from the Pale of Humanity to wander
where they please. In a few years they will be released--if that
has not already happened--by Death from the diseases and sufferings
which will fall upon them. Then we shall remember them no more. The
centuries will roll by, and they shall be forgotten; the very mounds of
earth which once marked the place of their burial will be level with
the ground around them. But the HOUSE and the Glory of the
HOUSE will continue.
Thus perish all the enemies of Science!
The City of Canterbury, as it was rebuilt when Socialism was finally
established, has in its centre a great Square, Park, or Garden, the
central breathing-place and relaxation ground of the City. Each side
is exactly half a mile in length. The Garden, thus occupying an area
of a fourth of a square mile, is planted with every kind of ornamental
tree, and laid out in flower-beds, winding walks, serpentine rivers,
lakes, cascades, bridges, grottos, summer-houses, lawns, and everything
that can help to make the place attractive. During the summer it is
thronged every evening with the people. On its west side has been
erected an enormous Palace of glass, low in height, but stretching
far away to the west, covering an immense area. Here the heat is
artificially maintained at temperatures varying with the season and the
plants that are in cultivation. In winter, frost, bad weather, and in
rain, it forms a place of recreation and rest. Here grow all kinds of
fruit-trees, with all kinds of vegetables, flowers, and plants. All the
year round it furnishes, in quantities sufficient for all our wants, an
endless supply of fruit; so that we have a supply of some during the
whole year, as grapes, bananas, and oranges; others for at least half
the year, as peaches, strawberries, and so forth; while of the commoner
vegetables, as peas, beans, and the like, there is now no season, but
they are grown continuously. In the old times we were dependent upon
the changes and chances of a capricious and variable climate. Now,
not only has the erection of these vast houses made us independent of
summer and winter, but the placing of much grass and corn land under
glass has also assured our crops and secured us from the danger of
famine. This is by no means one of the least advantages of modern
civilization.
On the South side of the Square stands our Public Hall. The building
has not, like the House of Life, any architectural beauty--why should
we aim at beauty, when efficiency is our sole object? The House of
Life was designed and erected when men thought perpetually of beauty,
working from their admiration of beauty in woman and in nature to
beauty in things which they made with their own hands, setting beauty
above usefulness; even thinking it necessary, when usefulness had been
attained, to add adornment, as when they added a Tower to the House of
Life, yet did nothing with their Tower and did not want it.
The Public Hall is built of red brick; it resembles a row of houses
each with a gable to the street. There is for each a broad plain door,
with a simple porch, below; and above, a broad plain window twenty feet
wide divided into four compartments or divisions, the whole set in a
framework of wood. The appearance of the Hall is, therefore, remarkably
plain. There are thirty-one of these gables, each forty feet wide; so
that the whole length of the Hall is twelve hundred and forty feet, or
nearly a quarter of a mile.
Within, the roof of each of these gables covers a Hall separated
from its neighbors by plain columns. They are all alike, except that
the middle Hall, set apart for the College, has a gallery originally
intended for an orchestra, now never used. In the central Hall one
table alone is placed; in all the others there are four, every Hall
accommodating eight hundred people and every table two hundred.
The length of each Hall is the same--namely, two hundred and fifty
feet. The Hall is lit by one large window at each end. There are no
carvings, sculptures, or other ornaments in the building. At the back
is an extensive range of buildings, all of brick, built in small
compartments, and fire-proof; they contain the kitchens, granaries,
_abattoirs_, larders, cellars, dairies, still-rooms, pantries,
curing-houses, ovens, breweries, and all the other offices and chambers
required for the daily provisioning of a city with twenty-four thousand
inhabitants.
On the East side of the Square there are two great groups of buildings.
