The Dedalus Book of Decadence: (Moral Ruins) (29 page)

I asked: “Do you write songs, Fiore di Fiamma?”

“Yes, I have written a few, and music for them.”

“Do sing me one, and I will play the guitar.”

So she sang me one of the most mournful songs I had ever heard, a song which had given up all hope of fame, written for the moment’s laughter or for the moment’s tears.

“Wind,” I said that night, “stay with me many years in the garden.”

But it was not the Wind I kissed.

VI

OUTSIDE

I passed many years in that sad, enchanted place, dreaming at times of my mother’s roses, and of friends that I had known before, and watching our company grow older and fewer.
There was a rule that no one should stay there after their thirty-seventh birthday, and some old comrades passed weeping from us to join the World Outside.
But most of them chose to take poison and to die quietly in the Garden; we used to burn their bodies, singing, and set out their urns on the grass.
In time I became the Prince of the Garden: no one knew my age, and I grew no older; yet my Flame-Flower knew when I intended to die.
Thus we lived on undisturbed, save for some horrible shout that rose from time to time from beyond the walls; but we were not afraid, as we had cannon mounted at our gates.
At last there were twelve of us left in the precinct of delight, and we decided to die all together on the eve of the Queen’s birthday.
So we made a great feast and held good cheer, and had the poison prepared and cast lots.
The first lot fell to Fiore di Fiamma, and the last lot to me; whereat all applauded.
I watched my Queen, who had never seemed to me as noble as then, in her mature and majestic beauty.
She kissed me, and drank, and the others drank, became very pale, and fell to earth.
Then I, rising with a last paean of exultation, raised the cup to my lips.

But that moment the trees and flowers bent beneath a furious storm, and the cup was wrenched out of my hand by a terrific blast and sent hurtling to the ground.
I saw the rainbow-coloured feathers flashing and for a second I saw the face of the Wind himself.
I trembled,
and, sinking into my chair, buried my face in my hands.
A wave of despair and loneliness broke over me.
I felt like a drowning man.

“Take me back, Lord of the Wind!”
I cried.
“What am I doing among these dead aesthetes?
Take me back to the country where I was born, to the house where I am at home, to the things I used to handle, to the friends with whom I talked, before man went mad.
I am sick of this generation that cannot strive or fight, these people of one idea, this doleful, ageing world.
Take me away!”

But the Wind replied in angry tones, not gently as of old:

“Is it thus you treat me, you whom I singled out from men?
You have forgotten me for fifteen years; you have wandered up and down a garden, oblivious of all things that I had taught you, incurious, idle, listless, effeminate.
Now I have saved you from dying a mock death, like a jester in a tragedy; and in time I will take you back, for that I promised; but first you shall be punished as you deserve.”
So saying, the Wind raised me aloft and set me beyond the wall.

I dare not describe – I fear to remember the unutterable loathing of the three years I spent outside.
The unhappy remnant of a middle-aged mankind was gradually exchanging lust for gluttony.
Crowds squatted by day and by night round the Houses of Dainty Foods that had been stocked by Harris the King; there was no youthful face to be found among them, and scarcely one that was not repulsively deformed with the signs of lust, cunning, and debauch.
At evening there were incessant fires of crumblingbuildings, and fat women made horrible attempts at revelry.
There seemed to be no power of thought in these creatures.
The civilization of ages had fallen from them like a worthless rag from off their backs.
Europeans were as bestial as Hottentots, and the noblest
thing they ever did was to fight; for sometimes a fierce desire of battle seized them, and then they tore each other passionately with teeth and nails.

I cannot understand it even now.
Surely there should have been some Puritans somewhere, or some Philosophers waiting to die with dignity and honour.
Was it that there was no work to do?
Or that there were no children to love?
Or that there was nothing young in the World?
Or that all beautiful souls perished in the garden?

I think it must have been the terrible thought of approaching extinction that obsessed these distracted men.
And perhaps they were not totally depraved.
There was a rough fellowship among them, a desire to herd together; and for all that they fought so much, they fought in groups.
They never troubled to look after the sick and wounded, but what could they do?

One day I began to feel that I too was one of them – I, who had held aloof in secret ways so long, joined the gruesome company in their nightly dance, and sat down to eat and drink their interminable meal.
Suddenly a huge, wild, naked man appeared in front of the firelight, a prophet, as it appeared, who prophesied not death but life.
He flung out his lean arms and shouted at us: “In vain have you schemed and lingered and died, O Last Generation of the Damned.
For the cities shall be built again, and the mills shall grind anew, and the church bells shall ring, and the Earth be re-peopled with new miseries in God’s own time.”

I could not bear to hear this fellow speak.
Here was one of the old sort of men, the men that talked evil, and murmured about God.
“Friends,” I said, turning to the Feasters, “we will have no skeletons like that at our feast.”
So saying I seized a piece of flaming wood from the fire, and rushed at the man.
He struggled fiercely, but he
had no weapon, and I beat him about the head till he fell, and death rattled in his throat – rattled with what seemed to me a most familiar sound.
I stood aghast; then wiped the blood from the man’s eyes and looked into them.

