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The Child’s Story by Charles Dickens

Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got half way through.

He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child, “What do you do here?” And the child said, “I am always at play. Come and play with me!”

So, he played with that child, the whole day long, and they were very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds and saw so many butteries, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops, and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home– where was that, they wondered!–whistling and howling, driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. But, when it snowed, that was best of all; for, they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and to see how smooth and deep the drift was; and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads.

They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing picture-books: all about scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and giants and genii and fairies, and blue- beards and bean-stalks and riches and caverns and forests and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true.

But, one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy, “What do you do here?” And the boy said, “I am always learning. Come and learn with me.”

So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and the Romans, and I don’t know what, and learned more than I could tell–or he either, for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But, they were not always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot, and active on horseback; at cricket, and all games at ball; at prisoner’s base, hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced till midnight, and real Theatres where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to friends, they had such dear friends and so many of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another all their lives through.

Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost the boy as he had lost the child, and, after calling to him in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So, he said to the young man, “What do you do here?” And the young man said, “I am always in love. Come and love with me.”

So, he went away with that young man, and presently they came to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen–just like Fanny in the corner there–and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny’s, and she laughed and coloured just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So, the young man fell in love directly–just as Somebody I won’t mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny. Well! he was teased sometimes–just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and they quarrelled sometimes–just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel; and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for one another and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas-time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to be married very soon–all exactly like Somebody I won’t mention, and Fanny!

But, the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never did, went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So, he said to the gentleman, “What are you doing here?” And his answer was, “I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!”

So, he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on through the wood together. The whole journey was through a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; some of the little trees that had come out earliest, were even turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was his Wife; and they had children, who were with them too. So, they all went on together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard.

Sometimes, they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper woods. Then they would hear a very little, distant voice crying, “Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!” And presently they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on together.

Sometimes, they came to several avenues at once, and then they all stood still, and one of the children said, “Father, I am going to sea,” and another said, “Father, I am going to India,” and another, “Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can,” and another, “Father, I am going to Heaven!” So, with many tears at parting, they went, solitary, down those avenues, each child upon its way; and the child who went to Heaven, rose into the golden air and vanished.

Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He saw, too, that his hair was turning grey. But, they never could rest long, for they had their journey to perform, and it was necessary for them to be always busy.

At last, there had been so many partings that there were no children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady, went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and now brown; and the leaves, even of the forest trees, began to fall.

So, they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were pressing forward on their journey without looking down it when the lady stopped.

“My husband,” said the lady. “I am called.”

They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue, say, “Mother, mother!”

It was the voice of the first child who had said, “I am going to Heaven!” and the father said, “I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I pray not yet!”

But, the voice cried, “Mother, mother!” without minding him, though his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face.

Then, the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark avenue and moving away with her arms still round his neck, kissed him, and said, “My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!” And she was gone. And the traveller and he were left alone together.

And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the end of the wood: so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before them through the trees.

Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no reply, and when he passed out of the wood, and saw the peaceful sun going down upon a wide purple prospect, he came to an old man sitting on a fallen tree. So, he said to the old man, “What do you do here?” And the old man said with a calm smile, “I am always remembering. Come and remember with me!”

So the traveller sat down by the side of that old man, face to face with the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back and stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young man in love, the father, mother, and children: every one of them was there, and he had lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and was kind and forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to watch them all, and they all honoured and loved him. And I think the traveller must be yourself, dear Grandfather, because this what you do to us, and what we do to you.

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Vestida de preto

Tanto andam agora preocupados em definir o conto que não sei bem se o que vou contar é conto ou não, sei que é verdade. Minha impressão é que tenho amado sempre. Depois do amor grande por mim que brotou aos três anos e durou até os cinco mais ou menos, logo o meu amor se dirigiu para uma espécie de prima longínqua que freqüentava a nossa casa. Como se vê, jamais sofri do complexo de Édipo, graças a Deus. Toda a minha vida, mamãe e eu fomos muito bons amigos, sem nada de amores perigosos.

Maria foi o meu primeiro amor. Não havia nada entre nós, está claro, ela como eu nos seus cinco anos apenas, mas não sei que divina melancolia nos tomava, se acaso nos achávamos juntos e sozinhos. A voz baixava de tom, e principalmente as palavras é que se tornaram mais raras, muito simples. Uma ternura imensa, firme e reconhecida, não exigindo nenhum gesto. Aquilo aliás durava pouco, porque logo a criançada chegava. Mas tínhamos então uma raiva impensada dos manos e dos primos, sempre exteriorizada em palavras ou modos de irritação. Amor apenas sensível naquele instinto de estarmos sós.

E só mais tarde, já pelos nove ou dez anos, é que lhe dei nosso único beijo, foi maravilhoso. Se a criançada estava toda junta naquela casa sem jardim da Tia Velha, era fatal brincarmos de família, porque assim Tia Velha evitava correrias e estragos. Brinquedo aliás que nos interessava muito, apesar da idade já avançada para ele. Mas é que na casa de Tia Velha tinha muitos quartos, de forma que casávamos rápido, só de boca, sem nenhum daqueles cerimoniais de mentira que dantes nos interessavam tanto, e cada par fugia logo, indo viver no seu quarto. Os melhores interesses infantis do brinquedo, fazer comidinha, amamentar bonecas, pagar visitas, isso nós deixávamos com generosidade apressada para os menores. Íamos para os nossos quartos e ficávamos vivendo lá. O que os outros faziam, não sei. Eu, isto é, eu com Maria, não fazíamos nada. Eu adorava principalmente era ficar assim sozinho com ela, sabendo várias safadezas já mas sem tentar nenhuma. Havia, não havia não, mas sempre como que havia um perigo iminente que ajuntava o seu crime à intimidade daquela solidão. Era suavíssimo e assustador.

Maria fez uns gestos, disse algumas palavras. Era o aniversário de alguém, não lembro mais, o quarto em que estávamos fora convertido em dispensa, cômodas e armários cheios de pratos de doces para o chá que vinha logo. Mas quem se lembrasse de tocar naqueles doces, no geral secos, fáceis de disfarçar qualquer roubo! estávamos longe disso. O que nos deliciava era mesmo a grave solidão.

Nisto os olhos de Maria caíram sobre o travesseiro sem fronha que estava sobre uma cesta de roupa suja a um canto. E a minha esposa teve uma invenção que eu também estava longe de não ter. Desde a entrada no quarto eu concentrara todos os meus instintos na existência daquele travesseiro, o travesseiro cresceu como um danado dentro de mim e virou crime. Crime não, “pecado” que é como se dizia naqueles tempos cristãos… E por causa disso eu conseguira não pensar até ali, no travesseiro.

— Já é tarde, vamos dormir — Maria falou.

Fiquei estarrecido, olhando com uns fabulosos olhos de imploração para o travesseiro quentinho, mas quem disse travesseiro ter piedade de mim. Maria, essa estava simples demais para me olhar e surpreender os efeitos do convite: olhou em torno e afinal, vasculhando na cesta de roupa suja, tirou de lá uma toalha de banho muito quentinha que estendeu sobre o assoalho. Pôs o travesseiro no lugar da cabeceira, cerrou as venezianas da janela sobre a tarde, e depois deitou, arranjando o vestido pra não amassar.

Mas eu é que nunca havia de pôr a cabeça naquele restico de travesseiro que ela deixou pra mim, me dando as costas. Restico sim, apesar do travesseiro ser grande. Mas imaginem numa cabeleira explodindo, os famosos cabelos assustados de Maria, citação obrigatória e orgulho de família. Tia Velha, muito ciumenta por causa duma neta preferida que ela imaginava deusa, era a única a pôr defeito nos cabelos de Maria.

— Você não vem dormir também? — ela perguntou com fragor, interrompendo o meu silêncio trágico.

— Já vou — que eu disse — estou conferindo a conta do armazém.

Fui me aproximando incomparavelmente sem vontade, sentei no chão tomando cuidado em sequer tocar no vestido, puxa! também o vestido dela estava completamente assustado, que dificuldade! Pus a cara no travesseiro sem a menor intenção de.

Mas os cabelos de Maria, assim era pior, tocavam de leve no meu nariz, eu podia espirrar, marido não espirra. Senti, pressenti que espirrar seria muito ridículo, havia de ser um espirrão enorme, os outros escutavam lá da sala-de-visita longínqua, e daí é que o nosso segredo se desvendava todinho.

Fui afundando o rosto naquela cabeleira e veio a noite, senão os cabelos (mas juro que eram cabelos macios) me machucavam os olhos. Depois que não vi nada, ficou fácil continuar enterrando a cara, a cara toda, a alma, a vida, naqueles cabelos, que maravilha! até que o meu nariz tocou num pescocinho roliço. Então fui empurrando os meus lábios, tinha uns bonitos lábios grossos, nem eram lábios, era beiço, minha boca foi ficando encanudada até que encontrou o pescocinho roliço. Será que ela dorme de verdade?… Me ajeitei muito sem-cerimônia, mulherzinha! e então beijei. Quem falou que este mundo é ruim! só recordar… Beijei Maria, rapazes! eu nem sabia beijar, está claro, só beijava mamães, boca fazendo bulha, contato sem nenhum calor sensual.

Maria, só um leve entregar-se, uma levíssima inclinação pra trás me fez sentir que Maria estava comigo em nosso amor. Nada mais houve. Não, nada mais houve. Durasse aquilo uma noite grande, nada mais haveria porque é engraçado como a perfeição fixa a gente. O beijo me deixara completamente puro, sem minhas curiosidades nem desejos de mais nada, adeus pecado e adeus escuridão! Se fizera em meu cérebro uma enorme luz branca, meu ombro bem que doía no chão, mas a luz era violentamente branca, proibindo pensar, imaginar, agir. Beijando.

Tia Velha, nunca eu gostei de Tia Velha, abriu a porta com um espanto barulhento. Percebi muito bem, pelos olhos dela, que o que estávamos fazendo era completamente feio.

— Levantem!… Vou contar pra sua mãe, Juca!

Mas eu, levantando com a lealdade mais cínica deste mundo!

— Tia Velha me dá um doce?

Tia Velha – eu sempre detestei Tia Velha, o tipo da bondade Berlitz, injusta, sem método — pois Tia Velha teve a malvadeza de escorrer por mim todo um olhar que só alguns anos mais tarde pude compreender inteiramente. Naquele instante, eu estava só pensando em disfarçar, fingindo uma inocência que poucos segundos antes era real.

— Vamos! saiam do quarto!

Fomos saindo muito mudos, numa bruta vergonha, acompanhados de Tia Velha e os pratos que ela viera buscar para a mesa de chá.

O estranhíssimo é que principiou, nesse acordar à força provocado por Tia Velha, uma indiferença inexplicável de Maria por mim. Mais que indiferença, frieza viva, quase antipatia. Nesse mesmo chá inda achou jeito de me maltratar diante de todos, fiquei zonzo.

Dez, treze, quatorze anos… Quinze anos. Foi então o insulto que julguei definitivo. Eu estava fazendo um ginásio sem gosto, muito arrastado, cheio de revoltas íntimas, detestava estudar. Só no desenho e nas composições de português tirava as melhores notas. Vivia nisso: dez nestas matérias, um, zero em todas as outras. E todos os anos era aquela já esperada fatalidade: uma, duas bombas (principalmente em matemáticas) que eu tomava apenas o cuidado de apagar nos exames de segunda época.

Gostar, eu continuava gostando muito de Maria, cada vez mais, conscientemente agora. Mas tinha uma quase certeza que ela não podia gostar de mim, quem gostava de mim!… Minha mãe… Sim, mamãe gostava de mim, mas naquele tempo eu chegava a imaginar que era só por obrigação. Papai, esse foi sempre insuportável, incapaz de uma carícia. Como incapaz de uma repreensão também. Nem mesmo comigo, a tara da família, ele jamais ralhou. Mas isto é caso pra outro dia. O certo é que, decidido em minha desesperada revolta contra o mundo que me rodeava, sentindo um orgulho de mim que jamais buscava esclarecer, tão absurdo o pressentia, o certo é que eu já principiava me aceitando por um caso perdido, que não adiantava melhorar.

