though they had been fat only a short time before and then scorched,
arrived to offer Ultimus his own price for his new explosive. They all
said the same thing: the enemy alone was responsible for the war and
it would never end until the enemy was destroyed. Therefore, in the
interests of civilisation and universal peace, Mr. Samways ought to
sell, nay, give to humanity the secret of his invention.
“I am using it in the interests of civilisation,” said he, “and, as you
see, I am resisting all temptation to make money out of it. The proper
use of an explosive is that for which I made mine, namely, to destroy
every ugly and useless thing I had made.”
And the mean little men went away. Two of them committed suicide on
their way back to shore, so troubled were they at being deprived of
the monopoly which had enabled them to drive millions of men to the
slaughter that the rest might be miserable slaves in their hands.
As a matter of fact, these two had been ruined by the destruction
of Bondon, upon which they had been dependent for the world-wide
circulation of their credit.
Day after day brought the news of the suicide of one great financier
after another, and the army contractors, realising that they might
not be paid for their efforts, abandoned them. No food or supplies
reached the armies, which came home in search of food. The Emperors
of Fatterland and Grossia fled to their country estates. The Emperor
of Waltzia had been dead for ten years, though his death had been
concealed.
Before long a number of intelligent men from every country had met
in Scandinavia and a central government was proclaimed. The Fattish,
Fatter, Grossian, Waltzian, and Coqdorian fleets were collected in the
North Sea, and Ultimus had the great satisfaction of driving the island
through them.
XVIII: THE RETURN OF THE ISLAND
And now Ultimus could breathe again. Came the news every day of
tremendous rejoicings in all the countries, and in all the name of
Ultimus Samways was blessed. He was asked by every one of them to
anchor his island off their shores, but he replied:
“Not until the lunatic that is in every European is dead, can I dwell
among you. It is easy for you, whose lives are shallow to forget. But
I have seen and suffered and I cannot forget. When you have discovered
the depths in your own lives and each man recognises the profound
wonder of every other, then will the thought of the philosopher
Siebenhaar be as fertile seed among you and you will reap the harvest
of brotherhood.”
When he had sent this message to the United States of Europe he sought
out the little chambermaid and said to her:
“I beg your forgiveness. I have let the horror of war break in upon my
devotion to you. We are making for the Southern Seas. If you prefer it
you can retire to Bondon, though I must warn you that your luxurious
hotel is now a hospital for the cure of astute business men.”
The little chambermaid replied:
“I did want to go to see the fun when peace was declared, having seen
the fun in the streets when they declared war. But it’s come over me
now that I love you and only you, and I want to be by your side to give
you all the happiness you have brought into my heart.”
And Siebenhaar said:
“This is a mystery past the understanding of men, but the
understanding is its servant.”
Gynecologia
I: HISTORY
I, Conrad P. Lewis, of Crown Imperial, Pa., U.S.A., do hereby declare
that the following narrative of my adventures is a plain truthful tale
with nothing added or taken away. At the end of a long life I am able
to remember unmoved things that for many years I could not call to mind
without horror and disgust. Even now I cannot see the charming person
of my daughter without some faint discomfort, to be rid of which (for I
would die in peace) I have determined to write my story.
The whole civilised world will remember how, during the years when
Europe was sunk under the vileness of a scientific barbarism, there
was suddenly an end of news from Fatland. Our ships that sailed for
her ports did not return. Her flag had disappeared from the high
seas. Her trade had entirely ceased. She exported neither coal nor
those manufactured goods which had carried her language, customs,
and religion to the ends of the earth. Her colonies (we learned) had
received only a message to say that they must in future look after
themselves, as, indeed, they were as capable of doing as any other
collection of people. In one night Fatland ceased to be.
It was at first assumed that her enemies the Fatters had invaded and
captured her, but, clearly, they would not destroy her commerce.
Moreover, the Fatters were at that time and for many years afterwards
living in a state of siege, keeping nine hostile nations at bay upon
their frontiers. This was the last of the great wars, leading, as we
now know, to the abolition of the idea of nationality, which endowed a
nation with the attributes of a vain and insolent human being, so that
its actions were childish and could only be made effective by force.
