by Anthology
"I shall go as soon as you think it is advisable for me to go," I said. "The only thing I wanted to make sure of was the thing you have apparently found out. Once or twice since I came I have felt sceptical about the Machiavellian designs attributed to the Meccanian Government by all these neighbours. Naturally they see a robber in every bush.
I have sometimes been inclined to think the Meccanians like organising just for the love of it, but you are satisfied that there is more in it than that." 'My dear child," said Kwang, "there are some people who can't see a stone wall till they knock their heads against it, and who can't tell that a mad bull is dangerous till he tosses them in the air; and from what I learn you are almost as bad," he said, laughing. "You have been here, how long? Four or five months at any rate. Well, you have a very unsuspicious mind. But I am going to give you an interesting experience. I am going to take you to see a friend of mine who has been a prisoner in an asylum for the mentally afflicted for the last fifteen years. I enjoy the privilege of talking to him alone, and I have permission to take you. I won't stop to explain how I obtained the privilege, but it has been very useful."
In another quarter of an hour we were rolling along in Kwang's motor-car to a place about forty miles outside Mecco. The roads were as smooth as glass and the car made no noise, so we could converse without raising our voices. Kwang observed that if I wished to stay in Meccania there was only one way of getting behind the screen, and that was to become a convert. The role of a convert, however, was becoming more difficult to play. He had lately begun to suspect that he was being watched, or at any rate that one or two people at the Foreign Office were jealous of his privileges. Some years ago, the Head of the Foreign Office had given him practically the free run of the country, and had utilised him as a sort of missionary of Meccania. His books on the Triumphs of Meccanian Culture and on Meccania's World Mission had been given the widest possible publicity, both in Meccania and abroad. He still enjoyed all his privileges, for Count Krafft was a powerful friend at the Foreign Office. Consequently the Police Department had orders not to interfere with him, and he had free passes for almost everything. But another Under-Secretary had lately begun to question the wisdom of his colleague, not openly but secretly, and was trying to get hold of evidence.
"They lie so wonderfully and so systematically themselves," said Kwang, "that they naturally suspect everybody else of lying too. But this suspicion very often defeats its own object. Still, they can't expect to have a monopoly of lying. I have seen official pamphlets for circulation in the departments, on the methods of testing the bona fides of foreigners; and elaborate rules for finding out whether foreign Governments are trying to deceive them."
"And you have satisfied all their tests?" I said.
"Absolutely," replied Kwang, with a smile; "but I am not yet out of the country, and I don't propose to risk it much longer, or I may not be able to get out. However," he added, "there is not the slightest risk in taking you to visit the Asylum for Znednettlapseiwz. I have made a special study of these asylums, of which there are only about half a dozen in the whole country. I got permission some years ago. I had been discussing with Count Krafft the difficulty of dealing with a certain class of persons, to be found in every modern State, who act as a focus for all opposition. They cling obstinately to certain ethical and political doctrines quite out of harmony with those of the Super-State, and profess to regard Bureaucracy and Militarism as inconsistent with liberty. He told me a good deal about the methods employed, and suggested that I should visit one of these asylums. I did so and asked permission to make a study of a few individual cases. Eventually I wrote a monograph on the case of the very man we are going to see, and although it was never published Count Krafft was much pleased with it. The man we shall see, Mr. Stillman, represents a type that has almost entirely disappeared from Meccania. He has had a remarkable history. At one time, for two or three years, he was the chief political opponent of the great Prince Mechow. He belongs to an older generation altogether, a generation older than his contemporaries, if you understand what I mean. Nearly all his contemporaries are 'Good Meccanians,' but there are still the remnants of the opposition left. When Stillman was a boy there were left alive only a handful of men who had stood up to Prince Bludiron. Most of these former opponents had emigrated, some to Transatlantica, some to Luniland and elsewhere. The rest ultimately died out. Stillman attempted to create a new opposition, but it was a hopeless task. If you want to understand the political history of Meccania you cannot do better than get him to talk to you if he is in the mood."
