Chapter 4: The New Phase

The task that lay before the Assembly of Brissago, viewed as we may view it now from the clarifying standpoint of things accomplished, was in its broad issues a simple one. Essentially it was to place social organisation upon the new footing that the swift, accelerated advance of human knowledge had rendered necessary. The council was gathered together with the haste of a salvage expedition, and it was confronted with wreckage; but the wreckage was irreparable wreckage, and the only possibilities of the case were either the relapse of mankind to the agricultural barbarism from which it had emerged so painfully or the acceptance of achieved science as the basis of a new social order. The old tendencies of human nature, suspicion, jealousy, particularism, and belligerency, were incompatible with the monstrous destructive power of the new appliances the inhuman logic of science had produced. The equilibrium could be restored only by civilisation destroying itself down to a level at which modern apparatus could no longer be produced, or by human nature adapting itself in its institutions to the new conditions. It was for the latter alternative that the assembly existed.

Looking back from the clearer perspective of what was accomplished, we can see that the Assembly of Brissago faced a broadly simple task. It had to reorganize society to meet the needs created by the swift and accelerating advance of human knowledge. The council had gathered as hastily as a salvage expedition, and it faced a world in ruins. But the damage was beyond repair. Humanity could either fall back into the agricultural barbarism it had struggled so painfully to escape, or build a new social order on the science already achieved. The old tendencies of human nature, suspicion, jealousy, loyalty to narrow interests, and aggression, could not coexist with the monstrous destructive power of the new devices produced by the inhuman logic of science. Balance could be restored in only two ways. Civilization could destroy itself until it reached a level where modern equipment could no longer be produced. Or human nature could adapt its institutions to the new conditions. The assembly existed to pursue the second course.

Sooner or later this choice would have confronted mankind. The sudden development of atomic science did but precipitate and render rapid and dramatic a clash between the new and the customary that had been gathering since ever the first flint was chipped or the first fire built together. From the day when man contrived himself a tool and suffered another male to draw near him, he ceased to be altogether a thing of instinct and untroubled convictions. From that day forth a widening breach can be traced between his egotistical passions and the social need. Slowly he adapted himself to the life of the homestead, and his passionate impulses widened out to the demands of the clan and the tribe. But widen though his impulses might, the latent hunter and wanderer and wonderer in his imagination outstripped their development. He was never quite subdued to the soil nor quite tamed to the home. Everywhere it needed teaching and the priest to keep him within the bounds of the plough-life and the beast-tending. Slowly a vast system of traditional imperatives superposed itself upon his instincts, imperatives that were admirably fitted to make him that cultivator, that cattle-mincer, who was for twice ten thousand years the normal man.

Sooner or later, humanity would have faced this choice. The sudden development of atomic science merely brought it sooner, making a clash swift and dramatic. The clash between the new and the customary had been building since the first flint was chipped or the first fire built. Once man made himself a tool and allowed another male near him, he no longer lived entirely by instinct and unquestioned beliefs. From then on, a growing gap opened between his selfish passions and the needs of society. Slowly, he adapted to life on the homestead, and his passions grew to meet the demands of clan and tribe. But however much his impulses expanded, his imagination remained that of a hunter, wanderer, and seeker of wonders, and ranged further still. He was never fully bound to the soil or tamed to life at home. Everywhere, teaching and priests were needed to keep him within the bounds of farming and tending animals. Slowly, a vast system of traditional commands was laid over his instincts. These commands were admirably suited to making him the cultivator and cattle-mincer who was the normal man for twenty thousand years.

And, unpremeditated, undesired, out of the accumulations of his tilling came civilisation. Civilisation was the agricultural surplus. It appeared as trade and tracks and roads, it pushed boats out upon the rivers and presently invaded the seas, and within its primitive courts, within temples grown rich and leisurely and amidst the gathering medley of the seaport towns rose speculation and philosophy and science, and the beginning of the new order that has at last established itself as human life. Slowly at first, as we traced it, and then with an accumulating velocity, the new powers were fabricated. Man as a whole did not seek them nor desire them; they were thrust into his hand. For a time men took up and used these new things and the new powers inadvertently as they came to him, recking nothing of the consequences. For endless generations change led him very gently. But when he had been led far enough, change quickened the pace. It was with a series of shocks that he realised at last that he was living the old life less and less and a new life more and more.

Without planning or wanting it, man produced civilisation from the surplus of his farming. Civilisation was the agricultural surplus. It appeared as trade, paths, and roads. It pushed boats onto rivers and soon ventured out to sea. Speculation, philosophy, and science arose in early courts, in temples that had grown wealthy and leisurely, and among the varied crowds of seaport towns. There, too, began the new order that has finally established itself as human life. As we have seen, new powers were created slowly at first, then with increasing speed. Humanity as a whole did not seek or desire them. They were thrust into its hands. For a time, people took up and used these new things and powers without thinking about the consequences. For countless generations, change led humanity forward very gently. But once humanity had been led far enough, change picked up speed. Through a series of shocks, people finally realised that they were living the old life less and less and a new life more and more.

Already before the release of atomic energy the tensions between the old way of living and the new were intense. They were far intenser than they had been even at the collapse of the Roman imperial system. On the one hand was the ancient life of the family and the small community and the petty industry, on the other was a new life on a larger scale, with remoter horizons and a strange sense of purpose. Already it was growing clear that men must live on one side or the other. One could not have little tradespeople and syndicated businesses in the same market, sleeping carters and motor trolleys on the same road, bows and arrows and aeroplane sharpshooters in the same army, or illiterate peasant industries and power-driven factories in the same world. And still less it was possible that one could have the ideas and ambitions and greed and jealousy of peasants equipped with the vast appliances of the new age. If there had been no atomic bombs to bring together most of the directing intelligence of the world to that hasty conference at Brissago, there would still have been, extended over great areas and a considerable space of time perhaps, a less formal conference of responsible and understanding people upon the perplexities of this world-wide opposition. If the work of Holsten had been spread over centuries and imparted to the world by imperceptible degrees, it would nevertheless have made it necessary for men to take counsel upon and set a plan for the future. Indeed already there had been accumulating for a hundred years before the crisis a literature of foresight; there was a whole mass of ‘Modern State’ scheming available for the conference to go upon. These bombs did but accentuate and dramatise an already developing problem.

Even before atomic energy was released, tensions between the old and new ways of living were intense. They were far more intense than they had been even when the Roman imperial system collapsed. On one side was the ancient life of the family, the small community, and small industry. On the other was a new life on a larger scale, with more distant horizons and a strange sense of purpose. It was already becoming clear that people had to live on one side or the other. Small traders and large business combines could not share the same market. Sleeping cart drivers and motorized trolleys could not share the same road. Bows and arrows and sharpshooters in airplanes could not serve in the same army. Illiterate peasant industries and power-driven factories could not exist in the same world. Still less could people with the ideas, ambitions, greed, and jealousy of peasants be equipped with the vast machinery of the new age. The atomic bombs brought most of the world’s leading minds together for a hasty conference at Brissago. But even without the bombs, responsible and knowledgeable people would have discussed the problems caused by this worldwide conflict. Their discussion might have been less formal, spread over large areas and a considerable time. If Holsten’s work had been spread over centuries and shared with the world by imperceptible degrees, people would still have needed to consult one another and make a plan for the future. Indeed, for a hundred years before the crisis, a literature of foresight had already been accumulating. A whole body of ‘Modern State’ planning was available for the conference to draw on. The bombs only brought an already developing problem into sharper, more dramatic focus.

This assembly was no leap of exceptional minds and super-intelligences into the control of affairs. It was teachable, its members trailed ideas with them to the gathering, but these were the consequences of the ‘moral shock’ the bombs had given humanity, and there is no reason for supposing its individual personalities were greatly above the average. It would be possible to cite a thousand instances of error and inefficiency in its proceedings due to the forgetfulness, irritability, or fatigue of its members. It experimented considerably and blundered often. Excepting Holsten, whose gift was highly specialised, it is questionable whether there was a single man of the first order of human quality in the gathering. But it had a modest fear of itself, and a consequent directness that gave it a general distinction. There was, of course, a noble simplicity about Leblanc, but even of him it may be asked whether he was not rather good and honest-minded than in the fuller sense great.

This assembly did not bring exceptional minds and superintelligences into control of affairs. Its members were willing to learn, and they brought ideas with them to the gathering. But these ideas were the result of the ‘moral shock’ the bombs had given humanity. There is no reason to suppose the members were individually much above average. One could cite a thousand errors and failures in their proceedings caused by forgetfulness, irritability, or fatigue. They experimented a great deal and often blundered. Apart from Holsten, whose gift was highly specialized, it is doubtful that any man in the gathering was truly first-rate. But the assembly had a modest fear of its own powers. This gave it a directness that set it apart overall. Leblanc, of course, had a noble simplicity. Yet even of him, one may ask whether he was good and honest rather than great in the fuller sense.

The ex-king had wisdom and a certain romantic dash, he was a man among thousands, even if he was not a man among millions, but his memoirs, and indeed his decision to write memoirs, give the quality of himself and his associates. The book makes admirable but astonishing reading. Therein he takes the great work the council was doing for granted as a little child takes God. It is as if he had no sense of it at all. He tells amusing trivialities about his cousin Wilhelm and his secretary Firmin, he pokes fun at the American president, who was, indeed, rather a little accident of the political machine than a representative American, and he gives a long description of how he was lost for three days in the mountains in the company of the only Japanese member, a loss that seems to have caused no serious interruption of the work of the council....

