CHAPTER
IV
I
A week later
Mabel awoke about dawn; and for a moment or two forgot where she was. She even
spoke Oliver's name aloud, staring round the unfamiliar room, wondering what
she did here. Then she remembered, and was silent…
It was the eighth
day she had spent in this Home; her probation was finished: to-day she wits at
liberty to do that for which she had come. On the Saturday of the previous week
she had gone through her private examination before the magistrate, stating
under the usual conditions of secrecy her name, age and home, as well as her
reasons for making the application for Euthanasia; and all had passed off well.
She had selected Manchester as being sufficiently remote and sufficiently large
to secure her freedom from Oliver's molestation; and her secret had been
admirably kept. There was not a hint that her husband knew anything of her
intentions; for, after all, in these cases the police were bound to assist the
fugitive. Individualism was at least so far recognised as to secure to those
weary of life the right of relinquishing it. She scarcely knew why she had
selected this method, except that any other seemed impossible. The knife
required skill and resolution; firearms were unthinkable, and poison, under the
new stringent regulations, was hard to obtain. Besides, she seriously wished to
test her own intentions, and to be quite sure that there was no other way than
this…
Well, she was as
certain as ever. The thought had first come to her in the mad misery of the
outbreak of violence on the last day of the old year. Then it had gone again,
soothed away by the arguments that man was still liable to relapse. Then once
more it had recurred, a cold and convincing phantom, in the plain daylight
revealed by Felsenburgh's Declaration. It had taken up its abode with her then,
yet she controlled it, hoping against hope that the Declaration would not be
carried into action, occasionally revolting against its horror. Yet it had
never been far away; and finally when the policy sprouted into deliberate law,
she had yielded herself resolutely to its suggestion. That was eight days ago;
and she had not had one moment of faltering since that.
Yet she had
ceased to condemn. The logic had silenced her. All that she knew was that she
could not bear it; that she had misconceived the New Faith; that for her,
whatever it was for others, there was no hope… She had not even a child of her
own.
* * * * *
Those eight days, required by law, had passed very
peacefully. She had taken with her enough money to enter one of the private
homes furnished with sufficient comfort to save from distractions those who had
been accustomed to gentle living: the nurses had been pleasant and sympathetic;
she had nothing to complain of.
She had suffered,
of course, to some degree from reactions. The second night after her arrival
had been terrible, when, as she lay in bed in the hot darkness, her whole sentient
life had protested and struggled against the fate her will ordained. It had
demanded the familiar things - the promise of food and breath and human
intercourse; it had writhed in horror against the blind dark towards which it
moved so inevitably; and, in the agony had been pacified only by the
half-hinted promise of some deeper voice suggesting that death was not the end.
With morning light sanity had come back; the will had reassumed the mastery,
and, with it, had withdrawn explicitly the implied hope of continued existence.
She had suffered again for an hour or two from a more concrete fear; the memory
came back to her of those shocking revelations that ten years ago had convulsed
England and brought about the establishment of these Homes under Government
supervision - those evidences that for years in the great vivisection
laboratories human subjects had been practised upon - persons who with the same
intentions as herself had cut themselves off from the world in private
euthanasia-houses, to whom had been supplied a gas that suspended instead of
destroying animation… But this, too, had passed with the return of light. Such
things were impossible now under the new system - at least, in England. She had
refrained from making an end upon the Continent for this very reason. There,
where sentiment was weaker, and logic more imperious, materialism was more
consistent. Since men were but animals - the conclusion was inevitable.
There had been
but one physical drawback, the intolerable heat of the days and nights. It
seemed, scientists said, that an entirely unexpected heat-wave had been
generated; there were a dozen theories, most of which were mutually exclusive
one of another. It was humiliating, she thought, that men who professed to have
taken the earth under their charge should be so completely baffled. The
conditions of the weather had of course been accompanied by disasters; there
had been earthquakes of astonishing violence, a ripple had wrecked not less
than twenty-five towns in America; an island or two had disappeared, and that
bewildering Vesuvius seemed to be working up for a denouement. But no one knew
really the explanation. One man had been wild enough to say that some cataclysm
had taken place in the centre of the earth… So she had heard from her nurse;
but she was not greatly interested. It was only tiresome that she could not
walk much in the garden, and had to be content with sitting in her own cool
shaded room on the second floor.
