الفصل الفصل 8 · VIII. Explanation

II. Explanation

“So far as I could see, all the world displayed the same exuberant

richness as the Thames valley. From every hill I climbed I saw the same

abundance of splendid buildings, endlessly varied in material and

style, the same clustering thickets of evergreens, the same

blossom-laden trees and tree ferns. Here and there water shone like

silver, and beyond, the land rose into blue undulating hills, and so

faded into the serenity of the sky. A peculiar feature, which presently

attracted my attention, was the presence of certain circular wells,

several, as it seemed to me, of a very great depth. One lay by the path

up the hill which I had followed during my first walk. Like the others,

it was rimmed with bronze, curiously wrought, and protected by a little

cupola from the rain. Sitting by the side of these wells, and peering

down into the shafted darkness, I could see no gleam of water, nor

could I start any reflection with a lighted match. But in all of them I

heard a certain sound: a thud—thud—thud, like the beating of some big

engine; and I discovered, from the flaring of my matches, that a steady

current of air set down the shafts. Further, I threw a scrap of paper

into the throat of one, and, instead of fluttering slowly down, it was

at once sucked swiftly out of sight.

“After a time, too, I came to connect these wells with tall towers

standing here and there upon the slopes; for above them there was often

just such a flicker in the air as one sees on a hot day above a

sun-scorched beach. Putting things together, I reached a strong

suggestion of an extensive system of subterranean ventilation, whose

true import it was difficult to imagine. I was at first inclined to

associate it with the sanitary apparatus of these people. It was an

obvious conclusion, but it was absolutely wrong.

“And here I must admit that I learnt very little of drains and bells

and modes of conveyance, and the like conveniences, during my time in

this real future. In some of these visions of Utopias and coming times

which I have read, there is a vast amount of detail about building, and

social arrangements, and so forth. But while such details are easy

enough to obtain when the whole world is contained in one’s

imagination, they are altogether inaccessible to a real traveller amid

such realities as I found here. Conceive the tale of London which a

negro, fresh from Central Africa, would take back to his tribe! What

would he know of railway companies, of social movements, of telephone

and telegraph wires, of the Parcels Delivery Company, and postal orders

and the like? Yet we, at least, should be willing enough to explain

these things to him! And even of what he knew, how much could he make

his untravelled friend either apprehend or believe? Then, think how

narrow the gap between a negro and a white man of our own times, and

how wide the interval between myself and these of the Golden Age! I was

sensible of much which was unseen, and which contributed to my comfort;

but save for a general impression of automatic organisation, I fear I

can convey very little of the difference to your mind.

“In the matter of sepulture, for instance, I could see no signs of

crematoria nor anything suggestive of tombs. But it occurred to me

that, possibly, there might be cemeteries (or crematoria) somewhere

beyond the range of my explorings. This, again, was a question I

deliberately put to myself, and my curiosity was at first entirely

defeated upon the point. The thing puzzled me, and I was led to make a

further remark, which puzzled me still more: that aged and infirm among

this people there were none.

“I must confess that my satisfaction with my first theories of an

automatic civilisation and a decadent humanity did not long endure. Yet

I could think of no other. Let me put my difficulties. The several big

palaces I had explored were mere living places, great dining-halls and

sleeping apartments. I could find no machinery, no appliances of any

kind. Yet these people were clothed in pleasant fabrics that must at

times need renewal, and their sandals, though undecorated, were fairly

complex specimens of metalwork. Somehow such things must be made. And

the little people displayed no vestige of a creative tendency. There

were no shops, no workshops, no sign of importations among them. They

spent all their time in playing gently, in bathing in the river, in

making love in a half-playful fashion, in eating fruit and sleeping. I

could not see how things were kept going.

“Then, again, about the Time Machine: something, I knew not what, had

taken it into the hollow pedestal of the White Sphinx. _Why?_ For the

life of me I could not imagine. Those waterless wells, too, those

flickering pillars. I felt I lacked a clue. I felt—how shall I put it?