The ex-king was wise and had a certain romantic flair. He was a remarkable man, even if he was not one in a million. But his memoirs, and his decision to write them, reveal what he and his associates were like. The book is admirable but astonishing to read. He takes the great work of the council for granted, as a small child takes God for granted. It is as if he has no awareness of the work at all. He tells amusing little stories about his cousin Wilhelm and his secretary Firmin. He makes fun of the American president, who was indeed more of a minor accident of the political machine than a representative American. He also describes at length how he got lost in the mountains for three days with the only Japanese member. Their absence seems to have caused no serious interruption to the council's work....

The Brissago conference has been written about time after time, as though it were a gathering of the very flower of humanity. Perched up there by the freak or wisdom of Leblanc, it had a certain Olympian quality, and the natural tendency of the human mind to elaborate such a resemblance would have us give its members the likenesses of gods. It would be equally reasonable to compare it to one of those enforced meetings upon the mountain-tops that must have occurred in the opening phases of the Deluge. The strength of the council lay not in itself but in the circumstances that had quickened its intelligence, dispelled its vanities, and emancipated it from traditional ambitions and antagonisms. It was stripped of the accumulation of centuries, a naked government with all that freedom of action that nakedness affords. And its problems were set before it with a plainness that was out of all comparison with the complicated and perplexing intimations of the former time.

The Brissago conference has been written about again and again, as though it brought together the finest of humanity. Set high up there by Leblanc’s whim or wisdom, it had a certain Olympian quality. The human mind naturally tends to build on such a resemblance and imagine its members as gods. But it would be just as reasonable to compare the conference to one of those forced gatherings on mountaintops that must have occurred as the Deluge began. The council’s strength lay not in itself but in its circumstances. Those circumstances had sharpened its intelligence, dispelled its vanities, and freed it from traditional ambitions and rivalries. It had been stripped of all that centuries had piled upon it. It was a naked government, with all the freedom of action that nakedness allows. And its problems were laid before it far more plainly than the complicated and confusing hints of earlier times.

The world on which the council looked did indeed present a task quite sufficiently immense and altogether too urgent for any wanton indulgence in internal dissension. It may be interesting to sketch in a few phrases the condition of mankind at the close of the period of warring states, in the year of crisis that followed the release of atomic power. It was a world extraordinarily limited when one measures it by later standards, and it was now in a state of the direst confusion and distress.

The world before the council presented an immense task, far too urgent to allow for pointless internal disputes. It may be interesting to briefly describe humanity’s condition at the end of the period of warring states. That was the year of crisis following the release of atomic power. By later standards, the world was extraordinarily limited. It was now in a state of terrible confusion and distress.

It must be remembered that at this time men had still to spread into enormous areas of the land surface of the globe. There were vast mountain wildernesses, forest wildernesses, sandy deserts, and frozen lands. Men still clung closely to water and arable soil in temperate or sub-tropical climates, they lived abundantly only in river valleys, and all their great cities had grown upon large navigable rivers or close to ports upon the sea. Over great areas even of this suitable land flies and mosquitoes, armed with infection, had so far defeated human invasion, and under their protection the virgin forests remained untouched. Indeed, the whole world even in its most crowded districts was filthy with flies and swarming with needless insect life to an extent which is now almost incredible. A population map of the world in 1950 would have followed seashore and river course so closely in its darker shading as to give an impression that homo sapiens was an amphibious animal. His roads and railways lay also along the lower contours, only here and there to pierce some mountain barrier or reach some holiday resort did they clamber above 3000 feet. And across the ocean his traffic passed in definite lines; there were hundreds of thousands of square miles of ocean no ship ever traversed except by mischance.

It is important to remember that, at this time, people had yet to spread into enormous areas of the world’s land. There were vast mountain wildernesses, forest wildernesses, sandy deserts, and frozen lands. People still stayed close to water and farmland in temperate or subtropical climates. Large populations lived only in river valleys. All their great cities had grown up on large navigable rivers or near seaports. Across large areas of this suitable land, disease-carrying flies and mosquitoes had so far kept people out. Under their protection, the untouched forests remained untouched. Indeed, even the most crowded parts of the world were filthy with flies and swarming with unnecessary insects. The extent of it is now almost incredible. On a population map of the world in 1950, the darker shading would have followed coastlines and rivers so closely that homo sapiens would have seemed like an amphibious animal. Roads and railways also followed the lower elevations. Only here and there did they climb above 3,000 feet to cross a mountain barrier or reach a holiday resort. Ocean traffic followed set routes, too. There were hundreds of thousands of square miles of ocean that no ship ever crossed except by accident.

Into the mysteries of the solid globe under his feet he had not yet pierced for five miles, and it was still not forty years since, with a tragic pertinacity, he had clambered to the poles of the earth. The limitless mineral wealth of the Arctic and Antarctic circles was still buried beneath vast accumulations of immemorial ice, and the secret riches of the inner zones of the crust were untapped and indeed unsuspected. The higher mountain regions were known only to a sprinkling of guide-led climbers and the frequenters of a few gaunt hotels, and the vast rainless belts of land that lay across the continental masses, from Gobi to Sahara and along the backbone of America, with their perfect air, their daily baths of blazing sunshine, their nights of cool serenity and glowing stars, and their reservoirs of deep-lying water, were as yet only desolations of fear and death to the common imagination.

Man had not yet explored the solid earth beneath his feet to a depth of five miles. Less than forty years had passed since he had struggled to reach the earth’s poles with tragic determination. The limitless mineral wealth of the Arctic and Antarctic circles still lay buried beneath vast masses of ancient ice. The hidden riches deeper in the earth’s crust remained untouched and, indeed, unsuspected. The high mountain regions were known only to a few climbers led by guides and visitors to a few bleak hotels. Vast rainless belts stretched across the continents, from Gobi to Sahara and along the backbone of America. They had perfect air, daily baths of blazing sunshine, cool, serene nights filled with glowing stars, and deep underground reservoirs of water. Yet most people still imagined them only as desolate places of fear and death.

And now under the shock of the atomic bombs, the great masses of population which had gathered into the enormous dingy town centres of that period were dispossessed and scattered disastrously over the surrounding rural areas. It was as if some brutal force, grown impatient at last at man’s blindness, had with the deliberate intention of a rearrangement of population upon more wholesome lines, shaken the world. The great industrial regions and the large cities that had escaped the bombs were, because of their complete economic collapse, in almost as tragic plight as those that blazed, and the country-side was disordered by a multitude of wandering and lawless strangers. In some parts of the world famine raged, and in many regions there was plague.... The plains of north India, which had become more and more dependent for the general welfare on the railways and that great system of irrigation canals which the malignant section of the patriots had destroyed, were in a state of peculiar distress, whole villages lay dead together, no man heeding, and the very tigers and panthers that preyed upon the emaciated survivors crawled back infected into the jungle to perish. Large areas of China were a prey to brigand bands....

And now, under the shock of the atomic bombs, the vast populations gathered in that period’s enormous, grimy city centers lost their homes. They were scattered in disastrous numbers across the surrounding countryside. It was as if some brutal force had finally grown impatient with humanity’s blindness. It had shaken the world with the deliberate aim of redistributing people in healthier ways. The great industrial regions and large cities that had escaped the bombs had suffered a complete economic collapse. Because of this, their plight was almost as tragic as that of the cities in flames. Meanwhile, countless wandering and lawless strangers threw the countryside into disorder. Famine raged in some parts of the world, and plague struck many regions.... The plains of north India were in particular distress. The general welfare there had grown more and more dependent on the railways and the great system of irrigation canals. A malicious faction of the patriots had destroyed both. Whole villages lay dead, and no one paid attention. Even the tigers and panthers that preyed on the starving survivors crawled back into the jungle, infected, and died. Large areas of China fell prey to bands of robbers....

It is a remarkable thing that no complete contemporary account of the explosion of the atomic bombs survives. There are, of course, innumerable allusions and partial records, and it is from these that subsequent ages must piece together the image of these devastations.

It is remarkable that no complete account of the atomic bomb explosions written at the time survives. Of course, there are countless references and partial records. Future generations must use these to piece together a picture of the devastation.

The phenomena, it must be remembered, changed greatly from day to day, and even from hour to hour, as the exploding bomb shifted its position, threw off fragments or came into contact with water or a fresh texture of soil. Barnet, who came within forty miles of Paris early in October, is concerned chiefly with his account of the social confusion of the country-side and the problems of his command, but he speaks of heaped cloud masses of steam. ‘All along the sky to the south-west’ and of a red glare beneath these at night. Parts of Paris were still burning, and numbers of people were camped in the fields even at this distance watching over treasured heaps of salvaged loot. He speaks too of the distant rumbling of the explosion—‘like trains going over iron bridges.’

It is important to remember that the phenomena changed greatly from day to day, and even from hour to hour. The exploding bomb shifted its position, threw off fragments, or came into contact with water or a different kind of soil. Barnet came within forty miles of Paris early in October. His account deals chiefly with the social confusion in the countryside and the problems of his command. But he also describes piled-up clouds of steam ‘All along the sky to the south-west’ and a red glow beneath them at night. Parts of Paris were still burning. Even at this distance, many people were camped in the fields, watching over treasured piles of salvaged loot. He also describes the distant rumbling of the explosion as ‘like trains going over iron bridges.’

Other descriptions agree with this; they all speak of the ‘continuous reverberations,’ or of the ‘thudding and hammering,’ or some such phrase; and they all testify to a huge pall of steam, from which rain would fall suddenly in torrents and amidst which lightning played. Drawing nearer to Paris an observer would have found the salvage camps increasing in number and blocking up the villages, and large numbers of people, often starving and ailing, camping under improvised tents because there was no place for them to go. The sky became more and more densely overcast until at last it blotted out the light of day and left nothing but a dull red glare ‘extraordinarily depressing to the spirit.’ In this dull glare, great numbers of people were still living, clinging to their houses and in many cases subsisting in a state of partial famine upon the produce in their gardens and the stores in the shops of the provision dealers.

