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_By the same Author._
A LITTLE PILGRIM:
In the Unseen.
Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.
MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON.
THE LAND OF DARKNESS
[Illustration: colophon]
THE
LAND OF DARKNESS
ALONG WITH SOME
FURTHER CHAPTERS IN THE EXPERIENCES
OF
THE LITTLE PILGRIM
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1888
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE LAND OF DARKNESS 1
THE LITTLE PILGRIM 127
ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS 177
I
THE LAND OF DARKNESS
I found myself standing on my feet, with the tingling sensation of
having come down rapidly upon the ground from a height. There was a
similar feeling in my head, as of the whirling and sickening sensation
of passing downward through the air, like the description Dante gives of
his descent upon Geryon. My mind, curiously enough, was sufficiently
disengaged to think of that, or at least to allow swift passage for the
recollection through my thoughts. All the aching of wonder, doubt, and
fear which I had been conscious of a little while before was gone. There
was no distinct interval between the one condition and the other, nor
in my fall (as I supposed it must have been) had I any consciousness of
change. There was the whirling of the air, resisting my passage, yet
giving way under me in giddy circles, and then the sharp shock of once
more feeling under my feet something solid, which struck yet sustained.
After a little while the giddiness above and the tingling below passed
away, and I felt able to look about me and discern where I was. But not
all at once: the things immediately about me impressed me first--then
the general aspect of the new place.
First of all the light, which was lurid, as if a thunderstorm were
coming on. I looked up involuntarily to see if it had begun to rain; but
there was nothing of the kind, though what I saw above me was a lowering
canopy of cloud, dark, threatening, with a faint reddish tint diffused
upon the vaporous darkness. It was, however, quite sufficiently clear to
see everything, and there was a good deal to see. I was in a street of
what seemed a great and very populous place. There were shops on either
side, full apparently of all sorts of costly wares. There was a
continual current of passengers up and down on both sides of the way,
and in the middle of the street carriages of every description, humble
and splendid. The noise was great and ceaseless, the traffic continual.
Some of the shops were most brilliantly lighted, attracting one’s eyes
in the sombre light outside, which, however, had just enough of day in
it to make these spots of illumination look sickly; most of the places
thus distinguished were apparently bright with the electric or some
other scientific light; and delicate machines of every description,
brought to the greatest perfection, were in some windows, as were also
many fine productions of art, but mingled with the gaudiest and coarsest
in a way which struck me with astonishment. I was also much surprised by
the fact that the traffic, which was never stilled for a moment, seemed
to have no sort of regulation. Some carriages dashed along, upsetting
the smaller vehicles in their way, without the least restraint or order,
either, as it seemed, from their own good sense, or from the laws and
customs of the place. When an accident happened, there was a great
shouting, and sometimes a furious encounter--but nobody seemed to
interfere. This was the first impression made upon me. The passengers on
the pavement were equally regardless. I was myself pushed out of the
way, first to one side, then to another, hustled when I paused for a
moment, trodden upon and driven about. I retreated soon to the doorway
of a shop, from whence with a little more safety I could see what was
going on. The noise made my head ring. It seemed to me that I could not
hear myself think. If this were to go on for ever, I said to myself, I
should soon go mad.
‘Oh no,’ said some one behind me, ‘not at all; you will get used to it;
you will be glad of it. One does not want to hear one’s thoughts; most
of them are not worth hearing.’
I turned round and saw it was the master of the shop, who had come to
the door on seeing me. He had the usual smile of a man who hoped to sell
his wares; but to my horror and astonishment, by some process which I
could not understand, I saw that he was saying to himself, ‘What a d----
d fool! here’s another of those cursed wretches, d---- him!’ all with
the same smile. I started back, and answered him as hotly, ‘What do you
mean by calling me a d----d fool?--fool yourself, and all the rest of
it. Is this the way you receive strangers here?’
‘Yes,’ he said, with the same smile, ‘this is the way; and I only
describe you as you are, as you will soon see. Will you walk in and look
over my shop? Perhaps you will find something to suit you if you are
just setting up, as I suppose.’
I looked at him closely, but this time I could not see that he was
saying anything beyond what was expressed by his lips, and I followed
him into the shop, principally because it was quieter than the street,
and without any intention of buying--for what should I buy in a strange
place where I had no settled habitation, and which probably I was only
passing through?
‘I will look at your things,’ I said, in a way which I believe I had, of
perhaps undue pretension. I had never been over-rich, or of very
elevated station; but I was believed by my friends (or enemies) to have
an inclination to make myself out something more important than I was.
‘I will look at your things, and possibly I may find something that may
suit me; but with all the _ateliers_ of Paris and London to draw from,
it is scarcely to be expected that in a place like this----’
Here I stopped to draw my breath, with a good deal of confusion; for I
was unwilling to let him see that I did not know where I was.
‘A place like this,’ said the shopkeeper, with a little laugh which
seemed to me full of mockery, ‘will supply you better, you will find,
than--any other place. At least you will find it the only place
practicable,’ he added. ‘I perceive you are a stranger here.’