Suppose you found an inscription, with sentences here and there in

excellent plain English, and interpolated therewith, others made up of

words, of letters even, absolutely unknown to you? Well, on the third

day of my visit, that was how the world of Eight Hundred and Two

Thousand Seven Hundred and One presented itself to me!

“That day, too, I made a friend—of a sort. It happened that, as I was

watching some of the little people bathing in a shallow, one of them

was seized with cramp and began drifting downstream. The main current

ran rather swiftly, but not too strongly for even a moderate swimmer.

It will give you an idea, therefore, of the strange deficiency in these

creatures, when I tell you that none made the slightest attempt to

rescue the weakly crying little thing which was drowning before their

eyes. When I realised this, I hurriedly slipped off my clothes, and,

wading in at a point lower down, I caught the poor mite and drew her

safe to land. A little rubbing of the limbs soon brought her round, and

I had the satisfaction of seeing she was all right before I left her. I

had got to such a low estimate of her kind that I did not expect any

gratitude from her. In that, however, I was wrong.

“This happened in the morning. In the afternoon I met my little woman,

as I believe it was, as I was returning towards my centre from an

exploration, and she received me with cries of delight and presented me

with a big garland of flowers—evidently made for me and me alone. The

thing took my imagination. Very possibly I had been feeling desolate.

At any rate I did my best to display my appreciation of the gift. We

were soon seated together in a little stone arbour, engaged in

conversation, chiefly of smiles. The creature’s friendliness affected

me exactly as a child’s might have done. We passed each other flowers,

and she kissed my hands. I did the same to hers. Then I tried talk, and

found that her name was Weena, which, though I don’t know what it

meant, somehow seemed appropriate enough. That was the beginning of a

queer friendship which lasted a week, and ended—as I will tell you!

“She was exactly like a child. She wanted to be with me always. She

tried to follow me everywhere, and on my next journey out and about it

went to my heart to tire her down, and leave her at last, exhausted and

calling after me rather plaintively. But the problems of the world had

to be mastered. I had not, I said to myself, come into the future to

carry on a miniature flirtation. Yet her distress when I left her was

very great, her expostulations at the parting were sometimes frantic,

and I think, altogether, I had as much trouble as comfort from her

devotion. Nevertheless she was, somehow, a very great comfort. I

thought it was mere childish affection that made her cling to me. Until

it was too late, I did not clearly know what I had inflicted upon her

when I left her. Nor until it was too late did I clearly understand

what she was to me. For, by merely seeming fond of me, and showing in

her weak, futile way that she cared for me, the little doll of a

creature presently gave my return to the neighbourhood of the White

Sphinx almost the feeling of coming home; and I would watch for her

tiny figure of white and gold so soon as I came over the hill.

“It was from her, too, that I learnt that fear had not yet left the

world. She was fearless enough in the daylight, and she had the oddest

confidence in me; for once, in a foolish moment, I made threatening

grimaces at her, and she simply laughed at them. But she dreaded the

dark, dreaded shadows, dreaded black things. Darkness to her was the

one thing dreadful. It was a singularly passionate emotion, and it set

me thinking and observing. I discovered then, among other things, that

these little people gathered into the great houses after dark, and

slept in droves. To enter upon them without a light was to put them

into a tumult of apprehension. I never found one out of doors, or one

sleeping alone within doors, after dark. Yet I was still such a

blockhead that I missed the lesson of that fear, and in spite of

Weena’s distress, I insisted upon sleeping away from these slumbering

multitudes.