Other descriptions agree. They all speak of the ‘continuous reverberations,’ or the ‘thudding and hammering,’ or something similar. They all describe a huge cloud of steam, from which rain suddenly fell in torrents and through which lightning flashed. Closer to Paris, an observer would have found more and more salvage camps, filling the villages. Large numbers of people, often starving and sick, were camping under makeshift tents because they had nowhere else to go. The sky grew more and more overcast until it finally blocked out daylight, leaving only a dull red glow. This glow was ‘extraordinarily depressing to the spirit.’ In it, large numbers of people were still living, clinging to their homes. Many were going partly hungry, surviving on produce from their gardens and supplies from food shops.

Coming in still closer, the investigator would have reached the police cordon, which was trying to check the desperate enterprise of those who would return to their homes or rescue their more valuable possessions within the ‘zone of imminent danger.’

Coming closer, the investigator would have reached the police cordon. The police were trying to stop people who were desperately trying to return to their homes or rescue their more valuable possessions from the ‘zone of imminent danger.’

That zone was rather arbitrarily defined. If our spectator could have got permission to enter it, he would have entered also a zone of uproar, a zone of perpetual thunderings, lit by a strange purplish-red light, and quivering and swaying with the incessant explosion of the radio-active substance. Whole blocks of buildings were alight and burning fiercely, the trembling, ragged flames looking pale and ghastly and attenuated in comparison with the full-bodied crimson glare beyond. The shells of other edifices already burnt rose, pierced by rows of window sockets against the red-lit mist.

The zone’s boundaries were drawn somewhat arbitrarily. If our spectator had been allowed to enter, he would have found a place of uproar and constant thunder. A strange purplish-red light lit the zone, which shook and swayed with the nonstop explosions of radioactive material. Whole blocks of buildings were ablaze, burning fiercely. Their trembling, ragged flames looked pale, ghostly, and thin beside the intense crimson glow beyond. The shells of other buildings, already burned out, rose against the red-lit mist, their walls pierced by rows of empty windows.

Every step farther would have been as dangerous as a descent within the crater of an active volcano. These spinning, boiling bomb centres would shift or break unexpectedly into new regions, great fragments of earth or drain or masonry suddenly caught by a jet of disruptive force might come flying by the explorer’s head, or the ground yawn a fiery grave beneath his feet. Few who adventured into these areas of destruction and survived attempted any repetition of their experiences. There are stories of puffs of luminous, radio-active vapour drifting sometimes scores of miles from the bomb centre and killing and scorching all they overtook. And the first conflagrations from the Paris centre spread westward half-way to the sea.

Every step farther would have been as dangerous as descending into the crater of an active volcano. These spinning, boiling bomb centers could shift or suddenly burst into new areas. A jet of destructive force might catch large pieces of earth, drainpipe, or masonry, sending them flying past an explorer’s head. Or the ground might open into a fiery grave beneath the explorer’s feet. Few who ventured into these areas of destruction and survived tried it again. There are stories of clouds of glowing, radioactive vapor drifting sometimes dozens of miles from a bomb center. They killed and scorched everything they caught up with. And the first fires from the Paris center spread westward halfway to the sea.

Moreover, the air in this infernal inner circle of red-lit ruins had a peculiar dryness and a blistering quality, so that it set up a soreness of the skin and lungs that was very difficult to heal....

The air in this hellish inner circle of red-lit ruins was also strangely dry and blistering. It made people's skin and lungs sore, and the soreness was very difficult to heal....

Such was the last state of Paris, and such on a larger scale was the condition of affairs in Chicago, and the same fate had overtaken Berlin, Moscow, Tokio, the eastern half of London, Toulon, Kiel, and two hundred and eighteen other centres of population or armament. Each was a flaming centre of radiant destruction that only time could quench, that indeed in many instances time has still to quench. To this day, though indeed with a constantly diminishing uproar and vigour, these explosions continue. In the map of nearly every country of the world three or four or more red circles, a score of miles in diameter, mark the position of the dying atomic bombs and the death areas that men have been forced to abandon around them. Within these areas perished museums, cathedrals, palaces, libraries, galleries of masterpieces, and a vast accumulation of human achievement, whose charred remains lie buried, a legacy of curious material that only future generations may hope to examine....

That was the final state of Paris. Conditions in Chicago were the same, but on a larger scale. The same fate had overtaken Berlin, Moscow, Tokio, the eastern half of London, Toulon, Kiel, and 218 other centers of population or armament. Each was a flaming center of radiant destruction that only time could put out. In many cases, time has yet to do so. The explosions continue to this day, though their noise and force are steadily diminishing. On the map of nearly every country, three or four or more red circles mark the dying atomic bombs. Each circle is about 20 miles across and marks a death area that people have been forced to abandon. Within these areas, museums, cathedrals, palaces, libraries, galleries of masterpieces, and a vast accumulation of human achievement were destroyed. Their charred remains lie buried, a legacy of curious material that only future generations may hope to examine....

The state of mind of the dispossessed urban population which swarmed and perished so abundantly over the country-side during the dark days of the autumnal months that followed the Last War, was one of blank despair. Barnet gives sketch after sketch of groups of these people, camped among the vineyards of Champagne, as he saw them during his period of service with the army of pacification.

The displaced city dwellers were in complete despair. During the dark autumn months after the Last War, they crowded into the countryside and died in great numbers. Barnet gives sketch after sketch of groups of these people camped among the vineyards of Champagne. He saw them while serving with the army of pacification.

There was, for example, that ‘man-milliner’ who came out from a field beside the road that rises up eastward out of Epernay, and asked how things were going in Paris. He was, says Barnet, a round-faced man, dressed very neatly in black—so neatly that it was amazing to discover he was living close at hand in a tent made of carpets—and he had ‘an urbane but insistent manner,’ a carefully trimmed moustache and beard, expressive eyebrows, and hair very neatly brushed.

For example, there was the ‘man-milliner’ who came out of a field beside the road leading east out of Epernay. He asked how things were going in Paris. Barnet says he was a round-faced man, dressed very neatly in black. He was so neat that it was amazing to discover he lived nearby in a tent made of carpets. He had ‘an urbane but insistent manner,’ a carefully trimmed moustache and beard, expressive eyebrows, and neatly brushed hair.

‘No one goes into Paris,’ said Barnet.

‘No one goes into Paris,’ said Barnet.

‘But, Monsieur, that is very unenterprising,’ the man by the wayside submitted.

‘But, Monsieur, that shows very little initiative,’ the man by the roadside suggested.

‘The danger is too great. The radiations eat into people’s skins.’

‘The danger is too great. The radiation eats into people’s skin.’

The eyebrows protested. ‘But is nothing to be done?’

The eyebrows protested. ‘But can't anything be done?’

‘Nothing can be done.’

‘Nothing can be done.’

‘But, Monsieur, it is extraordinarily inconvenient, this living in exile and waiting. My wife and my little boy suffer extremely. There is a lack of amenity. And the season advances. I say nothing of the expense and difficulty in obtaining provisions.... When does Monsieur think that something will be done to render Paris—possible?’

‘But, Monsieur, living in exile and waiting is extremely inconvenient. My wife and my little boy are suffering terribly. There are few comforts. And the season is advancing. I won’t even mention the expense and difficulty of getting food.... When does Monsieur think something will be done to make life in Paris possible?’

Barnet considered his interlocutor.

Barnet considered the person he was talking to.

‘I’m told,’ said Barnet, ‘that Paris is not likely to be possible again for several generations.’

‘I’m told,’ said Barnet, ‘that Paris is unlikely to be a viable city again for several generations.’

‘Oh! but this is preposterous! Consider, Monsieur! What are people like ourselves to do in the meanwhile? I am a costumier. All my connections and interests, above all my style, demand Paris....’

‘Oh! But this is ridiculous! Think about it, Monsieur! What are people like us supposed to do in the meantime? I’m a fashion designer. All my connections and interests, and above all my style, require me to be in Paris....’

Barnet considered the sky, from which a light rain was beginning to fall, the wide fields about them from which the harvest had been taken, the trimmed poplars by the wayside.

Barnet looked at the sky, where a light rain was beginning to fall. He looked at the wide, harvested fields around them and the trimmed poplars along the road.

‘Naturally,’ he agreed, ‘you want to go to Paris. But Paris is over.’

‘Of course,’ he agreed, ‘you want to go to Paris. But Paris is over.’

‘Over!’

‘Over!’

‘Finished.’

‘Finished.’

‘But then, Monsieur—what is to become—of me?’

‘But then, Monsieur, what will become of me?’

Barnet turned his face westward, whither the white road led.

Barnet turned his face west, where the white road led.

‘Where else, for example, may I hope to find—opportunity?’

‘Where else, for example, can I hope to find opportunity?’

Barnet made no reply.

Barnet didn't reply.

‘Perhaps on the Riviera. Or at some such place as Homburg. Or some place perhaps.’

‘Perhaps on the Riviera. Or somewhere like Homburg. Or perhaps somewhere else.’

‘All that,’ said Barnet, accepting for the first time facts that had lain evident in his mind for weeks; ‘all that must be over, too.’

‘All that,’ said Barnet. For the first time, he accepted facts that had been clear to him for weeks. ‘All that must be over, too.’

There was a pause. Then the voice beside him broke out. ‘But, Monsieur, it is impossible! It leaves—nothing.’

There was a pause. Then the voice beside him cried out. ‘But, Monsieur, that’s impossible! It leaves... nothing.’

‘No. Not very much.’

‘No. Not very much.’

‘One cannot suddenly begin to grow potatoes!’