Esse ano até fora uma bomba só. Eu entrava da aula do professor particular, quando enxerguei a saparia na varanda e Maria entre os demais. Passei bastante encabulado, todos em férias, e os livros que eu trazia na mão me denunciando, lembrando a bomba, me achincalhando em minha imperfeição de caso perdido. Esbocei um gesto falsamente alegre de bom-dia, e fui no escritório pegado, esconder os livros na escrivaninha de meu pai. Ia já voltar para o meio de todos, mas Matilde, a peste, a implicante, a deusa estúpida que Tia Velha perdia com suas preferências:

— Passou seu namorado, Maria.

— Não caso com bombeado — ela respondeu imediato, numa voz tão feia, mas tão feia, que parei estarrecido. Era a decisão final, não tinha dúvida nenhuma. Maria não gostava mais de mim. Bobo de assim parado, sem fazer um gesto, mal podendo respirar.

Aliás um caso recente vinha se ajuntar ao insulto pra decidir de minha sorte. Nós seríamos até pobretões, comparando com a família de Maria, gente que até viajava na Europa. Pois pouco antes, os pais tinham feito um papel bem indecente, se opondo ao casamento duma filha com um rapaz diz-que pobre mas ótimo. Houvera um rompimento de amizade, mal-estar na parentagem toda, o caso virara escândalo mastigado e remastigado nos comentários de hora de jantar. Tudo por causa do dinheiro.

Se eu insistisse em gostar de Maria, casar não casava mesmo, que a família dela não havia de me querer. Me passou pela cabeça comprar um bilhete de loteria. “Não caso com bombeado”… Fui abraçando os livros de mansinho, acariciei-os junto ao rosto, pousei a minha boca numa capa, suja de pó suado, retirei a boca sem desgosto. Naquele instante eu não sabia, hoje sei: era o segundo beijo que eu dava em Maria, último beijo, beijo de despedida, que o cheiro desagradável do papelão confirmou. Estava tudo acabado entre nós dois.

Não tive mais coragem pra voltar à varanda e conversar com… os outros. Estava com uma raiva desprezadora de todos, principalmente de Matilde. Não, me parecia que já não tinha raiva de ninguém, não valia a pena, nem de Matilde, o insulto partira dela, fora por causa dela, mas eu não tinha raiva dela não, só tristeza, só vazio, não sei… creio que uma vontade de ajoelhar. Ajoelhar sem mais nada, ajoelhar ali junto da escrivaninha e ficar assim, ajoelhar. Afinal das contas eu era um perdido mesmo, Maria tinha razão, tinha razão, tinha razão, que tristeza!

Foi o fim? Agora é que vem o mais esquisito de tudo, ajuntando anos pulados. Acho que até não consigo contar bem claro tudo o que sucedeu. Vamos por ordem: Pus tal firmeza em não amar Maria mais, que nem meus pensamentos me traíram. De resto a mocidade raiava e eu tinha tudo a aprender. Foi espantoso o que se passou em mim. Sem abandonar o meu jeito de “perdido”, o cultivando mesmo, ginásio acabado, eu principiara gostando de estudar. Me batera, súbito, aquela vontade irritada de saber, me tornara estudiosíssimo. Era mesmo uma impaciência raivosa, que me fazia devorar bibliotecas, sem nenhuma orientação. Mas brilhava, fazia conferências empoladas em sociedadinhas de rapazes, tinha idéias que assustavam todo o mundo. E todos principiavam maldando que eu era muito inteligente mas perigoso.

Maria, por seu lado, parecia uma doida. Namorava com Deus e todo o mundo, aos vinte anos fica noiva de um rapaz bastante rico, noivado que durou três meses e se desfez de repente, pra dias depois ela ficar noiva de outro, um diplomata riquíssimo, casar em duas semanas com alegria desmedida, rindo muito no altar e partir em busca duma embaixada européia com o secretário chique seu marido.

Às vezes meio tonto com estes acontecimentos fortes, acompanhados meio de longe, eu me recordava do passado, mas era só pra sorrir da nossa infantilidade e devorar numa tarde um livro incompreensível de filosofia. De mais a mais, havia Rose pra de-noite, e uma linda namoradinha oficial, a Violeta. Meus amigos me chamavam de “jardineiro”, e eu punha na coincidência daqueles duas flores uma força de destinação fatalizada. Tamanha mesmo que topando numa livraria com The Gardener de Tagore, comprei o livro e comecei estudando o inglês com loucura. Mário de Andrade conta num dos seus livros que estudou o alemão por causa dum emboaba tordilha… eu também: meu inglês nasceu duma Violeta e duma Rose.

Não, nasceu de Maria. Foi quando uns cinco anos depois, Maria estava pra voltar pela primeira vez ao Brasil, a mãe dela, queixosa de tamanha ausência, conversando com mamãe na minha frente, arrancou naquele seu jeito de gorda desabrida:

— Pois é, Maria gostou tanto de você, você não quis!… e agora ela vive longe de nós.

Pela terceira vez fiquei estarrecido neste conto. Percebi tudo num tiro de canhão. Percebi ela doidejando, noivando com um, casando com outro, se atordoando com dinheiro e brilho. Percebi que eu fora uma besta, sim agora que principiava sendo alguém, estudando por mim fora dos ginásios, vibrando em versos que muita gente já considerava. E percebi horrorizado, que Rose! nem Violeta, nem nada! era Maria que eu amava como louco! Maria é que amara sempre, como louco: ôh como eu vinha sofrendo a vida inteira, desgraçadíssimo, aprendendo a vencer só de raiva, me impondo ao mundo por despique, me superiorizando em mim só por vingança de desesperado. Como é que eu pudera me imaginar feliz, pior: ser feliz, sofrendo daquele jeito! Eu? eu não! era Maria, era exclusivamente Maria toda aquela superioridade que estava aparecendo em mim… E tudo aquilo era uma desgraça muito cachorra mesma. Pois não andavam falando muito de Maria? Contavam que pintava o sete, ficara célebre com as extravagâncias e aventuras. Estivera pouco antes às portas do divórcio, com um caso escandaloso por demais, com um pintor de nomeada que só pintava efeitos de luz. Maria falada, Maria bêbeda, Maria passada de mão em mão, Maria pintada nua…

Se dera como que uma transposição de destinos… E tive um pensamento que ao menos me salvou no instante: se o que tinha de útil agora em mim era Maria, se ela estava se transformando no Juca imperfeitíssimo que eu fora, se eu era apenas uma projeção dela, como ela agora apenas uma projeção de mim, se nos trocáramos por um estúpido engano de amor: mas ao menos que eu ficasse bem ruim, mas bem ruim mesmo outra vez pra me igualar a ela de novo. Foi a razão da briga com Violeta, impiedosa, e a farra dessa noite – bebedeira tamanha que acabei ficando desacordado, numa série de vertigens, com médico, escândalo, e choro largo de mamãe com minha irmã.

Bom, tinha que visitar Maria, está claro, éramos “gente grande” agora. Quando soube que ela devia ir a um banquete, pensei comigo: “ótimo, vou hoje logo depois de jantar, não encontro ela e deixo o cartão”. Mas fui cedo demais. Cheguei na casa dos pais dela, seriam nove horas, todos aqueles requififes de gente ricaça, criado que leva cartão numa salva de prata etc. Os da casa estavam ainda jantando. Me introduziram na saletinha da esquerda, uma espécie de luís-quinze muito sem-vergonha, dourado por inteiro, dando pro hol central. Que fizesse o favor de esperar, já vinham.

Contemplando a gravura cor-de-rosa, senti de supetão que tinha mais alguém na saleta, virei. Maria estava na porta, olhando pra mim, se rindo, toda vestida de preto. Olhem: eu sei que a gente exagera em amor, não insisto. Mas se eu já tive a sensação da vontade de Deus, foi ver Maria assim, toda de preto vestida, fantasticamente mulher. Meu corpo soluçou todinho e tornei a ficar estarrecido.

— Ao menos diga boa-noite, Juca…

“Boa-noite, Maria, eu vou-me embora”… meu desejo era fugir, era ficar e ela ficar mas, sim, sem que nos tocássemos sequer. Eu sei, eu juro que sei que ela estava se entregando a mim, me prometendo tudo, me cedendo tudo quanto eu queria, naquele se deixar olhar, sorrindo leve, mãos unidas caindo na frente do corpo, toda vestida de preto. Um segundo, me passou na visão devorá-la numa hora estilhaçada de quarto de hotel, foi horrível. Porém, não havia dúvida: Maria despertava em mim os instintos da perfeição. Balbuciei afinal um boa-noite muito indiferente, e as vozes amontoadas vinham do hol, dos outros que chegavam.

Foi este o primeiro dos quatro amores eternos que fazem de minha vida uma grave condensação interior. Sou falsamente um solitário. Quatro amores me acompanham, cuidam de mim, vêm conversar comigo. Nunca mais vi Maria, que ficou pelas Europas, divorciada afinal, hoje dizem que vivendo com um austríaco interessado em feiras internacionais. Um aventureiro qualquer. Mas dentro de mim, Maria… bom: acho que vou falar banalidade.

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Será o benedito!

A primeira vez que me encontrei com Benedito, foi no dia mesmo da minha chegada na Fazenda Larga, que tirava o nome das suas enormes pastagens. O negrinho era quase só pernas, nos seus treze anos de carreiras livres pelo campo, e enquanto eu conversava com os campeiros, ficara ali, de lado, imóvel, me olhando com admiração. Achando graça nele, de repente o encarei fixamente, voltando-me para o lado em que ele se guardava do excesso de minha presença. Isso, Benedito estremeceu, ainda quis me olhar, mas não pôde agüentar a comoção. Mistura de malícia e de entusiasmo no olhar, ainda levou a mão à boca, na esperança talvez de esconder as palavras que lhe escapavam sem querer:

— O hôme da cidade, chi!…

Deu uma risada quase histérica, estalada insopitavelmente dos seus sonhos insatisfeitos, desatou a correr pelo caminho, macaco-aranha, num mexe-mexe aflito de pernas, seis, oito pernas, nem sei quantas, até desaparecer por detrás das mangueiras grossas do pomar.


Nos primeiros dias Benedito fugiu de mim. Só lá pelas horas da tarde, quando eu me deixava ficar na varanda da casa-grande, gozando essa tristeza sem motivo das nossas tardes paulistas, o negrinho trepava na cerca do mangueirão que defrontava o terraço, uns trinta passos além, e ficava, só pernas, me olhando sempre, decorando os meus gestos, às vezes sorrindo para mim. Uma feita, em que eu me esforçava por prender a rédea do meu cavalo numa das argolas do mangueirão com o laço tradicional, o negrinho saiu não sei de onde, me olhou nas minhas ignorâncias de praceano, e não se conteve:

— Mas será o Benedito! Não é assim, moço!

Pegou na rédea e deu o laço com uma presteza serelepe. Depois me olhou irônico e superior. Pedi para ele me ensinar o laço, fabriquei um desajeitamento muito grande, e assim principiou uma camaradagem que durou meu mês de férias.


Pouco aprendi com o Benedito, embora ele fosse muito sabido das coisas rurais. O que guardei mais dele foi essa curiosa exclamação, “Será o Benedito!”, com que ele arrematava todas as suas surpresas diante do que eu lhe contava da cidade. Porque o negrinho não me deixava aprender com ele, ele é que aprendia comigo todas as coisas da cidade, a cidade que era a única obsessão da sua vida. Tamanho entusiasmo, tamanho ardor ele punha em devorar meus contos, que às vezes eu me surpreendia exagerando um bocado, para não dizer que mentindo. Então eu me envergonhava de mim, voltava às mais perfeitas realidades, e metia a boca na cidade, mostrava o quanto ela era ruim e devorava os homens. “Qual, Benedito, a cidade não presta, não. E depois tem a tuberculose que…”

— O que é isso?…

– É uma doença, Benedito, uma doença horrível, que vai comendo o peito da gente por dentro, a gente não pode mais respirar e morre em três tempos.