“It troubled her greatly, but in the end her odd affection for me

triumphed, and for five of the nights of our acquaintance, including

the last night of all, she slept with her head pillowed on my arm. But

my story slips away from me as I speak of her. It must have been the

night before her rescue that I was awakened about dawn. I had been

restless, dreaming most disagreeably that I was drowned, and that sea

anemones were feeling over my face with their soft palps. I woke with a

start, and with an odd fancy that some greyish animal had just rushed

out of the chamber. I tried to get to sleep again, but I felt restless

and uncomfortable. It was that dim grey hour when things are just

creeping out of darkness, when everything is colourless and clear cut,

and yet unreal. I got up, and went down into the great hall, and so out

upon the flagstones in front of the palace. I thought I would make a

virtue of necessity, and see the sunrise.

“The moon was setting, and the dying moonlight and the first pallor of

dawn were mingled in a ghastly half-light. The bushes were inky black,

the ground a sombre grey, the sky colourless and cheerless. And up the

hill I thought I could see ghosts. Three several times, as I scanned

the slope, I saw white figures. Twice I fancied I saw a solitary white,

ape-like creature running rather quickly up the hill, and once near the

ruins I saw a leash of them carrying some dark body. They moved

hastily. I did not see what became of them. It seemed that they

vanished among the bushes. The dawn was still indistinct, you must

understand. I was feeling that chill, uncertain, early-morning feeling

you may have known. I doubted my eyes.

“As the eastern sky grew brighter, and the light of the day came on and

its vivid colouring returned upon the world once more, I scanned the

view keenly. But I saw no vestige of my white figures. They were mere

creatures of the half-light. ‘They must have been ghosts,’ I said; ‘I

wonder whence they dated.’ For a queer notion of Grant Allen’s came

into my head, and amused me. If each generation die and leave ghosts,

he argued, the world at last will get overcrowded with them. On that

theory they would have grown innumerable some Eight Hundred Thousand

Years hence, and it was no great wonder to see four at once. But the

jest was unsatisfying, and I was thinking of these figures all the

morning, until Weena’s rescue drove them out of my head. I associated

them in some indefinite way with the white animal I had startled in my

first passionate search for the Time Machine. But Weena was a pleasant

substitute. Yet all the same, they were soon destined to take far

deadlier possession of my mind.

“I think I have said how much hotter than our own was the weather of

this Golden Age. I cannot account for it. It may be that the sun was

hotter, or the earth nearer the sun. It is usual to assume that the sun

will go on cooling steadily in the future. But people, unfamiliar with

such speculations as those of the younger Darwin, forget that the

planets must ultimately fall back one by one into the parent body. As

these catastrophes occur, the sun will blaze with renewed energy; and

it may be that some inner planet had suffered this fate. Whatever the

reason, the fact remains that the sun was very much hotter than we know

it.

“Well, one very hot morning—my fourth, I think—as I was seeking shelter

from the heat and glare in a colossal ruin near the great house where I

slept and fed, there happened this strange thing. Clambering among

these heaps of masonry, I found a narrow gallery, whose end and side

windows were blocked by fallen masses of stone. By contrast with the

brilliancy outside, it seemed at first impenetrably dark to me. I

entered it groping, for the change from light to blackness made spots

of colour swim before me. Suddenly I halted spellbound. A pair of eyes,

luminous by reflection against the daylight without, was watching me

out of the darkness.

“The old instinctive dread of wild beasts came upon me. I clenched my

hands and steadfastly looked into the glaring eyeballs. I was afraid to

turn. Then the thought of the absolute security in which humanity

appeared to be living came to my mind. And then I remembered that

strange terror of the dark. Overcoming my fear to some extent, I

advanced a step and spoke. I will admit that my voice was harsh and

ill-controlled. I put out my hand and touched something soft. At once

the eyes darted sideways, and something white ran past me. I turned

with my heart in my mouth, and saw a queer little ape-like figure, its

head held down in a peculiar manner, running across the sunlit space

behind me. It blundered against a block of granite, staggered aside,

and in a moment was hidden in a black shadow beneath another pile of

ruined masonry.

