This Way to the End Times: Classic Tales of the Apocalypse Read online

  Alas! it is only too certain that humanity, of which we are the sole representatives, is on the road to rapid regression leading to brutehood. Among the sailors from the Virginia, men originally of no refinement, the signs of animality are more conspicuous; but my son and I have forgotten much of what we once knew, and Doctor Bathurst and Doctor Moreno themselves have let their minds lie fallow. Our intellectual life has withered away.

  How fortunate it is that a good many years ago we managed the circumnavigation of this continent! Today we should not have the requisite courage. And moreover, Captain Morris, who commanded the expedition, is dead—and the Virginia dead, too, decayed beyond repair.

  We all sleep on the ground, in all seasons.

  For a long time there has been nothing left of the clothing that once covered us. We go about naked, like those we used to call savages.

  To eat, to eat—that is our perpetual end, our exclusive preoccupation.

  People of the future, born here, will never have known any other existence. Humanity will be reduced to illiterate adults (I have some before my eyes as I write) who cannot reckon, and can scarcely talk—and to sharp-toothed children who seem to be little more than insatiable stomachs.

  I seem to see them, those men of the future, ignorant of articulate language, intelligence extinguished, bodies covered with coarse hair, wandering in this dreary desert. . . .

  On the threshold of death.

  IT IS NOW ALMOST FIFTEEN years since the lines above were written. Doctor Bathurst and Doctor Moreno are no more. Of those who disembarked in this place, I, one of the oldest, remain almost alone. But death is overtaking me, in my turn. I feel it mounting from my cold feet to my flagging heart.

  When we first settled here, a few of us undertook to build some houses. The unfinished structures have fallen in ruins.

  Our work is finished. I have entrusted the manuscripts containing our summary of human knowledge to an iron chest brought off the Virginia, which I have buried deep in the ground. Beside it, I shall bury these pages, rolled up and sealed in an aluminum tube.

  Will anyone ever find the deposit committed to the earth? Will anyone ever care?

  That is destiny’s affair. God’s will be done!

  AS THE ZARTOG SOFR TOOK in the sense of this fantastic document, an awful dismay gripped his heart.

  Could it be true! Were the Andarti-Iten-Schu descended straight from those distant men who, after having wandered for long months over the empty seas, had chanced upon this point of the coast where now rose the towers of Basidra? And those miserable creatures were the fag-end of a proud human race, compared to which the present race was lisping as a child! And ponder this: what had been needed to abolish forever all the science of so mighty a people—and to erase even the memory of their existence? Less than nothing: simply an imperceptible shudder that ran through the crust of the globe.

  Man had one time, long ago, pushed farther ahead on the road of truth than men had ever done since. It was all here in the record: things that Sofr already knew, and other things that he should not have dared imagine—such as the explanation of the name Hedom, over which there had been such high dispute! Hedom was a corruption of Eddem, itself a corruption of Adam, and Adam was possibly only a corruption of some other name still more ancient.

  HEDOM, EDDEM, ADAM: HERE WAS the perpetual symbol of the first man—but it stood likewise for mankind’s successive reappearances on earth. Sofr had been wrong, then, to deny this ancestor, whose onetime existence was plainly attested by the document; and the unlearned folk had been right in claiming forbears as human as themselves. But here, too, as in everything else, the Andarti-Iten-Schu had invented nothing. They had done no more than to repeat what had already been said.

  But would a day ever come when the insatiable longing of man would be satisfied? Would a day ever come when, having won the crest of the slope, he could take his rest there, conqueror at last of the summit?

  Thus mused the Zartog Sofr as he leaned over that venerable document.

  A cool, gray dawn was approaching; but it was through this recital of a dawn long ago that he was contemplating the terrible drama perpetually unfolding in the universe, and his heart went out to the players.

  Bloodied by the innumerable hardships suffered by those who had gone before him, bending under the weight of the useless labors piled up during the infinite stretch of time, the Zartog Sofr-Ai-Sr was slowly, reluctantly, convincing himself of the dreadful secret: that the Truth, when found, would prove to be the endless ordeal of regeneration.