— Será o Benedito…

E ele recuava um pouco, talvez imaginando que eu fosse a própria tuberculose que o ia matar. Mas logo se esquecia da tuberculose, só alguns minutos de mutismo e melancolia, e voltava a perguntar coisas sobre os arranha-céus, os “chauffeurs” (queria ser “chauffeur”…), os cantores de rádio (queria ser cantor de rádio…), e o presidente da República (não sei se queria ser presidente da República). Em troca disso, Benedito me mostrava os dentes do seu riso extasiado, uns dentes escandalosos, grandes e perfeitos, onde as violentas nuvens de setembro se refletiam, numa brancura sem par.

Nas vésperas de minha partida, Benedito veio numa corrida e me pôs nas mãos um chumaço de papéis velhos. Eram cartões postais usados, recortes de jornais, tudo fotografias de São Paulo e do Rio, que ele colecionava. Pela sujeira e amassado em que estavam, era fácil perceber que aquelas imagens eram a única Bíblia, a exclusiva cartilha do negrinho. Então ele me pediu que o levasse comigo para a enorme cidade. Lembrei-lhe os pais, não se amolou; lembrei-lhe as brincadeiras livres da roça, não se amolou; lembrei-lhe a tuberculose, ficou muito sério. Ele que reparasse, era forte mas magrinho e a tuberculose se metia principalmente com os meninos magrinhos. Ele precisava ficar no campo, que assim a tuberculose não o mataria. Benedito pensou, pensou. Murmurou muito baixinho:

— Morrer não quero, não sinhô… Eu fico.

E seus olhos enevoados numa profunda melancolia se estenderam pelo plano aberto dos pastos, foram dizer um adeus à cidade invisível, lá longe, com seus “chauffeurs”, seus cantores de rádio, e o presidente da República. Desistiu da cidade e eu parti. Uns quinze dias depois, na obrigatória carta de resposta à minha obrigatória carta de agradecimentos, o dono da fazenda me contava que Benedito tinha morrido de um coice de burro bravo que o pegara pela nuca. Não pude me conter: “Mas será o Benedito!…”.  E é o remorso comovido que me faz celebrá-lo aqui.

São Paulo, 2ª. quinzena de outubro de 1939. (n°145)

Texto extraído do livro “Será o Benedito!”, Editora da PUC-SP, Editora Giordano Ltda. e Agência Estado Ltda.- São Paulo, 1992, pág. 66, uma colaboração de João Antônio Bührer e seus “Arquivos Impagáveis”.

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O peru de Natal

O nosso primeiro Natal de família, depois da morte de meu pai acontecida cinco meses antes, foi de conseqüências decisivas para a felicidade familiar. Nós sempre fôramos familiarmente felizes, nesse sentido muito abstrato da felicidade: gente honesta, sem crimes, lar sem brigas internas nem graves dificuldades econômicas. Mas, devido principalmente à natureza cinzenta de meu pai, ser desprovido de qualquer lirismo, de uma exemplaridade incapaz, acolchoado no medíocre, sempre nos faltara aquele aproveitamento da vida, aquele gosto pelas felicidades materiais, um vinho bom, uma estação de águas, aquisição de geladeira, coisas assim. Meu pai fora de um bom errado, quase dramático, o puro-sangue dos desmancha-prazeres.

Morreu meu pai, sentimos muito, etc. Quando chegamos nas proximidades do Natal, eu já estava que não podia mais pra afastar aquela memória obstruente do morto, que parecia ter sistematizado pra sempre a obrigação de uma lembrança dolorosa em cada almoço, em cada gesto mínimo da família. Uma vez que eu sugerira à mamãe a idéia dela ir ver uma fita no cinema, o que resultou foram lágrimas. Onde se viu ir ao cinema, de luto pesado! A dor já estava sendo cultivada pelas aparências, e eu, que sempre gostara apenas regularmente de meu pai, mais por instinto de filho que por espontaneidade de amor, me via a ponto de aborrecer o bom do morto.

Foi decerto por isto que me nasceu, esta sim, espontaneamente, a idéia de fazer uma das minhas chamadas “loucuras”. Essa fora aliás, e desde muito cedo, a minha esplêndida conquista contra o ambiente familiar. Desde cedinho, desde os tempos de ginásio, em que arranjava regularmente uma reprovação todos os anos; desde o beijo às escondidas, numa prima, aos dez anos, descoberto por Tia Velha, uma detestável de tia; e principalmente desde as lições que dei ou recebi, não sei, de uma criada de parentes: eu consegui no reformatório do lar e na vasta parentagem, a fama conciliatória de “louco”. “É doido, coitado!” falavam. Meus pais falavam com certa tristeza condescendente, o resto da parentagem buscando exemplo para os filhos e provavelmente com aquele prazer dos que se convencem de alguma superioridade. Não tinham doidos entre os filhos. Pois foi o que me salvou, essa fama. Fiz tudo o que a vida me apresentou e o meu ser exigia para se realizar com integridade. E me deixaram fazer tudo, porque eu era doido, coitado. Resultou disso uma existência sem complexos, de que não posso me queixar um nada.

Era costume sempre, na família, a ceia de Natal. Ceia reles, já se imagina: ceia tipo meu pai, castanhas, figos, passas, depois da Missa do Galo. Empanturrados de amêndoas e nozes (quanto discutimos os três manos por causa dos quebra-nozes…), empanturrados de castanhas e monotonias, a gente se abraçava e ia pra cama. Foi lembrando isso que arrebentei com uma das minhas “loucuras”:

— Bom, no Natal, quero comer peru.

Houve um desses espantos que ninguém não imagina. Logo minha tia solteirona e santa, que morava conosco, advertiu que não podíamos convidar ninguém por causa do luto.

— Mas quem falou de convidar ninguém! essa mania… Quando é que a gente já comeu peru em nossa vida! Peru aqui em casa é prato de festa, vem toda essa parentada do diabo…

— Meu filho, não fale assim…

— Pois falo, pronto!

E descarreguei minha gelada indiferença pela nossa parentagem infinita, diz-que vinda de bandeirantes, que bem me importa! Era mesmo o momento pra desenvolver minha teoria de doido, coitado, não perdi a ocasião. Me deu de sopetão uma ternura imensa por mamãe e titia, minhas duas mães, três com minha irmã, as três mães que sempre me divinizaram a vida. Era sempre aquilo: vinha aniversário de alguém e só então faziam peru naquela casa. Peru era prato de festa: uma imundície de parentes já preparados pela tradição, invadiam a casa por causa do peru, das empadinhas e dos doces. Minhas três mães, três dias antes já não sabiam da vida senão trabalhar, trabalhar no preparo de doces e frios finíssimos de bem feitos, a parentagem devorava tudo e ainda levava embrulhinhos pros que não tinham podido vir. As minhas três mães mal podiam de exaustas. Do peru, só no enterro dos ossos, no dia seguinte, é que mamãe com titia ainda provavam num naco de perna, vago, escuro, perdido no arroz alvo. E isso mesmo era mamãe quem servia, catava tudo pro velho e pros filhos. Na verdade ninguém sabia de fato o que era peru em nossa casa, peru resto de festa.

Não, não se convidava ninguém, era um peru pra nós, cinco pessoas. E havia de ser com duas farofas, a gorda com os miúdos, e a seca, douradinha, com bastante manteiga. Queria o papo recheado só com a farofa gorda, em que havíamos de ajuntar ameixa preta, nozes e um cálice de xerez, como aprendera na casa da Rose, muito minha companheira. Está claro que omiti onde aprendera a receita, mas todos desconfiaram. E ficaram logo naquele ar de incenso assoprado, se não seria tentação do Dianho aproveitar receita tão gostosa. E cerveja bem gelada, eu garantia quase gritando. É certo que com meus “gostos”, já bastante afinados fora do lar, pensei primeiro num vinho bom, completamente francês. Mas a ternura por mamãe venceu o doido, mamãe adorava cerveja.

Quando acabei meus projetos, notei bem, todos estavam felicíssimos, num desejo danado de fazer aquela loucura em que eu estourara. Bem que sabiam, era loucura sim, mas todos se faziam imaginar que eu sozinho é que estava desejando muito aquilo e havia jeito fácil de empurrarem pra cima de mim a… culpa de seus desejos enormes. Sorriam se entreolhando, tímidos como pombas desgarradas, até que minha irmã resolveu o consentimento geral:

— É louco mesmo!…

Comprou-se o peru, fez-se o peru, etc. E depois de uma Missa do Galo bem mal rezada, se deu o nosso mais maravilhoso Natal. Fora engraçado:assim que me lembrara de que finalmente ia fazer mamãe comer peru, não fizera outra coisa aqueles dias que pensar nela, sentir ternura por ela, amar minha velhinha adorada. E meus manos também, estavam no mesmo ritmo violento de amor, todos dominados pela felicidade nova que o peru vinha imprimindo na família. De modo que, ainda disfarçando as coisas, deixei muito sossegado que mamãe cortasse todo o peito do peru. Um momento aliás, ela parou, feito fatias um dos lados do peito da ave, não resistindo àquelas leis de economia que sempre a tinham entorpecido numa quase pobreza sem razão.

— Não senhora, corte inteiro! Só eu como tudo isso!

Era mentira. O amor familiar estava por tal forma incandescente em mim, que até era capaz de comer pouco, só-pra que os outros quatro comessem demais. E o diapasão dos outros era o mesmo. Aquele peru comido a sós, redescobria em cada um o que a quotidianidade abafara por completo, amor, paixão de mãe, paixão de filhos. Deus me perdoe mas estou pensando em Jesus… Naquela casa de burgueses bem modestos, estava se realizando um milagre digno do Natal de um Deus. O peito do peru ficou inteiramente reduzido a fatias amplas.

— Eu que sirvo!

“É louco, mesmo” pois por que havia de servir, se sempre mamãe servira naquela casa! Entre risos, os grandes pratos cheios foram passados pra mim e principiei uma distribuição heróica, enquanto mandava meu mano servir a cerveja. Tomei conta logo de um pedaço admirável da “casca”, cheio de gordura e pus no prato. E depois vastas fatias brancas. A voz severizada de mamãe cortou o espaço angustiado com que todos aspiravam pela sua parte no peru:

— Se lembre de seus manos, Juca!

Quando que ela havia de imaginar, a pobre! que aquele era o prato dela, da Mãe, da minha amiga maltratada, que sabia da Rose, que sabia meus crimes, a que eu só lembrava de comunicar o que fazia sofrer! O prato ficou sublime.

— Mamãe, este é o da senhora! Não! não passe não!

Foi quando ela não pode mais com tanta comoção e principiou chorando. Minha tia também, logo percebendo que o novo prato sublime seria o dela, entrou no refrão das lágrimas. E minha irmã, que jamais viu lágrima sem abrir a torneirinha também, se esparramou no choro. Então principiei dizendo muitos desaforos pra não chorar também, tinha dezenove anos…Diabo de família besta que via peru e chorava! coisas assim. Todos se esforçavam por sorrir, mas agora é que a alegria se tornara impossível. É que o pranto evocara por associação a imagem indesejável de meu pai morto. Meu pai, com sua figura cinzenta, vinha pra sempre estragar nosso Natal, fiquei danado.

Bom, principiou-se a comer em silêncio, lutuosos, e o peru estava perfeito. A carne mansa, de um tecido muito tênue boiava fagueira entre os sabores das farofas e do presunto, de vez em quando ferida, inquietada e redesejada, pela intervenção mais violenta da ameixa preta e o estorvo petulante dos pedacinhos de noz. Mas papai sentado ali, gigantesco, incompleto, uma censura, uma chaga, uma incapacidade. E o peru, estava tão gostoso, mamãe por fim sabendo que peru era manjar mesmo digno do Jesusinho nascido.

Principiou uma luta baixa entre o peru e o vulto de papai. Imaginei que gabar o peru era fortalecê-lo na luta, e, está claro, eu tomara decididamente o partido do peru. Mas os defuntos têm meios visguentos, muito hipócritas de vencer: nem bem gabei o peru que a imagem de papai cresceu vitoriosa, insuportavelmente obstruidora.