‘Well--I may allow myself to be so--more or less. I have not had time to
form much acquaintance with--the place: what--do you call the
place?--its formal name, I mean,’ I said, with a great desire to keep up
the air of superior information. Except for the first moment I had not
experienced that strange power of looking into the man below the surface
which had frightened me. Now there occurred another gleam of insight,
which gave me once more a sensation of alarm. I seemed to see a light of
hatred and contempt below his smile, and I felt that he was not in the
least taken in by the air which I assumed.
‘The name of the place,’ he said, ‘is not a pretty one. I hear the
gentlemen who come to my shop say that it is not to be named to ears
polite; and I am sure your ears are very polite.’ He said this with the
most offensive laugh, and I turned upon him and answered him, without
mincing matters, with a plainness of speech which startled myself, but
did not seem to move him, for he only laughed again. ‘Are you not
afraid,’ I said, ‘that I will leave your shop and never enter it more?’
‘Oh, it helps to pass the time,’ he said; and without any further
comment began to show me very elaborate and fine articles of furniture.
I had always been attracted to this sort of thing, and had longed to buy
such articles for my house when I had one, but never had it in my power.
Now I had no house, nor any means of paying so far as I knew, but I felt
quite at my ease about buying, and inquired into the prices with the
greatest composure.
‘They are just the sort of thing I want. I will take these, I think;
but you must set them aside for me, for I do not at the present moment
exactly know----’
‘You mean you have got no rooms to put them in,’ said the master of the
shop. ‘You must get a house directly, that’s all. If you’re only up to
it, it is easy enough. Look about until you find something you like, and
then--take possession.’
‘Take possession’--I was so much surprised that I stared at him with
mingled indignation and surprise--‘of what belongs to another man?’ I
said.
I was not conscious of anything ridiculous in my look. I was indignant,
which is not a state of mind in which there is any absurdity; but the
shopkeeper suddenly burst into a storm of laughter. He laughed till he
seemed almost to fall into convulsions, with a harsh mirth which
reminded me of the old image of the crackling of thorns, and had neither
amusement nor warmth in it; and presently this was echoed all around,
and looking up, I saw grinning faces full of derision, bent upon me
from every side, from the stairs which led to the upper part of the
house and from the depths of the shop behind--faces with pens behind
their ears, faces in workmen’s caps, all distended from ear to ear, with
a sneer and a mock and a rage of laughter which nearly sent me mad. I
hurled I don’t know what imprecations at them as I rushed out, stopping
my ears in a paroxysm of fury and mortification. My mind was so
distracted by this occurrence that I rushed without knowing it upon some
one who was passing, and threw him down with the violence of my exit;
upon which I was set on by a party of half a dozen ruffians, apparently
his companions, who would, I thought, kill me, but who only flung me,
wounded, bleeding, and feeling as if every bone in my body had been
broken, down on the pavement--when they went away, laughing too.
I picked myself up from the edge of the causeway, aching and sore from
head to foot, scarcely able to move, yet conscious that if I did not get
myself out of the way one or other of the vehicles which were dashing
along would run over me. It would be impossible to describe the
miserable sensations, both of body and mind, with which I dragged myself
across the crowded pavement, not without curses and even kicks from the
passers-by; and, avoiding the shop from which I still heard those
shrieks of devilish laughter, gathered myself up in the shelter of a
little projection of a wall, where I was for the moment safe. The pain
which I felt was as nothing to the sense of humiliation, the
mortification, the rage with which I was possessed. There is nothing in
existence more dreadful than rage which is impotent, which cannot punish
or avenge, which has to restrain itself and put up with insults showered
upon it. I had never known before what that helpless, hideous
exasperation was; and I was humiliated beyond description, brought
down--I, whose inclination it was to make more of myself than was
justifiable--to the aspect of a miserable ruffian beaten in a brawl,
soiled, covered with mud and dust, my clothes torn, my face bruised and
disfigured: all this within half an hour or thereabout of my arrival in
a strange place where nobody knew me or could do me justice! I kept
looking out feverishly for some one with an air of authority to whom I
could appeal. Sooner or later somebody must go by, who, seeing me in
such a plight, must inquire how it came about, must help me and
vindicate me. I sat there for I cannot tell how long, expecting every
moment that, were it but a policeman, somebody would notice and help me.
But no one came. Crowds seemed to sweep by without a pause--all
hurrying, restless: some with anxious faces, as if any delay would be
mortal; some in noisy groups intercepting the passage of the others.
Sometimes one would pause to point me out to his comrades, with a shout
of derision at my miserable plight; or if by a change of posture I got
outside the protection of my wall, would kick me back with a coarse
injunction to keep out of the way. No one was sorry for me--not a look
of compassion, not a word of inquiry was wasted upon me; no
representative of authority appeared. I saw a dozen quarrels while I lay
there, cries of the weak, and triumphant shouts of the strong; but that
was all.