When that idea died in the apathy and suffering and bitterness of the
years following the great wars then the glorious civilisation which we
now enjoy became possible.
The disappearance of Fatland took place shortly after the outbreak
of hostilities, which, from the practice which the Europeans had in
those days, was always accomplished with great expedition. Every four
years or so, when the exhausted nations once more had enough young
men over eighteen, there would be some little quarrel, or an arranged
assassination, or an ambassador would be indiscreet. One war, I
remember, broke out over a scuffle between two bakers in the streets
of Bondon: they were a Fattishman and a Fatter, and they had been
arguing over the merits of the Fattish loaf and the continental bâton.
The Press of both countries took it up: their governments had a good
class of troops that year and they did not hesitate to use them. We, in
the Western world, were accustomed to it by then and knew how to keep
our trade alive through neutral countries. Also, I regret to say, we
had engaged upon the dreadful traffic in war material. In those days
we were still bounded by the primitive civilisation of Europe. We had
not been wakened to manhood and the way of life and eternity, we had
not been taught to be elemental in our own elemental continent by the
sublime masterpiece of Junius F. Hohlenheim.
When it became clear that Fatland could not be in the hands of the
Fatters: when, moreover, we were told that she was taking no part in
the last and bloodiest of the wars, and when, after many months, there
came no news of any kind, then our merchant-monarchs (now happily
extinct) fitted out an expedition, with credentials to the Fattish
Government, if any. Wild rumors had spread that the Gulf Stream was
diverted, making the Skitish islands uninhabitable, but I had just
then returned from a voyage to Norroway and knew that it was not so.
I had gazed at the coasts of the mysterious islands with pity, with
curiosity, with sad and, I must own it, sentimental longing. Were they
not our home? We were still colonists in those days, always looking
to other lands than that in which we lived. “O Fatland,” I cried.
“O mother inviolate!” But we had the captain’s wife on board and she
laughed and said that was not the adjective to apply to a mother.
II: CASTAWAY
On my return I married and put my savings into my father-in-law’s
brush-making business, which was almost at once ruined, and I had to
go to sea again. Government money had been got for the expedition I
told you of, and I knew that pay would be higher on that account. I
sent in an application, and, having an uncle well placed, was taken on
as third officer. A dirty little gunboat had been put in commission,
and directly I set eyes on her I knew the voyage would be unlucky. We
were but three days out when we had trouble with the propeller shaft
and were carried far north among the ugliest ice I ever saw, and
narrowly escaped being caught in a floe. Fortunately we ran into a
southward current in the nick of time and, with a fresh wind springing
up, were quickly out of danger. However, the years of war had added
another peril to those of nature. We fouled a mine among the islands
of Smugland and were blown to bits. At the time I was standing near a
number of petrol cans, and when I came to the surface of the water I
found some of them floating near me. I tied six of them together and
they made a tidy little raft, though it was very uncomfortable. On them
I drifted for four days until hunger and thirst were too much for me
and I swooned away. I was then past agony and my swoon was more like
passing into an enchantment than a physical surrender.
I was not at all astonished, therefore, when I came to my senses to
find myself in a bed with a man sitting by my bedside. Very glad was I
to see him, and I cried out in a big voice:
“Kerbosh! If I ain’t got into heaven by mistake.”
The man shook his head sadly and said:
“Heaven? No.”
But I could not shake off the feeling that I was in Heaven. The man
had long hair and a beard, and I could be pardoned for taking him
for Peter. He wore a rough shift, a long kilt below his knees, and
thick stockings, and by his elbow on a little table, was another
stocking which he had been knitting. He gave me food and drink, and I
at once felt stronger, but somewhat squeamish, so that the sense of
hallucination clung about me. When I asked where I was, the man tiptoed
to the door, opened it and listened, then returned to my bedside and
said in a whisper:
“It is as much as my place is worth, but I would warn you as man to
man to make good your escape while you may. As man to man, I say it,
man to man.”