  THE

  LAST GENERATION

  A STORY OF THE FUTURE

  — JAMES ELROY FLECKER —

  EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION

  JAMES ELROY FLECKER IS NOT a name much remembered these days, but when he died of tuberculosis in 1915 at the age of thirty, one British literary critic said that his death was “unquestionably the greatest premature loss that English literature has suffered since the death of Keats.” That was, perhaps, an overstatement, and in any case was uttered before the First World War took the lives of Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen, Edward Thomas, and many other gifted young British poets. But certainly Flecker was well on his way toward becoming a major figure in English letters when he died, even though little of his work remains visible today except the single poem, “The Golden Journey to Samarkand.”

  He was born in 1884 and educated both at Oxford and Cambridge before entering the British consular service in 1910. His love of the exotic Orient led him to seek a position in Constantinople, but on his sea journey to Turkey he became ill with what was eventually diagnosed as tuberculosis, and after a difficult three-year tour of duty in the diplomatic corps was forced to withdraw to a sanatorium in Switzerland. There he devoted the remainder of his brief life to writing poems, among them “The Golden Journey,” and the comic/romantic play Hassan, inspired by the Arabian Nights, in which he drew upon his poem for the haunting closing refrain, “We take the golden road to Samarkand.” The play, published and produced posthumously, was immediately hailed as a masterpiece and remained a popular feature of the London stage for many years, though it is virtually forgotten now.

  In 1908, toward the close of his time at Cambridge, Flecker wrote a remarkable science-fiction novella, “The Last Generation,” whose narrator calmly tells us a grimly horrific tale of the self-willed extinction of the human race, which in the near future resolves to bring no more children into the world—though once again a redemptive theme enters at the end. It was published as a single small volume, never reprinted, by the avant-garde New Age Press: a stark and somber vision of futurity that richly deserves its resurrection now.

  —R. S.

  THE LAST GENERATION

  A STORY OF THE FUTURE

  — JAMES ELROY FLECKER —

  INTRODUCTION

  I HAD BEEN AWAKE FOR I know not how many hours that summer dawn while the sun came over the hills and colored the beautiful roses in my mother’s garden. As I lay drowsily gazing through the window, I thought I had never known a morning so sultry, and yet so pleasant. Outside not a leaf stirred; yet the air was fresh, and the madrigal notes of the birds came to me with a peculiar intensity and clearness. I listened intently to the curious sound of trilling, which drew nearer and nearer, until it seemed to merge into a whirring noise that filled the room and crowded at my ears. At first I could see nothing, and lay in deadly fear of the unknown; but soon I thought I saw rims and sparks of spectral fire floating through the pane. Then I heard some one say, “I am the Wind.”

  But the voice was so like that of an old friend whom one sees again after many years that my terror departed, and I asked simply why the Wind had come.

  “I have come to you,” he replied, “because you are the first man I have discovered who is after my own heart. You whom others call dreamy and capricious, volatile and headstrong, you whom some accuse of weakness, others of unscrupulous abuse of power, you I know to be a true son of Æolus, a fit inhabitan
t for those caves of boisterous song.”

  “Are you the North Wind or the East Wind?” said I. “Or do you blow from the Atlantic? Yet if those be your feathers that shine upon the pane like yellow and purple threads, and if it be through your influence that the garden is so hot today, I should say you were the lazy South Wind, blowing from the countries that I love.”

  “I blow from no quarter of the Earth,” replied the voice. “I am not in the compass. I am a little unknown Wind, and I cross not Space but Time. If you will come with me I will take you not over countries but over centuries, not directly, but waywardly, and you may travel where you will. You shall see Napoleon, Caesar, Pericles, if you command. You may be anywhere in the world at any period. I will show you some of my friends, the poets. . . .”

  “And may I drink red wine with Praxiteles, or with Catullus beside his lake?”

  “Certainly, if you know enough Latin and Greek, and can pronounce them intelligently.”

