Part 9 (1/2)
The neolithic man succeeds the palaeolithic man, and sharpens the stone axe. Then to increase their power for destruction, men find it better to hunt in packs. Communities appear. Soon each community discovers that its own advantage is furthered by confining its killing, in the main, to the members of neighbouring communities. Nations early make the same discovery. And at last, as with ourselves, there is established a race with conscience enough to know that it is vile, and intelligence enough to know that it is insignificant.[1] But what profits this? In the fulness of its time the race shall die. Man will go down into the pit, and all his thoughts will perish. The uneasy consciousness which, in this obscure corner, has for a brief s.p.a.ce broken the silence of the Universe, will be at rest. Matter will know itself no longer. Life and death and love, stronger than death, will be as though they never had been. Nor will anything that _is_ be better or be worse for all that the labour, genius, devotion, and suffering of man have striven through countless generations to effect.
[1] From this sentence to the end of the paragraph Brande draws freely, for the purpose of his own argument, on Mr. Balfour's ”Naturalism and Ethics.”--_Ed._
”The roaring loom of Time weaves on. The globe cools out. Life mercifully ceases from upon its surface. The atmosphere and water disappear. It rests. It is dead.
”But for its vicarious service in influencing more youthful planets within its reach, that dead world might as well be loosed at once from its gravitation cable and be turned adrift into s.p.a.ce. Its time has not yet come. It will not come until the great central sun of the system to which it belongs has pa.s.sed laboriously through all his stages of stellar life and died out also. Then when that dead sun, according to the impact theory, blunders across the path of another sun, dead and blind like himself, its time will come. The result of that impact will be a new star nebula, with all its weary history before it; a history of suffering, in which a million years will not be long enough to write a single page.
”Here we have a scientific parallel to the h.e.l.l of superst.i.tion which may account for the instinctive origin of the smoking flax and the fire which shall never be quenched. We know that the atoms of which the human body is built up are atoms of matter. It follows that every atom in every living body will be present in some form at that final impact in which the solar system will be ended in a blazing whirlwind which will melt the earth with its fervent heat. There is not a molecule or cell in any creature alive this day which will not in its ultimate const.i.tuents endure the long agony, lasting countless aeons of centuries, wherein the solid ma.s.s of this great globe will be represented by a rush of incandescent gas, stupendous in itself, but trivial in comparison with the hurricane of flame in which it will be swallowed up and lost.
”And when from that h.e.l.l a new star emerges, and new planets in their season are born of him, and he and they repeat, as they must repeat, the ceaseless, changeless, remorseless story of the universe, every atom in this earth will take its place, and fill again functions identical with those which it, or its fellow, fills now. Life will reappear, develop, determine, to be renewed again as before. And so on for ever.
”Nature has known no rest. From the beginning--which never was--she has been building up only to tear down again. She has been fabricating pretty toys and trinkets, that cost her many a thousand years to forge, only to break them in pieces for her sport. With infinite painstaking she has manufactured man only to torture him with mean miseries in the embryonic stages of his race, and in his higher development to madden him with intellectual puzzles. Thus it will be unto the end--which never shall be. For there is neither beginning nor end to her unvarying cycles. Whether the secular optimist be successful or unsuccessful in realising his paltry span of terrestrial paradise, whether the paeans he sings about it are prophetic dithyrambs or misleading myths, no Christian man need fear for his own immortality. That is well a.s.sured.
In some form he will surely be raised from the dead. In some shape he will live again. But, _Cui bono_?”
CHAPTER X.
FORCE--A REMEDY.
”Get me out of this, I am stifled--ill,” Miss Metford said, in a low voice to me.
As we were hurrying from the room, Brande and his sister, who had joined him, met us. The fire had died out of his eyes. His voice had returned to its ordinary key. His demeanour was imperturbable, sphinx-like. I murmured some words about the eloquence of the lecture, but interrupted myself when I observed his complete indifference to my remarks, and said,
”Neither praise nor blame seems to affect you, Brande.”
”Certainly not,” he answered calmly. ”You forget that there is nothing deserving of either praise or blame.”
I knew I could not argue with him, so we pa.s.sed on. Outside, I offered to find a cab for Miss Metford, and to my surprise she allowed me to do so. Her self-a.s.sertive manner was visibly modified. She made no pretence of resenting this slight attention, as was usual with her in similar cases. Indeed, she asked me to accompany her as far as our ways lay together. But I felt that my society at the time could hardly prove enlivening. I excused myself by saying candidly that I wished to be alone.
My own company soon became unendurable. In despair I turned into a music hall. The contrast between my mental excitement and the inanities of the stage was too acute, so this resource speedily failed me. Then I betook myself to the streets again. Here I remembered a letter Brande had put into my hand as I left the hall. It was short, and the tone was even more peremptory than his usual arrogance. It directed me to meet the members of the Society at Charing Cross station at two o'clock on the following day. No information was given, save that we were all going on a long journey; that I must set my affairs in such order that my absence would not cause any trouble, and the letter ended, ”Our experiments are now complete. Our plans are matured. Do not fail to attend.”
”Fail to attend!” I muttered. ”If I am not the most abject coward on the earth I will attend--with every available policeman in London.” The pent-up wrath and impotence of many days found voice at last. ”Yes, Brande,” I shouted aloud, ”I will attend, and you shall be sorry for having invited me.”
”But I will not be sorry,” said Natalie Brande, touching my arm.
”You here!” I exclaimed, in great surprise, for it was fully an hour since I left the hall, and my movements had been at haphazard since then.
”Yes, I have followed you for your own sake. Are you really going to draw back now?”
”I must.”
”Then I must go on alone.”
”You will not go on alone. You will remain, and your friends shall go on without you--go to prison without you, I mean.”
”Poor boy,” she said softly, to herself. ”I wonder if I would have thought as I think now if I had known him sooner? I suppose I should have been as other women, and their fools' paradise would have been mine--for a little while.”
The absolute hopelessness in her voice pierced my heart. I pleaded pa.s.sionately with her to give up her brother and all the maniacs who followed him. For the time I forgot utterly that the girl, by her own confession, was already with them in sympathy as well as in deed.
She said to me: ”I cannot hold back now. And you? You know you are powerless to interfere. If you will not come with me, I must go alone.