Chapter XIX: The World of the Unborn
The Erewhonians say that we are drawn through life backwards; or again, that we go onwards into the future as into a dark corridor. Time walks beside us and flings back shutters as we advance; but the light thus given often dazzles us, and deepens the darkness which is in front. We can see but little at a time, and heed that little far less than our apprehension of what we shall see next; ever peering curiously through the glare of the present into the
gloom of the future, we presage the leading lines of that which is before us, by faintly reflected lights from dull mirrors that are behind, and stumble on as we may till the trap-door opens beneath us and we are gone.
They say at other times that the future and the past are as a
panorama upon two rollers; that which is on the roller of the
future unwraps itself on to the roller of the past; we cannot
hasten it, and we may not stay it; we must see all that is unfolded
to us whether it be good or ill; and what we have seen once we may
see again no more. It is ever unwinding and being wound; we catch
it in transition for a moment, and call it present; our flustered
senses gather what impression they can, and we guess at what is
coming by the tenor of that which we have seen. The same hand has
painted the whole picture, and the incidents vary little--rivers,
woods, plains, mountains, towns and peoples, love, sorrow, and
death: yet the interest never flags, and we look hopefully for
some good fortune, or fearfully lest our own faces be shown us as
figuring in something terrible. When the scene is past we think we
know it, though there is so much to see, and so little time to see
it, that our conceit of knowledge as regards the past is for the
most part poorly founded; neither do we care about it greatly, save
in so far as it may affect the future, wherein our interest mainly
lies.
The Erewhonians say it was by chance only that the earth and stars
and all the heavenly worlds began to roll from east to west, and
not from west to east, and in like manner they say it is by chance
that man is drawn through life with his face to the past instead of
to the future. For the future is there as much as the past, only
that we may not see it. Is it not in the loins of the past, and
must not the past alter before the future can do so?
Sometimes, again, they say that there was a race of men tried upon
the earth once, who knew the future better than the past, but that
they died in a twelvemonth from the misery which their knowledge
caused them; and if any were to be born too prescient now, he would
be culled out by natural selection, before he had time to transmit
so peace-destroying a faculty to his descendants.
Strange fate for man! He must perish if he get that, which he must
perish if he strive not after. If he strive not after it he is no
better than the brutes, if he get it he is more miserable than the
devils.
Having waded through many chapters like the above, I came at last
to the unborn themselves, and found that they were held to be souls
pure and simple, having no actual bodies, but living in a sort of
gaseous yet more or less anthropomorphic existence, like that of a
ghost; they have thus neither flesh nor blood nor warmth.
Nevertheless they are supposed to have local habitations and cities
wherein they dwell, though these are as unsubstantial as their
inhabitants; they are even thought to eat and drink some thin
ambrosial sustenance, and generally to be capable of doing whatever
mankind can do, only after a visionary ghostly fashion as in a
dream. On the other hand, as long as they remain where they are
they never die--the only form of death in the unborn world being
the leaving it for our own. They are believed to be extremely
numerous, far more so than mankind. They arrive from unknown
planets, full grown, in large batches at a time; but they can only
leave the unborn world by taking the steps necessary for their
arrival here--which is, in fact, by suicide.
They ought to be an exceedingly happy people, for they have no
extremes of good or ill fortune; never marrying, but living in a
state much like that fabled by the poets as the primitive condition
of mankind. In spite of this, however, they are incessantly
complaining; they know that we in this world have bodies, and
indeed they know everything else about us, for they move among us
whithersoever they will, and can read our thoughts, as well as
survey our actions at pleasure. One would think that this should
be enough for them; and most of them are indeed alive to the
desperate risk which they will run by indulging themselves in that
body with "sensible warm motion" which they so much desire;
nevertheless, there are some to whom the ennui of a disembodied
existence is so intolerable that they will venture anything for a
change; so they resolve to quit. The conditions which they must
accept are so uncertain, that none but the most foolish of the
unborn will consent to them; and it is from these, and these only,
that our own ranks are recruited.