I was drawn after a while from the fierce and burning sense of my own
grievances by a querulous voice quite close to me. ‘This is my corner,’
it said. ‘I’ve sat here for years, and I have a right to it. And here
you come, you big ruffian, because you know I haven’t got the strength
to push you away.’
‘Who are you?’ I said, turning round horror-stricken; for close beside
me was a miserable man, apparently in the last stage of disease. He was
pale as death, yet eaten up with sores. His body was agitated by a
nervous trembling. He seemed to shuffle along on hands and feet, as
though the ordinary mode of locomotion was impossible to him, and yet
was in possession of all his limbs. Pain was written in his face. I drew
away to leave him room, with mingled pity and horror that this poor
wretch should be the partner of the only shelter I could find within so
short a time of my arrival. I who---- It was horrible, shameful,
humiliating; and yet the suffering in his wretched face was so evident
that I could not but feel a pang of pity too. ‘I have nowhere to go,’ I
said. ‘I am--a stranger. I have been badly used, and nobody seems to
care.’
‘No,’ he said; ‘nobody cares--don’t you look for that. Why should they?
Why, you look as if you were sorry for _me_! What a joke!’ he murmured
to himself--‘what a joke! Sorry for some one else! What a fool the
fellow must be!’
‘You look,’ I said, ‘as if you were suffering horribly; and you say you
have come here for years.’
‘Suffering! I should think I was,’ said the sick man; ‘but what is that
to you? Yes; I’ve been here for years--oh, years!--that means
nothing,--for longer than can be counted. Suffering is not the
word--it’s torture--it’s agony. But who cares? Take your leg out of my
way.’
I drew myself out of his way from a sort of habit, though against my
will, and asked, from habit too, ‘Are you never any better than now?’
He looked at me more closely, and an air of astonishment came over his
face. ‘What d’ye want here,’ he said, ‘pitying a man! That’s something
new here. No; I’m not always so bad, if you want to know. I get better,
and then I go and do what makes me bad again, and that’s how it will go
on; and I choose it to be so, and you needn’t bring any of your d----d
pity here.’
‘I may ask, at least, why aren’t you looked after? Why don’t you get
into some hospital?’ I said.
‘Hospital!’ cried the sick man, and then he too burst out into that
furious laugh, the most awful sound I ever had heard. Some of the
passers-by stopped to hear what the joke was, and surrounded me with
once more a circle of mockers. ‘Hospitals! perhaps you would like a
whole Red Cross Society, with ambulances and all arranged?’ cried one.
‘Or the _Misericordia_!’ shouted another. I sprang up to my feet,
crying, ‘Why not?’ with an impulse of rage which gave me strength. Was I
never to meet with anything but this fiendish laughter? ‘There’s some
authority, I suppose,’ I cried in my fury. ‘It is not the rabble that is
the only master here, I hope.’ But nobody took the least trouble to hear
what I had to say for myself. The last speaker struck me on the mouth,
and called me an accursed fool for talking of what I did not
understand; and finally they all swept on and passed away.
I had been, as I thought, severely injured when I dragged myself into
that corner to save myself from the crowd; but I sprang up now as if
nothing had happened to me. My wounds had disappeared, my bruises were
gone. I was, as I had been when I dropped, giddy and amazed, upon the
same pavement, how long--an hour?--before? It might have been an hour,
it might have been a year, I cannot tell. The light was the same as
ever, the thunderous atmosphere unchanged. Day, if it was day, had made
no progress; night, if it was evening, had come no nearer: all was the
same.
As I went on again presently, with a vexed and angry spirit, regarding
on every side around me the endless surging of the crowd, and feeling a
loneliness, a sense of total abandonment and solitude, which I cannot
describe, there came up to me a man of remarkable appearance. That he
was a person of importance, of great knowledge and information, could
not be doubted. He was very pale, and of a worn but commanding aspect.
The lines of his face were deeply drawn, his eyes were sunk under high
arched brows, from which they looked out as from caves, full of a fiery
impatient light. His thin lips were never quite without a smile; but it
was not a smile in which any pleasure was. He walked slowly, not
hurrying, like most of the passengers. He had a reflective look, as if
pondering many things. He came up to me suddenly, without introduction
or preliminary, and took me by the arm. ‘What object had you in talking
of these antiquated institutions?’ he said.
And I saw in his mind the gleam of the thought, which seemed to be the
first with all, that I was a fool, and that it was the natural thing to
wish me harm,--just as in the earth above it was the natural thing,
professed at least, to wish well--to say, Good morning, good day, by
habit and without thought. In this strange country the stranger was
received with a curse, and it woke an answer not unlike the hasty ‘Curse
you, then, also!’ which seemed to come without any will of mine through
my mind. But this provoked only a smile from my new friend. He took no
notice. He was disposed to examine me--to find some amusement
perhaps--how could I tell?--in what I might say.
‘What antiquated things?’
‘Are you still so slow of understanding? What were they? hospitals: the
pretences of a world that can still deceive itself. Did you expect to
find them here?’