“Who are you?”
I exclaimed.
“I have seen you before; I seem to know the sound of your voice and the colour of your eyes.
Can you speak a word and tell us your story, most unhappy prophet, before you die?”

“Men of the Last Generation,” said the dying man, raising himself on his elbow – “Men of the Last Generation, I am Joshua Harris, your King.”

As brainless frogs who have no thought or sense in them, yet shrink when they are touched, and swim when the accustomed water laves their eager limbs, so did these poor creatures feel a nerve stirring within them, and unconsciously obey the voice which had commanded them of old.
As though the mere sound of his tremulous words conveyed an irresistible mandate, the whole group came shuffling nearer.
All the while they preserved a silence that made me afraid, so reminiscent was it of that deadly hush that had followed the Proclamation, of the quiet army starting for London, and especially of that mysterious and sultry morning so many years ago when the roses hung their enamelled heads and leaves were as still as leaves of tin or copper.
They sat down in circles round the fire, maintaining an orderly disposition, like a stray battalion of some defeated army which is weary of fruitless journeys in foreign lands, but still remembers discipline and answers to command.
Meanwhile, the dying man was gathering with a noiseless yet visible effort every shred of strength from his massive limbs, and preparing to give them his last message.
As he looked round on that frightful crowd great tears, that his own pain and impending doom could never have drawn
from him, filled his strange eyes.

Forgive me – forgive me,” he said at last, clearly enough for all to hear.
“If any of you still know what mercy is, or the meaning of forgiveness, say a kind word to me.
Loving you, relying on humanity and myself, despising the march of Time and the power of Heaven, I became a false redeemer, and took upon my back the burden of all sin.
But how was I to know, my people, I who am only a man, whither my plans for your redemption would lead?
Have none of you a word to say?

“Is there no one here who remembers our fighting days?
Where are the great lieutenants who stood at my side and cheered me with counsel?
Where are Robertson, Baldwin, and Andrew Spencer?
Are there none of the old set left?”

He brushed the tears and blood from his eyes and gazed into the crowd.
Pointing joyously to an old man who sat not far away he called out: “I know you, Andrew, from that great scar on your forehead.
Come here, Andrew, and that quickly.”

The old man seemed neither to hear nor understand him, but sat like all the rest, blinking and unresponsive.

“Andrew,” he cried, “you must know me!
Think of Brum and South Melton Street.
Be an Englishman, Andrew – come and shake hands!”

The man looked at him with staring, timid eyes; then shuddered all over, scrambled up from the ground, and ran away.

“It does not matter,” murmured the King of the World.
‘There are no men left.
I have lived in the desert, and I saw there that which I would I had seen long ago – visions that came too late to warn me.
For a time my Plan has conquered; but that greater Plan shall be victorious in the end.”

I was trying to staunch the wounds I had inflicted,
and I hoped to comfort him, but he thrust me aside.

“I know that no man of this generation could have killed me.
I have nothing in common with you, bright Spirit.
It was not you I loved, not for you I fought and struggled, but for these.
I do not want to be reminded, by that light of reason shining in your eyes, of what we were all of us, once.
It was a heroic age, when good and evil lived together, and misery bound man to man.
Yet I will not regret what I have done.
I ask forgiveness not of God, but of Man; and I claim the gratitude of thousands who are unknown, and unknown shall ever remain.
For ages and ages God must reign over an empty kingdom, since I have brought to an end one great cycle of centuries.
Tell me, Stranger, was I not great in my day?”

He fell back, and the Wind that took his Spirit carried me also into space.

VII

THE LAST MAN

The Wind bore me onwards more than forty years, and I found seated beside a granary half-a-dozen wrinkled and very aged men, whose faces were set with a determination to go on living to the bitter end.
They were delirious, and naked; they tore their white beards; they mumbled and could not speak.
The great beasts came out of the forest by night softly and gazed at them with their lantern eyes, but never did them harm.
All day long they ate and slept or wandered a little aimlessly about.
During that year four of them died.

Afterwards I saw the last two men.
One of them was lying on the ground gasping passionately for breath,
his withered limbs awry with pain.
I could see that he had been a magnificent man in his youth.
As his old friend died, the Last of the Race remembered his Humanity.
He bent down, kissed the livid lips, carefully and tearfully closed the filmed red eyes.
He even tried to scratch a grave with his long finger-nails, but soon despaired.
He then went away, plodding as fast as he could hobble, weeping silently, afraid of the Dead.
In the afternoon, he came to a vast city, where many corpses lay; and about nightfall, when the stars were shining, he came to a massive half-ruined Dome that had been used for the worship of some God.
Entering, he tottered towards the altar, which still stood, half buried in stone-dust and flakes; and reaching up to a great bronze Crucifix that stood upon it, with his dying strength he clasped to his arms the Emblem of our Sorrow.

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I saw the vast Halls and Palaces of men falling in slowly, decaying, crumbling, destroyed by nothing but the rains and the touch of Time.
And looking again I saw wandering over and above the ruins, moving curiously about, myriads of brown, hairy, repulsive little apes.

One of them was building a fire with sticks.

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