— Só falta seu pai…

Eu nem comia, nem podia mais gostar daquele peru perfeito, tanto que me interessava aquela luta entre os dois mortos. Cheguei a odiar papai. E nem sei que inspiração genial, de repente me tornou hipócrita e político. Naquele instante que hoje me parece decisivo da nossa família, tomei aparentemente o partido de meu pai. Fingi, triste:

— É mesmo… Mas papai, que queria tanto bem a gente, que morreu de tanto trabalhar pra nós, papai lá no céu há de estar contente… (hesitei, mas resolvi não mencionar mais o peru) contente de ver nós todos reunidos em família.

E todos principiaram muito calmos, falando de papai. A imagem dele foi diminuindo, diminuindo e virou uma estrelinha brilhante do céu. Agora todos comiam o peru com sensualidade, porque papai fora muito bom, sempre se sacrificara tanto por nós, fora um santo que “vocês, meus filhos, nunca poderão pagar o que devem a seu pai”, um santo. Papai virara santo, uma contemplação agradável, uma inestorvável estrelinha do céu. Não prejudicava mais ninguém, puro objeto de contemplação suave. O único morto ali era o peru, dominador, completamente vitorioso.

Minha mãe, minha tia, nós, todos alagados de felicidade. Ia escrever «felicidade gustativa», mas não era só isso não. Era uma felicidade maiúscula, um amor de todos, um esquecimento de outros parentescos distraidores do grande amor familiar. E foi, sei que foi aquele primeiro peru comido no recesso da família, o início de um amor novo, reacomodado, mais completo, mais rico e inventivo, mais complacente e cuidadoso de si. Nasceu de então uma felicidade familiar pra nós que, não sou exclusivista, alguns a terão assim grande, porém mais intensa que a nossa me é impossível conceber.

Mamãe comeu tanto peru que um momento imaginei, aquilo podia lhe fazer mal. Mas logo pensei: ah, que faça! mesmo que ela morra, mas pelo menos que uma vez na vida coma peru de verdade!

A tamanha falta de egoísmo me transportara o nosso infinito amor… Depois vieram umas uvas leves e uns doces, que lá na minha terra levam o nome de “bem-casados”. Mas nem mesmo este nome perigoso se associou à lembrança de meu pai, que o peru já convertera em dignidade, em coisa certa, em culto puro de contemplação.

Levantamos. Eram quase duas horas, todos alegres, bambeados por duas garrafas de cerveja. Todos iam deitar, dormir ou mexer na cama, pouco importa, porque é bom uma insônia feliz. O diabo é que a Rose, católica antes de ser Rose, prometera me esperar com uma champanha. Pra poder sair, menti, falei que ia a uma festa de amigo, beijei mamãe e pisquei pra ela, modo de contar onde é que ia e fazê-la sofrer seu bocado. As outras duas mulheres beijei sem piscar. E agora, Rose!…

Mário de Andrade 
(1893-1945), nasceu em São Paulo, mostrando desde cedo inclinação pela música e literatura. Seu interesse pelas artes levou-o a realizar em São Paulo, de parceria com Oswald de Andrade, a Semana de Arte Moderna, que rasgou novas perspectivas para a cultura brasileira. Sua obra, essencialmente brasileira, reflete um nacionalismo humanista, que nada tem de místico e abstrato. “Macunaíma”, baseada em temas folclóricos é, geralmente, considerada a sua obra-prima.

O texto acima foi extraído do livro “
Nós e o Natal“, Artes Gráficas Gomes de Souza, Rio de Janeiro, 1964, pág. 23.

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Two short stories

  • The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas, by Ursula Le Guin

  • The Machine Stops, by E.M. Forster

Anybody who uses the Internet should read E.M. Forster’s The Machine Stops. It is a chilling, short story masterpiece about the role of technology in our lives. Written in 1909, it’s as relevant today as the day it was published. Forster has several prescient notions including instant messages (email!) and cinematophoes (machines that project visual images).

-Paul Rajlich

The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas, by Ursula Le Guin

With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows’ crossing flights over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mud-stained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?

They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a descriptionsuch as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children–though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however–that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc.–they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of that; it doesn’t matter. As you like it. I incline to think that people from towns up and down the coast have been coming in to Omelas during the last days before the Festival on very fast little trains and double-decked trams, and that

the train station of Omelas is actually the handsomest building in town, though plainer than the magnificent Farmers’ Market. But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody-goody. Smiles, bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an orgy would help, don’t hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy and ready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger, who desires union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my first idea. But really it would be better not to have any temples in Omelas–at least, not manned temples. Religion yes, clergy no. Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like divine soufflés to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them join the processions. Let tambourines be struck above the copulations, and the glory of desire be proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of these delightful rituals be beloved and looked after by all. One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt. But what else should there be? I thought at first there were not drugs, but that is puritanical. For those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of drooz may perfume the ways of the city, drooz which first brings a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visions at last of the very arcana and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as exciting the pleasure of sex beyond belief; and it is not habit-forming. For more modest tastes I think there ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy; it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial. A boundless and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world’s summer: this is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life. I really don’t think many of them need to take drooz.

Most of the procession have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich

pastry are entangled. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around the starting line of the course. An old women, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men where her flowers in their shining hair. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute. People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, for he never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet, thin magic of the tune.

He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute.

As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses’ necks and soothe them, whispering, “Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope….” They begin to form in rank along the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun.

Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.

In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket

and the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes–the child has no understanding of time or interval–sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come in and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother’s voice, sometimes speaks. “I will be good,” it says. “Please let me out. I will be good!” They never answer. The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, “eh-haa, eh-haa,” and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually.

They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.

This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were

cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.

The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.

Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox. They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their lives. Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They know that if the wretched one were not there sniveling in the dark, the other one, the flute-player, could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first morning of summer.

Now do you believe in them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, and this is quite incredible.

At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go to see the child does not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or woman much older falls silent for a day or two, and then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl, man or woman. Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow-lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.


by E.M. Forster (1909)


Imagine, if you can, a small room, hexagonal in shape, like the cell of a bee. It is lighted neither by window nor by lamp, yet it is filled with a soft radiance. There are no apertures for ventilation, yet the air is fresh. There are no musical instruments, and yet, at the moment that my meditation opens, this room is throbbing with melodious sounds. An armchair is in the centre, by its side a reading-desk-that is all the furniture. And in the armchair there sits a swaddled lump of flesh-a woman, about five feet high, with a face as white as a fungus. It is to her that the little room belongs.

An electric bell rang.

The woman touched a switch and the music was silent.

“I suppose I must see who it is”, she thought, and set her chair in motion. The chair, like the music, was worked by machinery and it rolled her to the other side of the room where the bell still rang importunately.

“Who is it?” she called. Her voice was irritable, for she had been interrupted often since the music began. She knew several thousand people, in certain directions human intercourse had advanced enormously.

But when she listened into the receiver, her white face wrinkled into smiles, and she said:

“Very well. Let us talk, I will isolate myself. I do not expect anything important will happen for the next five minutes-for I can give you fully five minutes, Kuno. Then I must deliver my lecture on “Music during the Australian Period”.”

She touched the isolation knob, so that no one else could speak to her. Then she touched the lighting apparatus, and the little room was plunged into darkness.

“Be quick!” She called, her irritation returning. “Be quick, Kuno; here I am in the dark wasting my time.”

But it was fully fifteen seconds before the round plate that she held in her hands began to glow. A faint blue light shot across it, darkening to purple, and presently she could see the image of her son, who lived on the other side of the earth, and he could see her.

“Kuno, how slow you are.”

He smiled gravely.

“I really believe you enjoy dawdling.”

“I have called you before, mother, but you were always busy or isolated. I have something particular to say.”

“What is it, dearest boy? Be quick. Why could you not send it by pneumatic post?”

“Because I prefer saying such a thing. I want—-”


“I want you to come and see me.”

Vashti watched his face in the blue plate.

“But I can see you!” she exclaimed. “What more do you want?”

“I want to see you not through the Machine,” said Kuno. “I want to speak to you not through the wearisome Machine.”

“Oh, hush!” said his mother, vaguely shocked. “You mustn”t say anything against the Machine.”

“Why not?”

“One mustn”t.”

“You talk as if a god had made the Machine,” cried the other.

“I believe that you pray to it when you are unhappy. Men made it, do not forget that. Great men, but men. The Machine is much, but it is not everything. I see something like you in this plate, but I do not see you. I hear something like you through this telephone, but I do not hear you. That is why I want you to come. Pay me a visit, so that we can meet face to face, and talk about the hopes that are in my mind.”

She replied that she could scarcely spare the time for a visit.

“The air-ship barely takes two days to fly between me and you.”

“I dislike air-ships.”


“I dislike seeing the horrible brown earth, and the sea, and the stars when it is dark. I get no ideas in an air- ship.”

“I do not get them anywhere else.”

“What kind of ideas can the air give you?”

He paused for an instant.

“Do you not know four big stars that form an oblong, and three stars close together in the middle of the oblong, and hanging from these stars, three other stars?”

“No, I do not. I dislike the stars. But did they give you an idea? How interesting; tell me.”

“I had an idea that they were like a man.”

“I do not understand.”

“The four big stars are the man”s shoulders and his knees.

The three stars in the middle are like the belts that men wore once, and the three stars hanging are like a sword.”

“A sword?;”

“Men carried swords about with them, to kill animals and other men.”

“It does not strike me as a very good idea, but it is certainly original. When did it come to you first?”

“In the air-ship—–” He broke off, and she fancied that he looked sad. She could not be sure, for the Machine did not transmit nuances of expression. It only gave a general idea of people – an idea that was good enough for all practical purposes, Vashti thought. The imponderable bloom, declared by a discredited philosophy to be the actual essence of intercourse, was rightly ignored by the Machine, just as the imponderable bloom of the grape was ignored by the manufacturers of artificial fruit. Something “good enough” had long since been accepted by our race.

“The truth is,” he continued, “that I want to see these stars again. They are curious stars. I want to see them not from the air-ship, but from the surface of the earth, as our ancestors did, thousands of years ago. I want to visit the surface of the earth.”

She was shocked again.

“Mother, you must come, if only to explain to me what is the harm of visiting the surface of the earth.”

“No harm,” she replied, controlling herself. “But no advantage. The surface of the earth is only dust and mud, no advantage. The surface of the earth is only dust and mud, no life remains on it, and you would need a respirator, or the cold of the outer air would kill you. One dies immediately in the outer air.”

“I know; of course I shall take all precautions.”

“And besides—-”


She considered, and chose her words with care. Her son had a queer temper, and she wished to dissuade him from the expedition.

“It is contrary to the spirit of the age,” she asserted.

“Do you mean by that, contrary to the Machine?”

“In a sense, but—-”

His image is the blue plate faded.


He had isolated himself.

For a moment Vashti felt lonely.

Then she generated the light, and the sight of her room, flooded with radiance and studded with electric buttons, revived her. There were buttons and switches everywhere – buttons to call for food for music, for clothing. There was the hot-bath button, by pressure of which a basin of (imitation) marble rose out of the floor, filled to the brim with a warm deodorized liquid. There was the cold-bath button. There was the button that produced literature. and there were of course the buttons by which she communicated with her friends. The room, though it contained nothing, was in touch with all that she cared for in the world.

Vashanti”s next move was to turn off the isolation switch, and all the accumulations of the last three minutes burst upon her. The room was filled with the noise of bells, and speaking-tubes. What was the new food like? Could she recommend it? Has she had any ideas lately? Might one tell her one”s own ideas? Would she make an engagement to visit the public nurseries at an early date? – say this day month.

To most of these questions she replied with irritation – a growing quality in that accelerated age. She said that the new food was horrible. That she could not visit the public nurseries through press of engagements. That she had no ideas of her own but had just been told one-that four stars and three in the middle were like a man: she doubted there was much in it. Then she switched off her correspondents, for it was time to deliver her lecture on Australian music.

