Chapter XXII.

by Aldous Huxley

　　For the sake of peace and quiet Denis had retired earlier on thissame afternoon to his bedroom. He wanted to work, but the hourwas a drowsy one, and lunch, so recently eaten, weighed heavilyon body and mind. The meridian demon was upon him; he waspossessed by that bored and hopeless post-prandial melancholywhich the coenobites of old knew and feared under the name of"accidie." He felt, like Ernest Dowson, "a little weary." Hewas in the mood to write something rather exquisite and gentleand quietist in tone; something a little droopy and at the sametime--how should he put it?--a little infinite. He thought ofAnne, of love hopeless and unattainable. Perhaps that was theideal kind of love, the hopeless kind--the quiet, theoreticalkind of love. In this sad mood of repletion he could wellbelieve it. He began to write. One elegant quatrain had flowedfrom beneath his pen:"A brooding love which is at mostThe stealth of moonbeams when they slide,Evoking colour's bloodless ghost,O'er some scarce-breathing breast or side..."when his attention was attracted by a sound from outside. Helooked down from his window; there they were, Anne and Gombauld,talking, laughing together. They crossed the courtyard in front,and passed out of sight through the gate in the right-hand wall.That was the way to the green close and the granary; she wasgoing to sit for him again. His pleasantly depressing melancholywas dissipated by a puff of violent emotion; angrily he threw hisquatrain into the waste-paper basket and ran downstairs. "Thestealth of moonbeams," indeed!In the hall he saw Mr. Scogan; the man seemed to be lying inwait. Denis tried to escape, but in vain. Mr. Scogan's eyeglittered like the eye of the Ancient Mariner."Not so fast," he said, stretching out a small saurian hand withpointed nails--"not so fast. I was just going down to the flowergarden to take the sun. We'll go together."Denis abandoned himself; Mr. Scogan put on his hat and they wentout arm in arm. On the shaven turf of the terrace Henry Wimbushand Mary were playing a solemn game of bowls. They descended bythe yew-tree walk. It was here, thought Denis, here that Annehad fallen, here that he had kissed her, here--and he blushedwith retrospective shame at the memory--here that he had tried tocarry her and failed. Life was awful!"Sanity!" said Mr. Scogan, suddenly breaking a long silence."Sanity--that's what's wrong with me and that's what will bewrong with you, my dear Denis, when you're old enough to be saneor insane. In a sane world I should be a great man; as thingsare, in this curious establishment, I am nothing at all; to allintents and purposes I don't exist. I am just Vox et praetereanihil."Denis made no response; he was thinking of other things. "Afterall," he said to himself--"after all, Gombauld is better lookingthan I, more entertaining, more confident; and, besides, he'salready somebody and I'm still only potential...""Everything that ever gets done in this world is done by madmen,"Mr. Scogan went on. Denis tried not to listen, but the tirelessinsistence of Mr. Scogan's discourse gradually compelled hisattention. "Men such as I am, such as you may possibly become,have never achieved anything. We're too sane; we're merelyreasonable. We lack the human touch, the compelling enthusiasticmania. People are quite ready to listen to the philosophers fora little amusement, just as they would listen to a fiddler or amountebank. But as to acting on the advice of the men of reason--never. Wherever the choice has had to be made between the manof reason and the madman, the world has unhesitatingly followedthe madman. For the madman appeals to what is fundamental, topassion and the instincts; the philosophers to what issuperficial and supererogatory--reason."They entered the garden; at the head of one of the alleys stood agreen wooden bench, embayed in the midst of a fragrant continentof lavender bushes. It was here, though the place was shadelessand one breathed hot, dry perfume instead of air--it was herethat Mr. Scogan elected to sit. He thrived on untemperedsunlight."Consider, for example, the case of Luther and Erasmus." He tookout his pipe and began to fill it as he talked. "There wasErasmus, a man of reason if ever there was one. People listenedto him at first--a new virtuoso performing on that elegant andresourceful instrument, the intellect; they even admired andvenerated him. But did he move them to behave as he wanted themto behave--reasonably, decently, or at least a little lessporkishly than usual? He did not. And then Luther appears,violent, passionate, a madman insanely convinced about matters inwhich there can be no conviction. He shouted, and men rushed tofollow him. Erasmus was no longer listened to; he was reviledfor his reasonableness. Luther was serious, Luther was reality--like the Great War. Erasmus was only reason and decency; helacked the power, being a sage, to move men to action. Europefollowed Luther and embarked on a century and a half of war andbloody persecution. It's a melancholy story." Mr. Scoganlighted a match. In the intense light the flame was all butinvisible. The smell of burning tobacco began to mingle with thesweetly acrid smell of the lavender."If you want to get men to act