That nearest to the Public Hall contains, in a series of buildings
which communicate with one another, the Library, the Museum, the
Armory, the Model-room, and the Picture Gallery. The last is a building
as old as the House. They were, when these events began, open to the
whole Community, though they were never visited by any even out of
idle curiosity. The inquisitive spirit is dead. For myself, I am not
anxious to see the people acquire, or revive, the habit of reading and
inquiring. It might be argued that the study of history might make
them contrast the present with the past, and shudder at the lot of
their forefathers. But I am going to show that this study may produce
quite the opposite effect. Or, there is the study of science. How
should this help the People? They have the College always studying
and investigating for their benefit the secrets of medical science,
which alone concerns their happiness. They might learn how to make
machines; but machinery requires steam, explosives, electricity, and
other uncontrolled and dangerous forces. Many thousands of lives were
formerly lost in the making and management of these machines, and we do
very well without them. They might, it is true, read the books which
tell of the people in former times. But why read works which are filled
with the Presence of Death, the Shortness of Life, and the intensity of
passions which we have almost forgotten? You shall see what comes of
these studies which seem so innocent.
I say, therefore, that I never had any wish to see the people flocking
into the Library. For the same reason--that a study and contemplation
of things past might unsettle or disturb the tranquillity of their
minds--I have never wished to see them in the Museum, the Armory, or
any other part of our Collections. And since the events of which I
have to tell, we have enclosed these buildings and added them to the
College, so that the people can no longer enter them even if they
wished.
The Curator of the Museum was an aged man, one of the few old men
left--in the old days he had held a title of some kind. He was placed
there because he was old and much broken, and could do no work.
Therefore he was told to keep the glass-cases free from dust and to
sweep the floors every morning. At the time of the Great Discovery he
had been an Earl or Viscount--I know not what--and by some accident he
escaped the Great Slaughter, when it was resolved to kill all the old
men and women in order to reduce the population to the number which the
land would support. I believe that he hid himself, and was secretly fed
by some man who had formerly been his groom, and still preserved some
remains of what he called attachment and duty, until such time as the
executions were over. Then he ventured forth again, and so great was
the horror of the recent massacre, with the recollection of the prayers
and shrieks of the victims, that he was allowed to continue alive. The
old man was troubled with an asthma which hardly permitted him an hour
of repose and was incurable. This would have made his life intolerable,
except that to live--only to live, in any pain and misery--is always
better than to die.
For the last few years the old man had a companion in the Museum. This
was a girl--the only girl in our Community--who called him--I know not
why (perhaps because the relationship really existed)--Grandfather,
and lived with him. She it was who dusted the cases and swept the
floors. She found some means of relieving the old man's asthma, and all
day long--would that I had discovered the fact, or suspected whither it
would lead the wretched girl!--she read the books of the Library and
studied the contents of the cases and talked to the old man, making him
tell her everything that belonged to the past. All she cared for was
the Past; all that she studied was to understand more and more--how men
lived then, and what they thought, and what they talked.
She was about eighteen years of age; but, indeed, we thought her
still a child. I know not how many years had elapsed since any in the
City were children, because it is a vain thing to keep account of the
years; if anything happens to distinguish them, it must be something
disastrous, because we have now arrived almost at the last stage
possible to man. It only remains for us to discover, not only how to
prevent disease, but how to annihilate it. Since, then, there is only
one step left to take in advance, every other event which can happen
must be in the nature of a calamity, and therefore may be forgotten.
I have said that Christine called the old man her grandfather. We have
long, long since agreed to forget old ties of blood. How can father
and son, mother and daughter, brother and sister continue for hundreds
of years, and when all remain fixed at the same age, to keep up the
old relationship? The maternal love dies out with us--it is now but
seldom called into existence--when the child can run about. Why not?
The animals, from whom we learn so much, desert their offspring when
they can feed themselves; our mothers cease to care for their children
when they are old enough to be the charge of the Community. Therefore
Christine's mother cheerfully suffered the child to leave her as soon
as she was old enough to sit in the Public Hall. Her grandfather--if
indeed he was her grandfather--obtained permission to have the child
with him. So she remained in the quiet Museum. We never imagined or
suspected, however, that the old man, who was eighty at the time of
the Great Discovery, remembered everything that took place when he was
young, and talked with the girl all day long about the Past.
I do not know who was Christine's father. It matters not now; and,
indeed, he never claimed his daughter. One smiles to think of the
importance formerly attached to fathers. We no longer work for their
support. We are no longer dependent upon their assistance; the father
does nothing for the son, nor the son for the father. Five hundred
years ago, say--or a thousand years ago--the father carried a baby in
his arms. What then? My own father--I believe he is my own father, but
on this point I may be mistaken--I saw yesterday taking his turn in
the hay-field. He seemed distressed with the heat and fatigue of it.