There was only
one other matter of which she had asked, namely, the effect of the new decree;
but the nurse did not seem to know much about that. It appeared that there had
been an outrage or two, but the law had not yet been enforced to any great
extent; a week, after all, was a short time, even though the decree had taken
effect at once, and magistrates were beginning the prescribed census.
* * * * *
It seemed to her as she lay awake this morning,
staring at the tinted ceiling, and out now and again at the quiet little room,
that the heat was worse than ever. For a minute she thought she must have
overslept; but, as she touched her repeater, it told her that it was scarcely
after four o'clock. Well, well; she would not have to bear it much longer; she
thought that about eight it would be time to make an end. There was her letter
to Oliver yet to be written; and one or two final arrangements to be made.
As regarded the
morality of what she was doing-the relation, that is to say, which her act bore
to the common life of man - she had no shadow of doubt. It was her belief, as
of the whole Humanitarian world, that just as bodily pain occasionally
justified this termination of life, so also did mental pain. There was a
certain pitch of distress at which the individual was no longer necessary to
himself or the world; it was the most charitable act that could be performed.
But she had never thought in old days that that state could ever be hers; Life
had been much too interesting. But it had come to this: there was no question
of it.
* * * * *
Perhaps a dozen times in that week she had thought
over her conversation with Mr. Francis. Her going to him had been little more
than instinctive; she did just wish to hear what the other side was - whether
Christianity was as ludicrous as she had always thought. It seemed that it was
not ludicrous; it was only terribly pathetic. It was just a lovely dream - an
exquisite piece of poetry. It would be heavenly to believe it, but she did not.
No - a transcendent God was unthinkable, although not quite so unthinkable as a
merely immeasurable Man. And as for the Incarnation - well, well!
There seemed no
way out of it. The Humanity-Religion was the only one. Man was God, or at least
His highest manifestation; and He was a God with which she did not wish to have
anything more to do. These faint new instincts after something other than
intellect and emotion were, she knew perfectly well, nothing but refined
emotion itself.
She had thought a
great deal of Felsenburgh, however, and was astonished at her own feelings. He
was certainly the most impressive man she had ever seen; it did seem very
probable indeed that He was what He claimed to be - the Incarnation of the
ideal Man the first perfect product of humanity. But the logic of his position
was too much for her. She saw now that He was perfectly logical - that He had
not been inconsistent in denouncing the destruction of Rome and a week later
making His declaration. It was the passion of one man against another that He
denounced - of kingdom against kingdom, and sect against sect - for this was
suicidal for the race. He denounced passion, too, not judicial action.
Therefore, this new decree was as logical as Himself - it was a judicial act on
the part of an united world against a tiny majority that threatened the
principle of life and faith: and it was to be carried out with supreme mercy;
there was no revenge or passion or partisan spirit in it from beginning to end;
no more than a man is revengeful or passionate when he amputates a diseased
limb - Oliver had convinced her of that.
Yes, it was
logical and sound. And it was because it was so that she could not bear it… But
ah! what a sublime man Felsenburgh was; it was a joy to her even to recall his
speeches and his personality. She would have liked to see him again. But it was
no good. She had better be done with it as tranquilly as possible. And the
world must go forward without her. She was just tired out with Facts.
* * * * *
She dozed off again presently, and it seemed
scarcely five minutes before she looked up to see a gentle smiling face of a
white-capped nurse bending over her.
"It is
nearly six o'clock, my dear - the time you told me. I came to see about
breakfast."
Mabel drew a long
breath. Then she sat up suddenly, throwing back the sheet.
II
It struck a
quarter-past six from the little clock on the mantel-shelf as she laid down her
pen. Then she took up the closely written sheets, leaned back in her deep
chair, and began to read.
"HOME OF REST,
"NO 3A MANCHESTER WEST.
"MY DEAR: I am very sorry, but it has come back to me. I really
cannot go on any longer, so I am going to escape in the only way left, as I
once told you. I have had a very quiet and happy time here; they have been most
kind and considerate. You see, of course, from the heading on this paper, what
I mean…
"Well,
you have always been very dear to me; you are still, even at this moment. So
you have a right to know my reasons so far as I know them myself. It is very
difficult to understand myself; but it seems to me that I am not strong enough
to live. So long as I was pleased and excited it was all very well - especially
when He came. But I think I had expected it to be different; I did not
understand as I do now how it must come to this - how it is all quite logical
and right. I could bear it, when I thought that they had acted through passion,
but this is deliberate. I did not realise that Peace must have its laws, and
must protect itself. And, somehow, that Peace is not what I want. It is being
alive at all that is wrong.