We approached the asylum, which stood upon a lonely moorland, far away from any village. The gates were guarded by a single sentinel. As we walked along the path, after leaving our car in a yard near the lodge, we passed little groups of men working upon patches of garden. They looked up eagerly as we passed, and then turned back to their tasks. I noticed they were dressed in ordinary black clothes. It struck me at once, because I had become so used to seeing everybody in the familiar colours of one of the classes. On my mentioning this to Kwang, he said, "That is perfectly in accordance with the Meccanian system. These men now belong to no class; they are shut off from the rest of the world, and their only chance of returning to it is for them to renounce, formally and absolutely, all the errors of which they have been guilty."
"And do many of them 'recant'?" I asked.
"Very few. Most of them do not want to return to the ordinary life of Meccania, but occasionally the desire to be with some member of their family proves too strong for them. They are nearly all old people here now. None of the younger generation are attacked by the disease, and the authorities hope "âÄî he smiled sardonically—"that in a few years the disease will have disappeared entirely."
We first went to call upon Hospital-Governor Canting. He was in his office, which was comfortably furnished in very characteristic Meccanian taste. The chairs were all adjustable, and covered with' Art' tapestry. The large table had huge legs like swollen pillars—they were really made of thin cast-iron. There were the usual large portraits of the Emperor and Empress, and busts of Prince Me chow and Prince Bludiron. There was the usual large bookcase, full of volumes of reports bound in leather-substitute, and stamped with the arms of Meccania. Governor Canting wore the green uniform of the Fourth Class, with various silver facings and buttons, and a collar of the special kind worn by all the clergy of the Meccanian Church. He was writing at his table when we were shown in. He greeted Kwang almost effusively and bowed to me, with the usual Meccanian attitudes, as I was introduced.
"So you have brought your friend to see our system of treatment," he said, smiling. "It is very unusual for us to receive visits at all,"—here he turned to me,âÄî" but Mr. Kwang is quite a privileged person in Meccania. If only there were more people like Mr. Kwang we should not be so much misunderstood, and the victims of so much envy, malice and uncharitableness. Still, it is a sad experience for you."
"Do many of the patients suffer acutely?" I asked, hardly knowing what was the right cue.
"Oh, I did not mean that. No, no, they don't suffer much. But it is sad to think that men who might have been worthy citizens, some of them as writers, some as teachers, some even as doctors— men who might have served the State in a hundred ways—are wasting their talents and hindering the spread of our Culture."
"It must be a terrible affliction," I said. "Do they not sometimes feel it themselves in their moments of clearness of mind?"
He looked at me, a little in doubt as to my meaning, but my face must have reassured him. "The strange thing about this disease," he said, "is that the patients suffer no pain directly from it; and you must remember that in practically all cases—just as in alcoholism—it is self-induced. There may be some little hereditary tendency, but the disease itself is certainly not inherited, and can be counteracted in its early stages by prophylactic treatment, as we have now fully demonstrated. As I say, it is self-induced, and it is therefore very difficul
t, even for a Christian minister who realises his duties to the State as well as to the Church, always to feel charitably towards these patients. We cannot shut our eyes to the fact of moral responsibility, and when I think of the obstinacy of these men I am tempted to lose patience. And their conceit! To presume that they—a few hundreds of them at most—know better than all the wise and loyal statesmen of Meccania, better than all the experts, better than all the millions of loyal citizens. But it is when I see what a poor miserable handful of men they are after all that I can find in my heart to pity them."
"And how is my special case?" asked Kwang, when he could get a word in.
"Just the same," said Canting—"just the same. You will find him perhaps a little weaker. I will not go with you. You seem to succeed best with him by yourself; and no doubt you have instructed your friend as to the peculiar nature of his malady." "Yes," said Kwang; "my friend has read my little monograph, and he thought the case so remarkable that with the consent and approval of Dr. Narrowman I brought him to see Patient Stillman in the flesh. I shall get him to talk a little."