Why not? It makes no difference to me. He is, though not so young,
still as strong and as able-bodied as myself. Christine was called into
existence by the sanction of the College when one of the Community was
struck dead by lightning. It was my brother, I believe. The terrible
event filled us all with consternation. However, the population having
thus been diminished by one, it was resolved that the loss should be
repaired. There was precedent. A great many years previously, owing to
a man being killed by the fall of a hay-rick--all hay-ricks are now
made low--another birth had been allowed. That was a boy.
Let us now return to our Square. On the same side are the buildings
of the College. Here are the Anatomical collections, the storehouse
of Materia Medica, and the residences of the Arch Physician, the
Suffragan, the Fellows of the College or Associate Physicians, and the
Assistants or Experimenters. The buildings are plain and fire-proof.
The College has its own private gardens, which are large and filled
with trees. Here the Physicians walk and meditate, undisturbed by the
outer world. Here is also their Library.
On the North side of the Square stands the great and venerable House of
Life, the Glory of the City, the Pride of the whole Country.
It is very ancient. Formerly there were many such splendid monuments
standing in the country; now this alone remains. It was built in the
dim, distant ages, when men believed things now forgotten. It was
designed for the celebration of certain ceremonies or functions; their
nature and meaning may, I dare say, be ascertained by any who cares
to waste time in an inquiry so useless. The edifice itself could not
possibly be built in these times; first because we have no artificers
capable of rearing such a pile, and next because we have not among us
any one capable of conceiving it, or drawing the design of it; nay, we
have none who could execute the carved stone-work.
I do not say this with humility, but with satisfaction; for, if we
contemplate the building, we must acknowledge that, though it is, as I
have said, the Glory of the City, and though it is vast in proportions,
imposing by its grandeur, and splendid in its work, yet most of it is
perfectly useless. What need of the tall columns to support a roof
which might very well have been one-fourth the present height? Why
build the Tower at all? What is the good of the carved work? We of
the New Era build in brick, which is fire-proof; we put up structures
which are no larger than are wanted; we waste no labor, because we
grudge the time which must be spent in necessary work, over things
unnecessary. Besides, we are no longer tortured by the feverish anxiety
to do something--anything--by which we may be remembered when the
short span of life is past. Death to us is a thing which may happen by
accident, but not from old age or by disease. Why should men toil and
trouble in order to be remembered? All things are equal: why should one
man try to do something better than another--or what another cannot
do--or what is useless when it is done? Sculptures, pictures, Art of
any kind, will not add a single ear of corn to the general stock, or
a single glass of wine, or a yard of flannel. Therefore, we need not
regret the decay of Art.
As everybody knows, however, the HOUSE is the chief Laboratory
of the whole country. It is here that the Great Secret is preserved; it
is known to the Arch Physician and to his Suffragan alone. No other man
in the country knows by what process is compounded that potent liquid
which arrests decay and prolongs life, apparently without any bound or
limit. I say without any bound or limit. There certainly are croakers,
who maintain that at some future time--it may be this very year, it may
be a thousand years hence--the compound will lose its power, and so
we--all of us, even the College--must then inevitably begin to decay,
and after a few short years perish and sink into the silent grave. The
very thought causes a horror too dreadful for words; the limbs tremble,
the teeth chatter. But others declare that there is no fear whatever of
this result, and that the only dread is lest the whole College should
suddenly be struck by lightning, and so the Secret be lost. For though
none other than the Arch Physician and his Suffragan know the Secret,
the whole Society--the Fellows or Assistant Physicians--know in what
strong place the Secret is kept in writing, just as it was communicated
by the Discoverer. The Fellows of the College all assist in the
production of this precious liquid, which is made only in the HOUSE
OF LIFE. But none of them know whether they are working for the
great Arcanum itself, or on some of the many experiments conducted
for the Arch Physician. Even if one guessed, he would not dare to
communicate his suspicions even to a Brother-Fellow, being forbidden,
under the most awful of all penalties, that of Death itself, to divulge
the experiments and processes that he is ordered to carry out.