  “And may I live with Thais or Rhodope, or some wild Assyrian queen?”

  “Unless they are otherwise employed, certainly.”

  “Ah, Wind of Time,” I continued with a sigh, “we men of this age are rotten with booklore, and with a yearning for the past. And wherever I asked to go among those ancient days, I should soon get dissatisfied, and weary your bright wings. I will be no pillar of salt, a sterile portent in a sterile desert. Carry me forward. Wind of Time. What is there going to be?”

  The Wind put his hand over my eyes.

  I. AT BIRMINGHAM TOWN HALL

  “THIS IS OUR FIRST STOPPING place,” said a voice from the points of flame.

  I opened my eyes expecting to see one of those extravagant scenes that imaginative novelists love to depict. I was prepared to find the upper air busy with aeroplanes and the earth beneath given over to unbridled debauch. Instead, I discovered myself seated on a tall electric standard, watching a crowd assembled before what I took to be Birmingham Town Hall. I was disappointed in this so tame a sight, until it flashed across me that I had never seen an English crowd preserve such an orderly and quiet demeanor; and a more careful inspection assured me that although no man wore a uniform, every man carried a rifle. They were obviously waiting for someone to come and address them from the balcony of the Town Hall, which was festooned with red flags. As the curtains were pulled aside I caught a momentary glimpse of an old person whose face I shall never forget, but apparently it was not for him that the breathless crowd was waiting. The man who finally appeared on the balcony was an individual not more than thirty years old, with a black beard and green eyes. At the sound of acclamation which greeted him he burst out into a loud laugh; then with a sudden seriousness he held up his hand and began to address his followers:—

  “I have but few words for you, my army, a few bitter words. Need I encourage men to fight who have staked their existence to gain mastery? We cannot draw back; never will the cries of the slaughtered thousands we yearned to rescue from a more protracted, more cruel misery than war, make us forget the myriads who still await the supreme mercy of our revenge.

  “For centuries and for centuries we endured the march of that Civilisation which now, by the weapons of her own making, we have set forth to destroy. We, men of Birmingham, dwellers in this hideous town unvisited by sun or moon, long endured to be told that we were in the van of progress, leading Humanity year by year along her glorious path. And, looking around them, the wise men saw the progress of civilisation, and what was it? What did it mean? Less country, fewer savages, deeper miseries, more millionaires, and more museums. So today we march on London.

  “Let us commemorate, my friends, at this last hour, a great if all unwitting benefactor, the protomartyr of our cause. You remember that lank follower of the Newest Art, who lectured to us once within these very walls? He it was who first expounded to us the beauty of Birmingham, the artistic majesty of tall chimneys, the sombre glory of furnaces, the deep mystery of smoke, the sad picturesqueness of scrap-heaps and of slag. Then we began to hate our lives in earnest; then we arose and struck.

  Even now I shudder when I think of that lecturer’s fate, and with a feeling of respect I commemorate his words today.

  “On, then! You need not doubt of my victory, nor of my power. Some of you will die, but you know that death is rest. You do not need to fear the sombre fireworks of a mediaeval Hell, nor yet the dreary dissipations of a Methodist Heaven. Come, friends, and march on London!”

  They heard him in deep silence; there was a gentle stir of preparation; they faded far below me.

  II. THE PROCLAMATION

  AT A POINT TEN YEARS farther along that dusky road the Wind set me down in a prodigious room. I had never before seen so large and splendid a construction, so gracefully embellished, so justly proportioned. The shape was elliptical, and it seemed as if the architect had drawn his inspiration from the Coliseum at Rome. This Hall, however, was much larger, and had the additional distinction of a roof, which, supported by a granite column, was only rendered visible from beneath by means of great bosses of clear gold. Galleries ran round the walls, and there was even a corkscrew balustrade winding up round the central pillar. Every part of the building was crowded with people. There seemed to be no window in the place, so that I could not tell whether or no it was night. The whole assembly was illuminated by a thousand electric discs, and the ventilation was almost perfectly planned on a system to me entirely strange. There was a raised throne at one end of the building on which sat a King decently dressed in black. I recognised the green-eyed man, and learnt that his name was Harris, Joshua Harris. The entire body of the Hall was filled by soldiers in mud-colored tunics and waterproof boots. These were the men that had conquered the world.