“My impression of it is, of course, imperfect; but I know it was a dull

white, and had strange large greyish-red eyes; also that there was

flaxen hair on its head and down its back. But, as I say, it went too

fast for me to see distinctly. I cannot even say whether it ran on all

fours, or only with its forearms held very low. After an instant’s

pause I followed it into the second heap of ruins. I could not find it

at first; but, after a time in the profound obscurity, I came upon one

of those round well-like openings of which I have told you, half closed

by a fallen pillar. A sudden thought came to me. Could this Thing have

vanished down the shaft? I lit a match, and, looking down, I saw a

small, white, moving creature, with large bright eyes which regarded me

steadfastly as it retreated. It made me shudder. It was so like a human

spider! It was clambering down the wall, and now I saw for the first

time a number of metal foot and hand rests forming a kind of ladder

down the shaft. Then the light burned my fingers and fell out of my

hand, going out as it dropped, and when I had lit another the little

monster had disappeared.

“I do not know how long I sat peering down that well. It was not for

some time that I could succeed in persuading myself that the thing I

had seen was human. But, gradually, the truth dawned on me: that Man

had not remained one species, but had differentiated into two distinct

animals: that my graceful children of the Upper World were not the sole

descendants of our generation, but that this bleached, obscene,

nocturnal Thing, which had flashed before me, was also heir to all the

ages.

“I thought of the flickering pillars and of my theory of an underground

ventilation. I began to suspect their true import. And what, I

wondered, was this Lemur doing in my scheme of a perfectly balanced

organisation? How was it related to the indolent serenity of the

beautiful Overworlders? And what was hidden down there, at the foot of

that shaft? I sat upon the edge of the well telling myself that, at any

rate, there was nothing to fear, and that there I must descend for the

solution of my difficulties. And withal I was absolutely afraid to go!

As I hesitated, two of the beautiful upperworld people came running in

their amorous sport across the daylight in the shadow. The male pursued

the female, flinging flowers at her as he ran.

“They seemed distressed to find me, my arm against the overturned

pillar, peering down the well. Apparently it was considered bad form to

remark these apertures; for when I pointed to this one, and tried to

frame a question about it in their tongue, they were still more visibly

distressed and turned away. But they were interested by my matches, and

I struck some to amuse them. I tried them again about the well, and

again I failed. So presently I left them, meaning to go back to Weena,

and see what I could get from her. But my mind was already in

revolution; my guesses and impressions were slipping and sliding to a

new adjustment. I had now a clue to the import of these wells, to the

ventilating towers, to the mystery of the ghosts; to say nothing of a

hint at the meaning of the bronze gates and the fate of the Time

Machine! And very vaguely there came a suggestion towards the solution

of the economic problem that had puzzled me.

“Here was the new view. Plainly, this second species of Man was

subterranean. There were three circumstances in particular which made

me think that its rare emergence above ground was the outcome of a

long-continued underground habit. In the first place, there was the

bleached look common in most animals that live largely in the dark—the

white fish of the Kentucky caves, for instance. Then, those large eyes,

with that capacity for reflecting light, are common features of

nocturnal things—witness the owl and the cat. And last of all, that

evident confusion in the sunshine, that hasty yet fumbling awkward

flight towards dark shadow, and that peculiar carriage of the head

while in the light—all reinforced the theory of an extreme

sensitiveness of the retina.

“Beneath my feet, then, the earth must be tunnelled enormously, and

these tunnellings were the habitat of the New Race. The presence of

ventilating shafts and wells along the hill slopes—everywhere, in fact,

except along the river valley—showed how universal were its

ramifications. What so natural, then, as to assume that it was in this

artificial Underworld that such work as was necessary to the comfort of

the daylight race was done? The notion was so plausible that I at once

accepted it, and went on to assume the _how_ of this splitting of the

human species. I dare say you will anticipate the shape of my theory;

though, for myself, I very soon felt that it fell far short of the

truth.