It is needless to say that if we are proud of the HOUSE, we
are equally proud of the City. There was formerly an old Canterbury,
of which pictures exist in the Library. The streets of that town
were narrow and winding; the houses were irregular in height, size,
and style. There were close courts, not six feet broad, in which no
air could circulate, and where fevers and other disorders were bred.
Some houses, again, stood in stately gardens, while others had none
at all; and the owners of the gardens kept them closed. But we can
easily understand what might have happened when private property was
recognized, and laws protected the so-called rights of owners. Now that
there is no property, there are no laws. There are also no crimes,
because there is no incentive to jealousy, rapine, or double-dealing.
Where there is no crime, there is that condition of Innocence which our
ancestors so eagerly desired, and sought by means which were perfectly
certain to fail.
How different is the Canterbury of the present! First, like all modern
towns, it is limited in size; there are in it twenty-four thousand
inhabitants, neither more nor less. Round its great central Square or
Garden are the public buildings. The streets, which branch off at
right angles, are all of the same width, the same length, and the same
appearance. They are planted with trees. The houses are built of red
brick, each house containing four rooms on the ground-floor--namely,
two on either side the door--and four on the first floor, with a
bath-room. The rooms are vaulted with brick, so that there is no fear
of fire. Every room has its own occupant; and as all the rooms are of
the same size, and are all furnished in the same way, with the same
regard to comfort and warmth, there is really no ground for complaint
or jealousies. The occupants also, who have the same meals in the same
Hall every day, cannot complain of inequalities, any more than they
can accuse each other of gluttonous living. In the matter of clothes,
again, it was at first expected that the grave difficulties with the
women as to uniformity of fashion and of material would continue to
trouble us; but with the decay of those emotions which formerly caused
so much trouble--since the men have ceased to court the women, and
the women have ceased to desire men's admiration--there has been no
opposition. All of them now are clad alike; gray is found the most
convenient color, soft beige the most convenient material.
The same beautiful equality rules the hours and methods of work. Five
hours a day are found ample, and everybody takes his time at every
kind of work, the men's work being kept separate from that given to
the women. I confess that the work is not performed with as much zeal
as one could wish; but think of the old times, when one had to work
eight, ten, and even eighteen hours a day in order to earn a poor and
miserable subsistence! What zeal could they have put into their work?
How different is this glorious equality in all things from the ancient
anomalies and injustices of class and rank, wealth and poverty! Why,
formerly, the chief pursuit of man was the pursuit of money. And now
there is no money at all, and our wealth lies in our barns and garners.
I must be forgiven if I dwell upon these contrasts. The history which
has to be told--how an attempt was actually made to destroy this Eden,
and to substitute in its place the old condition of things--fills me
with such indignation that I am constrained to speak.
Consider, for one other thing, the former condition of the world. It
was filled with diseases. People were not in any way protected. They
were allowed to live as they pleased. Consequently, they all committed
excesses and all contracted disease. Some drank too much, some ate too
much, some took no exercise, some took too little, some lay in bed too
long, some went to bed too late, some suffered themselves to fall into
violent rages, into remorse, into despair; some loved inordinately;
thousands worked too hard. All ran after Jack-o'-Lanterns continually;
for, before one there was dangled the hope of promotion, before another
that of glory, before another that of distinction, fame, or praise;
before another that of wealth, before another the chance of retiring
to rest and meditate during the brief remainder of his life--miserably
short even in its whole length. Then diseases fell upon them, and they
died.
We have now prevented all new diseases, though we cannot wholly cure
those which have so long existed. Rheumatism, gout, fevers, arise no
more, though of gout and other maladies there are hereditary cases. And
since there are no longer any old men among us, there are none of the
maladies to which old age is liable. No more pain, no more suffering,
no more anxiety, no more Death (except by accident) in the world. Yet
some of them would return to the old miseries; and for what?--for
what? You shall hear.