"Good," replied Canting; "but you will never cure him. You were quite right in what you once said—Prevention is the only cure. If we had developed our prophylactic system earlier it might have saved him, but he is too old now."
After some preliminary formalities we were taken by one of the warders, who was evidently acquainted with Kwang through his many previous visits, to a room at the end of a long corridor, where we found Mr. Stillman, who greeted us cordially but with old-fashioned dignity. His manner struck me as being very different from that of the modern Meccanians. Clearly be belonged to another generation. The room, which was about twenty feet by ten, was a bed-sitting-room, furnished with one of those contrivances which becomes a bed by night and a false cupboard by day. There was an easy chair with the usual mechanical adjustments, a table, two bedroom chairs, a small sideboard and cupboard, a few other articles of necessity and a shelf of books. There were no bolts or bars or chains—the room suggested a hospital rather than a prison. Mr. Stillman was a fine old man, and, although growing feeble in body, was still vigorous in mind. When seated he held his head erect, and looked us frankly in the face, but with a wistful expression. He had evidently been a good-looking man, but his face bore traces of long suffering. Except that he did not pace about his cell, he reminded me of a caged Hon. One of the orderlies brought in a tray of tea for the three of us. Mr. Stillman said what a pleasure it was to see a human being now and then, and, turning to me, explained that, except to Mr. Kwang and the officials and the doctors, he had not spoken to anyone for five years. "Until five years ago," he said, "I was able to do a little work in the gardens, and could converse with my fellow-prisoners— patients, I mean—but only about our work, and in the presence of a warder. Still, that was some relief. Indeed, it was a great relief, for every one of the patients is a kind of brother—otherwise he would not be here. There are only a few hundreds of us left—perhaps a couple of thousands altogether—I don't know. We have about two hundred here, and this is one of the largest hospitals, or prisons, in the country—so at least I was told."
"But why is conversation not permitted?" I said. "To be deprived of conversation must surely aggravate any tendency to mental instability."
"The theory is that communication with our fellow-patients would hinder our recovery," he replied, with a significant smile.
"But what are you supposed to be suffering from?" I said.
"A mental disease known only to the Government of Meccania," he answered. "You must have heard of it. Mr. Kwang knows all about it. The real name for it is' heresy,' but they call it Znednettlapseiwz. I suffer very badly from it and am incurable—at least I hope so," he added bitterly.
At this point Kwang announced that he wished to visit another patient, and that he would leave us together so that I might have a long talk undisturbed. It was evident that he occupied a privileged position, or he would never have been able to have such access to these patients. When he had left the room I did my best to get Mr. Stillman to talk, but I hardly knew how to induce him to tell me his story. I said, "I suppose you are not treated badly, apart from this prohibition about conversing with your fellow-sufferers?"
"We are fed with the exact amount of food we require," he replied; "we are clothed—and thank God we do not wear any of the seven uniforms; and we are decently warm, except sometimes in winter when, I suppose, something goes wrong with the apparatus."
"What?" I said. "Can any apparatus go wrong in Meccania?"
"Well," he said, "perhaps the fact is that I want to be warmer than the experts think is necessary. Yes; that is probably the explanation."
"And for the rest," I said. "Have you no occupation? How do you spend the time?"
"In trying to preserve the last remains of my sanity," he answered.
"And by what means?" I asked gently.
"Chiefly by prayer and meditation," he replied after a short pause.
He used the old-fashioned expressions which I had not heard from the lips of any Meccanian before. "But it is difficult," he went on, "to keep one's faith, cut off from one's fellow-believers."
"But they allow you to attend religious services surely?" I said.
"The Meccanian State Church keeps a chaplain here, and holds a service every day which is attended by all the officials and a few of the patients; but you have heard the maxim Cujus regio ejus religio, have you not?" I nodded. "It has acquired a new significance during the last fifty years. I have not attended any of the services since they ceased to be compulsory about ten years ago."