The clumsy system of public gatherings had been long since abandoned; neither Vashti nor her audience stirred from their rooms. Seated in her armchair she spoke, while they in their armchairs heard her, fairly well, and saw her, fairly well. She opened with a humorous account of music in the pre Mongolian epoch, and went on to describe the great outburst of song that followed the Chinese conquest. Remote and primæval as were the methods of I-San-So and the Brisbane school, she yet felt (she said) that study of them might repay the musicians of today: they had freshness; they had, above all, ideas. Her lecture, which lasted ten minutes, was well received, and at its conclusion she and many of her audience listened to a lecture on the sea; there were ideas to be got from the sea; the speaker had donned a respirator and visited it lately. Then she fed, talked to many friends, had a bath, talked again, and summoned her bed.

The bed was not to her liking. It was too large, and she had a feeling for a small bed. Complaint was useless, for beds were of the same dimension all over the world, and to have had an alternative size would have involved vast alterations in the Machine. Vashti isolated herself-it was necessary, for neither day nor night existed under the ground-and reviewed all that had happened since she had summoned the bed last. Ideas? Scarcely any. Events-was Kuno”s invitation an event?

By her side, on the little reading-desk, was a survival from the ages of litter-one book. This was the Book of the Machine. In it were instructions against every possible contingency. If she was hot or cold or dyspeptic or at a loss for a word, she went to the book, and it told her which button to press. The Central Committee published it. In accordance with a growing habit, it was richly bound.

Sitting up in the bed, she took it reverently in her hands. She glanced round the glowing room as if some one might be watching her. Then, half ashamed, half joyful, she murmured “O Machine!” and raised the volume to her lips. Thrice she kissed it, thrice inclined her head, thrice she felt the delirium of acquiescence. Her ritual performed, she turned to page 1367, which gave the times of the departure of the air-ships from the island in the southern hemisphere, under whose soil she lived, to the island in the northern hemisphere, whereunder lived her son.

She thought, “I have not the time.”

She made the room dark and slept; she awoke and made the room light; she ate and exchanged ideas with her friends, and listened to music and attended lectures; she make the room dark and slept. Above her, beneath her, and around her, the Machine hummed eternally; she did not notice the noise, for she had been born with it in her ears. The earth, carrying her, hummed as it sped through silence, turning her now to the invisible sun, now to the invisible stars. She awoke and made the room light.


“I will not talk to you.” he answered, “until you come.”

“Have you been on the surface of the earth since we spoke last?”

His image faded.

Again she consulted the book. She became very nervous and lay back in her chair palpitating. Think of her as without teeth or hair. Presently she directed the chair to the wall, and pressed an unfamiliar button. The wall swung apart slowly. Through the opening she saw a tunnel that curved slightly, so that its goal was not visible. Should she go to see her son, here was the beginning of the journey.

Of course she knew all about the communication-system. There was nothing mysterious in it. She would summon a car and it would fly with her down the tunnel until it reached the lift that communicated with the air-ship station: the system had been in use for many, many years, long before the universal establishment of the Machine. And of course she had studied the civilization that had immediately preceded her own – the civilization that had mistaken the functions of the system, and had used it for bringing people to things, instead of for bringing things to people. Those funny old days, when men went for change of air instead of changing the air in their rooms! And yet-she was frightened of the tunnel: she had not seen it since her last child was born. It curved-but not quite as she remembered; it was brilliant-but not quite as brilliant as a lecturer had suggested. Vashti was seized with the terrors of direct experience. She shrank back into the room, and the wall closed up again.

“Kuno,” she said, “I cannot come to see you. I am not well.”

Immediately an enormous apparatus fell on to her out of the ceiling, a thermometer was automatically laid upon her heart. She lay powerless. Cool pads soothed her forehead. Kuno had telegraphed to her doctor.

So the human passions still blundered up and down in the Machine. Vashti drank the medicine that the doctor projected into her mouth, and the machinery retired into the ceiling. The voice of Kuno was heard asking how she felt.

“Better.” Then with irritation: “But why do you not come to me instead?”

“Because I cannot leave this place.”


“Because, any moment, something tremendous many happen.”

“Have you been on the surface of the earth yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Then what is it?”

“I will not tell you through the Machine.”

She resumed her life.

But she thought of Kuno as a baby, his birth, his removal to the public nurseries, her own visit to him there, his visits to her-visits which stopped when the Machine had assigned him a room on the other side of the earth. “Parents, duties of,” said the book of the Machine,” cease at the moment of birth. P.422327483.” True, but there was something special about Kuno – indeed there had been something special about all her children – and, after all, she must brave the journey if he desired it. And “something tremendous might happen”. What did that mean? The nonsense of a youthful man, no doubt, but she must go. Again she pressed the unfamiliar button, again the wall swung back, and she saw the tunnel that curves out of sight. Clasping the Book, she rose, tottered on to the platform, and summoned the car. Her room closed behind her: the journey to the northern hemisphere had begun.

Of course it was perfectly easy. The car approached and in it she found armchairs exactly like her own. When she signaled, it stopped, and she tottered into the lift. One other passenger was in the lift, the first fellow creature she had seen face to face for months. Few travelled in these days, for, thanks to the advance of science, the earth was exactly alike all over. Rapid intercourse, from which the previous civilization had hoped so much, had ended by defeating itself. What was the good of going to Peking when it was just like Shrewsbury? Why return to Shrewsbury when it would all be like Peking? Men seldom moved their bodies; all unrest was concentrated in the soul.

The air-ship service was a relic form the former age. It was kept up, because it was easier to keep it up than to stop it or to diminish it, but it now far exceeded the wants of the population. Vessel after vessel would rise form the vomitories of Rye or of Christchurch (I use the antique names), would sail into the crowded sky, and would draw up at the wharves of the south – empty. so nicely adjusted was the system, so independent of meteorology, that the sky, whether calm or cloudy, resembled a vast kaleidoscope whereon the same patterns periodically recurred. The ship on which Vashti sailed started now at sunset, now at dawn. But always, as it passed above Rheas, it would neighbour the ship that served between Helsingfors and the Brazils, and, every third time it surmounted the Alps, the fleet of Palermo would cross its track behind. Night and day, wind and storm, tide and earthquake, impeded man no longer. He had harnessed Leviathan. All the old literature, with its praise of Nature, and its fear of Nature, rang false as the prattle of a child.

Yet as Vashti saw the vast flank of the ship, stained with exposure to the outer air, her horror of direct experience returned. It was not quite like the air-ship in the cinematophote. For one thing it smelt – not strongly or unpleasantly, but it did smell, and with her eyes shut she should have known that a new thing was close to her. Then she had to walk to it from the lift, had to submit to glances form the other passengers. The man in front dropped his Book – no great matter, but it disquieted them all. In the rooms, if the Book was dropped, the floor raised it mechanically, but the gangway to the air-ship was not so prepared, and the sacred volume lay motionless. They stopped – the thing was unforeseen – and the man, instead of picking up his property, felt the muscles of his arm to see how they had failed him. Then some one actually said with direct utterance: “We shall be late” – and they trooped on board, Vashti treading on the pages as she did so.

Inside, her anxiety increased. The arrangements were old- fashioned and rough. There was even a female attendant, to whom she would have to announce her wants during the voyage. Of course a revolving platform ran the length of the boat, but she was expected to walk from it to her cabin. Some cabins were better than others, and she did not get the best. She thought the attendant had been unfair, and spasms of rage shook her. The glass valves had closed, she could not go back. She saw, at the end of the vestibule, the lift in which she had ascended going quietly up and down, empty. Beneath those corridors of shining tiles were rooms, tier below tier, reaching far into the earth, and in each room there sat a human being, eating, or sleeping, or producing ideas. And buried deep in the hive was her own room. Vashti was afraid.

“O Machine!” she murmured, and caressed her Book, and was comforted.

Then the sides of the vestibule seemed to melt together, as do the passages that we see in dreams, the lift vanished , the Book that had been dropped slid to the left and vanished, polished tiles rushed by like a stream of water, there was a slight jar, and the air-ship, issuing from its tunnel, soared above the waters of a tropical ocean.

It was night. For a moment she saw the coast of Sumatra edged by the phosphorescence of waves, and crowned by lighthouses, still sending forth their disregarded beams. These also vanished, and only the stars distracted her. They were not motionless, but swayed to and fro above her head, thronging out of one sky-light into another, as if the universe and not the air-ship was careening. And, as often happens on clear nights, they seemed now to be in perspective, now on a plane; now piled tier beyond tier into the infinite heavens, now concealing infinity, a roof limiting for ever the visions of men. In either case they seemed intolerable. “Are we to travel in the dark?” called the passengers angrily, and the attendant, who had been careless, generated the light, and pulled down the blinds of pliable metal. When the air-ships had been built, the desire to look direct at things still lingered in the world. Hence the extraordinary number of skylights and windows, and the proportionate discomfort to those who were civilized and refined. Even in Vashti”s cabin one star peeped through a flaw in the blind, and after a few hers” uneasy slumber, she was disturbed by an unfamiliar glow, which was the dawn.

Quick as the ship had sped westwards, the earth had rolled eastwards quicker still, and had dragged back Vashti and her companions towards the sun. Science could prolong the night, but only for a little, and those high hopes of neutralizing the earth”s diurnal revolution had passed, together with hopes that were possibly higher. To “keep pace with the sun,” or even to outstrip it, had been the aim of the civilization preceding this. Racing aeroplanes had been built for the purpose, capable of enormous speed, and steered by the greatest intellects of the epoch. Round the globe they went, round and round, westward, westward, round and round, amidst humanity”s applause. In vain. The globe went eastward quicker still, horrible accidents occurred, and the Committee of the Machine, at the time rising into prominence, declared the pursuit illegal, unmechanical, and punishable by Homelessness.

Of Homelessness more will be said later.

Doubtless the Committee was right. Yet the attempt to “defeat the sun” aroused the last common interest that our race experienced about the heavenly bodies, or indeed about anything. It was the last time that men were compacted by thinking of a power outside the world. The sun had conquered, yet it was the end of his spiritual dominion. Dawn, midday, twilight, the zodiacal path, touched neither men”s lives not their hearts, and science retreated into the ground, to concentrate herself upon problems that she was certain of solving.

So when Vashti found her cabin invaded by a rosy finger of light, she was annoyed, and tried to adjust the blind. But the blind flew up altogether, and she saw through the skylight small pink clouds, swaying against a background of blue, and as the sun crept higher, its radiance entered direct, brimming down the wall, like a golden sea. It rose and fell with the air-ship”s motion, just as waves rise and fall, but it advanced steadily, as a tide advances. Unless she was careful, it would strike her face. A spasm of horror shook her and she rang for the attendant. The attendant too was horrified, but she could do nothing; it was not her place to mend the blind. She could only suggest that the lady should change her cabin, which she accordingly prepared to do.

People were almost exactly alike all over the world, but the attendant of the air-ship, perhaps owing to her exceptional duties, had grown a little out of the common. She had often to address passengers with direct speech, and this had given her a certain roughness and originality of manner. When Vashti served away form the sunbeams with a cry, she behaved barbarically – she put out her hand to steady her.

“How dare you!” exclaimed the passenger. “You forget yourself!”

The woman was confused, and apologized for not having let her fall. People never touched one another. The custom had become obsolete, owing to the Machine.

“Where are we now?” asked Vashti haughtily.

“We are over Asia,” said the attendant, anxious to be polite.


“You must excuse my common way of speaking. I have got into the habit of calling places over which I pass by their unmechanical names.”

“Oh, I remember Asia. The Mongols came from it.”

“Beneath us, in the open air, stood a city that was once called Simla.”

“Have you ever heard of the Mongols and of the Brisbane school?”


“Brisbane also stood in the open air.”

“Those mountains to the right – let me show you them.” She pushed back a metal blind. The main chain of the Himalayas was revealed. “They were once called the Roof of the World, those mountains.”

“You must remember that, before the dawn of civilization, they seemed to be an impenetrable wall that touched the stars. It was supposed that no one but the gods could exist above their summits. How we have advanced, thanks to the Machine!”

“How we have advanced, thanks to the Machine!” said Vashti.

