The Darkest Hours - 18 Chilling Dystopias in One Edition - Samuel Butler

Скачать книгу

For how can a man, with thrilling, and burning, and exaltation, recite the following and still be mere mortal earth, a bit of fugitive force, an evanescent form? Here it is:

      “Joy upon joy and gain upon gain

       Are the destined rights of my birth,

       And I shout the praise of my endless days

       To the echoing edge of the earth.

       Though I suffer all deaths that a man can die

       To the uttermost end of time,

       I have deep-drained this, my cup of bliss,

       In every age and clime—

       “The froth of Pride, the tang of Power,

       The sweet of Womanhood!

       I drain the lees upon my knees,

       For oh, the draught is good;

       I drink to Life, I drink to Death,

       And smack my lips with song,

       For when I die, another ‘I’ shall pass the cup along.

       “The man you drove from Eden’s grove

       Was I, my Lord, was I,

       And I shall be there when the earth and the air

       Are rent from sea to sky;

       For it is my world, my gorgeous world,

       The world of my dearest woes,

       From the first faint cry of the newborn

       To the rack of the woman’s throes.

       “Packed with the pulse of an unborn race,

       Torn with a world’s desire,

       The surging flood of my wild young blood

       Would quench the judgment fire.

       I am Man, Man, Man, from the tingling flesh

       To the dust of my earthly goal,

       From the nestling gloom of the pregnant womb

       To the sheen of my naked soul.

       Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh

       The whole world leaps to my will,

       And the unslaked thirst of an Eden cursed

       Shall harrow the earth for its fill.

       Almighty God, when I drain life’s glass

       Of all its rainbow gleams,

       The hapless plight of eternal night

       Shall be none too long for my dreams.

       “The man you drove from Eden’s grove

       Was I, my Lord, was I,

       And I shall be there when the earth and the air

       Are rent from sea to sky;

       For it is my world, my gorgeous world,

       The world of my dear delight,

       From the brightest gleam of the Arctic stream

       To the dusk of my own love-night.”

      Ernest always overworked. His wonderful constitution kept him up; but even that constitution could not keep the tired look out of his eyes. His dear, tired eyes! He never slept more than four and one-half hours a night; yet he never found time to do all the work he wanted to do. He never ceased from his activities as a propagandist, and was always scheduled long in advance for lectures to workingmen’s organizations. Then there was the campaign. He did a man’s full work in that alone. With the suppression of the socialist publishing houses, his meagre royalties ceased, and he was hard-put to make a living; for he had to make a living in addition to all his other labor. He did a great deal of translating for the magazines on scientific and philosophic subjects; and, coming home late at night, worn out from the strain of the campaign, he would plunge into his translating and toil on well into the morning hours. And in addition to everything, there was his studying. To the day of his death he kept up his studies, and he studied prodigiously.

      And yet he found time in which to love me and make me happy. But this was accomplished only through my merging my life completely into his. I learned shorthand and typewriting, and became his secretary. He insisted that I succeeded in cutting his work in half; and so it was that I schooled myself to understand his work. Our interests became mutual, and we worked together and played together.

      And then there were our sweet stolen moments in the midst of our work—just a word, or caress, or flash of love-light; and our moments were sweeter for being stolen. For we lived on the heights, where the air was keen and sparkling, where the toil was for humanity, and where sordidness and selfishness never entered. We loved love, and our love was never smirched by anything less than the best. And this out of all remains: I did not fail. I gave him rest—he who worked so hard for others, my dear, tired-eyed mortalist.

      Chapter XII.

       The Bishop

       Table of Contents

      It was after my marriage that I chanced upon Bishop Morehouse. But I must give the events in their proper sequence. After his outbreak at the I. P. H. Convention, the Bishop, being a gentle soul, had yielded to the friendly pressure brought to bear upon him, and had gone away on a vacation. But he returned more fixed than ever in his determination to preach the message of the Church. To the consternation of his congregation, his first sermon was quite similar to the address he had given before the Convention. Again he said, and at length and with distressing detail, that the Church had wandered away from the Master’s teaching, and that Mammon had been instated in the place of Christ.

      And the result was, willy-nilly, that he was led away to a private sanitarium for mental disease, while in the newspapers appeared pathetic accounts of his mental breakdown and of the saintliness of his character. He was held a prisoner in the sanitarium. I called repeatedly, but was denied access to him; and I was terribly impressed by the tragedy of a sane, normal, saintly man being crushed by the brutal will of society. For the Bishop was sane, and pure, and noble. As Ernest said, all that was the matter with him was that he had incorrect notions of biology and sociology, and because of his incorrect notions he had not gone about it in the right way to rectify matters.

      What terrified me was the Bishop’s helplessness. If he persisted in the truth as he saw it, he was doomed to an insane ward. And he could do nothing. His money, his position, his culture, could not save him. His views were perilous to society, and society could not conceive that such perilous views could be the product of a sane mind. Or, at least, it seems to me that such was society’s attitude.

      But the Bishop, in spite of the gentleness and purity of his spirit, was possessed of guile. He apprehended clearly his danger. He saw himself caught in the web, and he tried to escape from it. Denied help from his friends, such as father and Ernest and I could have given, he was left to battle for himself alone. And in the enforced solitude of the sanitarium he recovered. He became again sane. His eyes ceased to see visions; his brain was purged of the fancy that it was the duty of society to feed the Master’s lambs.

      As I say, he became well, quite well, and the newspapers and the church people hailed his return with joy. I went once to his church. The sermon was of the same order as the ones he had preached long before his eyes had seen visions. I was disappointed, shocked. Had society then beaten him into submission? Was he a coward? Had he been bulldozed into recanting? Or had the strain been too great for him, and had he meekly surrendered to the juggernaut of the established?

      I called upon him in his beautiful home. He was woefully changed. He was thinner, and there were lines on his face which I had never seen before. He was manifestly distressed by my coming. He plucked nervously at his sleeve as we talked; and his eyes were restless, fluttering here, there, and everywhere, and refusing to meet mine. His mind seemed preoccupied, and there were strange pauses in his conversation, abrupt changes of topic, and an

Скачать книгу