Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (394 page)

“Ever amid the babel of the swarming street, would he hear strong, silent voices, speaking to him as he walked, telling him of the work that would one day be entrusted to his hands — work for God, such as is given to only the very few to do, work tor the helping of God’s children in the world, for the making of them stronger and truer and higher; — and, in some dimly-lighted corner, where for a moment they were alone, he would stand and raise his boyish hands to Heaven, and thank God for this great promised gift of noble usefulness, and pray that he might ever prove worthy of the trust; and, in the joy of his coming work, the little frets of life floated like drift-wood on a deepening river; and as he grew, the voices spoke to him ever more plainly, until he saw his work before him clearly, as a traveler on the hilltop sees the pathway through the vale.

“And so the years passed, and he became a man, and his labour lay ready to his hand.

“And then a foul demon came and tempted him — the demon that has killed many a better man before, that will kill many a great man yet — the demon of worldly success. And the demon whispered evil words into his ear, and, God forgive him! — he listened.

“‘Of what good to
you
, think you, it will be, your writing mighty truths and noble thoughts? What will the world pay for
them?
What has ever been the reward of the earth’s greatest teachers and poets — the men who have given their lives to the best service of mankind — but neglect and scorn and poverty? Look around! what are the wages of the few earnest workers of to-day but a pauper’s pittance, compared with the wealth that is showered down on those who jig to the tune that the crowd shouts for? Aye, the true singers are honoured when they are dead — those that are remembered and the thoughts from their brains once fallen, whether they themselves are remembered or not, stir, with ever-widening circles, to all time, the waters of human life. But of what use is that to themselves, who starved? You have talent, genius. Riches, luxury, power can be yours — soft beds and dainty foods. You can be great in the greatness that the world can see, famous with the fame your own ears will hear. Work for the world, and the world will pay you promptly; the wages the gods give are long delayed.’

“And the demon prevailed over him, and he fell.

“And, instead of being the servant of God, he became the slave of men. And he wrote for the multitude what they wanted to hear, and the multitude applauded and flung money to him; and as he would stoop to pick it up, he would grin and touch his cap, and tell them how generous and noble they were.

“And the spirit of the artist that is handmaiden to the spirit of the prophet departed from him, and he grew into the clever huckster, the smart tradesman, whose only desire was to discover the public taste that he might pander to it.

“‘Only tell me what it is you like,’ he would cry in his heart, ‘that I may write it for you, good people! Will you have again the old lies? Do you still love the old dead conventions, the worn-out formulas of life, the rotting weeds of evil thoughts that keep the fresh air from the flowers?’

“‘Shall I sing again to you the childish twaddle you have heard a million times before? Shall I defend for you the wrong, and call it right? Shall I stab Truth in the back for you, or praise it?’

“‘How shall I flatter you to-day, and in what way to-morrow, and the next day? Only tell me what you wish me to say, what you wish me to think, that I may say it and think it, good people, and so get your pence and your plaudits!’

“Thus he became rich and famous and great; and had fine clothes to wear and rich food to eat, as the demon had promised him, and servants to wait on him, and horses, and carriages to ride in; and he would have been happy — as happy as such things can make a man — only that at the bottom of his desk there lay (and he had never had the courage to destroy them) a little pile of faded manuscripts, written in a boyish hand, that would speak to him of the memory of a poor lad who had once paced the city’s feet-worn stones, dreaming of no other greatness than that of being one of God’s messengers to men, and who had died, and had been buried for all eternity, long years ago.”

It was a very sad story, but not exactly the sort of sad story, I felt, that the public wants in a Christmas number. So I had to fall back upon the broken-hearted maiden, after all!

THE NEW UTOPIA

I had an extremely interesting evening. I had dined with some very “advanced” friends of mine at the “National Socialist Club.” We had had an excellent dinner: the pheasant, stuffed with truffles, was a poem, and when I say that the ‘49 Chateau Lafitte was worth the price we had to pay for it, I do not see what more I can add in its favour.

After dinner, and over the cigars (I must say they do know how to stock good cigars at the National Socialist Club), we had a very instructive discussion about the coming equality of man and the nationalisation of capital.

I was not able to take much part in the argument myself, because, having been left when a boy in a position which rendered it necessary for me to earn my own living, I have never enjoyed the time and opportunity to study these questions.

But I listened very attentively while my friends explained how, for the thousands of centuries during which it had existed before they came, the world had been going on all wrong, and how, in the course of the next few years or so, they meant to put it right.

Equality of all mankind was their watchword — perfect equality in all things — equality in possessions, and equality in position and influence, and equality in duties, resulting in equality in happiness and contentment.