‘I expected to find--how should I know?’ I said, bewildered--‘some
shelter for a poor wretch where he could be cared for--not to be left
there to die in the street. Expected! I never thought. I took it for
granted----’
‘To die in the street!’ he cried, with a smile, and a shrug of his
shoulders. ‘You’ll learn better by and by. And if he did die in the
street, what then? What is that to you?’
‘To me!’ I turned and looked at him amazed; but he had somehow shut his
soul, so that I could see nothing but the deep eyes in their caves, and
the smile upon the close-shut mouth. ‘No more to me than to any one. I
only spoke for humanity’s sake, as--a fellow-creature.’
My new acquaintance gave way to a silent laugh within himself, which was
not so offensive as the loud laugh of the crowd, but yet was more
exasperating than words can say. ‘You think that matters? But it does
not hurt you that he should be in pain. It would do you no good if he
were to get well. Why should you trouble yourself one way or the other?
Let him die--if he can---- That makes no difference to you or me.’
‘I must be dull indeed,’ I cried,--‘slow of understanding, as you say.
This is going back to the ideas of times beyond knowledge--before
Christianity----’ As soon as I had said this I felt somehow--I could
not tell how--as if my voice jarred, as if something false and unnatural
was in what I said. My companion gave my arm a twist as if with a shock
of surprise, then laughed in his inward way again.
‘We don’t think much of that here; nor of your modern pretences in
general. The only thing that touches you and me is what hurts or helps
ourselves. To be sure, it all comes to the same thing--for I suppose it
annoys you to see that wretch writhing: it hurts your more delicate,
highly-cultivated consciousness.’
‘It has nothing to do with my consciousness,’ I cried, angrily; ‘it is a
shame to let a fellow-creature suffer if we can prevent it.’
‘Why shouldn’t he suffer?’ said my companion. We passed as he spoke some
other squalid wretched creatures shuffling among the crowd, whom he
kicked with his foot, calling forth a yell of pain and curses. This he
regarded with a supreme contemptuous calm which stupefied me. Nor did
any of the passers-by show the slightest inclination to take the part of
the sufferers. They laughed, or shouted out a gibe, or, what was still
more wonderful, went on with a complete unaffected indifference, as if
all this was natural. I tried to disengage my arm in horror and dismay,
but he held me fast, with a pressure that hurt me. ‘That’s the
question,’ he said. ‘What have we to do with it? Your fictitious
consciousness makes it painful to you. To me, on the contrary, who take
the view of nature, it is a pleasurable feeling. It enhances the amount
of ease, whatever that may be, which I enjoy. I am in no pain. That
brute who is’--and he flicked with a stick he carried the uncovered
wound of a wretch upon the roadside--‘makes me more satisfied with my
condition. Ah! you think it is I who am the brute? You will change your
mind by and by.’
‘Never!’ I cried, wrenching my arm from his with an effort, ‘if I should
live a hundred years.’
‘A hundred years--a drop in the bucket!’ he said, with his silent laugh.
‘You will live for ever, and you will come to my view; and we shall meet
in the course of ages, from time to time, to compare notes. I would say
good-bye after the old fashion, but you are but newly arrived, and I
will not treat you so badly as that.’ With which he parted from me,
waving his hand, with his everlasting horrible smile.
‘Good-bye!’ I said to myself, ‘good-bye--why should it be treating me
badly to say good-bye----’
I was startled by a buffet on the mouth. ‘Take that!’ cried some one,
‘to teach you how to wish the worst of tortures to people who have done
you no harm.’
‘What have I said? I meant no harm I repeated only what is the
commonest civility, the merest good manners.’
‘You wished,’ said the man who had struck me,--‘I won’t repeat the
words: to me, for it was I only that heard them, the awful company that
hurts most--that sets everything before us, both past and to come, and
cuts like a sword and burns like fire. I’ll say it to yourself, and see
how it feels. God be with you! There! it is said, and we all must bear
it, thanks, you fool and accursed, to you.’
And then there came a pause over all the place--an awful
stillness--hundreds of men and women standing clutching with desperate
movements at their hearts as if to tear them out, moving their heads as
if to dash them against the wall, wringing their hands, with a look upon
all their convulsed faces which I can never forget. They all turned to
me, cursing me, with those horrible eyes of anguish. And everything was
still--the noise all stopped for a moment--the air all silent, with a
silence that could be felt. And then suddenly out of the crowd there
came a great piercing cry; and everything began again exactly as before.
While this pause occurred, and while I stood wondering, bewildered,
understanding nothing, there came over me a darkness, a blackness, a
sense of misery such as never in all my life, though I have known
troubles enough, I had felt before. All that had happened to me
throughout my existence seemed to rise pale and terrible in a hundred
scenes before me, all momentary, intense, as if each was the present
moment. And in each of these scenes I saw what I had never seen before.