When they have finally made up their minds to leave, they must go
before the magistrate of the nearest town, and sign an affidavit of
their desire to quit their then existence. On their having done
this, the magistrate reads them the conditions which they must
accept, and which are so long that I can only extract some of the
principal points, which are mainly the following:-
First, they must take a potion which will destroy their memory and
sense of identity; they must go into the world helpless, and
without a will of their own; they must draw lots for their
dispositions before they go, and take them, such as they are, for
better or worse--neither are they to be allowed any choice in the
matter of the body which they so much desire; they are simply
allotted by chance, and without appeal, to two people whom it is
their business to find and pester until they adopt them. Who these
are to be, whether rich or poor, kind or unkind, healthy or
diseased, there is no knowing; they have, in fact, to entrust
themselves for many years to the care of those for whose good
constitution and good sense they have no sort of guarantee.
It is curious to read the lectures which the wiser heads give to
those who are meditating a change. They talk with them as we talk
with a spendthrift, and with about as much success.
"To be born," they say, "is a felony--it is a capital crime, for
which sentence may be executed at any moment after the commission
of the offence. You may perhaps happen to live for some seventy or
eighty years, but what is that, compared with the eternity you now
enjoy? And even though the sentence were commuted, and you were
allowed to live on for ever, you would in time become so terribly
weary of life that execution would be the greatest mercy to you.
"Consider the infinite risk; to be born of wicked parents and
trained in vice! to be born of silly parents, and trained to
unrealities! of parents who regard you as a sort of chattel or
property, belonging more to them than to yourself! Again, you may
draw utterly unsympathetic parents, who will never be able to
understand you, and who will do their best to thwart you (as a hen
when she has hatched a duckling), and then call you ungrateful
because you do not love them; or, again, you may draw parents who
look upon you as a thing to be cowed while it is still young, lest
it should give them trouble hereafter by having wishes and feelings
of its own.
"In later life, when you have been finally allowed to pass muster
as a full member of the world, you will yourself become liable to
the pesterings of the unborn--and a very happy life you may be led
in consequence! For we solicit so strongly that a few only--nor
these the best--can refuse us; and yet not to refuse is much the
same as going into partnership with half-a-dozen different people
about whom one can know absolutely nothing beforehand--not even
whether one is going into partnership with men or women, nor with
how many of either. Delude not yourself with thinking that you
will be wiser than your parents. You may be an age in advance of
those whom you have pestered, but unless you are one of the great
ones you will still be an age behind those who will in their turn
pester you.
"Imagine what it must be to have an unborn quartered upon you, who
is of an entirely different temperament and disposition to your
own; nay, half-a-dozen such, who will not love you though you have
stinted yourself in a thousand ways to provide for their comfort
and well-being,--who will forget all your self-sacrifice, and of
whom you may never be sure that they are not bearing a grudge
against you for errors of judgement into which you may have fallen,
though you had hoped that such had been long since atoned for.
Ingratitude such as this is not uncommon, yet fancy what it must be
to bear! It is hard upon the duckling to have been hatched by a
hen, but is it not also hard upon the hen to have hatched the
duckling?
"Consider it again, we pray you, not for our sake but for your own.
Your initial character you must draw by lot; but whatever it is, it
can only come to a tolerably successful development after long
training; remember that over that training you will have no
control. It is possible, and even probable, that whatever you may
get in after life which is of real pleasure and service to you,
will have to be won in spite of, rather than by the help of, those
whom you are now about to pester, and that you will only win your
freedom after years of a painful struggle in which it will be hard
to say whether you have suffered most injury, or inflicted it.
"Remember also, that if you go into the world you will have free
will; that you will be obliged to have it; that there is no
escaping it; that you will be fettered to it during your whole
life, and must on every occasion do that which on the whole seems
best to you at any given time, no matter whether you are right or
wrong in choosing it. Your mind will be a balance for
considerations, and your action will go with the heavier scale.