The world belonged to all alike, and must be equally divided. Each man’s labour was the property, not of himself, but of the State which fed and clothed him, and must be applied, not to his own aggrandizement, but to the enrichment of the race.

Individual wealth — the social chain with which the few had bound the many, the bandit’s pistol by which a small gang of robbers had thieved from the whole community the fruits of its labours — must be taken from the hands that too long had held it.

Social distinctions — the barriers by which the rising tide of humanity had hitherto been fretted and restrained — must be for ever swept aside. The human race must press onward to its destiny (whatever that might be), not as at present, a scattered horde, scrambling, each man for himself — over the broken ground of unequal birth and fortune — the soft sward reserved for the feet of the pampered, the cruel stones left for the feet of the cursed — but an ordered army, marching side by side over the level plain of equity and equality.

The great bosom of our Mother Earth should nourish all her chlidren, like and like; none should be hungry, none should have too much. The strong man should not grasp more than the weak; the clever man should not scheme to seize more than the simple. The earth was man’s, and the fullness thereof; and among all mankind it should be portioned out in even shares. All men were equal by the laws of Nature, and must be made equal by the laws of man.

With inequality comes misery, crime, sin, selfishness, arrogance, hypocrisy. In a world in which all men were equal, there would exist no temptation to evil, and our natural nobility would assert itself.

When all men were equal, the world would be Heaven — freed from the degrading despotism of God.

We raised our glasses and drank to EQUALITY, sacred EQUALITY; and then ordered the waiter to bring us green Chartreuse and more cigars.

I went home very thoughtful. I did not go to sleep for a long while; I lay awake; thinking over this vision of a new world that had been presented to me.

How delightful life would be, if only the scheme of my socialistic friends could be carried out. There would be no more of this struggling and striving against each other, no more jealousy, no more disappointment, no more fear of poverty! The State would take charge of us from the hour we were born until we died, and provide for all our wants from the cradle to the coffin, both inclusive, and we should need to give no thought even to the matter. There would be no more hard work (three hours’ labour a day would be the limit, according to our calculations, that the State would require from each adult citizen, and nobody would be allowed to do more —
I
should not be allowed to do more) — no poor to pity, no rich to envy — no one to look down upon us, no one for us to look down upon (not quite so pleasant this latter reflection) — all our life ordered and arranged for us — nothing to think about except the glorious destiny (whatever that might be) of Humanity!

Then thought crept away to sport in chaos, and I slept.

When I awoke, I found myself lying under a glass case, in a high, cheerless room. There was a label over my head; I turned and read it. It ran as follows:

MAN — ASLEEP.

PERIOD — I9TH CENTURY.

This man was found asleep in a house in London, after the great social revolution of 1899. From the account given by the landlady of the house, it would appear that he had already, when discovered, been asleep for over ten years (she having forgotten to call him). It was decided, for scientific purposes, not to awake him, but to just see how long he would sleep on. and he was accordingly brought and deposited in the “Museum of Curiosities,” on February 11th, 1900.

VISITORS ARE REQUESTED NOT TO SQUIRT WATER THIOUGH THE AIR-HOLES.

An intelligent-looking old gentleman, who had been arranging some stuffed lizards in an adjoining case, came over and took the cover off me,

“What’s the matter?” he asked; “anything disturbed you?”

“No,” I said; “I always wake up like this, when I feel I’ve had enough sleep. What century is this?”

“This,” he said, “is the twenty-ninth century. You have been asleep just one thousand years.”

“Ah! well, I feel all the better for it,” I replied, getting down off the table. “There’s nothing like having one’s sleep out.”

“I take it you are going to do the usual thing,” said the old gentleman to me, as I proceeded to put on my clothes, which had been lying beside me in the case. “You’ll want me to walk round the city with you, and explain all the changes to you, while you ask questions and make silly remarks?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I suppose that’s what I ought to do.”

“I suppose so,” he muttered. “Come on, and let’s get it over,” and he led the way from the room.

As we went downstairs, I said:

“Well, is it all right now?”

“Is what all right?” he replied.

“Why, the world,” I answered. “A few friends of mine were arranging, just before I went to bed, to take it to pieces and fix it up again properly. Have they got it all right by this time? Is everybody equal now, and sin and sorrow and all that sort of thing done away with?”

“Oh, yes,” replied my guide; “you’ll find everything all right now. We’ve been working away pretty hard at things while youVe been asleep. We’ve just got this earth about perfect now, I should say. Nobody is allowed to do anything wrong or silly; and as for equality, tadpoles ain’t in it with us.”