‘You can't suddenly start growing potatoes!’

‘It would be good if Monsieur could bring himself——’

‘It would be good if Monsieur could bring himself to...’

‘To the life of a peasant! And my wife——You do not know the distinguished delicacy of my wife, a refined helplessness, a peculiar dependent charm. Like some slender tropical creeper—with great white flowers.... But all this is foolish talk. It is impossible that Paris, which has survived so many misfortunes, should not presently revive.’

‘To live like a peasant! And my wife... You do not know her remarkable delicacy, her refined helplessness, her peculiar, dependent charm. She is like a slender tropical vine with great white flowers.... But all this is foolish talk. Paris has survived so many misfortunes. It cannot fail to come back to life soon.’

‘I do not think it will ever revive. Paris is finished. London, too, I am told—Berlin. All the great capitals were stricken....’

‘I don’t think it will ever recover. Paris is finished. I’m told London and Berlin are too. All the great capitals were devastated....’

‘But——! Monsieur must permit me to differ.’

‘But... you must let me disagree, Monsieur.’

‘It is so.’

‘That’s right.’

‘It is impossible. Civilisations do not end in this manner. Mankind will insist.’

‘It’s impossible. Civilizations don’t end this way. Humanity will insist.’

‘On Paris?’

‘On Paris?’

‘On Paris.’

‘On Paris.’

‘Monsieur, you might as well hope to go down the Maelstrom and resume business there.’

‘Sir, you might as well hope to go down the Maelstrom and get back to business there.’

‘I am content, Monsieur, with my own faith.’

‘I am happy with my own faith, sir.’

‘The winter comes on. Would not Monsieur be wiser to seek a house?’

‘Winter is coming. Wouldn’t it be wiser for you to find a house, Monsieur?’

‘Farther from Paris? No, Monsieur. But it is not possible, Monsieur, what you say, and you are under a tremendous mistake.... Indeed you are in error.... I asked merely for information....’

‘Farther from Paris? No, Monsieur. But what you say is impossible, Monsieur, and you are badly mistaken.... You really are mistaken.... I only asked for information....’

‘When last I saw him,’ said Barnet, ‘he was standing under the signpost at the crest of the hill, gazing wistfully, yet it seemed to me a little doubtfully, now towards Paris, and altogether heedless of a drizzling rain that was wetting him through and through....’

‘The last time I saw him,’ said Barnet, ‘he was standing under the signpost at the top of the hill. He was looking toward Paris with longing, though he also seemed a little doubtful. He paid no attention to the drizzle soaking him through....’

This effect of chill dismay, of a doom as yet imperfectly apprehended deepens as Barnet’s record passes on to tell of the approach of winter. It was too much for the great mass of those unwilling and incompetent nomads to realise that an age had ended, that the old help and guidance existed no longer, that times would not mend again, however patiently they held out. They were still in many cases looking to Paris when the first snowflakes of that pitiless January came swirling about them. The story grows grimmer....

The chilling dismay deepens as Barnet’s account turns to the approach of winter. The people still did not fully understand the doom facing them. Most of these unwilling, unskilled nomads could not grasp that an age had ended. The old help and guidance were gone. No matter how patiently they held out, things would not get better again. Many were still looking to Paris when the first snowflakes of that pitiless January swirled around them. The story grows grimmer....

If it is less monstrously tragic after Barnet’s return to England, it is, if anything, harder. England was a spectacle of fear-embittered householders, hiding food, crushing out robbery, driving the starving wanderers from every faltering place upon the roads lest they should die inconveniently and reproachfully on the doorsteps of those who had failed to urge them onward....

If it is less terribly tragic after Barnet returns to England, it is, if anything, harder. England was a spectacle of householders made bitter by fear. They hid food and brutally suppressed robbery. They drove starving wanderers away from every place where they faltered on the roads. Otherwise, the wanderers might die inconveniently on their doorsteps, a reproach to those who had failed to send them on....

The remnants of the British troops left France finally in March, after urgent representations from the provisional government at Orleans that they could be supported no longer. They seem to have been a fairly well-behaved, but highly parasitic force throughout, though Barnet is clearly of opinion that they did much to suppress sporadic brigandage and maintain social order. He came home to a famine-stricken country, and his picture of the England of that spring is one of miserable patience and desperate expedients. The country was suffering much more than France, because of the cessation of the overseas supplies on which it had hitherto relied. His troops were given bread, dried fish, and boiled nettles at Dover, and marched inland to Ashford and paid off. On the way thither they saw four men hanging from the telegraph posts by the roadside, who had been hung for stealing swedes. The labour refuges of Kent, he discovered, were feeding their crowds of casual wanderers on bread into which clay and sawdust had been mixed. In Surrey there was a shortage of even such fare as that. He himself struck across country to Winchester, fearing to approach the bomb-poisoned district round London, and at Winchester he had the luck to be taken on as one of the wireless assistants at the central station and given regular rations. The station stood in a commanding position on the chalk hill that overlooks the town from the east....

The remaining British troops finally left France in March. The provisional government at Orleans had urgently told them it could no longer support them. The troops seem to have been fairly well behaved, but they had depended heavily on others for support throughout. Barnet, however, clearly believed they had done much to suppress scattered acts of banditry and maintain social order. He returned home to a country struck by famine. His account of England that spring shows people enduring misery patiently and resorting to desperate measures. The country was suffering much more than France because the overseas supplies it had previously relied on had stopped. At Dover, his troops were given bread, dried fish, and boiled nettles. They marched inland to Ashford, where they were paid and discharged. On the way, they saw four men hanging from telegraph poles by the roadside. The men had been hanged for stealing swedes. Barnet discovered that the labor shelters in Kent were feeding their crowds of wandering people bread mixed with clay and sawdust. In Surrey, even food like that was in short supply. He traveled across the country to Winchester, afraid to go near the bomb-poisoned district around London. At Winchester, he was lucky enough to be hired as a wireless assistant at the central station and given regular rations. The station stood in a commanding position on the chalk hill overlooking the town from the east....

Thence he must have assisted in the transmission of the endless cipher messages that preceded the gathering at Brissago, and there it was that the Brissago proclamation of the end of the war and the establishment of a world government came under his hands.

From there, he must have helped transmit the endless coded messages that preceded the gathering at Brissago. There, too, the Brissago proclamation came into his hands. It declared the end of the war and the establishment of a world government.

He was feeling ill and apathetic that day, and he did not realise what it was he was transcribing. He did it mechanically, as a part of his tedious duty.

He felt ill and listless that day, and he did not realize what he was copying. He copied it mechanically, as part of his tedious duties.

Afterwards there came a rush of messages arising out of the declaration that strained him very much, and in the evening when he was relieved, he ate his scanty supper and then went out upon the little balcony before the station, to smoke and rest his brains after this sudden and as yet inexplicable press of duty. It was a very beautiful, still evening. He fell talking to a fellow operator, and for the first time, he declares, ‘I began to understand what it was all about. I began to see just what enormous issues had been under my hands for the past four hours. But I became incredulous after my first stimulation. “This is some sort of Bunkum,” I said very sagely.

Afterward, a flood of messages prompted by the declaration put him under great strain. When he was relieved that evening, he ate his meager supper. Then he went out onto the little balcony in front of the station. He wanted to smoke and rest his mind after this sudden, still unexplained rush of work. It was a beautiful, still evening. He began talking to a fellow operator. For the first time, he says, ‘I began to understand what it was all about. I began to see the enormous issues I had been handling for the past four hours. But after my first excitement, I found it hard to believe. “This is some kind of nonsense,” I said very wisely.

‘My colleague was more hopeful. “It means an end to bomb-throwing and destruction,” he said. “It means that presently corn will come from America.”

‘My colleague was more hopeful. “It means an end to bomb-throwing and destruction,” he said. “It means grain will soon come from America.”

‘“Who is going to send corn when there is no more value in money?” I asked.

‘“Who will send grain when money has no value anymore?” I asked.

‘Suddenly we were startled by a clashing from the town below. The cathedral bells, which had been silent ever since I had come into the district, were beginning, with a sort of rheumatic difficulty, to ring. Presently they warmed a little to the work, and we realised what was going on. They were ringing a peal. We listened with an unbelieving astonishment and looking into each other’s yellow faces.

‘Suddenly, a clashing sound from the town below startled us. The cathedral bells had been silent ever since I came to the district. Now they were beginning to ring, with a kind of rheumatic difficulty. Soon they grew a little more comfortable with the work, and we realized what was happening. They were ringing a peal. We listened in disbelief and amazement, looking at each other’s yellow faces.

‘“They mean it,” said my colleague.

‘“They mean it,” said my colleague.

‘“But what can they do now?” I asked. “Everything is broken down....”’

‘“But what can they do now?” I asked. “Everything has broken down....”’

And on that sentence, with an unexpected artistry, Barnet abruptly ends his story.

And with that sentence, Barnet brings his story to an abrupt end with unexpected artistry.

From the first the new government handled affairs with a certain greatness of spirit. Indeed, it was inevitable that they should act greatly. From the first they had to see the round globe as one problem; it was impossible any longer to deal with it piece by piece. They had to secure it universally from any fresh outbreak of atomic destruction, and they had to ensure a permanent and universal pacification. On this capacity to grasp and wield the whole round globe their existence depended. There was no scope for any further performance.

From the beginning, the new government handled affairs with a certain greatness of spirit. Indeed, it had no choice but to act on a grand scale. From the start, it had to see the whole world as one problem. It was no longer possible to deal with the world piece by piece. The government had to protect the entire world from any new outbreak of atomic destruction. It also had to ensure lasting peace everywhere. Its survival depended on its ability to grasp and govern the whole world. There was no room for anything less.