  As soon as the populace were well assembled the King made a sign to his Herald, who blew so sudden and terrific a blast with his trumpet that the multitude stopped their chattering with a start. The Herald proceeded to bawl a proclamation through his megaphone. I heard him distinctly, but should never have been able to reproduce his exact words had not the Wind very kindly handed to me one of the printed copies for free distribution which it had wafted from a chair. The proclamation ran thus:—

  I, JOSHUA HARRIS, BY RIGHT of conquest and in virtue of my intelligence, King of Britain, Emperor of the two Americas, and Lord High Suzerain of the World, to the Princes, Presidents, and Peoples of the said world, Greeting. Ye know that in days past an old man now dead showed me how man’s dolorous and fruitless sojourn on this globe might cease by his own act and wisdom; how pain and death and the black Power that made us might be frustrated of their accustomed prey. Then I swore an oath to fulfill that old man’s scheme, and I gathered my followers, who were the miserable men, and the hungry men, and we have conquered all there is to conquer by our cannon and by our skill. Already last year I gave public notice, in the proclamation of Vienna, in the proclamation of Cairo, in the proclamation of Pekin, and in the proclamation of Rio de Janeiro, that all bearing of children must cease, and that all women should be permanently sterilised according to the prescription of Doctor Smith. Therefore today, since there is no remote African plain, no island far away in the deep South Seas where our forces are not supreme and our agents not vigilant, I make my final proclamation to you, my army, and to you, Princes, Presidents, and Peoples of this world, that from this hour forth there be no child born of any woman, or, if born, that it be slain with its father and its mother (a fainting woman had here to be carried out), and to you; my terrestrial forces; I entrust the execution of my commands.

  Joy then be with you, my people, for the granaries are full of corn and wine that I have laid up, sufficient for many years to come; joy be with you, since you are the last and noblest generation of mankind, and since Doctor Smith by his invention, and I by my wise prevision, have enabled you to live not only without payment and without work (loud cheers from the galleries), but also with luxury and splendor, and with all the delights, and none of the dangers, of universa
l love.”

  I EXPECTED THE PROCLAMATION TO be followed by an outburst of applause; but instead the whole multitude sat calm and motionless. Looking round I was struck by the hideous appearance of mankind. It was especially revolting to look at the ears of the soldiers in front, who had their backs turned to me. These stuck out from the bullet-like heads, and made the men look like two-handled teapots on stands. Yet here and there appeared in the galleries some woman’s countenance beautified by the sorrows of our race, or some tall youth whose eyes expressed the darkest determination. The silence seemed to gather in folds. I was studying drowsily the Asiatic dresses and the nude people from Melanesia, when I heard a noise which I thought was that of the Wind. But I saw it was the King, who had begun to laugh. It was a very strange noise indeed, and very strange laughter.

  III. THE MUTUAL EXTERMINATION CLUB

  “YOU WOULD PERHAPS LIKE TO stay here some time,” said the Wind, “and look around. You will then understand the significance of this generation more clearly, and you may observe some interesting incidents.”

  I was standing with one or two other people outside a pseudo-Chinese erection, which I at first took to be a cricket pavilion, and then saw to be the headquarters of a rifle club. I apprehended from the placards that I was in Germany, and inquired in the language of the country, which I understand very well, what was the object of this rifle practice, and whether there was any thought of war.

  The man to whom I addressed myself, an adipose person with iron-rimmed spectacles and a kindly, intelligent face, seemed surprised at my question.

  “You must be a stranger,” he said. “This is our very notable Vertildungsverein.”

  I understood: it was a Club for Mutual Extermination.

  I then noticed that there were no ordinary targets, and that the cadets were pointing their rifles at a bearded man who stood with a covered pipe in his mouth, leaning against a tree some two hundred yards away.