“How we have advanced, thanks to the Machine!” echoed the passenger who had dropped his Book the night before, and who was standing in the passage.

“And that white stuff in the cracks? – what is it?”

“I have forgotten its name.”

“Cover the window, please. These mountains give me no ideas.”

The northern aspect of the Himalayas was in deep shadow: on the Indian slope the sun had just prevailed. The forests had been destroyed during the literature epoch for the purpose of making newspaper-pulp, but the snows were awakening to their morning glory, and clouds still hung on the breasts of Kinchinjunga. In the plain were seen the ruins of cities, with diminished rivers creeping by their walls, and by the sides of these were sometimes the signs of vomitories, marking the cities of to day. Over the whole prospect air-ships rushed, crossing the inter-crossing with incredible aplomb, and rising nonchalantly when they desired to escape the perturbations of the lower atmosphere and to traverse the Roof of the World.

“We have indeed advance, thanks to the Machine,” repeated the attendant, and hid the Himalayas behind a metal blind.

The day dragged wearily forward. The passengers sat each in his cabin, avoiding one another with an almost physical repulsion and longing to be once more under the surface of the earth. There were eight or ten of them, mostly young males, sent out from the public nurseries to inhabit the rooms of those who had died in various parts of the earth. The man who had dropped his Book was on the homeward journey. He had been sent to Sumatra for the purpose of propagating the race. Vashti alone was travelling by her private will.

At midday she took a second glance at the earth. The air- ship was crossing another range of mountains, but she could see little, owing to clouds. Masses of black rock hovered below her, and merged indistinctly into grey. Their shapes were fantastic; one of them resembled a prostrate man.

“No ideas here,” murmured Vashti, and hid the Caucasus behind a metal blind.

In the evening she looked again. They were crossing a golden sea, in which lay many small islands and one peninsula. She repeated, “No ideas here,” and hid Greece behind a metal blind.


By a vestibule, by a lift, by a tubular railway, by a platform, by a sliding door – by reversing all the steps of her departure did Vashti arrive at her son”s room, which exactly resembled her own. She might well declare that the visit was superfluous. The buttons, the knobs, the reading-desk with the Book, the temperature, the atmosphere, the illumination – all were exactly the same. And if Kuno himself, flesh of her flesh, stood close beside her at last, what profit was there in that? She was too well-bred to shake him by the hand.

Averting her eyes, she spoke as follows:

“Here I am. I have had the most terrible journey and greatly retarded the development of my soul. It is not worth it, Kuno, it is not worth it. My time is too precious. The sunlight almost touched me, and I have met with the rudest people. I can only stop a few minutes. Say what you want to say, and then I must return.”

“I have been threatened with Homelessness,” said Kuno.

She looked at him now.

“I have been threatened with Homelessness, and I could not tell you such a thing through the Machine.”

Homelessness means death. The victim is exposed to the air, which kills him.

“I have been outside since I spoke to you last. The tremendous thing has happened, and they have discovered me.”

“But why shouldn”t you go outside?” she exclaimed, “It is perfectly legal, perfectly mechanical, to visit the surface of the earth. I have lately been to a lecture on the sea; there is no objection to that; one simply summons a respirator and gets an Egression-permit. It is not the kind of thing that spiritually minded people do, and I begged you not to do it, but there is no legal objection to it.”

“I did not get an Egression-permit.”

“Then how did you get out?”

“I found out a way of my own.”

The phrase conveyed no meaning to her, and he had to repeat it.

“A way of your own?” she whispered. “But that would be wrong.”


The question shocked her beyond measure.

“You are beginning to worship the Machine,” he said coldly.

“You think it irreligious of me to have found out a way of my own. It was just what the Committee thought, when they threatened me with Homelessness.”

At this she grew angry. “I worship nothing!” she cried. “I am most advanced. I don”t think you irreligious, for there is no such thing as religion left. All the fear and the superstition that existed once have been destroyed by the Machine. I only meant that to find out a way of your own was—-Besides, there is no new way out.”

“So it is always supposed.”

“Except through the vomitories, for which one must have an Egression-permit, it is impossible to get out. The Book says so.”

“Well, the Book”s wrong, for I have been out on my feet.”

For Kuno was possessed of a certain physical strength.

By these days it was a demerit to be muscular. Each infant was examined at birth, and all who promised undue strength were destroyed. Humanitarians may protest, but it would have been no true kindness to let an athlete live; he would never have been happy in that state of life to which the Machine had called him; he would have yearned for trees to climb, rivers to bathe in, meadows and hills against which he might measure his body. Man must be adapted to his surroundings, must he not? In the dawn of the world our weakly must be exposed on Mount Taygetus, in its twilight our strong will suffer euthanasia, that the Machine may progress, that the Machine may progress, that the Machine may progress eternally.

“You know that we have lost the sense of space. We say “space is annihilated”, but we have annihilated not space, but the sense thereof. We have lost a part of ourselves. I determined to recover it, and I began by walking up and down the platform of the railway outside my room. Up and down, until I was tired, and so did recapture the meaning of “Near” and “Far”. “Near” is a place to which I can get quickly on my feet, not a place to which the train or the air-ship will take me quickly. “Far” is a place to which I cannot get quickly on my feet; the vomitory is “far”, though I could be there in thirty-eight seconds by summoning the train. Man is the measure. That was my first lesson. Man”s feet are the measure for distance, his hands are the measure for ownership, his body is the measure for all that is lovable and desirable and strong. Then I went further: it was then that I called to you for the first time, and you would not come.

“This city, as you know, is built deep beneath the surface of the earth, with only the vomitories protruding. Having paced the platform outside my own room, I took the lift to the next platform and paced that also, and so with each in turn, until I came to the topmost, above which begins the earth. All the platforms were exactly alike, and all that I gained by visiting them was to develop my sense of space and my muscles. I think I should have been content with this – it is not a little thing, – but as I walked and brooded, it occurred to me that our cities had been built in the days when men still breathed the outer air, and that there had been ventilation shafts for the workmen. I could think of nothing but these ventilation shafts. Had they been destroyed by all the food-tubes and medicine-tubes and music- tubes that the Machine has evolved lately? Or did traces of them remain? One thing was certain. If I came upon them anywhere, it would be in the railway-tunnels of the topmost storey. Everywhere else, all space was accounted for.

“I am telling my story quickly, but don”t think that I was not a coward or that your answers never depressed me. It is not the proper thing, it is not mechanical, it is not decent to walk along a railway-tunnel. I did not fear that I might tread upon a live rail and be killed. I feared something far more intangible-doing what was not contemplated by the Machine. Then I said to myself, “Man is the measure”, and I went, and after many visits I found an opening.

“The tunnels, of course, were lighted. Everything is light, artificial light; darkness is the exception. So when I saw a black gap in the tiles, I knew that it was an exception, and rejoiced. I put in my arm – I could put in no more at first – and waved it round and round in ecstasy. I loosened another tile, and put in my head, and shouted into the darkness: “I am coming, I shall do it yet,” and my voice reverberated down endless passages. I seemed to hear the spirits of those dead workmen who had returned each evening to the starlight and to their wives, and all the generations who had lived in the open air called back to me, “You will do it yet, you are coming,””

He paused, and, absurd as he was, his last words moved her.

For Kuno had lately asked to be a father, and his request had been refused by the Committee. His was not a type that the Machine desired to hand on.

“Then a train passed. It brushed by me, but I thrust my head and arms into the hole. I had done enough for one day, so I crawled back to the platform, went down in the lift, and summoned my bed. Ah what dreams! And again I called you, and again you refused.”

She shook her head and said:

“Don”t. Don”t talk of these terrible things. You make me miserable. You are throwing civilization away.”

“But I had got back the sense of space and a man cannot rest then. I determined to get in at the hole and climb the shaft. And so I exercised my arms. Day after day I went through ridiculous movements, until my flesh ached, and I could hang by my hands and hold the pillow of my bed outstretched for many minutes. Then I summoned a respirator, and started.

“It was easy at first. The mortar had somehow rotted, and I soon pushed some more tiles in, and clambered after them into the darkness, and the spirits of the dead comforted me. I don”t know what I mean by that. I just say what I felt. I felt, for the first time, that a protest had been lodged against corruption, and that even as the dead were comforting me, so I was comforting the unborn. I felt that humanity existed, and that it existed without clothes. How can I possibly explain this? It was naked, humanity seemed naked, and all these tubes and buttons and machineries neither came into the world with us, nor will they follow us out, nor do they matter supremely while we are here. Had I been strong, I would have torn off every garment I had, and gone out into the outer air unswaddled. But this is not for me, nor perhaps for my generation. I climbed with my respirator and my hygienic clothes and my dietetic tabloids! Better thus than not at all.

“There was a ladder, made of some primæval metal. The light from the railway fell upon its lowest rungs, and I saw that it led straight upwards out of the rubble at the bottom of the shaft. Perhaps our ancestors ran up and down it a dozen times daily, in their building. As I climbed, the rough edges cut through my gloves so that my hands bled. The light helped me for a little, and then came darkness and, worse still, silence which pierced my ears like a sword. The Machine hums! Did you know that? Its hum penetrates our blood, and may even guide our thoughts. Who knows! I was getting beyond its power. Then I thought: “This silence means that I am doing wrong.” But I heard voices in the silence, and again they strengthened me.” He laughed. “I had need of them. The next moment I cracked my head against something.”

She sighed.

“I had reached one of those pneumatic stoppers that defend us from the outer air. You may have noticed them no the air- ship. Pitch dark, my feet on the rungs of an invisible ladder, my hands cut; I cannot explain how I lived through this part, but the voices till comforted me, and I felt for fastenings. The stopper, I suppose, was about eight feet across. I passed my hand over it as far as I could reach. It was perfectly smooth. I felt it almost to the centre. Not quite to the centre, for my arm was too short. Then the voice said: “Jump. It is worth it. There may be a handle in the centre, and you may catch hold of it and so come to us your own way. And if there is no handle, so that you may fall and are dashed to pieces – it is till worth it: you will still come to us your own way.” So I jumped. There was a handle, and —-”

He paused. Tears gathered in his mother”s eyes. She knew that he was fated. If he did not die today he would die tomorrow. There was not room for such a person in the world. And with her pity disgust mingled. She was ashamed at having borne such a son, she who had always been so respectable and so full of ideas. Was he really the little boy to whom she had taught the use of his stops and buttons, and to whom she had given his first lessons in the Book? The very hair that disfigured his lip showed that he was reverting to some savage type. On atavism the Machine can have no mercy.

“There was a handle, and I did catch it. I hung tranced over the darkness and heard the hum of these workings as the last whisper in a dying dream. All the things I had cared about and all the people I had spoken to through tubes appeared infinitely little. Meanwhile the handle revolved. My weight had set something in motion and I span slowly, and then—-

“I cannot describe it. I was lying with my face to the sunshine. Blood poured from my nose and ears and I heard a tremendous roaring. The stopper, with me clinging to it, had simply been blown out of the earth, and the air that we make down here was escaping through the vent into the air above. It burst up like a fountain. I crawled back to it – for the upper air hurts – and, as it were, I took great sips from the edge. My respirator had flown goodness knows here, my clothes were torn. I just lay with my lips close to the hole, and I sipped until the bleeding stopped. You can imagine nothing so curious. This hollow in the grass – I will speak of it in a minute, – the sun shining into it, not brilliantly but through marbled clouds, – the peace, the nonchalance, the sense of space, and, brushing my cheek, the roaring fountain of our artificial air! Soon I spied my respirator, bobbing up and down in the current high above my head, and higher still were many air-ships. But no one ever looks out of air-ships, and in any case they could not have picked me up. There I was, stranded. The sun shone a little way down the shaft, and revealed the topmost rung of the ladder, but it was hopeless trying to reach it. I should either have been tossed up again by the escape, or else have fallen in, and died. I could only lie on the grass, sipping and sipping, and from time to time glancing around me.