So soon as the seizure of the existing supplies of atomic ammunition and the apparatus for synthesising Carolinum was assured, the disbanding or social utilisation of the various masses of troops still under arms had to be arranged, the salvation of the year’s harvests, and the feeding, housing, and employment of the drifting millions of homeless people. In Canada, in South America, and Asiatic Russia there were vast accumulations of provision that was immovable only because of the breakdown of the monetary and credit systems. These had to be brought into the famine districts very speedily if entire depopulation was to be avoided, and their transportation and the revival of communications generally absorbed a certain proportion of the soldiery and more able unemployed. The task of housing assumed gigantic dimensions, and from building camps the housing committee of the council speedily passed to constructions of a more permanent type. They found far less friction than might have been expected in turning the loose population on their hands to these things. People were extraordinarily tamed by that year of suffering and death; they were disillusioned of their traditions, bereft of once obstinate prejudices; they felt foreign in a strange world, and ready to follow any confident leadership. The orders of the new government came with the best of all credentials, rations. The people everywhere were as easy to control, one of the old labour experts who had survived until the new time witnesses, ‘as gangs of emigrant workers in a new land.’ And now it was that the social possibilities of the atomic energy began to appear. The new machinery that had come into existence before the last wars increased and multiplied, and the council found itself not only with millions of hands at its disposal but with power and apparatus that made its first conceptions of the work it had to do seem pitifully timid. The camps that were planned in iron and deal were built in stone and brass; the roads that were to have been mere iron tracks became spacious ways that insisted upon architecture; the cultivations of foodstuffs that were to have supplied emergency rations, were presently, with synthesisers, fertilisers, actinic light, and scientific direction, in excess of every human need.

As soon as the seizure of existing atomic ammunition and equipment for synthesising Carolinum was secured, other matters needed attention. The troops still under arms had to be disbanded or put to work for society. The year’s harvests had to be saved, and millions of homeless people wandering from place to place needed food, housing, and work. Canada, South America, and Asiatic Russia held vast stores of supplies. These could not be moved only because the monetary and credit systems had broken down. The supplies had to reach the famine districts quickly if entire populations were not to die out. Some soldiers and more able unemployed people were put to work transporting supplies and restoring communications generally. The task of providing housing grew enormous. The council’s housing committee began by building camps, but soon moved on to more permanent buildings. The committee found it much easier than expected to put the people in its care to work on these projects. A year of suffering and death had made people extraordinarily compliant. They had lost faith in their traditions and given up once stubborn prejudices. They felt like strangers in an unfamiliar world and were ready to follow any confident leader. The new government’s orders came with the best possible credentials: rations. One old labour expert who survived into the new era said that people everywhere were as easy to control as ‘gangs of emigrant workers in a new land.’ Now the social possibilities of atomic energy began to emerge. The new machinery developed before the last wars became more widespread and more varied. The council found that it had not only millions of workers at its disposal, but also power and equipment that made its first plans seem pitifully timid. Camps planned in iron and pine were built in stone and brass. Roads meant to be mere iron tracks became spacious thoroughfares that demanded architecture. Food production, originally intended to provide emergency rations, soon exceeded every human need, thanks to synthesisers, fertilisers, actinic light, and scientific direction.

The government had begun with the idea of temporarily reconstituting the social and economic system that had prevailed before the first coming of the atomic engine, because it was to this system that the ideas and habits of the great mass of the world’s dispossessed population was adapted. Subsequent rearrangement it had hoped to leave to its successors—whoever they might be. But this, it became more and more manifest, was absolutely impossible. As well might the council have proposed a revival of slavery. The capitalist system had already been smashed beyond repair by the onset of limitless gold and energy; it fell to pieces at the first endeavour to stand it up again. Already before the war half of the industrial class had been out of work, the attempt to put them back into wages employment on the old lines was futile from the outset—the absolute shattering of the currency system alone would have been sufficient to prevent that, and it was necessary therefore to take over the housing, feeding, and clothing of this worldwide multitude without exacting any return in labour whatever. In a little while the mere absence of occupation for so great a multitude of people everywhere became an evident social danger, and the government was obliged to resort to such devices as simple decorative work in wood and stone, the manufacture of hand-woven textiles, fruit-growing, flower-growing, and landscape gardening on a grand scale to keep the less adaptable out of mischief, and of paying wages to the younger adults for attendance at schools that would equip them to use the new atomic machinery.... So quite insensibly the council drifted into a complete reorganisation of urban and industrial life, and indeed of the entire social system.

The government had started out planning to temporarily restore the social and economic system from before the atomic engine first appeared. Most of the world’s dispossessed people were used to thinking and living under that system. The government had hoped to leave later changes to its successors, whoever they might be. But it became increasingly clear that this was absolutely impossible. The council might just as well have proposed bringing back slavery. Limitless gold and energy had already destroyed the capitalist system beyond repair. It fell apart as soon as anyone tried to put it back together. Even before the war, half of the industrial working class had been unemployed. The attempt to put them back into paid work on the old terms was hopeless from the start. The complete collapse of the currency system alone would have made it impossible. The government therefore had to take responsibility for housing, feeding, and clothing this worldwide multitude without requiring any work in return. Before long, the sheer lack of work for so many people everywhere became an obvious social danger. To keep the less adaptable people out of mischief, the government had to find ways to occupy them. These included simple decorative work in wood and stone, hand weaving, fruit and flower growing, and landscape gardening on a grand scale. It also had to pay younger adults wages to attend schools that would train them to use the new atomic machinery.... So, almost without noticing it, the council drifted into a complete reorganization of urban and industrial life, and indeed of the entire social system.

Ideas that are unhampered by political intrigue or financial considerations have a sweeping way with them, and before a year was out the records of the council show clearly that it was rising to its enormous opportunity, and partly through its own direct control and partly through a series of specific committees, it was planning a new common social order for the entire population of the earth. ‘There can be no real social stability or any general human happiness while large areas of the world and large classes of people are in a phase of civilisation different from the prevailing mass. It is impossible now to have great blocks of population misunderstanding the generally accepted social purpose or at an economic disadvantage to the rest.’ So the council expressed its conception of the problem it had to solve. The peasant, the field-worker, and all barbaric cultivators were at an ‘economic disadvantage’ to the more mobile and educated classes, and the logic of the situation compelled the council to take up systematically the supersession of this stratum by a more efficient organisation of production. It developed a scheme for the progressive establishment throughout the world of the ‘modern system’ in agriculture, a system that should give the full advantages of a civilised life to every agricultural worker, and this replacement has been going on right up to the present day. The central idea of the modern system is the substitution of cultivating guilds for the individual cultivator, and for cottage and village life altogether. These guilds are associations of men and women who take over areas of arable or pasture land, and make themselves responsible for a certain average produce. They are bodies small enough as a rule to be run on a strictly democratic basis, and large enough to supply all the labour, except for a certain assistance from townspeople during the harvest, needed upon the land farmed. They have watchers’ bungalows or chalets on the ground cultivated, but the ease and the costlessness of modern locomotion enables them to maintain a group of residences in the nearest town with a common dining-room and club house, and usually also a guild house in the national or provincial capital. Already this system has abolished a distinctively ‘rustic’ population throughout vast areas of the old world, where it has prevailed immemorially. That shy, unstimulated life of the lonely hovel, the narrow scandals and petty spites and persecutions of the small village, that hoarding, half inanimate existence away from books, thought, or social participation and in constant contact with cattle, pigs, poultry, and their excrement, is passing away out of human experience. In a little while it will be gone altogether. In the nineteenth century it had already ceased to be a necessary human state, and only the absence of any collective intelligence and an imagined need for tough and unintelligent soldiers and for a prolific class at a low level, prevented its systematic replacement at that time....

Ideas free from political intrigue and financial concerns tend to sweep all before them. Within a year, the council’s records clearly showed that it was rising to its enormous opportunity. Through its own direct control and a series of specialized committees, it was planning a new common social order for everyone on earth. ‘There can be no real social stability or general human happiness while large areas of the world and large classes of people live at a different level of civilization from the majority. It is no longer possible to have large groups of people who misunderstand the generally accepted social purpose or are at an economic disadvantage compared with everyone else.’ This was how the council described the problem it had to solve. Peasants, field workers, and all barbaric cultivators were at an ‘economic disadvantage’ compared with more mobile and educated classes. The logic of the situation therefore compelled the council to replace this social group systematically with a more efficient organization of production. It developed a plan to establish the ‘modern system’ of agriculture gradually throughout the world. This system would give every agricultural worker the full benefits of civilized life. The replacement has continued right up to the present day. The central idea of the modern system is to replace individual cultivators, and cottage and village life altogether, with cultivating guilds. These guilds are associations of men and women who take over areas of farmland or pasture. They make themselves responsible for producing a certain average amount. They are usually small enough to be run on a strictly democratic basis. They are also large enough to supply all the labor their land needs, except for some help from townspeople during harvest. They have watchers’ bungalows or chalets on the land they cultivate. But modern travel is easy and free, so guild members can maintain a group of residences in the nearest town. These have a shared dining room and clubhouse. They also usually have a guild house in the national or provincial capital. Already this system has abolished a distinctively ‘rustic’ population across vast areas of the old world, where it had existed since time immemorial. That shy, unstimulated life in a lonely hovel is passing out of human experience. So are the narrow scandals, petty spite, and persecution of the small village. The same is true of that hoarding, half lifeless existence, away from books, thought, and social participation. It was a life spent in constant contact with cattle, pigs, poultry, and their excrement. In a little while it will be gone altogether. By the nineteenth century, it was already no longer a necessary human condition. Only the absence of collective intelligence and an imagined need for tough, unintelligent soldiers and a prolific lower class prevented its systematic replacement then....