I saw where I had taken the wrong instead of the right step--in what
wantonness, with what self-will it had been done; how God (I shuddered
at the name) had spoken and called me, and even entreated, and I had
withstood and refused. All the evil I had done came back, and spread
itself out before my eyes; and I loathed it, yet knew that I had chosen
it, and that it would be with me for ever. I saw it all in the twinkling
of an eye, in a moment, while I stood there, and all men with me, in the
horror of awful thought. Then it ceased as it had come, instantaneously,
and the noise and the laughter, and the quarrels and cries, and all the
commotion of this new bewildering place, in a moment began again. I had
seen no one while this strange paroxysm lasted. When it disappeared, I
came to myself emerging as from a dream, and looked into the face of the
man whose words, not careless like mine, had brought it upon us. Our
eyes met, and his were surrounded by curves and lines of anguish which
were terrible to see.
‘Well,’ he said, with a short laugh, which was forced and harsh, ‘how do
you like it? that is what happens when---- If it came often, who could
endure it?’ He was not like the rest. There was no sneer upon his face,
no gibe at my simplicity. Even now, when all had recovered, he was still
quivering with something that looked like a nobler pain. His face was
very grave, the lines deeply drawn in it, and he seemed to be seeking no
amusement or distraction, nor to take any part in the noise and tumult
which was going on around.
‘Do you know what that cry meant?’ he said. ‘Did you hear that cry? It
was some one who saw--even here once in a long time, they say, it can be
seen----’
‘What can be seen?’
He shook his head, looking at me with a meaning which I could not
interpret. It was beyond the range of my thoughts. I came to know after,
or I never could have made this record. But on that subject he said no
more. He turned the way I was going, though it mattered nothing what way
I went, for all were the same to me. ‘You are one of the new-comers?’
he said; ‘you have not been long here----’
‘Tell me,’ I cried, ‘what you mean by _here_. Where are we? How can one
tell who has fallen--he knows not whence or where? What is this place? I
have never seen anything like it. It seems to me that I hate it already,
though I know not what it is.’
He shook his head once more. ‘You will hate it more and more,’ he said;
‘but of these dreadful streets you will never be free, unless----’ And
here he stopped again.
‘Unless--what? If it is possible, I will be free of them, and that
before long.
He smiled at me faintly, as we smile at children, but not with derision.
‘How shall you do that? Between this miserable world and all others
there is a great gulf fixed. It is full of all the bitterness and tears
that come from all the universe. These drop from them, but stagnate
here. We, you perceive, have no tears, not even at moments----’ Then,
‘You will soon be accustomed to all this,’ he said. ‘You will fall into
the way. Perhaps you will be able to amuse yourself, to make it
passable. Many do. There are a number of fine things to be seen here. If
you are curious, come with me and I will show you. Or work--there is
even work. There is only one thing that is impossible--or if not
impossible----’ And here he paused again, and raised his eyes to the
dark clouds and lurid sky overhead. ‘The man who gave that cry! if I
could but find him--he must have seen----’
‘What could he see?’ I asked. But there rose in my mind something like
contempt. A visionary! who could not speak plainly, who broke off into
mysterious inferences, and appeared to know more than he would say. It
seemed foolish to waste time when evidently there was still so much to
see, in the company of such a man. And I began already to feel more at
home. There was something in that moment of anguish which had wrought a
strange familiarity in me with my surroundings. It was so great a relief
to return out of the misery of that sharp and horrible self-realisation,
to what had come to be, in comparison, easy and well known. I had no
desire to go back and grope among the mysteries and anguish so suddenly
revealed. I was glad to be free from them, to be left to myself, to get
a little pleasure perhaps like the others. While these thoughts passed
through my mind, I had gone on without any active impulse of my own, as
everybody else did; and my latest companion had disappeared. He saw, no
doubt, without any need for words, what my feelings were. And I
proceeded on my way. I felt better as I got more accustomed to the
place, or perhaps it was the sensation of relief after that moment of
indescribable pain. As for the sights in the streets, I began to grow
used to them. The wretched creatures who strolled or sat about with
signs of sickness or wounds upon them disgusted me only, they no longer
called forth my pity. I began to feel ashamed of my silly questions
about the hospital. All the same, it would have been a good thing to
have had some receptacle for them, into which they might have been
driven out of the way. I felt an inclination to push them aside as I saw
other people do, but was a little ashamed of that impulse too; and so I
went on. There seemed no quiet streets, so far as I could make out, in
the place. Some were smaller, meaner, with a different kind of
passengers, but the same hubbub and unresting movement everywhere. I saw
no signs of melancholy or seriousness; active pain, violence, brutality,
the continual shock of quarrels and blows: but no pensive faces about,
no sorrowfulness, nor the kind of trouble which brings thought.
Everybody was fully occupied, pushing on as if in a race, pausing for
nothing.
