“The night is yet young,” said the Angel Æthereal on leaving the White
Heart Hostel at Liverchester, “and I have had perhaps too much to eat.
Let us walk and see the town.”
“As you will, sir,” replied his dragoman; “there is no difference
between night and day, now that they are using the tides for the
provision of electric power.”
The Angel took a note of the fact. “What do they manufacture here?” he
asked.
“The entire town,” returned his dragoman, “which now extends from the
old Liverpool to the old Manchester (as indeed its name implies), is
occupied with expanding the tabloids of food which are landed in its
port from the new worlds. This and the town of Brister, reaching from
the old Bristol to the old Gloucester, have had the monopoly of food
expansion for the United Kingdom since 1940.”
“By what means precisely?” asked the Angel.
“Congenial environment and bacteriology,” responded his dragoman. They
walked for some time in silence, flying a little now and then in the
dirtier streets, before the Angel spoke again:
“It is curious,” he said, “but I perceive no difference between this
town and those I remember on my visit in 1910, save that the streets
are better lighted, which is not an unmixed joy, for they are dirty and
full of people whose faces do not please me.”
“Ah! sir,” replied his dragoman, “it is too much to expect that the
wonderful darkness which prevailed at the time of the Great Skirmish
could endure; then, indeed, one could indulge the hope that the houses
were all built by Wren, and the people all clean and beautiful. There
is no poetry now.”
“No!” said the Angel, sniffing, “but there is atmosphere, and it is not
agreeable.”
“Mankind, when herded together, _will_ smell,” answered his dragoman.
“You cannot avoid it. What with old clothes, patchouli, petrol, fried
fish and the fag, those five essentials of human life, the atmosphere
of Turner and Corot are as nothing.”
“But do you not run your towns to please yourselves?” said the Angel.
“Oh, no, sir! The resistance would be dreadful. They run us. You see,
they are so very big, and have such prestige. Besides,” he added,
“even if we dared, we should not know how. For, though some great and
good man once brought us plane-trees, we English are above getting the
best out of life and its conditions, and despise light Frenchified
taste. Notice the principle which governs this twenty-mile residential
stretch. It was intended to be light, but how earnest it has all turned
out! You can tell at a glance that these dwellings belong to the
species ‘house’ and yet are individual houses, just as a man belongs to
the species ‘man,’ and yet, as they say, has a soul of his own. This
principle was introduced off the Avenue Road a few years before the
Great Skirmish, and is now universal. Any person who lives in a house
identical with another house is not known. Has anything heavier and
more conscientious ever been seen?”
“Does this principle also apply to the houses of the working-man?”
inquired the Angel.
“Hush, sir!” returned his dragoman looking round him nervously; “a
dangerous word. The LABORIOUS dwell in palaces built after the design
of an architect called Jerry, with communal kitchens and baths.”
“Do they use them?” asked the Angel with some interest.
“Not as yet, indeed,” replied his dragoman; “but I believe they are
thinking of it. As you know, sir, it takes time to introduce a custom.
Thirty years is but as yesterday.”
“The Japanese wash daily,” mused the Angel.
“Not a Christian nation,” replied his dragoman; “nor have they the
dirt to contend with which is conspicuous here. Let us do justice to
the discouragement which dogs the ablutions of such as know they will
soon be dirty again. It was confidently supposed, at the time of the
Great Skirmish, which introduced military discipline and so entirely
abolished caste, that the habit of washing would at last become endemic
throughout the whole population. Judge how surprised were we of that
day when the facts turned out otherwise. Instead of the Laborious
washing more, the Patriotic washed less. It may have been the higher
price of soap, or merely that human life was not very highly regarded
at the time. We cannot tell. But not until military discipline
disappeared, and caste was restored, which happened the moment peace
returned, did the survivors of the Patriotic begin to wash immoderately
again, leaving the Laborious to preserve a level more suited to
democracy.”
“Talking of levels,” said the Angel; “is the populace increasing in
stature?”
“Oh, no, indeed!” responded his dragoman; “the latest statistics give a
diminution of one inch and a half during the past generation.”
“And in longevity?” asked the Angel.
“As to that, babies and old people are now communally treated, and all
those diseases which are curable by lymph are well in hand.”
“Do people, then, not die?”
“Oh, yes, sir! About as often as before. There are new complaints which
redress the balance.”
“And what are those?”
“A group of diseases called for convenience Scienticitis. Some think
they come from the present food system; others from the accumulation
of lymphs in the body; others, again, regard them as the result of
dwelling on the subject--a kind of hypnotisation by death; a fourth
school hold them traceable to town air; while a fifth consider them
a mere manifestation of jealousy on the part of Nature. They date,
one may say with confidence, from the time of the Great Skirmish,
when men’s minds were turned with some anxiety to the question of
statistics, and babies were at a premium.”
“Is the population, then, much larger?”
“You mean smaller, sir, do you not? Not perhaps so much smaller as
you might expect; but it is still nicely down. You see, the Patriotic
Party, including even those Pontificals whose private practice most
discouraged all that sort of thing, began at once to urge propagation.
But their propaganda was, as one may say, brain-spun; and at once
bumped-up--pardon the colloquialism--against the economic situation.
The existing babies, it is true, were saved; the trouble was rather
that the babies began not to exist. The same, of course, obtained in
every European country, with the exception of what was still, in a
manner of speaking, Russia; and if that country had but retained its
homogeneity, it would soon by sheer numbers have swamped the rest
of Europe. Fortunately, perhaps, it did not remain homogeneous. An
incurable reluctance to make food for cannon and impose further burdens
on selves already weighted to the ground by taxes, developed in the
peoples of each Central and Western land; and in the years from 1920 to
1930 the downward curve was so alarming in Great Britain that if the
Patriotic Party could only have kept office long enough at a time they
would, no doubt, have enforced conception at the point of the bayonet.