And while this settlement of the country was in progress, the urban camps of the first phase of the council’s activities were rapidly developing, partly through the inherent forces of the situation and partly through the council’s direction, into a modern type of town....

While the country was being settled, the urban camps established during the council’s first phase of activity were rapidly developing into modern towns. This happened partly because of the natural forces at work and partly under the council’s direction....

It is characteristic of the manner in which large enterprises forced themselves upon the Brissago council, that it was not until the end of the first year of their administration and then only with extreme reluctance that they would take up the manifest need for a lingua franca for the world. They seem to have given little attention to the various theoretical universal languages which were proposed to them. They wished to give as little trouble to hasty and simple people as possible, and the world-wide distribution of English gave them a bias for it from the beginning. The extreme simplicity of its grammar was also in its favour.

The Brissago council took up major projects only when forced to do so. The need for a worldwide lingua franca was a clear example. The council did not address it until the end of its first year in office, and even then, only with extreme reluctance. The council seems to have paid little attention to the various theoretical universal languages proposed to it. Its members wanted to cause as little trouble as possible for impatient and simple people. Because English was already spoken worldwide, they favored it from the beginning. Its extremely simple grammar also counted in its favor.

It was not without some sacrifices that the English-speaking peoples were permitted the satisfaction of hearing their speech used universally. The language was shorn of a number of grammatical peculiarities, the distinctive forms for the subjunctive mood for example and most of its irregular plurals were abolished; its spelling was systematised and adapted to the vowel sounds in use upon the continent of Europe, and a process of incorporating foreign nouns and verbs commenced that speedily reached enormous proportions. Within ten years from the establishment of the World Republic the New English Dictionary had swelled to include a vocabulary of 250,000 words, and a man of 1900 would have found considerable difficulty in reading an ordinary newspaper. On the other hand, the men of the new time could still appreciate the older English literature.... Certain minor acts of uniformity accompanied this larger one. The idea of a common understanding and a general simplification of intercourse once it was accepted led very naturally to the universal establishment of the metric system of weights and measures, and to the disappearance of the various makeshift calendars that had hitherto confused chronology. The year was divided into thirteen months of four weeks each, and New Year’s Day and Leap Year’s Day were made holidays, and did not count at all in the ordinary week. So the weeks and the months were brought into correspondence. And moreover, as the king put it to Firmin, it was decided to ‘nail down Easter.’ . . . In these matters, as in so many matters, the new civilisation came as a simplification of ancient complications; the history of the calendar throughout the world is a history of inadequate adjustments, of attempts to fix seed-time and midwinter that go back into the very beginning of human society; and this final rectification had a symbolic value quite beyond its practical convenience. But the council would have no rash nor harsh innovations, no strange names for the months, and no alteration in the numbering of the years.

The English-speaking peoples had to make some sacrifices for the satisfaction of hearing their language spoken everywhere. English lost a number of grammatical peculiarities. For example, the distinctive forms of the subjunctive mood and most irregular plurals were abolished. Its spelling was standardized and adapted to the vowel sounds used on the continent of Europe. Foreign nouns and verbs also began to enter the language, and this process quickly grew to enormous proportions. Within ten years of the World Republic’s establishment, the New English Dictionary contained 250,000 words. A man from 1900 would have had considerable difficulty reading an ordinary newspaper. On the other hand, people of the new era could still appreciate older English literature.... Other, smaller changes toward uniformity accompanied this larger one. Once people accepted the idea of a common language and simpler communication, other changes followed naturally. The metric system of weights and measures was adopted everywhere. The various makeshift calendars that had confused the reckoning of dates until then disappeared. The year was divided into thirteen months of four weeks each. New Year’s Day and Leap Year’s Day became holidays and did not count as part of the ordinary week. In this way, the weeks and months were brought into alignment. Moreover, as the king put it to Firmin, they decided to ‘nail down Easter.’ . . . In these matters, as in so many others, the new civilization simplified old complications. The history of the calendar throughout the world is a history of inadequate adjustments. People had been trying to establish the times of sowing and midwinter since the very beginnings of human society. This final correction had a symbolic value far beyond its practical convenience. But the council would allow no rash or harsh innovations, no strange names for the months, and no change to the numbering of the years.

The world had already been put upon one universal monetary basis. For some months after the accession of the council, the world’s affairs had been carried on without any sound currency at all. Over great regions money was still in use, but with the most extravagant variations in price and the most disconcerting fluctuations of public confidence. The ancient rarity of gold upon which the entire system rested was gone. Gold was now a waste product in the release of atomic energy, and it was plain that no metal could be the basis of the monetary system again. Henceforth all coins must be token coins. Yet the whole world was accustomed to metallic money, and a vast proportion of existing human relationships had grown up upon a cash basis, and were almost inconceivable without that convenient liquidating factor. It seemed absolutely necessary to the life of the social organisation to have some sort of currency, and the council had therefore to discover some real value upon which to rest it. Various such apparently stable values as land and hours of work were considered. Ultimately the government, which was now in possession of most of the supplies of energy-releasing material, fixed a certain number of units of energy as the value of a gold sovereign, declared a sovereign to be worth exactly twenty marks, twenty-five francs, five dollars, and so forth, with the other current units of the world, and undertook, under various qualifications and conditions, to deliver energy upon demand as payment for every sovereign presented. On the whole, this worked satisfactorily. They saved the face of the pound sterling. Coin was rehabilitated, and after a phase of price fluctuations, began to settle down to definite equivalents and uses again, with names and everyday values familiar to the common run of people....

The world had already adopted a single monetary system. For some months after the council took power, the world had managed without any sound currency at all. Money was still used across vast regions, but prices varied wildly and public confidence fluctuated alarmingly. The whole system had rested on the age-old scarcity of gold, but gold was no longer scarce. It was now a waste product of releasing atomic energy. Clearly, no metal could ever again serve as the basis of the monetary system. From then on, all coins would have to be tokens. Yet the whole world was used to metal money. A vast share of existing human relationships had developed on a cash basis. They were almost impossible to imagine without that convenient means of settling accounts. Some kind of currency seemed absolutely necessary for the life of society. The council therefore had to find some real value on which to base it. Several apparently stable values, such as land and hours of work, were considered. In the end, the government fixed the value of a gold sovereign at a certain number of energy units. The government now controlled most of the supplies of material used to release energy. It declared that a sovereign was worth exactly twenty marks, twenty-five francs, five dollars, and equivalent amounts in the world’s other currencies. It also promised to deliver energy on demand in payment for every sovereign presented, subject to various qualifications and conditions. On the whole, the system worked satisfactorily. They saved the face of the pound sterling. Coins regained their standing, and after a period of price fluctuations, they began to settle into definite equivalents and uses again. Their names and everyday values were familiar to ordinary people....

As the Brissago council came to realise that what it had supposed to be temporary camps of refugees were rapidly developing into great towns of a new type, and that it was remoulding the world in spite of itself, it decided to place this work of redistributing the non-agricultural population in the hands of a compactor and better qualified special committee. That committee is now, far more than the council of any other of its delegated committees, the active government of the world. Developed from an almost invisible germ of ‘town-planning’ that came obscurely into existence in Europe or America (the question is still in dispute) somewhere in the closing decades of the nineteenth century, its work, the continual active planning and replanning of the world as a place of human habitation, is now so to speak the collective material activity of the race. The spontaneous, disorderly spreadings and recessions of populations, as aimless and mechanical as the trickling of spilt water, which was the substance of history for endless years, giving rise here to congestions, here to chronic devastating wars, and everywhere to a discomfort and disorderliness that was at its best only picturesque, is at an end. Men spread now, with the whole power of the race to aid them, into every available region of the earth. Their cities are no longer tethered to running water and the proximity of cultivation, their plans are no longer affected by strategic considerations or thoughts of social insecurity. The aeroplane and the nearly costless mobile car have abolished trade routes; a common language and a universal law have abolished a thousand restraining inconveniences, and so an astonishing dispersal of habitations has begun. One may live anywhere. And so it is that our cities now are true social gatherings, each with a character of its own and distinctive interests of its own, and most of them with a common occupation. They lie out in the former deserts, these long wasted sun-baths of the race, they tower amidst eternal snows, they hide in remote islands, and bask on broad lagoons. For a time the whole tendency of mankind was to desert the river valleys in which the race had been cradled for half a million years, but now that the War against Flies has been waged so successfully that this pestilential branch of life is nearly extinct, they are returning thither with a renewed appetite for gardens laced by watercourses, for pleasant living amidst islands and houseboats and bridges, and for nocturnal lanterns reflected by the sea.

The Brissago council came to realize that what it had thought were temporary refugee camps were rapidly becoming great new kinds of towns. It was reshaping the world without intending to. So it decided to put the redistribution of the non-agricultural population in the hands of a smaller, better qualified special committee. That committee is now the active government of the world, far more than the council or any of its other committees. The committee grew from an almost invisible seed of ‘town-planning’. This began quietly in Europe or America sometime in the closing decades of the nineteenth century. Which continent it began on is still disputed. The committee continually plans and replans the world as a place for people to live. Its work is now, so to speak, the collective material activity of the human race. For countless years, history consisted of populations spreading and shrinking spontaneously and disorderly. Their movements were as aimless and mechanical as spilled water trickling away. They produced overcrowding in some places and chronic, devastating wars in others. Everywhere they produced discomfort and disorder that, at best, was only picturesque. That is now at an end. People now spread into every available region of the earth, aided by the full power of the human race. Their cities are no longer tied to running water or nearby farmland. Their plans are no longer shaped by military strategy or fears for their safety. The aeroplane and the nearly costless mobile car have made trade routes unnecessary. A common language and universal law have removed a thousand obstacles and inconveniences. As a result, homes have begun to spread out in an astonishing way. One may live anywhere. Our cities are now true social gatherings, each with its own character and distinctive interests. Most also have a common occupation. They lie in former deserts, the sun-baths of the human race that were wasted for so long. They tower among eternal snows, hide on remote islands, and bask beside broad lagoons. For a time, humanity as a whole tended to leave the river valleys that had cradled the race for half a million years. But the War against Flies has been so successful that this pestilential branch of life is nearly extinct. Now people are returning to the valleys, with a renewed appetite for gardens threaded with waterways. They want pleasant lives among islands, houseboats, and bridges, and lanterns reflected by the sea at night.