"Then there
is this difficulty. I know how absolutely in agreement you are with this new
state of affairs; of course you are, because you are so much stronger and more
logical than I am. But if you have a wife she must be of one mind with you. And
I am not, any more, at least not with my heart, though I see you are right… Do
you understand, my dear?
"If we had had a child, it might have been different. I might have
liked to go on living for his sake. But Humanity, somehow - Oh! Oliver! I can't
- I can't.
"I know I am wrong, and that you are right - but there it is; I
cannot change myself. So I am quite sure that I must go.
"Then I
want to tell you this - that I am not at all frightened. I never can understand
why people are - unless, of course, they are Christians. I should be horribly
frightened if I was one of them. But, you see, we both know that there is
nothing beyond. It is life that I am frightened of - not death. Of course, I
should be frightened if there was any pain; but the doctors tell me there is
absolutely none. It is simply going to sleep. The nerves are dead before the
brain. I am going to do it myself. I don't want any one else in the room. In a
few minutes the nurse here - Sister Anne, with whom I have made great friends -
will bring in the thing, and then she will leave me.
"As regards
what happens afterwards, I do not mind at all. Please do exactly what you wish.
The cremation will take place to-morrow morning at noon, so that you can be
here if you like. Or you can send directions, and they will send on the urn to
you. I know you liked to have your mother's urn in the garden; so perhaps you
will like mine. Please do exactly what you like. And with all my things too. Of
course I leave them to you.
"Now, my
dear, I want to say this - that I am very sorry indeed now that I was so
tiresome and stupid. I think I did really believe your arguments all along. But
I did not want to believe them. Do you see now why I was so tiresome?
"Oliver, my
darling, you have been extraordinarily good to me… Yes, I know I am crying, but
I am really very happy. This is such a lovely ending. I wish I hadn't been
obliged to make you so anxious during this last week: but I had to - I knew you
would persuade me against it, if you found me, and that would have been worse
than ever. I am sorry I told you that lie, too. Indeed, it is the first I ever
did tell you.
"Well, I
don't think there is much more to say. Oliver, my dear, good-bye. I send you my
love with all my heart.
"MABEL."
* * * * *
She sat still when she had read it through, and her
eyes were still wet with tears. Yet it was all perfectly true. She was far
happier than she could be if she had still the prospect of going back. Life
seemed entirely blank: death was so obvious an escape; her soul ached for it,
as a body for sleep.
She directed the
envelope, still with a perfectly steady hand, laid it on the table, and leaned
back once more, glancing again at her untasted breakfast.
Then she suddenly
began to think of her conversation with Mr. Francis; and, by a strange
association of ideas, remembered the fall of the volor in Brighton, the
busy-ness of the priest, and the Euthanasia boxes…
When Sister Anne
came in a few minutes later, she was astonished at what she saw. The girl
crouched at the window, her hands on the sill, staring out at the sky in an
attitude of unmistakable horror.
Sister Anne came
across the room quickly, setting down something on the table as she passed. She
touched the girl on the shoulder.
"My dear,
what is it?"
There was a long
sobbing breath, and Mabel turned, rising as she turned, and clutched the nurse
with one shaking hand, pointing out with the other.
"There!"
she said. "There - look!"
"Well, my
dear, what is it? I see nothing. It is a little dark!"
"Dark!"
said the other. "You call that dark! Why, why, it is black - black!"
The nurse drew
her softly backwards to the chair, turning her from the window. She recognised
nervous fear; but no more than that. But Mabel tore herself free, and wheeled
again.
"You call
that a little dark," she said. "Why, look, sister, look!"
Yet there was
nothing remarkable to be seen. In front rose up the feathery hand of an elm,
then the shuttered windows across the court, the roof, and above that the
morning sky, a little heavy and dusky as before a storm; but no more than that.
"Well, what
is it, my dear? What do you see?"
"Why, why…
look! look! - There, listen to that."
A faint far-away
rumble sounded as the rolling of a waggon - so faint that it might almost be an
aural delusion. But the girl's hands were at her ears, and her face was one
white wide-eyed mask of terror. The nurse threw her arms round her.
"My
dear," she said, "you are not yourself. That is nothing but a little
heat-thunder. Sit down quietly."
She could feel
the girl's body shaking beneath her hands, but there was no resistance as she
drew her to the chair.
"The lights!
the lights!" sobbed Mabel.
"Will you
promise me to sit quietly, then?"