Luckily or unluckily, according to taste, they did not; and it was left
for more natural causes to produce the inevitable reaction which began
to set in after 1930, when the population of the United Kingdom had
been reduced to some twenty-five millions. About that time commerce
revived. The question of the land had been settled by its unconscious
abandonment, and people began to see before them again the possibility
of supporting families. The ingrained disposition of men and women to
own pets, together with ‘the good of trade,’ began once more to have
its way; and the population rose rapidly. A renewed joy in life, and
the assurance of not having to pay the piper, caused the slums, as they
used to be called, to swarm once more, and filled the communal crèches.
And had it not been for the fact that any one with physical strength,
or love of fresh air, promptly emigrated to the Sister Nations on
attaining the age of eighteen we might now, sir, be witnessing an
overcrowding equal to that of the times before the Great Skirmish. The
movement is receiving an added impetus with the approach of the Greater
Skirmish between the Teutons and Mongolians, for it is expected that
trade will boom and much wealth accrue to those countries which are
privileged to look on with equanimity at this great new drama, as the
editors are already calling it.”
“In all this,” said the Angel Æthereal, “I perceive something rather
sordid.”
“Sir,” replied his dragoman earnestly, “your remark is characteristic
of the sky, where people are not made of flesh and blood; pay,
I believe, no taxes; and have no experience of the devastating
consequences of war. I recollect so well when I was a young man, before
the Great Skirmish began, and even when it had been going on several
years, how glibly the leaders of opinion talked of human progress,
and how blind they were to the fact that it has a certain connection
with environment. You must remember that ever since that large and, as
some still think rather tragic, occurrence environment has been very
dicky and Utopia not unrelated to thin air. It has been perceived time
and again that the leaders of public opinion are not always confirmed
by events. The new world, which was so sapiently prophesied by
rhetoricians, is now nigh thirty years old, and, for my part, I confess
to surprise that it is not worse than it actually is. I am moralising,
I fear, however, for these suburban buildings grievously encourage the
philosophic habit. Rather let us barge along and see the Laborious at
their labours, which are never interrupted now by the mere accident of
night.”
The Angel increased his speed till they alighted amid a forest of tall
chimneys, whose sirens were singing like a watch of nightingales.
“There is a shift on,” said the dragoman. “Stand here, sir; we shall
see them passing in and out.”
The Laborious were not hurrying, and went by uttering the words:
“Cheer oh!” “So long!” and “Wot abaht it!”
The Angel contemplated them for a time before he said: “It comes back
to me now how they used to talk when they were doing up my flat on my
visit in 1910.”
“Give me, I pray, an imitation,” said his dragoman.
The Angel struck the attitude of one painting a door. “William,”
he said, rendering those voices of the past, “what money are you
obtaining?”
“Not half, Alfred.”
“If that is so, indeed, William, should you not rather leave your tools
and obtain better money? I myself am doing this.”
“Not half, Alfred.”
“Round the corner I can obtain more money by working for fewer hours.
In my opinion there is no use in working for less money when you can
obtain more. How much does Henry obtain?”
“Not half, Alfred.”
“What I am now obtaining is, in my opinion, no use at all.”
“Not half, Alfred.”
Here the Angel paused, and let his hand move for one second in a
masterly exhibition of activity.
“It is doubtful, sir,” said his dragoman, “whether you would be
permitted to dilute your conversation with so much labour in these
days; the rules are very strict.”
“Are there, then, still Trades Unions?” asked the Angel.
“No, indeed,” replied his dragoman; “but there are Committees. That
habit which grew up at the time of the Great Skirmish has flourished
ever since. Statistics reveal the fact that there are practically
no adults in the country between the ages of nineteen and fifty who
are not sitting on Committees. At the time of the Great Skirmish
all Committees were nominally active; they are now both active and
passive. In every industry, enterprise, or walk of life a small active
Committee directs; and a large passive Committee, formed of everybody
else, resists that direction. And it is safe to say that the Passive
Committees are active and the Active Committees passive; in this way
no inordinate amount of work is done. Indeed, if the tongue and the
electric button had not usurped practically all the functions of the
human hand, the State would have some difficulty in getting its boots
blacked. But a ha’poth of visualisation is worth three lectures at ten
shillings the stall, so enter, sir, and see for yourself.”
Saying this, he pushed open the door.
In a shed, which extended beyond the illimitable range of the Angel’s
eye, machinery and tongues were engaged in a contest which filled the
ozone with an incomparable hum. Men and women in profusion were leaning
against walls or the pillars on which the great roof was supported,
assiduously pressing buttons. The scent of expanding food revived the
Angel’s appetite.
“I shall require supper,” he said dreamily.
“By all means, sir,” replied his dragoman; “after work--play. It will
afford you an opportunity to witness modern pleasures in our great
industrial centres. But what a blessing is electric power!” he added.
“Consider these lilies of the town, they toil not, neither do they
spin----”
“Yet Solomon in all his glory,” chipped in the Angel eagerly, “had not
their appearance, you bet.”
“Indeed they are an insouciant crowd,” mused his dragoman; “How
tinkling is their laughter! The habit dates from the days of the Great
Skirmish, when nothing but laughter would meet the case.”
“Tell me,” said the Angel, “are the English satisfied at last with
their industrial conditions, and generally with their mode of life in
these expanded towns?”
“Satisfied? Oh dear, no, sir! But you know what it is: They are obliged
to wait for each fresh development before they can see what they have
to counteract; and, since that great creative force, ‘the good of
trade,’ is always a little stronger than the forces of criticism and
reform, each development carries them a little further on the road
to----”
“Hell! How hungry I am again!” exclaimed the Angel. “Let us sup!”