reasonably, you must set aboutpersuading them in a maniacal manner. The very sane precepts ofthe founders of religions are only made infectious by means ofenthusiasms which to a sane man must appear deplorable. It ishumiliating to find how impotent unadulterated sanity is.Sanity, for example, informs us that the only way in which we canpreserve civilisation is by behaving decently and intelligently.Sanity appeals and argues; our rulers persevere in theircustomary porkishness, while we acquiesce and obey. The onlyhope is a maniacal crusade; I am ready, when it comes, to beat atambourine with the loudest, but at the same time I shall feel alittle ashamed of myself. However"--Mr. Scogan shrugged hisshoulders and, pipe in hand, made a gesture of resignation--"It'sfutile to complain that things are as they are. The fact remainsthat sanity unassisted is useless. What we want, then, is a saneand reasonable exploitation of the forces of insanity. We sanemen will have the power yet." Mr. Scogan's eyes shone with amore than ordinary brightness, and, taking his pipe out of hismouth, he gave vent to his loud, dry, and somehow rather fiendishlaugh."But I don't want power," said Denis. He was sitting in limpdiscomfort at one end of the bench, shading his eyes from theintolerable light. Mr. Scogan, bolt upright at the other end,laughed again."Everybody wants power," he said. "Power in some form or other.The sort of power you hanker for is literary power. Some peoplewant power to persecute other human beings; you expend your lustfor power in persecuting words, twisting them, moulding them,torturing them to obey you. But I divagate.""Do you?" asked Denis faintly."Yes," Mr. Scogan continued, unheeding, "the time will come. Wemen of intelligence will learn to harness the insanities to theservice of reason. We can't leave the world any longer to thedirection of chance. We can't allow dangerous maniacs likeLuther, mad about dogma, like Napoleon, mad about himself, to goon casually appearing and turning everything upside down. In thepast it didn't so much matter; but our modern machine is toodelicate. A few more knocks like the Great War, another Lutheror two, and the whole concern will go to pieces. In future, themen of reason must see that the madness of the world's maniacs iscanalised into proper channels, is made to do useful work, like amountain torrent driving a dynamo...""Making electricity to light a Swiss hotel," said Denis. "Youought to complete the simile."Mr. Scogan waved away the interruption. "There's only one thingto be done," he said. "The men of intelligence must combine,must conspire, and seize power from the imbeciles and maniacs whonow direct us. They must found the Rational State."The heat that was slowly paralysing all Denis's mental and bodilyfaculties, seemed to bring to Mr. Scogan additional vitality. Hetalked with an ever-increasing energy, his hands moved in sharp,quick, precise gestures, his eyes shone. Hard, dry, andcontinuous, his voice went on sounding and sounding in Denis'sears with the insistence of a mechanical noise."In the Rational State," he heard Mr. Scogan saying, "humanbeings will be separated out into distinct species, not accordingto the colour of their eyes or the shape of their skulls, butaccording to the qualities of their mind and temperament.Examining psychologists, trained to what would now seem an almostsuperhuman clairvoyance, will test each child that is born andassign it to its proper species. Duly labelled and docketed, thechild will be given the education suitable to members of itsspecies, and will be set, in adult life, to perform thosefunctions which human beings of his variety are capable ofperforming.""How many species will there be?" asked Denis."A great many, no doubt," Mr. Scogan answered; "theclassification will be subtle and elaborate. But it is not inthe power of a prophet to go into details, nor is it hisbusiness. I will do more than indicate the three main speciesinto which the subjects of the Rational State will be divided."He paused, cleared his throat, and coughed once or twice, evokingin Denis's mind the vision of a table with a glass and water-bottle, and, lying across one corner, a long white pointer forthe lantern pictures."The three main species," Mr. Scogan went on, "will be these:the Directing Intelligences, the Men of Faith, and the Herd.Among the Intelligences will be found all those capable ofthought, those who know how to attain a certain degree offreedom--and, alas, how limited, even among the most intelligent,that freedom is!