She nodded; and
the nurse went across to the door, smiling tenderly; she had seen such things
before. A moment later the room was full of exquisite sunlight, as she switched
the handle. As she turned, she saw that Mabel had wheeled herself round in the
chair, and with clasped hands was still staring out at the sky above the roofs;
but she was plainly quieter again now. The nurse came back, and put her hand on
her shoulder.
"You are
overwrought, my dear… Now you must believe me. There is nothing to be
frightened of. It is just nervous excitement… Shall I pull down the
blind?"
Mabel turned her
face… Yes, certainly the light had reassured her. Her face was still white and
bewildered, but the steady look was coming back to her eyes, though, even as
she spoke, they wandered back more than once to the window.
"Nurse,"
she said more quietly, "please look again and tell me if you see nothing.
If you say there is nothing I will believe that I am going mad. No; you must
not touch the blind."
No; there was
nothing. The sky was a little dark, as if a blight were coming on; but there
was hardly more than a veil of cloud, and the light was scarcely more than
tinged with gloom. It was just such a sky as precedes a spring thunderstorm.
She said so, clearly and firmly.
Mabel's face
steadied still more.
"Very well,
nurse… Then -"
She turned to the
little table by the side on which Sister Anne had set down what she had brought
into the room.
"Show me,
please."
The nurse still
hesitated.
"Are you
sure you are not too frightened, my dear? Shall I get you anything?"
"I have no
more to say," said Mabel firmly. "Show me, please."
Sister Anne
turned resolutely to the table.
There rested upon
it a white-enamelled box, delicately painted with flowers. From this box
emerged a white flexible tube with a broad mouthpiece, fitted with two
leather-covered steel clasps. From the side of the box nearest the chair
protruded a little china handle.
"Now, my
dear," began the nurse quietly, watching the other's eyes turn once again
to the window, and then back -"now, my dear, you sit there, as you are
now. Your head right back, please. When you are ready, you put this over your
mouth, and clasp the springs behind your head… So… it works quite easily. Then
you turn this handle, round that way, as far as it will go. And that is
all."
Mabel nodded. She
had regained her self-command, and understood plainly enough, though even as
she spoke once again her eyes strayed away to the window.
"That is
all," she said. "And what then?"
The nurse eyed
her doubtfully for a moment.
"I
understand perfectly," said Mabel. "And what then?"
"There is
nothing more. Breathe naturally. You will feel sleepy almost directly. Then you
close your eyes, and that is all."
Mabel laid the
tube on the table and stood up. She was completely herself now.
"Give me a
kiss, sister," she said.
The nurse nodded
and smiled to her once more at the door. But Mabel hardly noticed it; again she
was looking towards the window.
"I shall
come back in half-an-hour," said Sister Anne.
Then her eyes
caught a square of white upon the centre table. "Ah! that letter!"
she said.
"Yes,"
said the girl absently. "Please take it."
The nurse took it
up, glanced at the address, and again at Mabel. Still she hesitated.
"In
half-an-hour," she repeated. "There is no hurry at all. It doesn't
take five minutes… Good-bye, my dear."
But Mabel was
still looking out of the window, and made no answer.
III
Mabel stood
perfectly still until she heard the locking of the door and the withdrawal of
the key. Then once more she went to the window and clasped the sill.
From where she
stood there was visible to her first the courtyard beneath, with its lawn in
the centre, and a couple of trees growing there - all plain in the brilliant
light that now streamed from her window, and secondly, above the roofs, a
tremendous pall of ruddy black. It was the more terrible from the contrast.
Earth, it seemed, was capable of light; heaven had failed.
It appeared, too,
that there was a curious stillness. The house was, usually, quiet enough at
this hour: the inhabitants of that place were in no mood for bustle: but now it
was more than quiet; it was deathly still: it was such a hush as precedes the
sudden crash of the sky's artillery. But the moments went by, and there was no
such crash: only once again there sounded a solemn rolling, as of some great
wain far away; stupendously impressive, for with it to the girl's ears there
seemed mingled a murmur of innumerable voices, ghostly crying and applause.
Then again the hush settled down like wool.
She had begun to
understand now. The darkness and the sounds were not for all eyes and ears. The
nurse had seen and heard nothing extraordinary, and the rest of the world of
men saw and heard nothing. To them it was no more than the hint of a coming
storm.