Man who is ceasing to be an agricultural animal becomes more and more a builder, a traveller, and a maker. How much he ceases to be a cultivator of the soil the returns of the Redistribution Committee showed. Every year the work of our scientific laboratories increases the productivity and simplifies the labour of those who work upon the soil, and the food now of the whole world is produced by less than one per cent. of its population, a percentage which still tends to decrease. Far fewer people are needed upon the land than training and proclivity dispose towards it, and as a consequence of this excess of human attention, the garden side of life, the creation of groves and lawns and vast regions of beautiful flowers, has expanded enormously and continues to expand. For, as agricultural method intensifies and the quota is raised, one farm association after another, availing itself of the 1975 regulations, elects to produce a public garden and pleasaunce in the place of its former fields, and the area of freedom and beauty is increased. And the chemists’ triumphs of synthesis, which could now give us an entirely artificial food, remain largely in abeyance because it is so much more pleasant and interesting to eat natural produce and to grow such things upon the soil. Each year adds to the variety of our fruits and the delightfulness of our flowers.

As people move away from farming, they increasingly become builders, travelers, and makers. The Redistribution Committee’s figures showed how far people have moved away from cultivating the soil. Every year, our scientific laboratories make farming more productive and simplify the work of those who farm. Less than one percent of the world’s population now produces food for the whole world. That percentage is still falling. Far fewer people are needed on the land than are drawn to it by training and inclination. As a result, more people can turn their attention to gardens. The creation of groves, lawns, and vast areas of beautiful flowers has grown enormously and continues to grow. As farming methods become more intensive and production quotas rise, farm associations are making use of the 1975 regulations. One after another, they are choosing to replace their former fields with public gardens and pleasure grounds. In this way, the area devoted to freedom and beauty continues to grow. Chemists have achieved enough through synthesis to give us an entirely artificial diet. But these achievements remain largely unused because eating natural produce and growing it in the soil are much more pleasant and interesting. Each year brings more varieties of fruit and more delightful flowers.

The early years of the World Republic witnessed a certain recrudescence of political adventure. There was, it is rather curious to note, no revival of separatism after the face of King Ferdinand Charles had vanished from the sight of men, but in a number of countries, as the first urgent physical needs were met, there appeared a variety of personalities having this in common, that they sought to revive political trouble and clamber by its aid to positions of importance and satisfaction. In no case did they speak in the name of kings, and it is clear that monarchy must have been far gone in obsolescence before the twentieth century began, but they made appeals to the large survivals of nationalist and racial feeling that were everywhere to be found, they alleged with considerable justice that the council was overriding racial and national customs and disregarding religious rules. The great plain of India was particularly prolific in such agitators. The revival of newspapers, which had largely ceased during the terrible year because of the dislocation of the coinage, gave a vehicle and a method of organisation to these complaints. At first the council disregarded this developing opposition, and then it recognised it with an entirely devastating frankness.

The early years of the World Republic saw a revival of political scheming. Curiously, separatism did not return after King Ferdinand Charles disappeared from view. But in a number of countries, the first urgent physical needs were met. Then various figures emerged who sought to stir up political trouble and use it to climb into positions of importance and satisfaction. None spoke in the name of kings. Clearly, monarchy must have been well on its way to becoming obsolete before the twentieth century began. Instead, these figures appealed to the strong nationalist and racial feelings that still existed everywhere. They claimed, with considerable justice, that the council was overriding racial and national customs and disregarding religious rules. The great plain of India produced an especially large number of such agitators. Newspapers had largely stopped publishing during the terrible year because the currency system had been disrupted. Their return gave these complaints a way to spread and a means of organizing. At first, the council ignored the growing opposition. Then it acknowledged the opposition with devastating frankness.

Never, of course, had there been so provisional a government. It was of an extravagant illegality. It was, indeed, hardly more than a club, a club of about a hundred persons. At the outset there were ninety-three, and these were increased afterwards by the issue of invitations which more than balanced its deaths, to as many at one time as one hundred and nineteen. Always its constitution has been miscellaneous. At no time were these invitations issued with an admission that they recognised a right. The old institution or monarchy had come out unexpectedly well in the light of the new régime. Nine of the original members of the first government were crowned heads who had resigned their separate sovereignty, and at no time afterwards did the number of its royal members sink below six. In their case there was perhaps a kind of attenuated claim to rule, but except for them and the still more infinitesimal pretensions of one or two ex-presidents of republics, no member of the council had even the shade of a right to his participation in its power. It was natural, therefore, that its opponents should find a common ground in a clamour for representative government, and build high hopes upon a return, to parliamentary institutions.

Of course, there had never been such a provisional government. Its illegality was outrageous. It was hardly more than a club of about a hundred people. At first it had ninety-three members. Later, new members were invited in, more than making up for those who died. At one point, membership reached 119. Its makeup has always been mixed. At no time did the government issue these invitations as an acknowledgment of anyone’s right to join. The old institution of monarchy had come out unexpectedly well under the new régime. Nine original members of the first government were monarchs who had given up their separate sovereignty. After that, the number of royal members never fell below six. They perhaps had a slight claim to rule. One or two former presidents of republics had even weaker claims. But apart from these, no council member had even the slightest right to share its power. It was natural, therefore, that the government’s opponents should unite in demanding representative government. They also placed great hopes in a return to parliamentary institutions.

The council decided to give them everything they wanted, but in a form that suited ill with their aspirations. It became at one stroke a representative body. It became, indeed, magnificently representative. It became so representative that the politicians were drowned in a deluge of votes. Every adult of either sex from pole to pole was given a vote, and the world was divided into ten constituencies, which voted on the same day by means of a simple modification of the world post. Membership of the government, it was decided, must be for life, save in the exceptional case of a recall; but the elections, which were held quinquennially, were arranged to add fifty members on each occasion. The method of proportional representation with one transferable vote was adopted, and the voter might also write upon his voting paper in a specially marked space, the name of any of his representatives that he wished to recall. A ruler was recallable by as many votes as the quota by which he had been elected, and the original members by as many votes in any constituency as the returning quotas in the first election.

The council decided to give them everything they wanted, but in a form that did not suit their ambitions. At a stroke, the council became a representative body. Indeed, it became magnificently representative. It was so representative that the politicians were drowned in a flood of votes. Every adult, male or female, from pole to pole, was given a vote. The world was divided into ten constituencies, which voted on the same day through a simple adaptation of the world post. The council decided that membership in the government would be for life, except in the rare case of a recall. Elections were held every five years, adding fifty members each time. The system of proportional representation with one transferable vote was adopted. Voters could also write the name of any representative they wished to recall in a specially marked space on their ballot. A ruler could be recalled by as many votes as the quota that had elected him. Original members could be recalled by as many votes in any constituency as the quotas needed for election in the first election.

Upon these conditions the council submitted itself very cheerfully to the suffrages of the world. None of its members were recalled, and its fifty new associates, which included twenty-seven which it had seen fit to recommend, were of an altogether too miscellaneous quality to disturb the broad trend of its policy. Its freedom from rules or formalities prevented any obstructive proceedings, and when one of the two newly arrived Home Rule members for India sought for information how to bring in a bill, they learnt simply that bills were not brought in. They asked for the speaker, and were privileged to hear much ripe wisdom from the ex-king Egbert, who was now consciously among the seniors of the gathering. Thereafter they were baffled men....

Under these conditions, the council cheerfully submitted itself to the votes of the world. None of its members were recalled. Its fifty new members included twenty-seven whom the council had chosen to recommend. The new members were far too mixed a group to disrupt the general direction of its policy. The council had no rules or formal procedures, so no one could use them to obstruct its work. One of the two newly arrived Home Rule members for India asked how to introduce a bill. They learned simply that bills were not introduced. They asked for the speaker and had the privilege of hearing much mature wisdom from the former king Egbert. He was now aware that he was among the senior members of the gathering. After that, they were baffled men....

But already by that time the work of the council was drawing to an end. It was concerned not so much for the continuation of its construction as for the preservation of its accomplished work from the dramatic instincts of the politician.

But by then, the council’s work was already drawing to a close. It was less concerned with continuing to build than with protecting what it had achieved from politicians’ instincts for drama.

The life of the race becomes indeed more and more independent of the formal government. The council, in its opening phase, was heroic in spirit; a dragon-slaying body, it slashed out of existence a vast, knotted tangle of obsolete ideas and clumsy and jealous proprietorships; it secured by a noble system of institutional precautions, freedom of inquiry, freedom of criticism, free communications, a common basis of education and understanding, and freedom from economic oppression. With that its creative task was accomplished. It became more and more an established security and less and less an active intervention. There is nothing in our time to correspond with the continual petty making and entangling of laws in an atmosphere of contention that is perhaps the most perplexing aspect of constitutional history in the nineteenth century. In that age they seem to have been perpetually making laws when we should alter regulations. The work of change which we delegate to these scientific committees of specific general direction which have the special knowledge needed, and which are themselves dominated by the broad intellectual process of the community, was in those days inextricably mixed up with legislation. They fought over the details; we should as soon think of fighting over the arrangement of the parts of a machine. We know nowadays that such things go on best within laws, as life goes on between earth and sky. And so it is that government gathers now for a day or so in each year under the sunshine of Brissago when Saint Bruno’s lilies are in flower, and does little more than bless the work of its committees. And even these committees are less originative and more expressive of the general thought than they were at first. It becomes difficult to mark out the particular directive personalities of the world. Continually we are less personal. Every good thought contributes now, and every able brain falls within that informal and dispersed kingship which gathers together into one purpose the energies of the race.