The glitter of the lights, the shouts, and sounds of continual going,
the endless whirl of passers-by, confused and tired me after a while. I
went as far out as I could go to what seemed the outskirts of the place,
where I could by glimpses perceive a low horizon all lurid and glowing,
which seemed to sweep round and round. Against it in the distance stood
up the outline, black against that red glow, of other towers and
house-tops, so many and great that there was evidently another town
between us and the sunset, if sunset it was. I have seen a western sky
like it when there were storms about, and all the colours of the sky
were heightened and darkened by angry influences. The distant town rose
against it, cutting the firmament so that it might have been tongues of
flame flickering between the dark solid outlines; and across the waste
open country which lay between the two cities, there came a distant hum
like the sound of the sea, which was in reality the roar of that other
multitude. The country between showed no greenness or beauty; it lay
dark under the dark over-hanging sky. Here and there seemed a cluster of
giant trees scathed as if by lightning, their bare boughs standing up as
high as the distant towers, their trunks like black columns without
foliage; openings here and there, with glimmering lights, looked like
the mouths of mines: but of passengers there were scarcely any. A figure
here and there flew along as if pursued, imperfectly seen, a shadow only
a little darker than the space about. And in contrast with the sound of
the city, here was no sound at all, except the low roar on either side,
and a vague cry or two from the openings of the mine--a scene all drawn
in darkness, in variations of gloom, deriving scarcely any light at all
from the red and gloomy burning of that distant evening sky.
A faint curiosity to go forward, to see what the mines were, perhaps to
get a share in what was brought up from them, crossed my mind. But I was
afraid of the dark, of the wild uninhabited savage look of the
landscape: though when I thought of it, there seemed no reason why a
narrow stretch of country between two great towns should be alarming.
But the impression was strong and above reason. I turned back to the
street in which I had first alighted, and which seemed to end in a great
square full of people. In the middle there was a stage erected, from
which some one was delivering an oration or address of some sort. He
stood beside a long table, upon which lay something which I could not
clearly distinguish, except that it seemed alive and moved, or rather
writhed, with convulsive twitchings, as if trying to get free of the
bonds which confined it. Round the stage in front were a number of seats
occupied by listeners, many of whom were women, whose interest seemed to
be very great, some of them being furnished with note-books; while a
great unsettled crowd coming and going, drifted round--many, arrested
for a time as they passed, proceeding on their way when the interest
flagged, as is usual to such open-air assemblies. I followed two of
those who pushed their way to within a short distance of the stage, and
who were strong, big men, more fitted to elbow the crowd aside than I,
after my rough treatment in the first place, and the agitation I had
passed through, could be. I was glad, besides, to take advantage of the
explanation which one was giving to the other. ‘It’s always fun to see
this fellow demonstrate,’ he said, ‘and the subject to-day’s a capital
one. Let’s get well forward, and see all that’s going on.’
‘Which subject do you mean?’ said the other; ‘the theme or the example?’
And they both laughed, though I did not seize the point of the wit.
‘Well, both,’ said the first speaker; ‘the theme is nerves: and as a
lesson in construction and the calculation of possibilities, it’s fine.
He’s very clever at that. He shows how they are all strung to give as
much pain and do as much harm as can be; and yet how well it’s all
managed, don’t you know, to look the reverse. As for the example, he’s a
capital one--all nerves together, lying, if you like, just on the
surface, ready for the knife.’
‘If they’re on the surface I can’t see where the fun is,’ said the
other.
‘Metaphorically speaking: of course they are just where other people’s
nerves are; but he’s what you call a highly organised nervous specimen.
There will be plenty of fun. Hush! he is just going to begin.’
‘The arrangement of these threads of being,’ said the lecturer,
evidently resuming after a pause, ‘so as to convey to the brain the most
instantaneous messages of pain or pleasure, is wonderfully skilful and
clever. I need not say to the audience before me, enlightened as it is
by experiences of the most striking kind, that the messages are less of
pleasure than of pain. They report to the brain the stroke of injury far
more often than the thrill of pleasure: though sometimes that too, no
doubt, or life could scarcely be maintained. The powers that be have
found it necessary to mingle a little sweet of pleasurable sensation,
else our miserable race would certainly have found some means of
procuring annihilation. I do not for a moment pretend to say that the
pleasure is sufficient to offer a just counterbalance to the other. None
of my hearers will, I hope, accuse me of inconsistency. I am ready to
allow that in a previous condition I asserted somewhat strongly that
this was the case. But experience has enlightened us on that point. Our
circumstances are now understood by us all, in a manner impossible while
we were still in a condition of incompleteness. We are all convinced
that there is no compensation. The pride of the position, of bearing
everything rather than give in, or making a submission we do not feel,
of preserving our own will and individuality to all eternity, is the
only compensation. I am satisfied with it, for my part.’
The orator made a pause, holding his head high, and there was a certain
amount of applause. The two men before me cheered vociferously. ‘That is
the right way to look at it,’ one of them said. My eyes were upon them,
with no particular motive, and I could not help starting, as I saw
suddenly underneath their applause and laughter a snarl of cursing,
which was the real expression of their thoughts. I felt disposed in the
same way to curse the speaker, though I knew no reason why.