"That sounds very remarkable," I said.
"What does?"
"It is the first time I have heard of anything ceasing to be compulsory in Meccania," I said.
"The fact was that they discovered it had a very bad effect upon the disease. My chief relief now is reading, which is permitted for three hours a day."
"And you are allowed to choose your own books?"
"As a concession to our mental infirmity," he said, "we have been granted the privilege of reading some of the old authors. It came about in this way. Dr. Weakling, who is in charge of this hospital, is the son of one of my oldest friends—a man who spent several years in this place as a patient. He came in about the same time as I did, but his health gave way and he' recanted,' or, as they say, he' recovered.' But while he was here he begged to have a few of the old books to save him from going mad. The authorities refused to let him have any books except those specially provided, and I believe it was this that made him give way. Anyhow he used his influence with his son afterwards, for his son had become one of the leading medical specialists, to obtain for the older patients at any rate a number of the books of the old literature which nobody else wanted to read. He only got the concession through on the ground that it was a psychological experiment. He has had to write a report on the experiment every year since its introduction. That is our greatest positive privilege, but we have a few negative privileges."
"What do you mean exactly?" I said.
"We have no compulsory attendances; we have no forms to fill up; we are not required to keep a diary; we are not required to read the Monthly Gazette of Instructions, nor play any part in State ceremonies. Indeed, if I could talk to my friends who are here I should have little to complain of on the score of personal comfort."
"Then why do you speak of the difficulty of preserving your sanity?" I said, rather thoughtlessly, I am afraid.
"Why do you think I am here at all?" he replied, for the first time speaking fiercely. "I could have my liberty to-day if I chose, could I not?" Then he went on, not angrily but more bitterly, "Did I say I could have my liberty? No; that is not true. I could go out of here tomorrow, but I should not be at liberty. I stay here, because here I am only a prisoner—outside I should be a slave. How long have you been in Meccania did you say?"
"About five months," I said.
"And you are free to go back
to your own country?"
"Certainly," I said—"at least, I hope so."
"Then go as soon as you can. This is no fit place for human beings. It is a community of slaves, who do not even know they are slaves because they have never tasted liberty, ruled over by a caste of super-criminals who have turned crime into a science."
"I have not heard the ruling classes called criminals before," I said. "I am not sure that I understand what you mean."
"Then you must have been woefully taken in by all this hocus-pocus of law and constitution and patriotism. The whole place is one gigantic prison, and either the people themselves are criminals, or those who put them there must be. There is such a thing as legalised crime. Crime is not merely the breaking of a statute. Murder and rape are crimes, statute or no statute."
"But what are the crimes these rulers of Meccania have committed?" I said.
"In all civilised countries," he replied passionately, "if you steal from a man, if you violate his wife or his daughters, if you kidnap his children, you are a criminal and outlawed from all decent society. These rulers of ours have done worse than that. They have robbed us of everything; we have nothing of our own. They feed us, clothe us, house us—oh no, there is no poverty—every beast of burden in the country is provided with stall and fodder—ay, and harness too; they measure us, weigh us, doctor us, instruct us, drill us, breed from us, experiment on us, protect us, pension us and bury us. Nay, that is not the end; they dissect us and analyse us and use our carcasses for the benefit of Science and the Super-State. I called them a nation. They are not a nation; they are an' organism.' You have been here five months, you say. You have seen a lot of spectacles, no doubt. You have seen buildings, institutions, organisations, systems, machinery for this and machinery for that, but you have not seen a single human beingâÄî unless you have visited our prisons and asylums. You have not been allowed to talk to anybody except' authorised persons.' You have been instructed by officials. You have read books selected by the Super-State, and written by the Super-State. You have seen plays selected by the Super-State, and heard music selected by the Super-State, and seen pictures selected by the Super-State, and no doubt heard sermons preached by the Super-State.