“I knew that I was in Wessex, for I had taken care to go to a lecture on the subject before starting. Wessex lies above the room in which we are talking now. It was once an important state. Its kings held all the southern coast form the Andredswald to Cornwall, while the Wansdyke protected them on the north, running over the high ground. The lecturer was only concerned with the rise of Wessex, so I do not know how long it remained an international power, nor would the knowledge have assisted me. To tell the truth I could do nothing but laugh, during this part. There was I, with a pneumatic stopper by my side and a respirator bobbing over my head, imprisoned, all three of us, in a grass-grown hollow that was edged with fern.”

Then he grew grave again.

“Lucky for me that it was a hollow. For the air began to fall back into it and to fill it as water fills a bowl. I could crawl about. Presently I stood. I breathed a mixture, in which the air that hurts predominated whenever I tried to climb the sides. This was not so bad. I had not lost my tabloids and remained ridiculously cheerful, and as for the Machine, I forgot about it altogether. My one aim now was to get to the top, where the ferns were, and to view whatever objects lay beyond.

“I rushed the slope. The new air was still too bitter for me and I came rolling back, after a momentary vision of something grey. The sun grew very feeble, and I remembered that he was in Scorpio – I had been to a lecture on that too. If the sun is in Scorpio, and you are in Wessex, it means that you must be as quick as you can, or it will get too dark. (This is the first bit of useful information I have ever got from a lecture, and I expect it will be the last.) It made me try frantically to breathe the new air, and to advance as far as I dared out of my pond. The hollow filled so slowly. At times I thought that the fountain played with less vigour. My respirator seemed to dance nearer the earth; the roar was decreasing.”

He broke off.

“I don”t think this is interesting you. The rest will interest you even less. There are no ideas in it, and I wish that I had not troubled you to come. We are too different, mother.”

She told him to continue.

“It was evening before I climbed the bank. The sun had very nearly slipped out of the sky by this time, and I could not get a good view. You, who have just crossed the Roof of the World, will not want to hear an account of the little hills that I saw – low colourless hills. But to me they were living and the turf that covered them was a skin, under which their muscles rippled, and I felt that those hills had called with incalculable force to men in the past, and that men had loved them. Now they sleep – perhaps for ever. They commune with humanity in dreams. Happy the man, happy the woman, who awakes the hills of Wessex. For though they sleep, they will never die.”

His voice rose passionately.

“Cannot you see, cannot all you lecturers see, that it is we that are dying, and that down here the only thing that really lives in the Machine? We created the Machine, to do our will, but we cannot make it do our will now. It was robbed us of the sense of space and of the sense of touch, it has blurred every human relation and narrowed down love to a carnal act, it has paralysed our bodies and our wills, and now it compels us to worship it. The Machine develops – but not on our lies. The Machine proceeds – but not to our goal. We only exist as the blood corpuscles that course through its arteries, and if it could work without us, it would let us die. Oh, I have no remedy – or, at least, only one – to tell men again and again that I have seen the hills of Wessex as Ælfrid saw them when he overthrew the Danes.

“So the sun set. I forgot to mention that a belt of mist lay between my hill and other hills, and that it was the colour of pearl.”

He broke off for the second time.

“Go on,” said his mother wearily.

He shook his head.

“Go on. Nothing that you say can distress me now. I am hardened.”

“I had meant to tell you the rest, but I cannot: I know that I cannot: good-bye.”

Vashti stood irresolute. All her nerves were tingling with his blasphemies. But she was also inquisitive.

“This is unfair,” she complained. “You have called me across the world to hear your story, and hear it I will. Tell me – as briefly as possible, for this is a disastrous waste of time – tell me how you returned to civilization.”

“Oh – that!” he said, starting. “You would like to hear about civilization. Certainly. Had I got to where my respirator fell down?”

“No – but I understand everything now. You put on your respirator, and managed to walk along the surface of the earth to a vomitory, and there your conduct was reported to the Central Committee.”

“By no means.”

He passed his hand over his forehead, as if dispelling some strong impression. Then, resuming his narrative, he warmed to it again.

“My respirator fell about sunset. I had mentioned that the fountain seemed feebler, had I not?”


“About sunset, it let the respirator fall. As I said, I had entirely forgotten about the Machine, and I paid no great attention at the time, being occupied with other things. I had my pool of air, into which I could dip when the outer keenness became intolerable, and which would possibly remain for days, provided that no wind sprang up to disperse it. Not until it was too late did I realize what the stoppage of the escape implied. You see – the gap in the tunnel had been mended; the Mending Apparatus; the Mending Apparatus, was after me.

“One other warning I had, but I neglected it. The sky at night was clearer than it had been in the day, and the moon, which was about half the sky behind the sun, shone into the dell at moments quite brightly. I was in my usual place – on the boundary between the two atmospheres – when I thought I saw something dark move across the bottom of the dell, and vanish into the shaft. In my folly, I ran down. I bent over and listened, and I thought I heard a faint scraping noise in the depths.

“At this – but it was too late – I took alarm. I determined to put on my respirator and to walk right out of the dell. But my respirator had gone. I knew exactly where it had fallen – between the stopper and the aperture – and I could even feel the mark that it had made in the turf. It had gone, and I realized that something evil was at work, and I had better escape to the other air, and, if I must die, die running towards the cloud that had been the colour of a pearl. I never started. Out of the shaft – it is too horrible. A worm, a long white worm, had crawled out of the shaft and gliding over the moonlit grass.

“I screamed. I did everything that I should not have done, I stamped upon the creature instead of flying from it, and it at once curled round the ankle. Then we fought. The worm let me run all over the dell, but edged up my leg as I ran. “Help!” I cried. (That part is too awful. It belongs to the part that you will never know.) “Help!” I cried. (Why cannot we suffer in silence?) “Help!” I cried. When my feet were wound together, I fell, I was dragged away from the dear ferns and the living hills, and past the great metal stopper (I can tell you this part), and I thought it might save me again if I caught hold of the handle. It also was enwrapped, it also. Oh, the whole dell was full of the things. They were searching it in all directions, they were denuding it, and the white snouts of others peeped out of the hole, ready if needed. Everything that could be moved they brought – brushwood, bundles of fern, everything, and down we all went intertwined into hell. The last things that I saw, ere the stopper closed after us, were certain stars, and I felt that a man of my sort lived in the sky. For I did fight, I fought till the very end, and it was only my head hitting against the ladder that quieted me. I woke up in this room. The worms had vanished. I was surrounded by artificial air, artificial light, artificial peace, and my friends were calling to me down speaking-tubes to know whether I had come across any new ideas lately.”

Here his story ended. Discussion of it was impossible, and Vashti turned to go.

“It will end in Homelessness,” she said quietly.

“I wish it would,” retorted Kuno.

“The Machine has been most merciful.”

“I prefer the mercy of God.”

“By that superstitious phrase, do you mean that you could live in the outer air?”


“Have you ever seen, round the vomitories, the bones of those who were extruded after the Great Rebellion?”


“Have you ever seen, round the vomitories, the bones of those who were extruded after the Great Rebellion?”


“They were left where they perished for our edification. A few crawled away, but they perished, too – who can doubt it? And so with the Homeless of our own day. The surface of the earth supports life no longer.”


“Ferns and a little grass may survive, but all higher forms have perished. Has any air-ship detected them?”


“Has any lecturer dealt with them?”


“Then why this obstinacy?”

“Because I have seen them,” he exploded.

“Seen what?”

“Because I have seen her in the twilight – because she came to my help when I called – because she, too, was entangled by the worms, and, luckier than I, was killed by one of them piercing her throat.”

He was mad. Vashti departed, nor, in the troubles that followed, did she ever see his face again.


During the years that followed Kuno”s escapade, two important developments took place in the Machine. On the surface they were revolutionary, but in either case men”s minds had been prepared beforehand, and they did but express tendencies that were latent already.

The first of these was the abolition of respirator.

Advanced thinkers, like Vashti, had always held it foolish to visit the surface of the earth. Air-ships might be necessary, but what was the good of going out for mere curiosity and crawling along for a mile or two in a terrestrial motor? The habit was vulgar and perhaps faintly improper: it was unproductive of ideas, and had no connection with the habits that really mattered. So respirators were abolished, and with them, of course, the terrestrial motors, and except for a few lecturers, who complained that they were debarred access to their subject- matter, the development was accepted quietly. Those who still wanted to know what the earth was like had after all only to listen to some gramophone, or to look into some cinematophote. And even the lecturers acquiesced when they found that a lecture on the sea was none the less stimulating when compiled out of other lectures that had already been delivered on the same subject. “Beware of first- hand ideas!” exclaimed one of the most advanced of them. “First-hand ideas do not really exist. They are but the physical impressions produced by live and fear, and on this gross foundation who could erect a philosophy? Let your ideas be second-hand, and if possible tenth-hand, for then they will be far removed from that disturbing element – direct observation. Do not learn anything about this subject of mine – the French Revolution. Learn instead what I think that Enicharmon thought Urizen thought Gutch thought Ho-Yung thought Chi-Bo-Sing thought LafcadioHearn thought Carlyle thought Mirabeau said about the French Revolution. Through the medium of these ten great minds, the blood that was shed at Paris and the windows that were broken at Versailles will be clarified to an idea which you may employ most profitably in your daily lives. But be sure that the intermediates are many and varied, for in history one authority exists to counteract another. Urizen must counteract the scepticism of Ho-Yung and Enicharmon, I must myself counteract the impetuosity of Gutch. You who listen to me are in a better position to judge about the French Revolution than I am. Your descendants will be even in a better position than you, for they will learn what you think I think, and yet another intermediate will be added to the chain. And in time” – his voice rose – “there will come a generation that had got beyond facts, beyond impressions, a generation absolutely colourless, a generation

seraphically freeFrom taint of personality,

which will see the French Revolution not as it happened, nor as they would like it to have happened, but as it would have happened, had it taken place in the days of the Machine.”

Tremendous applause greeted this lecture, which did but voice a feeling already latent in the minds of men – a feeling that terrestrial facts must be ignored, and that the abolition of respirators was a positive gain. It was even suggested that air-ships should be abolished too. This was not done, because air-ships had somehow worked themselves into the Machine”s system. But year by year they were used less, and mentioned less by thoughtful men.

The second great development was the re-establishment of religion.

This, too, had been voiced in the celebrated lecture. No one could mistake the reverent tone in which the peroration had concluded, and it awakened a responsive echo in the heart of each. Those who had long worshipped silently, now began to talk. They described the strange feeling of peace that came over them when they handled the Book of the Machine, the pleasure that it was to repeat certain numerals out of it, however little meaning those numerals conveyed to the outward ear, the ecstasy of touching a button, however unimportant, or of ringing an electric bell, however superfluously.

“The Machine,” they exclaimed, “feeds us and clothes us and houses us; through it we speak to one another, through it we see one another, in it we have our being. The Machine is the friend of ideas and the enemy of superstition: the Machine is omnipotent, eternal; blessed is the Machine.” And before long this allocution was printed on the first page of the Book, and in subsequent editions the ritual swelled into a complicated system of praise and prayer. The word “religion” was sedulously avoided, and in theory the Machine was still the creation and the implement of man. but in practice all, save a few retrogrades, worshipped it as divine. Nor was it worshipped in unity. One believer would be chiefly impressed by the blue optic plates, through which he saw other believers; another by the mending apparatus, which sinful Kuno had compared to worms; another by the lifts, another by the Book. And each would pray to this or to that, and ask it to intercede for him with the Machine as a whole. Persecution – that also was present. It did not break out, for reasons that will be set forward shortly. But it was latent, and all who did not accept the minimum known as “undenominational Mechanism” lived in danger of Homelessness, which means death, as we know.

To attribute these two great developments to the Central Committee, is to take a very narrow view of civilization. The Central Committee announced the developments, it is true, but they were no more the cause of them than were the kings of the imperialistic period the cause of war. Rather did they yield to some invincible pressure, which came no one knew whither, and which, when gratified, was succeeded by some new pressure equally invincible. To such a state of affairs it is convenient to give the name of progress. No one confessed the Machine was out of hand. Year by year it was served with increased efficiency and decreased intelligence. The better a man knew his own duties upon it, the less he understood the duties of his neighbour, and in all the world there was not one who understood the monster as a whole. Those master brains had perished. They had left full directions, it is true, and their successors had each of them mastered a portion of those directions. But Humanity, in its desire for comfort, had over-reached itself. It had exploited the riches of nature too far. Quietly and complacently, it was sinking into decadence, and progress had come to mean the progress of the Machine.