He was so terribly excited as he said this that I decided in my own
mind that he was a harmless lunatic, one of the many whom the great
wars had rendered idiotic. To humour him I repeated:
“As man to man.”
And I put out my hand. He seized it and said in a desperate voice:
“I am old enough to be your fa----”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and in absolute terror he stopped, took
up his knitting and plied the needles frantically.
III: MY CAPTOR
The footsteps came up to the door of the room in which I lay. The
door opened to reveal a truly remarkable figure; plump, short, with a
tousled mop of reddish-grey hair and a wide, pleasant, weather-beaten
face. This figure was clad in a loose blue coat and Bulgarian trousers,
very baggy about the hips and tight about the calves; not at all an
unbecoming costume, though it both puzzled and pained me. So much so
that I pretended to be asleep, for I was averse to being made to
speak to this strange object. A woman’s voice addressed the man with
the knitting and asked him how I was. He replied that I had come to my
senses and gone to sleep again. As luck would have it, the food I had
eaten so hastily began just then to cause me acute discomfort, and my
body, escaping my control, relieved itself after its fashion. Thereupon
the woman, perceiving that I was malingering, fell upon me and shook
me until my teeth rattled and delivered herself of an oration upon the
deceitfulness of man. I was still suffering acutely and could offer
no resistance, though I cried out that I was an American citizen and
neutral and should have the matter brought to the ears of my Government.
“In this country,” said my assailant, “men are men and are treated as
such, and we do not recognize the existence of any other country in
the world. You will get up now and place your superior strength at
the service of those who feed you and as far as possible justify your
existence.”
The man with the knitting had crept from the room. He returned with a
shift, a kilt and stockings like his own. I was made to put these on,
the woman, in defiance of all decency, watching me and talking shrilly
all the time. Then she drove the man and myself out of doors and set us
to work at hoeing in a field of turnips, while she whistled to a dog
that came bounding over a hedge, and trudged off in the direction of a
wood.
“Who is she?” said I. “Is she your wife?”
“Wife?” answered he. “Wife! There is neither marriage nor giving
in marriage. She is a farmer, and I, who was once a Professor of
Economics, am her labourer. Intellectually I am in despair, but
physically I am in such rude health that I cannot entertain the thought
of self-destruction long enough to commit the act. She is my niece, and
when the change came she undertook, as all women did, to provide work
for her male relatives above a certain age.”
“Change?” I whispered. “What change?”
“Have you not heard?” he said. “Is the country severed from the
civilised world?”
I informed him of the expedition which I had joined. He gave a long
hopeless sigh and fell into a great silence which moved me far more
than his words had done. We plied our hoes in the immense field which
was situated in a desolate region of slight undulations the outlines of
which were blurred with rank growth.
Presently I broke in upon his silence to ask his name.
“I was,” he murmured, “I was Professor Ian Baffin.”
“Can it be possible?” I cried, for the fame of that great man was
world-wide, and during the notorious Anti-Trust elections in my country
his works had been in every cultured home. I told him this, but it
brought him no comfort.
“At the time of the change,” he said, “I and fifty other Professors
and Fellows of Colleges published a manifesto in which we pointed out
the disasters that must ensue, and we even went so far as to promise
them degrees at the major universities, but the change came and the
universities were destroyed.”
“What change?” I asked again.
He leaned on his hoe and gazed toward the setting sun.
IV: THE CHANGE
“About the tenth year of the second of the great wars,” he said,
“there was a convulsion in the country. A young idealist appeared who
with fiery and vulgar eloquence proclaimed that war was the triumph
of the old over the young, to whom since the world began justice had
never been done. The old, he said, were in the position of trustees
who had betrayed their trust and instead of working for the benefit of
the endless army of the young who came after them, devoted all their
energies to robbing them of their birthright. To extricate themselves
from the punishment which must otherwise have fallen on them they
exploited the courage and love of adventure of the young and set them
to destroy each other. So successful had they been in this device that
they could count on using it at least once in every generation, and
politicians knew that when they were at the end of their tether they
could always procure a continuance of their offices and emoluments
by declaring war. This had been the condition of civilised existence
for so many thousands of years that it was generally accepted and the
truth was never suspected until our young idealist arrived with honey
on his lips for the young and gall and bitter invective for the old.