He went on a little further, explaining what he meant to do; and then
turning round, approached the table. An assistant, who was waiting,
uncovered it quickly. The audience stirred with quickened interest, and
I with consternation made a step forward, crying out with horror. The
object on the table, writhing, twitching, to get free, but bound down by
every limb, was a living man. The lecturer went forward calmly, taking
his instruments from their case with perfect composure and coolness.
‘Now, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said: and inserted the knife in the
flesh, making a long clear cut in the bound arm. I shrieked out, unable
to restrain myself. The sight of the deliberate wound, the blood, the
cry of agony that came from the victim, the calmness of all the
lookers-on, filled me with horror and rage indescribable. I felt myself
clear the crowd away with a rush, and spring on the platform, I could
not tell how. ‘You devil!’ I cried, ‘let the man go. Where is the
police?--where is a magistrate?--let the man go this moment! fiends in
human shape! I’ll have you brought to justice!’ I heard myself shouting
wildly, as I flung myself upon the wretched sufferer, interposing
between him and the knife. It was something like this that I said. My
horror and rage were delirious, and carried me beyond all attempt at
control.
Through it all I heard a shout of laughter rising from everybody round.
The lecturer laughed, the audience roared with that sound of horrible
mockery which had driven me out of myself in my first experience. All
kinds of mocking cries sounded around me. ‘Let him a little blood to
calm him down.’ ‘Let the fool have a taste of it himself, doctor.’ Last
of all came a voice mingled with the cries of the sufferer whom I was
trying to shield--‘Take him instead; curse him! take him instead.’ I was
bending over the man with my arms outstretched, protecting him, when he
gave vent to this cry. And I heard immediately behind me a shout of
assent, which seemed to come from the two strong young men with whom I
had been standing, and the sound of a rush to seize me. I looked round,
half mad with terror and rage; a second more and I should have been
strapped on the table too. I made one wild bound into the midst of the
crowd, and struggling among the arms stretched out to catch me, amid
the roar of the laughter and cries--fled--fled wildly, I knew not
whither, in panic and rage and horror, which no words could describe.
Terror winged my feet. I flew, thinking as little of whom I met, or
knocked down, or trod upon in my way, as the others did at whom I had
wondered a little while ago.
No distinct impression of this headlong course remains in my mind, save
the sensation of mad fear such as I had never felt before. I came to
myself on the edge of the dark valley which surrounded the town. All my
pursuers had dropped off before that time, and I have the recollection
of flinging myself upon the ground on my face in the extremity of
fatigue and exhaustion. I must have lain there undisturbed for some
time. A few steps came and went, passing me; but no one took any notice,
and the absence of the noise and crowding gave me a momentary respite.
But in my heat and fever I got no relief of coolness from the contact
of the soil. I might have flung myself upon a bed of hot ashes, so much
was it unlike the dewy cool earth which I expected, upon which one can
always throw one’s self with a sensation of repose. Presently the
uneasiness of it made me struggle up again and look around me. I was
safe: at least the cries of the pursuers had died away, the laughter
which made my blood boil offended my ears no more. The noise of the city
was behind me, softened into an indefinite roar by distance, and before
me stretched out the dreary landscape in which there seemed no features
of attraction. Now that I was nearer to it, I found it not so unpeopled
as I thought. At no great distance from me was the mouth of one of the
mines, from which came an indication of subterranean lights: and I
perceived that the flying figures which I had taken for travellers
between one city and another, were in reality wayfarers endeavouring to
keep clear of what seemed a sort of pressgang at the openings. One of
them, unable to stop himself in his flight, adopted the same expedient
as myself, and threw himself on the ground close to me when he had got
beyond the range of pursuit. It was curious that we should meet there,
he flying from a danger which I was about to face, and ready to
encounter that from which I had fled. I waited for a few minutes till he
had recovered his breath, and then: ‘What are you running from?’ I said;
‘is there any danger there?’ The man looked up at me with the same
continual question in his eyes--Who is this fool?
‘Danger!’ he said. ‘Are you so new here, or such a cursed idiot, as not
to know the danger of the mines? You are going across yourself, I
suppose, and then you’ll see.’
‘But tell me,’ I said; ‘my experience may be of use to you afterwards,
if you will tell me yours now.’
‘Of use!’ he cried, staring; ‘who cares? Find out for yourself. If they
get hold of you, you will soon understand.’
I no longer took this for rudeness, but answered in his own way, cursing
him too for a fool. ‘If I ask a warning I can give one; as for
kindness,’ I said, ‘I was not looking for that.’
At this he laughed, indeed we laughed together--there seemed something
ridiculous in the thought: and presently he told me, for the mere relief
of talking, that round each of these pit-mouths there was a band to
entrap every passer-by who allowed himself to be caught, and send him
down below to work in the mine. ‘Once there, there is no telling when
you may get free,’ he said; ‘one time or other most people have a taste
of it. You don’t know what hard labour is if you have never been there.
I had a spell once. There is neither air nor light, your blood boils in
your veins from the fervent heat, you are never allowed to rest. You are
put in every kind of contortion to get at it, your limbs twisted, and
your muscles strained.’