Mabel did not
attempt to distinguish between the subjective and the objective. It was nothing
to her as to whether the sights and sounds were generated by her own brain or
perceived by some faculty hitherto unknown. She seemed to herself to be
standing already apart from the world which she had known; it was receding from
her, or, rather, while standing where it had always done, it was melting,
transforming itself, passing to some other mode of existence. The strangeness
seemed no more strange than anything else than that … that little painted box
upon the table.
Then, hardly
knowing what she said, looking steadily upon that appalling sky, she began to
speak…
"O
God!" she said. "If You are really there really there -"
Her voice faltered, and she gripped the sill to
steady herself. She wondered vaguely why she spoke so; it was neither intellect
nor emotion that inspired her. Yet she continued…
"O God, I
know You are not there - of course You are not. But if You were there, I know
what I would say to You. I would tell You how puzzled and tired I am. No – No -
I need not tell You: You would know it. But I would say that I was very sorry
for all this. Oh! You would know that too. I need not say anything at all. O
God! I don't know what I want to say. I would like You to look after Oliver, of
course, and all Your poor Christians. Oh! they will have such a hard time… God.
God - You would understand, wouldn't You?"…
* * * * *
Again came the heavy rumble and the solemn bass of
a myriad voices; it seemed a shade nearer, she thought… She never liked
thunderstorms or shouting crowds. They always gave her a headache…
"Well,
well," she said. "Good-bye, everything -"
Then she was in
the chair. The mouthpiece - yes; that was it…
She was furious
at the trembling of her hands; twice the spring slipped from her polished coils
of hair… Then it was fixed… and as if a breeze fanned her, her sense came back…
She found she
could breathe quite easily; there was no resistance - that was a comfort; there
would be no suffocation about it… She put out her left hand and touched the
handle, conscious less of its sudden coolness than of the unbearable heat in
which the room seemed almost suddenly plunged. She could hear the drumming
pulses in her temples and the roaring of the voices… She dropped the handle
once more, and with both hands tore at the loose white wrapper that she had put
on this morning…
Yes, that was a
little easier; she could breathe better so. Again her fingers felt for and
found the handle, but the sweat streamed from her fingers, and for an instant
she could not turn the knob. Then it yielded suddenly…
* * * * *
For one instant the sweet languid smell struck her
consciousness like a blow, for she knew it as the scent of death. Then the
steady will that had borne her so far asserted itself, and she laid her hands
softly in her lap, breathing deeply and easily.
She had closed
her eyes at the turning of the handle, but now opened them again, curious to
watch the aspect of the fading world. She had determined to do this a week ago:
she would at least miss nothing of this unique last experience.
It seemed at
first that there was no change. There was the feathery head of the elm, the
lead roof opposite, and the terrible sky above. She noticed a pigeon, white
against the blackness, soar and swoop again out of sight in an instant…
… Then the
following things happened…
There was a
sudden sensation of ecstatic lightness in all her limbs; she attempted to lift
a hand, and was aware that it was impossible; it was no longer hers. She
attempted to lower her eyes from that broad strip of violet sky, and perceived
that that too was impossible. Then she understood that the will had already
lost touch with the body, that the crumbling world had receded to an infinite
distance - that was as she had expected, but what continued to puzzle her was
that her mind was still active. It was true that the world she had known had
withdrawn itself from the dominion of consciousness, as her body had done,
except, that was, in the sense of hearing, which was still strangely alert; yet
there was still enough memory to be aware that there was such a world - that
there were other persons in existence; that men went about their business,
knowing nothing of what had happened; but faces, names, places had all alike
gone. In fact, she was conscious of herself in such a manner as she had never
been before; it seemed as if she had penetrated at last into some recess of her
being into which hitherto she had only looked as through clouded glass. This
was very strange, and yet it was familiar, too; she had arrived, it seemed, at
a centre, round the circumference of which she had been circling all her life;
and it was more than a mere point: it was a distinct space, walled and
enclosed… At the same instant she knew that hearing, too, was gone…
Then an amazing
thing happened - yet it appeared to her that she had always known it would
happen, although her mind had never articulated it. This is what happened.
The enclosure
melted, with a sound of breaking, and a limitless space was about her - limitless,
different to everything else, and alive, and astir. It was alive, as a
breathing, panting body is alive - self-evident and overpowering - it was one,
yet it was many; it was immaterial, yet absolutely real - real in a sense in
which she never dreamed of reality…
Yet even this was
familiar, as a place often visited in dreams is familiar; and then, without
warning, something resembling sound or light, something which she knew in an
instant to be unique, tore across it…
* * * * *
Then she saw, and understood…
