by Philip Wylie
XXII
Hugo realized at last that there was no place in his world for him.Tides and tempest, volcanoes and lightning, all other majesticvehemences of the universe had a purpose, but he had none. Eitherbecause he was all those forces unnaturally locked in the body of a man,or because he was a giant compelled to stoop and pander to live at allamong his feeble fellows, his anachronism was complete.
That much he perceived calmly. His tragedy lay in the lie he had told tohis father: great deeds were always imminent and none of them could beaccomplished because they involved humanity, humanity protecting itsdiseases, its pettiness, its miserable convictions and conventions, withthe essence of itself--life. Life not misty and fecund for the future,but life clawing at the dollar in the hour, the security of platitudes,the relief of visible facts, the hope in rationalization, the needs ofskin, belly, and womb.
Beyond that, he could see destiny by interpreting his limited career.Through a sort of ontogenetic recapitulation he had survived his savagechildhood, his barbaric youth, and the Greeces, Romes, Egypts, andBabylons of his early manhood, emerging into a present that was endowedwith as much aspiration and engaged with the same futility as was hiscontemporary microcosm. No life span could observe anything but materialprogress, for so mean and inalterable is the gauge of man that his racestopple before his soul expands, and the eventualities of his growth inspace and time must remain a problem for thousands and tens of thousandsof years.
Searching still further, he appreciated that no single man could force achange upon his unwilling fellows. At most he might inculcate an idea ina few and live to see its gradual spreading. Even then he could have noassurance of its contortions to the desire for wealth and power or ofthe consequences of those contortions.
Finally, to build, one must first destroy, and he questioned his rightto select unaided the objects for destruction. He looked at the Capitolin Washington and pondered the effect of issuing an ultimatum andthereafter bringing down the great dome like Samson. He thought of thechurches and their bewildering, stupefying effect on masses who weremulcted by their own fellows, equally bewildered, equally stupefied.Suppose through a thousand nights he ravaged the churches, wreckingevery structure in the land, laying waste property, making the loud,unattended volume of worship an impossibility, taking away thepurple-robed gods of his forbears? Suppose he sank the navy, annihilatedthe army, set up a despotism? No matter how efficiently and well heruled, the millions would hate him, plot against him, attempt his life;and every essential agent would be a hypocritical sycophant seekingselfish ends.
He reached the last of his conclusions sitting beside a river whither hehad walked to think. An immense loathing for the world rose up in him.At its apex a locomotive whistled in the distance, thunderedinarticulately, and rounded a bend. It came very near the place whereHugo reclined, black, smoking, and noisy, drivers churning along therails, a train of passenger cars behind. Hugo could see the dots thatwere people's heads. People! Human beings! How he hated them! The trainwas very near. Suddenly all his muscles were unsprung. He threw himselfto his feet and rushed toward the train, with a passionate desire to gethis fingers around the sliding piston, to up-end the locomotive and tothrow the ordered machinery into a blackened, blazing, bloody tangle ofruin.
His lips uttered a wild cry; he jumped across the river and ran twoprodigious steps. Then he stopped. The train went on unharmed. Hugoshuddered.
If the world did not want him, he would leave the world. Perhaps he wasa menace to it. Perhaps he should kill himself. But his burning,sickened heart refused once more to give up. Frenzy departed, thennumbness. In its place came a fresh hope, new determination. Hugo Dannerwould do his utmost until the end. Meanwhile, he would remove himselfsome distance from the civilization that had tortured him. He would goaway and find a new dream.
The sound of the locomotive was dead in the distance. He crossed theriver on a bridge and went back to his house. He felt strong again andglad--glad because he had won an obscure victory, glad because the farceof his quest in political government had ended with no tragicdenouement.
They were electrocuting Davidoff and Pletzky that day. The news scarcelyinterested Hugo. The part he had very nearly played in the affair seemedlike the folly of a dimly remembered acquaintance. The relief ofresigning that impossible purpose overwhelmed him. He dismissed hisservants, closed his house, and boarded a train. When the locomotivepounded through the station, he suffered a momentary pang. He sat in aseat with people all around him. He was tranquil and almost content.