--from the mental bondage of their time. Aselect body of Intelligences, drawn from among those who haveturned their attention to the problems of practical life, will bethe governors of the Rational State. They will employ as theirinstruments of power the second great species of humanity--themen of Faith, the Madmen, as I have been calling them, whobelieve in things unreasonably, with passion, and are ready todie for their beliefs and their desires. These wild men, withtheir fearful potentialities for good or for mischief, will nolonger be allowed to react casually to a casual environment.There will be no more Caesar Borgias, no more Luthers andMohammeds, no more Joanna Southcotts, no more Comstocks. Theold-fashioned Man of Faith and Desire, that haphazard creature ofbrute circumstance, who might drive men to tears and repentance,or who might equally well set them on to cutting one another'sthroats, will be replaced by a new sort of madman, stillexternally the same, still bubbling with a seemingly spontaneousenthusiasm, but, ah, how very different from the madman of thepast! For the new Man of Faith will be expending his passion,his desire, and his enthusiasm in the propagation of somereasonable idea. He will be, all unawares, the tool of somesuperior intelligence."Mr. Scogan chuckled maliciously; it was as though he were takinga revenge, in the name of reason, on enthusiasts. "From theirearliest years, as soon, that is, as the examining psychologistshave assigned them their place in the classified scheme, the Menof Faith will have had their special education under the eye ofthe Intelligences. Moulded by a long process of suggestion, theywill go out into the world, preaching and practising with agenerous mania the coldly reasonable projects of the Directorsfrom above. When these projects are accomplished, or when theideas that were useful a decade ago have ceased to be useful, theIntelligences will inspire a new generation of madmen with a neweternal truth. The principal function of the Men of Faith willbe to move and direct the Multitude, that third great speciesconsisting of those countless millions who lack intelligence andare without valuable enthusiasm. When any particular effort isrequired of the Herd, when it is thought necessary, for the sakeof solidarity, that humanity shall be kindled and united by somesingle enthusiastic desire or idea, the Men of Faith, primed withsome simple and satisfying creed, will be sent out on a missionof evangelisation. At ordinary times, when the high spiritualtemperature of a Crusade would be unhealthy, the Men of Faithwill be quietly and earnestly busy with the great work ofeducation. In the upbringing of the Herd, humanity's almostboundless suggestibility will be scientifically exploited.Systematically, from earliest infancy, its members will beassured that there is no happiness to be found except in work andobedience; they will be made to believe that they are happy, thatthey are tremendously important beings, and that everything theydo is noble and significant. For the lower species the earthwill be restored to the centre of the universe and man to pre-eminence on the earth. Oh, I envy the lot of the commonality inthe Rational State! Working their eight hours a day, obeyingtheir betters, convinced of their own grandeur and significanceand immortality, they will be marvellously happy, happier thanany race of men has ever been. They will go through life in arosy state of intoxication, from which they will never awake.The Men of Faith will play the cup-bearers at this lifelongbacchanal, filling and ever filling again with the warm liquorthat the Intelligences, in sad and sober privacy behind thescenes, will brew for the intoxication of their subjects.""And what will be my place in the Rational State?" Denis drowsilyinquired from under his shading hand.Mr. Scogan looked at him for a moment in silence. "It'sdifficult to see where you would fit in," he said at last. "Youcouldn't do manual work; you're too independent and unsuggestibleto belong to the larger Herd; you have none of thecharacteristics required in a Man of Faith. As for the DirectingIntelligences, they will have to be marvellously clear andmerciless and penetrating." He paused and shook his head. "No,I can see no place for you; only the lethal chamber."Deeply hurt, Denis emitted the imitation of a loud Homeric laugh."I'm getting sunstroke here," he said, and got up.Mr. Scogan followed his example, and they walked slowly away downthe narrow path, brushing the blue lavender flowers in theirpassage. Denis pulled a sprig of lavender and sniffed at it;then some dark leaves of rosemary that smelt like incense in acavernous church. They passed a bed of opium poppies, dispetalednow; the round, ripe seedheads were brown and dry--likePolynesian trophies, Denis thought; severed heads stuck on poles.He liked the fancy enough to impart it to Mr. Scogan."Like Polynesian trophies..." Uttered aloud, the fancy seemedless charming and significant than it did when it first occurredto him.There was a silence, and in a growing wave of sound the whir ofthe reaping machines swelled up from the fields beyond the gardenand then receded into a remoter hum."It is satisfactory to think," said Mr. Scogan, as they strolledslowly onward, "that a multitude of people are toiling in theharvest fields in order that we may talk of Polynesia. Likeevery other good thing in this world, leisure and culture have tobe paid for. Fortunately, however, it is not the leisured andthe cultured who have to pay. Let us be duly thankful for that,my dear Denis--duly thankful," he repeated, and knocked the ashesout of his pipe.Denis was not listening. He had suddenly remembered Anne. Shewas with Gombauld--alone with him in his studio. It was anintolerable thought."Shall we go and pay a call on Gombauld?" he suggestedcarelessly. It would be amusing to see what he's doing now."He laughed inwardly to think how furious Gombauld would be whenhe saw them arriving.