“At first, proceeding from the problems of our own age, it seemed clear

as daylight to me that the gradual widening of the present merely

temporary and social difference between the Capitalist and the Labourer

was the key to the whole position. No doubt it will seem grotesque

enough to you—and wildly incredible!—and yet even now there are

existing circumstances to point that way. There is a tendency to

utilise underground space for the less ornamental purposes of

civilisation; there is the Metropolitan Railway in London, for

instance, there are new electric railways, there are subways, there are

underground workrooms and restaurants, and they increase and multiply.

Evidently, I thought, this tendency had increased till Industry had

gradually lost its birthright in the sky. I mean that it had gone

deeper and deeper into larger and ever larger underground factories,

spending a still-increasing amount of its time therein, till, in the

end—! Even now, does not an East-end worker live in such artificial

conditions as practically to be cut off from the natural surface of the

earth?

“Again, the exclusive tendency of richer people—due, no doubt, to the

increasing refinement of their education, and the widening gulf between

them and the rude violence of the poor—is already leading to the

closing, in their interest, of considerable portions of the surface of

the land. About London, for instance, perhaps half the prettier country

is shut in against intrusion. And this same widening gulf—which is due

to the length and expense of the higher educational process and the

increased facilities for and temptations towards refined habits on the

part of the rich—will make that exchange between class and class, that

promotion by intermarriage which at present retards the splitting of

our species along lines of social stratification, less and less

frequent. So, in the end, above ground you must have the Haves,

pursuing pleasure and comfort and beauty, and below ground the

Have-nots, the Workers getting continually adapted to the conditions of

their labour. Once they were there, they would no doubt have to pay

rent, and not a little of it, for the ventilation of their caverns; and

if they refused, they would starve or be suffocated for arrears. Such

of them as were so constituted as to be miserable and rebellious would

die; and, in the end, the balance being permanent, the survivors would

become as well adapted to the conditions of underground life, and as

happy in their way, as the Overworld people were to theirs. As it

seemed to me, the refined beauty and the etiolated pallor followed

naturally enough.

“The great triumph of Humanity I had dreamed of took a different shape

in my mind. It had been no such triumph of moral education and general

co-operation as I had imagined. Instead, I saw a real aristocracy,

armed with a perfected science and working to a logical conclusion the

industrial system of today. Its triumph had not been simply a triumph

over Nature, but a triumph over Nature and the fellow-man. This, I must

warn you, was my theory at the time. I had no convenient cicerone in

the pattern of the Utopian books. My explanation may be absolutely

wrong. I still think it is the most plausible one. But even on this

supposition the balanced civilisation that was at last attained must

have long since passed its zenith, and was now far fallen into decay.

The too-perfect security of the Overworlders had led them to a slow

movement of degeneration, to a general dwindling in size, strength, and

intelligence. That I could see clearly enough already. What had

happened to the Undergrounders I did not yet suspect; but, from what I

had seen of the Morlocks—that, by the bye, was the name by which these

creatures were called—I could imagine that the modification of the

human type was even far more profound than among the ‘Eloi,’ the

beautiful race that I already knew.

“Then came troublesome doubts. Why had the Morlocks taken my Time

Machine? For I felt sure it was they who had taken it. Why, too, if the

Eloi were masters, could they not restore the machine to me? And why

were they so terribly afraid of the dark? I proceeded, as I have said,

to question Weena about this Underworld, but here again I was

disappointed. At first she would not understand my questions, and

presently she refused to answer them. She shivered as though the topic

was unendurable. And when I pressed her, perhaps a little harshly, she

burst into tears. They were the only tears, except my own, I ever saw

in that Golden Age. When I saw them I ceased abruptly to trouble about

the Morlocks, and was only concerned in banishing these signs of her

human inheritance from Weena’s eyes. And very soon she was smiling and

clapping her hands, while I solemnly burnt a match.

Ch