* * * * *
When the Chimes began, the people turned their faces with one consent
towards the Public Hall, and a smile of satisfaction spread over all
their faces. They were going to Supper--the principal event of the
day. At the same moment a Procession issued from the iron gates of
the College. First marched our Warder, or Porter, John Lax, bearing
a halberd; next came an Assistant, carrying a cushion, on which were
the Keys of Gold, symbolical of the Gate of Life; then came another,
bearing our banner, with the Labarum or symbol of Life: the Assistants
followed, in ancient garb of cap and gown; then came the twelve Fellows
or Physicians of the College, in scarlet gowns and flat fur-lined
caps; after them, I myself--Samuel Grout, M.D., Suffragan--followed.
Last, there marched the first Person in the Realm--none other than the
Arch Physician Himself, Dr. Henry Linister, in lawn sleeves, a black
silk gown, and a scarlet hood. Four Beadles closed the Procession;
for, with us, the only deviation from equality absolute is made in the
case of the College. We are a Caste apart; we keep mankind alive and
free from pain. This is our work; this occupies all our thoughts. We
are, therefore, held in honor, and excused the ordinary work which the
others must daily perform. And behold the difference between ancient
and modern times! For, formerly, those who were held in honor and
had high office in this always sacred HOUSE were aged and
white-haired men who arrived at this distinction but a year or two
before they had to die. But we of the Holy College are as stalwart, as
strong, and as young as any man in the Hall. And so have we been for
hundreds of years, and so we mean to continue.
In the Public Hall, we take our meals apart in our own Hall; yet
the food is the same for all. Life is the common possession; it is
maintained for all by the same process--here must be no difference. Let
all, therefore, eat and drink alike.
When I consider, I repeat, the universal happiness, I am carried away,
first, with a burning indignation that any should be so mad as to mar
this happiness. They have failed; but they cost us, as you shall hear,
much trouble, and caused the lamentable death of a most zealous and
able officer.
Among the last to enter the gates were the girl Christine and her
grandfather, who walked slowly, coughing all the way.
"Come, grandad," she said, as we passed her, "take my arm. You will be
better after your dinner. Lean on me."
There was in her face so remarkable a light that I wonder now that no
suspicion or distrust possessed us. I call it light, for I can compare
it to nothing else. The easy, comfortable life our people led, and the
absence of all exciting work, the decay of reading, and the abandonment
of art, had left their faces placid to look upon, but dull. They were
certainly dull. They moved heavily; if they lifted their eyes, they
wanted the light that flashed from Christine's. It was a childish face
still--full of softness. No one would ever believe that a creature so
slight in form, so gentle to look upon, whose eyes were so soft, whose
cheeks were like the untouched bloom of a ripe peach, whose half-parted
lips were so rosy, was already harboring thoughts so abominable and
already conceiving an enterprise so wicked.
We do not suspect, in this our new World. As we have no property to
defend, no one is a thief; as everybody has as much of everything as
he wants, no one tries to get more; we fear not Death, and therefore
need no religion; we have no private ambitions to gratify, and no
private ends to attain; therefore we have long since ceased to be
suspicious. Least of all should we have been suspicious of Christine.
Why, but a year or two ago she was a little newly born babe, whom the
Holy College crowded to see as a new thing. And yet, was it possible
that one so young should be so corrupt?
"Suffragan," said the Arch Physician to me at supper, "I begin to think
that your Triumph of Science must be really complete."
"Why, Physician?"
"Because, day after day, that child leads the old man by the hand,
places him in his seat, and ministers, after the old, forgotten
fashion, to his slightest wants, and no one pays her the slightest
heed."
"Why should they?"
"A child--a beautiful child! A feeble old man! One who ministers to
another. Suffragan, the Past is indeed far, far away; but I knew not
until now that it was so utterly lost. Childhood and Age and the
offices of Love! And these things are wholly unheeded. Grout, you are
indeed a great man!"
He spoke in the mocking tone which was usual with him, so that we
never knew exactly whether he was in earnest or not; but I think that
on this occasion he was in earnest. No one but a very great man--none
smaller than Samuel Grout--myself--could have accomplished this miracle
upon the minds of the People. They did not minister one to the other.
Why should they? Everybody could eat his own ration without any help.
Offices of Love? These to pass unheeded? What did the Arch Physician
mean?