He rushed up and down the country persuading young men on no condition
to take up arms. ‘Government?’ he said. ‘What government do you need
except such as will provide you with roads, railways, lighting, bread
for the incapacitated, and drainage for all?’ I signed a manifesto
against him too. His ignorance of economics was pitiful. In the end
martial law was proclaimed and he was shot. The young men did not
listen to him, but the young women did. Shooting him was a mistake.
It gave his name the magic of martyrdom. By the thousand, women, old,
young, and middle-aged, cherished his portrait in their bosoms, prayed
to him in secret, vowed themselves to his cause, and remained chaste.
Nunneries were founded in his name, but so potent was the spell of his
martyrdom, so overwrought were the women of this country by the many
crises through which we have passed, that amid all the temptations of
life they were dedicated to his memory and preserved their virginity.
They said if the country can find no better use for our sons than to
send them to the slaughter and disablement, we will breed no sons. The
Government was warned, but like all governments they could not see
beyond the system by which they governed, and when at last they were
convinced that something serious was happening, they could think of no
other remedy than that of giving votes, i.e. a share in the system by
which they enjoyed their positions. At first, to show their contempt
for the Government, the women did not use their votes until the country
was shown by an energetic and public-spirited woman that another war
was in the making. An election was forced and the Government was
defeated. At the conclusion of the second great war you may remember
that Bondon was destroyed, and with it the Houses of Parliament and the
Royal Palace. A new capital was chosen, but as Fatland was no longer
the center of the world’s credit system, finance had lost its old
power. A new type of politician had arisen, who, in order to win favour
with the women, set himself to do all in his power to make government
impossible. The enormous numerical superiority of the women made
their leaders paramount in the land, though there was still officially
a Cabinet and a House of Swells. On the third and last outbreak of
hostilities the officials made their final despairing effort and
declared war on Fatterland, but they had no army. They had been unable
to rebuild their fleet as all the other countries had done. They were
helpless. The Cabinet and the House of Swells, to set an example to the
country, armed themselves and went to the front, taking with them the
last ten thousand young men in the country. They never returned and
the country was left populated solely by old men, cripples, and women,
of whom a few thousand were pregnant. These were interned. A committee
of influential women was formed and issued a decree that Fatland would
henceforth have no share in male civilisation. Men had, to cut a long
story short, made a mess of things, and women would now see what they
could do. They began by abolishing property in land. The first, the
only important thing was to feed the population. The State guaranteed
to everybody food, housing, and clothes. Able-bodied women were to take
charge of their male relatives and make them useful. Decent women,
that is to say virgins, were to work on the land. All women guilty of
childbirth were to be sent to work in the factories. I cannot remember
all the laws made, for my memory has been impaired by my sufferings,
but they were all dictated by an unreasoning and venomous hatred of
men. We are little better than slaves. They laugh at us affectionately,
but they despise and ignore our thoughts. They have defied every
economic law, but astonishingly they continue to live.”
“Indeed,” said I, “the world goes on. The sun sets and will rise as it
has done these millions of years, with change upon change, folly upon
folly beneath it. We turn up the earth for the food we eat and so we
live. Truly I think there is some wisdom in these women.”
The sun went down, a bell rang in the farmhouse, we shouldered our hoes
and returned thither, each busy with his own thoughts.