How it shall fall will depend upon the kind of scales which you may
have drawn at birth, the bias which they will have obtained by use,
and the weight of the immediate considerations. If the scales were
good to start with, and if they have not been outrageously tampered
with in childhood, and if the combinations into which you enter are
average ones, you may come off well; but there are too many 'ifs'
in this, and with the failure of any one of them your misery is
assured. Reflect on this, and remember that should the ill come
upon you, you will have yourself to thank, for it is your own
choice to be born, and there is no compulsion in the matter.
"Not that we deny the existence of pleasures among mankind; there
is a certain show of sundry phases of contentment which may even
amount to very considerable happiness; but mark how they are
distributed over a man's life, belonging, all the keenest of them,
to the fore part, and few indeed to the after. Can there be any
pleasure worth purchasing with the miseries of a decrepit age? If
you are good, strong, and handsome, you have a fine fortune indeed
at twenty, but how much of it will be left at sixty? For you must
live on your capital; there is no investing your powers so that you
may get a small annuity of life for ever: you must eat up your
principal bit by bit, and be tortured by seeing it grow continually
smaller and smaller, even though you happen to escape being rudely
robbed of it by crime or casualty.
"Remember, too, that there never yet was a man of forty who would
not come back into the world of the unborn if he could do so with
decency and honour. Being in the world he will as a general rule
stay till he is forced to go; but do you think that he would
consent to be born again, and re-live his life, if he had the offer
of doing so? Do not think it. If he could so alter the past as
that he should never have come into being at all, do you not think
that he would do it very gladly?
"What was it that one of their own poets meant, if it was not this,
when he cried out upon the day in which he was born, and the night
in which it was said there is a man child conceived? 'For now,' he
says, 'I should have lain still and been quiet, I should have
slept; then had I been at rest with kings and counsellors of the
earth, which built desolate places for themselves; or with princes
that had gold, who filled their houses with silver; or as an hidden
untimely birth, I had not been; as infants which never saw light.
There the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'
Be very sure that the guilt of being born carries this punishment
at times to all men; but how can they ask for pity, or complain of
any mischief that may befall them, having entered open-eyed into
the snare?
"One word more and we have done. If any faint remembrance, as of a
dream, flit in some puzzled moment across your brain, and you shall
feel that the potion which is to be given you shall not have done
its work, and the memory of this existence which you are leaving
endeavours vainly to return; we say in such a moment, when you
clutch at the dream but it eludes your grasp, and you watch it, as
Orpheus watched Eurydice, gliding back again into the twilight
kingdom, fly--fly--if you can remember the advice--to the haven of
your present and immediate duty, taking shelter incessantly in the
work which you have in hand. This much you may perhaps recall; and
this, if you will imprint it deeply upon your every faculty, will
be most likely to bring you safely and honourably home through the
trials that are before you." {3}
This is the fashion in which they reason with those who would be
for leaving them, but it is seldom that they do much good, for none
but the unquiet and unreasonable ever think of being born, and
those who are foolish enough to think of it are generally foolish
enough to do it. Finding, therefore, that they can do no more, the
friends follow weeping to the courthouse of the chief magistrate,
where the one who wishes to be born declares solemnly and openly
that he accepts the conditions attached to his decision. On this
he is presented with a potion, which immediately destroys his
memory and sense of identity, and dissipates the thin gaseous
tenement which he has inhabited: he becomes a bare vital
principle, not to be perceived by human senses, nor to be by any
chemical test appreciated. He has but one instinct, which is that
he is to go to such and such a place, where he will find two
persons whom he is to importune till they consent to undertake him;
but whether he is to find these persons among the race of Chowbok
or the Erewhonians themselves is not for him to choose.
Erewhon : Chapter XX - What They Mean By It
Erewhon