‘For what?’ I said.
‘For gold!’ he cried with a flash in his eyes--‘gold! there it is
inexhaustible; however hard you may work there is always more, and
more!’
‘And to whom does all that belong?’ I said.
‘To whoever is strong enough to get hold and keep possession--sometimes
one, sometimes another. The only thing you are sure of is that it will
never be you.’
Why not I as well as another? was the thought that went through my mind,
and my new companion spied it with a shriek of derision.
‘It is not for you nor your kind,’ he cried. ‘How do you think you could
force other people to serve _you_? Can you terrify them or hurt them, or
give them anything? You have not learnt yet who are the masters here.’
This troubled me, for it was true. ‘I had begun to think,’ I said, ‘that
there was no authority at all--for every man seems to do as he pleases:
you ride over one, and knock another down; or you seize a living man and
cut him to pieces’--I shuddered as I thought of it--‘and there is nobody
to interfere.’
‘Who should interfere?’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t every man amuse himself
as he can? But yet for all that we’ve got our masters,’ he cried, with a
scowl, waving his clenched fist in the direction of the mines; ‘you’ll
find it out when you get there.’
It was a long time after this before I ventured to move--for here it
seemed to me that for the moment I was safe--outside the city, yet not
within reach of the dangers of that intermediate space which grew
clearer before me as my eyes became accustomed to the lurid threatening
afternoon light. One after another the fugitives came flying past
me,--people who had escaped from the armed bands whom I could now see on
the watch near the pit’s mouth. I could see, too, the tactics of these
bands--how they retired, veiling the lights and the opening, when a
greater number than usual of travellers appeared on the way, and then
suddenly widening out, throwing out flanking lines, surrounded and drew
in the unwary. I could even hear the cries with which their victims
disappeared over the opening which seemed to go down into the bowels of
the earth. By and by there came flying towards me a wretch more dreadful
in aspect than any I had seen. His scanty clothes seemed singed and
burnt into rags; his hair, which hung about his face unkempt and uncared
for, had the same singed aspect; his skin was brown and baked. I got up
as he approached, and caught him and threw him to the ground, without
heeding his struggles to get on. ‘Don’t you see,’ he cried with a gasp,
‘they may get me again.’ He was one of those who had escaped out of the
mines; but what was it to me whether they caught him again or not? I
wanted to know how he had been caught, and what he had been set to do,
and how he had escaped. Why should I hesitate to use my superior
strength when no one else did? I kept watch over him that he should not
get away.
‘You have been in the mines?’ I said.
‘Let me go!’ he cried; ‘do you need to ask?’ and he cursed me as he
struggled, with the most terrible imprecations. ‘They may get me yet.
Let me go!’
‘Not till you tell me,’ I cried. ‘Tell me and I’ll protect you. If they
come near I’ll let you go. Who are they, man? I must know.’
He struggled up from the ground, clearing his hot eyes from the ashes
that were in them, and putting aside his singed hair. He gave me a
glance of hatred and impotent resistance (for I was stronger than he),
and then cast a wild terrified look back. The skirmishers did not seem
to remark that anybody had escaped, and he became gradually a little
more composed. ‘Who are they!’ he said hoarsely; ‘they’re cursed
wretches like you and me; and there are as many bands of them as there
are mines on the road: and you’d better turn back and stay where you
are. You are safe here.’
‘I will not turn back,’ I said.
‘I know well enough: you can’t. You’ve got to go the round like the
rest,’ he said, with a laugh which was like a sound uttered by a wild
animal rather than a human voice. The man was in my power, and I struck
him, miserable as he was. It seemed a relief thus to get rid of some of
the fury in my mind. ‘It’s a lie,’ I said; ‘I go because I please. Why
shouldn’t I gather a band of my own if I please, and fight those brutes,
not fly from them like you?’
He chuckled and laughed below his breath, struggling and cursing and
crying out, as I struck him again, ‘_You_ gather a band! What could you
offer them?--where would you find them? Are you better than the rest of
us? Are you not a man like the rest? Strike me you can, for I’m down.
But make yourself a master and a chief--you!’
‘Why not I?’ I shouted again, wild with rage and the sense that I had no
power over him, save to hurt him. That passion made my hands tremble: he
slipped from me in a moment, bounded from the ground like a ball, and
with a yell of derision escaped, and plunged into the streets and the
clamour of the city from which I had just flown. I felt myself rage
after him, shaking my fists with a consciousness of the ridiculous
passion of impotence that was in me, but no power of restraining it; and
there was not one of the fugitives who passed, however desperate he
might be, who did not make a mock at me as he darted by. The
laughing-stock of all those miserable objects, the sport of fate,
afraid to go forward, unable to go back, with a fire in my veins urging
me on! But presently I grew a little calmer out of mere exhaustion,
which was all the relief that was possible to me. And by and by,
collecting all my faculties, and impelled by this impulse, which I
seemed unable to resist, I got up and went cautiously on.