V: THE HOMESTEAD
To my annoyance I found that the bell was not a summons to a meal, but
to a meeting of the family of five women for a kind of a service. This
consisted in reading aloud from the speeches of William Christmas,
the idealist who had provoked this monstrous state of affairs. His
portrait hung on the wall opposite the door, and I must confess that
his face was singularly beautiful. The woman who had roused me from my
bed read a passage beginning: “The tyranny of the old is due to their
stupidity, which neither young men nor women have yet had the patience
to break through.” And as she closed the book she said, “Thus spake
William Christmas.” Whereupon the other women muttered, “of blessed
memory, which endureth for ever and ever. Amen.” These women were plain
and forbidding. Their eyes were fixed on the portrait with a dog-like
subjection which I found most repulsive. They stood transfixed while
the woman-farmer declaimed: “For guidance, William Christmas, spirit
of woman incarnate, we look to thee in the morning and in the evening,
in our goings out and our comings in, and woe to her who stumbles on
the way of all flesh into the snares of men.” On that the five of them
turned and glared sorrowfully at my old friend and me until I was hard
put to it not to laugh. The meeting then came to an end, and we were
told to prepare supper. We withdrew to the kitchen, and there Professor
Baffin began to snigger, and when I asked him what amused him he said:
“The joke of it is that this Christmas, like all idealists, was as
great a lecher as Julius Cæsar. It was his lechery made his position in
the old order of society impossible.”
I laughed too, for I had begun dimly to understand the passion which
moved these virgins in their chastity, and I was filled with a fierce
hatred of the lot of them, and resolved as soon as possible to escape.
We cooked a meal of fish and eggs, and having laid the table we had to
wait on the family. I was struck by the triviality of their discourse
and the absence from it of any general argument. The five women
twittered like sparrows in mid-winter and not once did they laugh.
They talked of the condition of their beasts and their crops, and so
earnest, so careful were they that I understood that it must be barren
soil indeed that would resist their efforts. They were discussing
what goods they would requisition from the district store in return
for their contribution to the State granaries. I wondered if they had
succeeded in abolishing money, and upon enquiry I found that they had.
The Professor told me that they had abolished everything which before
the change had made them dependent upon men and their pleasure.
“But why do you men stand it?” I cried.
“We would starve else. We have no credit. Contributions to the State
granaries are not accepted from men, nor are men allowed to trade
direct with the stores.”
“But cannot they revolt and use their strength?”
“The strange thing is,” said the Professor, “that men cannot now endure
the sight of each other. They are as jealous of each other as women
were in the old days. Besides, writing is forbidden, and no book
is allowed save the posthumous works of the lecherous William. The
libraries were destroyed on the same day as the arsenals. Intelligence
is gagged. Thrift and a terrible restless activity are now our only
virtues.”
“And art?”
“Art? How should there be art? It was never more than the amusement
of women in their idleness. They are no longer idle and I must admit
that they are admirably methodical in their work, energetic and
straightforward as men never were. But it is ill living in a woman-made
world and I shall not be sorry when death comes.”
VI: OBSEQUIES
Death came to the old man that night, and so surprised him that he was
unable to feel anything. I had been put to sleep in the same room with
him and was awakened by his talking. He was delivering himself of what
sounded like a lecture, but he broke off in the middle to say:
“This is very astonishing. I am going to die.”
I struck a light, and there he was lying with a smile of incredulity
upon his face, and I thought that, if we were sentient beings when we
were born, so and not otherwise we would accept the gift of life. So
and not otherwise do we greet all manifestations of life which have not
become familiar through habit.
I was grateful to the old man for giving me the key to my own frame of
mind. I spoke to him, but he was dead.
His loud discourse had roused the mistress of the house who came
knocking at the door, saying:
“Baffin, if you don’t behave yourself I shall come and tickle you.”
So astounded and outraged was I at this address that I leapt out of my
bed, donned my kilt, and said:
“Come in, woman, and see what you have done. This learned old man,
whose mind was one of the glories of the world, has been driven to his
death, starved, deprived of the intellectual habits through which a
long life had been----”
I got no further, for the woman flung herself upon me and tickled my
sides and armpits until I shrieked. Two other women came rushing up
and held me on the floor, and then with a feather they tickled my feet
until I was nearly mad. I wept and cried for mercy, and at last they
desisted and withdrew, leaving me with the corpse, to which they paid
not the slightest attention.