As for Vashti, her life went peacefully forward until the final disaster. She made her room dark and slept; she awoke and made the room light. She lectured and attended lectures. She exchanged ideas with her innumerable friends and believed she was growing more spiritual. At times a friend was granted Euthanasia, and left his or her room for the homelessness that is beyond all human conception. Vashti did not much mind. After an unsuccessful lecture, she would sometimes ask for Euthanasia herself. But the death-rate was not permitted to exceed the birth-rate, and the Machine had hitherto refused it to her.

The troubles began quietly, long before she was conscious of them.

One day she was astonished at receiving a message from her son. They never communicated, having nothing in common, and she had only heard indirectly that he was still alive, and had been transferred from the northern hemisphere, where he had behaved so mischievously, to the southern – indeed, to a room not far from her own.

“Does he want me to visit him?” she thought. “Never again, never. And I have not the time.”

No, it was madness of another kind.

He refused to visualize his face upon the blue plate, and speaking out of the darkness with solemnity said:

“The Machine stops.”

“What do you say?”

“The Machine is stopping, I know it, I know the signs.”

She burst into a peal of laughter. He heard her and was angry, and they spoke no more.

“Can you imagine anything more absurd?” she cried to a friend. “A man who was my son believes that the Machine is stopping. It would be impious if it was not mad.”

“The Machine is stopping?” her friend replied. “What does that mean? The phrase conveys nothing to me.”

“Nor to me.”

“He does not refer, I suppose, to the trouble there has been lately with the music?”

“Oh no, of course not. Let us talk about music.”

“Have you complained to the authorities?”

“Yes, and they say it wants mending, and referred me to the Committee of the Mending Apparatus. I complained of those curious gasping sighs that disfigure the symphonies of the Brisbane school. They sound like some one in pain. The Committee of the Mending Apparatus say that it shall be remedied shortly.”

Obscurely worried, she resumed her life. For one thing, the defect in the music irritated her. For another thing, she could not forget Kuno”s speech. If he had known that the music was out of repair – he could not know it, for he detested music – if he had known that it was wrong, “the Machine stops” was exactly the venomous sort of remark he would have made. Of course he had made it at a venture, but the coincidence annoyed her, and she spoke with some petulance to the Committee of the Mending Apparatus.

They replied, as before, that the defect would be set right shortly.

“Shortly! At once!” she retorted. “Why should I be worried by imperfect music? Things are always put right at once. If you do not mend it at once, I shall complain to the Central Committee.”

“No personal complaints are received by the Central Committee,” the Committee of the Mending Apparatus replied.

“Through whom am I to make my complaint, then?”

“Through us.”

“I complain then.”

“Your complaint shall be forwarded in its turn.”

“Have others complained?”

This question was unmechanical, and the Committee of the Mending Apparatus refused to answer it.

“It is too bad!” she exclaimed to another of her friends.

“There never was such an unfortunate woman as myself. I can never be sure of my music now. It gets worse and worse each time I summon it.”

“What is it?”

“I do not know whether it is inside my head, or inside the wall.”

“Complain, in either case.”

“I have complained, and my complaint will be forwarded in its turn to the Central Committee.”

Time passed, and they resented the defects no longer. The defects had not been remedied, but the human tissues in that latter day had become so subservient, that they readily adapted themselves to every caprice of the Machine. The sigh at the crises of the Brisbane symphony no longer irritated Vashti; she accepted it as part of the melody. The jarring noise, whether in the head or in the wall, was no longer resented by her friend. And so with the mouldy artificial fruit, so with the bath water that began to stink, so with the defective rhymes that the poetry machine had taken to emit. all were bitterly complained of at first, and then acquiesced in and forgotten. Things went from bad to worse unchallenged.

It was otherwise with the failure of the sleeping apparatus. That was a more serious stoppage. There came a day when over the whole world – in Sumatra, in Wessex, in the innumerable cities of Courland and Brazil – the beds, when summoned by their tired owners, failed to appear. It may seem a ludicrous matter, but from it we may date the collapse of humanity. The Committee responsible for the failure was assailed by complainants, whom it referred, as usual, to the Committee of the Mending Apparatus, who in its turn assured them that their complaints would be forwarded to the Central Committee. But the discontent grew, for mankind was not yet sufficiently adaptable to do without sleeping.

“Some one of meddling with the Machine—” they began.

“Some one is trying to make himself king, to reintroduce the personal element.”

“Punish that man with Homelessness.”

“To the rescue! Avenge the Machine! Avenge the Machine!”

“War! Kill the man!”

But the Committee of the Mending Apparatus now came forward, and allayed the panic with well-chosen words. It confessed that the Mending Apparatus was itself in need of repair.

The effect of this frank confession was admirable.

“Of course,” said a famous lecturer – he of the French Revolution, who gilded each new decay with splendour – “of course we shall not press our complaints now. The Mending Apparatus has treated us so well in the past that we all sympathize with it, and will wait patiently for its recovery. In its own good time it will resume its duties. Meanwhile let us do without our beds, our tabloids, our other little wants. Such, I feel sure, would be the wish of the Machine.”

Thousands of miles away his audience applauded. The Machine still linked them. Under the seas, beneath the roots of the mountains, ran the wires through which they saw and heard, the enormous eyes and ears that were their heritage, and the hum of many workings clothed their thoughts in one garment of subserviency. Only the old and the sick remained ungrateful, for it was rumoured that Euthanasia, too, was out of order, and that pain had reappeared among men.

It became difficult to read. A blight entered the atmosphere and dulled its luminosity. At times Vashti could scarcely see across her room. The air, too, was foul. Loud were the complaints, impotent the remedies, heroic the tone of the lecturer as he cried: “Courage! courage! What matter so long as the Machine goes on ? To it the darkness and the light are one.” And though things improved again after a time, the old brilliancy was never recaptured, and humanity never recovered from its entrance into twilight. There was an hysterical talk of “measures,” of “provisional dictatorship,” and the inhabitants of Sumatra were asked to familiarize themselves with the workings of the central power station, the said power station being situated in France. But for the most part panic reigned, and men spent their strength praying to their Books, tangible proofs of the Machine”s omnipotence. There were gradations of terror- at times came rumours of hope-the Mending Apparatus was almost mended-the enemies of the Machine had been got under- new “nerve-centres” were evolving which would do the work even more magnificently than before. But there came a day when, without the slightest warning, without any previous hint of feebleness, the entire communication-system broke down, all over the world, and the world, as they understood it, ended.

Vashti was lecturing at the time and her earlier remarks had been punctuated with applause. As she proceeded the audience became silent, and at the conclusion there was no sound. Somewhat displeased, she called to a friend who was a specialist in sympathy. No sound: doubtless the friend was sleeping. And so with the next friend whom she tried to summon, and so with the next, until she remembered Kuno”s cryptic remark, “The Machine stops”.

The phrase still conveyed nothing. If Eternity was stopping it would of course be set going shortly.

For example, there was still a little light and air – the atmosphere had improved a few hours previously. There was still the Book, and while there was the Book there was security.

Then she broke down, for with the cessation of activity came an unexpected terror – silence.

She had never known silence, and the coming of it nearly killed her – it did kill many thousands of people outright. Ever since her birth she had been surrounded by the steady hum. It was to the ear what artificial air was to the lungs, and agonizing pains shot across her head. And scarcely knowing what she did, she stumbled forward and pressed the unfamiliar button, the one that opened the door of her cell.

Now the door of the cell worked on a simple hinge of its own. It was not connected with the central power station, dying far away in France. It opened, rousing immoderate hopes in Vashti, for she thought that the Machine had been mended. It opened, and she saw the dim tunnel that curved far away towards freedom. One look, and then she shrank back. For the tunnel was full of people – she was almost the last in that city to have taken alarm.

People at any time repelled her, and these were nightmares from her worst dreams. People were crawling about, people were screaming, whimpering, gasping for breath, touching each other, vanishing in the dark, and ever and anon being pushed off the platform on to the live rail. Some were fighting round the electric bells, trying to summon trains which could not be summoned. Others were yelling for Euthanasia or for respirators, or blaspheming the Machine. Others stood at the doors of their cells fearing, like herself, either to stop in them or to leave them. And behind all the uproar was silence – the silence which is the voice of the earth and of the generations who have gone.

No – it was worse than solitude. She closed the door again and sat down to wait for the end. The disintegration went on, accompanied by horrible cracks and rumbling. The valves that restrained the Medical Apparatus must have weakened, for it ruptured and hung hideously from the ceiling. The floor heaved and fell and flung her from the chair. A tube oozed towards her serpent fashion. And at last the final horror approached – light began to ebb, and she knew that civilization”s long day was closing.

She whirled around, praying to be saved from this, at any rate, kissing the Book, pressing button after button. The uproar outside was increasing, and even penetrated the wall. Slowly the brilliancy of her cell was dimmed, the reflections faded from the metal switches. Now she could not see the reading-stand, now not the Book, though she held it in her hand. Light followed the flight of sound, air was following light, and the original void returned to the cavern from which it has so long been excluded. Vashti continued to whirl, like the devotees of an earlier religion, screaming, praying, striking at the buttons with bleeding hands.

It was thus that she opened her prison and escaped – escaped in the spirit: at least so it seems to me, ere my meditation closes. That she escapes in the body – I cannot perceive that. She struck, by chance, the switch that released the door, and the rush of foul air on her skin, the loud throbbing whispers in her ears, told her that she was facing the tunnel again, and that tremendous platform on which she had seen men fighting. They were not fighting now. Only the whispers remained, and the little whimpering groans. They were dying by hundreds out in the dark.

She burst into tears.

Tears answered her.

They wept for humanity, those two, not for themselves. They could not bear that this should be the end. Ere silence was completed their hearts were opened, and they knew what had been important on the earth. Man, the flower of all flesh, the noblest of all creatures visible, man who had once made god in his image, and had mirrored his strength on the constellations, beautiful naked man was dying, strangled in the garments that he had woven. Century after century had he toiled, and here was his reward. Truly the garment had seemed heavenly at first, shot with colours of culture, sewn with the threads of self-denial. And heavenly it had been so long as man could shed it at will and live by the essence that is his soul, and the essence, equally divine, that is his body. The sin against the body – it was for that they wept in chief; the centuries of wrong against the muscles and the nerves, and those five portals by which we can alone apprehend – glozing it over with talk of evolution, until the body was white pap, the home of ideas as colourless, last sloshy stirrings of a spirit that had grasped the stars.

“Where are you?” she sobbed.

His voice in the darkness said, “Here.”

Is there any hope, Kuno?”

“None for us.”

“Where are you?”

She crawled over the bodies of the dead. His blood spurted over her hands.

“Quicker,” he gasped, “I am dying – but we touch, we talk, not through the Machine.”

He kissed her.

“We have come back to our own. We die, but we have recaptured life, as it was in Wessex, when Ælfrid overthrew the Danes. We know what they know outside, they who dwelt in the cloud that is the colour of a pearl.”

“But Kuno, is it true ? Are there still men on the surface of the earth ? Is this – tunnel, this poisoned darkness – really not the end?”

He replied:

“I have seen them, spoken to them, loved them. They are hiding in the midst and the ferns until our civilization stops. Today they are the Homeless – tomorrow —— ”

“Oh, tomorrow – some fool will start the Machine again, tomorrow.”

“Never,” said Kuno, “never. Humanity has learnt its lesson.”

As he spoke, the whole city was broken like a honeycomb. An air-ship had sailed in through the vomitory into a ruined wharf. It crashed downwards, exploding as it went, rending gallery after gallery with its wings of steel. For a moment they saw the nations of the dead, and, before they joined them, scraps of the untainted sky.

The “Machine Stops” was first published in the Oxford and Cambridge Review in 1909Copyright ©1947 E.M. Forster

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