The life of the human race is becoming more and more independent of formal government. In its early days, the council had a heroic spirit. Like a dragon slayer, it hacked away a vast, tangled mass of outdated ideas and awkward, possessive property rights. It established a noble system of institutional safeguards. These secured freedom of inquiry, freedom of criticism, free communication, a common foundation of education and understanding, and freedom from economic oppression. With that, its creative work was complete. It became more and more an established safeguard and intervened less and less. Today, nothing resembles the constant petty lawmaking and legal entanglements created in an atmosphere of conflict. These are perhaps the most perplexing feature of nineteenth-century constitutional history. In that age, people seem to have been constantly making laws where we would change regulations. We entrust changes to scientific committees responsible for particular areas of general policy. These committees have the necessary specialized knowledge and are themselves guided by the broad intellectual life of the community. In those days, such work was inseparably mixed up with legislation. They fought over the details. We would no sooner do that than fight over the arrangement of parts in a machine. We now know that such matters are best handled within laws, just as life goes on between earth and sky. So the government now gathers for a day or so each year in sunny Brissago, when Saint Bruno’s lilies are in bloom. It does little more than bless the work of its committees. Even these committees are less a source of new ideas than they were at first. They express the community’s general thought instead. It is becoming difficult to identify the particular individuals who direct the world. Increasingly, we depend less on individuals. Every good thought now contributes, and every able mind takes part in that informal, widespread kingship. It brings the energies of the human race together in a single purpose.

It is doubtful if we shall ever see again a phase of human existence in which ‘politics,’ that is to say a partisan interference with the ruling sanities of the world, will be the dominant interest among serious men. We seem to have entered upon an entirely new phase in history in which contention as distinguished from rivalry, has almost abruptly ceased to be the usual occupation, and has become at most a subdued and hidden and discredited thing. Contentious professions cease to be an honourable employment for men. The peace between nations is also a peace between individuals. We live in a world that comes of age. Man the warrior, man the lawyer, and all the bickering aspects of life, pass into obscurity; the grave dreamers, man the curious learner, and man the creative artist, come forward to replace these barbaric aspects of existence by a less ignoble adventure.

It is doubtful that we will ever again see a time when ‘politics’ is the main interest of serious men. By politics, I mean partisan interference with the sound principles that govern the world. We seem to have entered an entirely new phase of history. Contention, as distinct from rivalry, has almost suddenly stopped being people’s usual occupation. At most, it has become a subdued, hidden, and discredited thing. Professions built on contention are no longer honorable work for men. Peace between nations is also peace between individuals. We live in a world that is coming of age. Man the warrior, man the lawyer, and all the quarreling aspects of life fade into obscurity. Serious dreamers, man the curious learner, and man the creative artist come forward. They replace these barbaric aspects of existence with a nobler adventure.

There is no natural life of man. He is, and always has been, a sheath of varied and even incompatible possibilities, a palimpsest of inherited dispositions. It was the habit of many writers in the early twentieth century to speak of competition and the narrow, private life of trade and saving and suspicious isolation as though such things were in some exceptional way proper to the human constitution, and as though openness of mind and a preference for achievement over possession were abnormal and rather unsubstantial qualities. How wrong that was the history of the decades immediately following the establishment of the world republic witnesses. Once the world was released from the hardening insecurities of a needless struggle for life that was collectively planless and individually absorbing, it became apparent that there was in the vast mass of people a long, smothered passion to make things. The world broke out into making, and at first mainly into æsthetic making. This phase of history, which has been not inaptly termed the ‘Efflorescence,’ is still, to a large extent, with us. The majority of our population consists of artists, and the bulk of activity in the world lies no longer with necessities but with their elaboration, decoration, and refinement. There has been an evident change in the quality of this making during recent years. It becomes more purposeful than it was, losing something of its first elegance and prettiness and gaining in intensity; but that is a change rather of hue than of nature. That comes with a deepening philosophy and a sounder education. For the first joyous exercises of fancy we perceive now the deliberation of a more constructive imagination. There is a natural order in these things, and art comes before science as the satisfaction of more elemental needs must come before art, and as play and pleasure come in a human life before the development of a settled purpose....

There is no single natural way for humans to live. We are, and always have been, bundles of varied and even incompatible possibilities, with layers of inherited traits. Many writers in the early twentieth century treated competition and the narrow, private life of trade, saving, and suspicious isolation as especially suited to human nature. They treated open-mindedness and a preference for achievement over possession as abnormal and rather insubstantial qualities. The history of the decades immediately after the establishment of the world republic shows how wrong they were. The world was freed from a needless struggle for survival. That struggle had no overall plan, absorbed each person, and made people hardened by insecurity. Once it was over, a long-suppressed passion for making things became apparent among the great mass of people. The world began making things enthusiastically, mainly for their beauty at first. This period of history has been aptly called the ‘Efflorescence,’ and it is still largely with us. Most of our population are artists. Most activity in the world no longer concerns necessities, but their elaboration, decoration, and refinement. In recent years, the character of this creative work has clearly changed. It has become more purposeful, losing some of its early elegance and prettiness and gaining intensity. But that is a change of shade rather than of nature. It comes with a deeper philosophy and a sounder education. In place of the first joyful exercises of fancy, we now see a more deliberate, constructive imagination. There is a natural order to these things. Basic needs must be satisfied before art can come, and art comes before science. Similarly, play and pleasure come before a person develops a settled purpose....

For thousands of years this gathering impulse to creative work must have struggled in man against the limitations imposed upon him by his social ineptitude. It was a long smouldering fire that flamed out at last in all these things. The evidence of a pathetic, perpetually thwarted urgency to make something, is one of the most touching aspects of the relics and records of our immediate ancestors. There exists still in the death area about the London bombs, a region of deserted small homes that furnish the most illuminating comment on the old state of affairs. These homes are entirely horrible, uniform, square, squat, hideously proportioned, uncomfortable, dingy, and in some respects quite filthy, only people in complete despair of anything better could have lived in them, but to each is attached a ridiculous little rectangle of land called ‘the garden,’ containing usually a prop for drying clothes and a loathsome box of offal, the dustbin, full of egg-shells, cinders, and such-like refuse. Now that one may go about this region in comparative security—for the London radiations have dwindled to inconsiderable proportions—it is possible to trace in nearly every one of these gardens some effort to make. Here it is a poor little plank summer-house, here it is a ‘fountain’ of bricks and oyster-shells, here a ‘rockery,’ here a ‘workshop.’ And in the houses everywhere there are pitiful little decorations, clumsy models, feeble drawings. These efforts are almost incredibly inept, like the drawings of blindfolded men, they are only one shade less harrowing to a sympathetic observer than the scratchings one finds upon the walls of the old prisons, but there they are, witnessing to the poor buried instincts that struggled up towards the light. That god of joyous expression our poor fathers ignorantly sought, our freedom has declared to us....

For thousands of years, the growing urge to create must have struggled against mankind’s inability to organize society. It was a fire that smouldered for a long time before finally bursting into flame in all these things. The relics and records of our immediate ancestors show a sad, constantly frustrated urge to make something. It is one of their most touching features. In the death area around the London bombs, there is still a district of deserted small homes. They offer a revealing view of the old way of life. The homes are utterly horrible: uniform, square, squat, badly proportioned, uncomfortable, dingy, and in some respects quite filthy. Only people who had completely given up hope of anything better could have lived in them. But each has a ridiculous little rectangle of land called ‘the garden.’ It usually contains a clothes-drying post and a disgusting box of rubbish, the dustbin, full of eggshells, cinders, and similar waste. Now one can walk around this district in relative safety, because the London radiations have dwindled to insignificant levels. In nearly every garden, one can find some attempt to make something. Here is a poor little summer-house made of planks, there a ‘fountain’ of bricks and oyster shells, a ‘rockery,’ or a ‘workshop.’ Everywhere in the houses there are pitiful little decorations, clumsy models, and feeble drawings. These efforts are almost unbelievably clumsy, like drawings made by blindfolded people. To a sympathetic observer, they are only slightly less distressing than the scratches found on the walls of old prisons. But there they are, bearing witness to the poor buried instincts that struggled toward the light. Our poor fathers sought the god of joyful expression without knowing it. Our freedom has revealed that god to us....

In the old days the common ambition of every simple soul was to possess a little property, a patch of land, a house uncontrolled by others, an ‘independence’ as the English used to put it. And what made this desire for freedom and prosperity so strong, was very evidently the dream of self-expression, of doing something with it, of playing with it, of making a personal delightfulness, a distinctiveness. Property was never more than a means to an end, nor avarice more than a perversion. Men owned in order to do freely. Now that every one has his own apartments and his own privacy secure, this disposition to own has found its release in a new direction. Men study and save and strive that they may leave behind them a series of panels in some public arcade, a row of carven figures along a terrace, a grove, a pavilion. Or they give themselves to the penetration of some still opaque riddle in phenomena as once men gave themselves to the accumulation of riches. The work that was once the whole substance of social existence—for most men spent all their lives in earning a living—is now no more than was the burden upon one of those old climbers who carried knapsacks of provisions on their backs in order that they might ascend mountains. It matters little to the easy charities of our emancipated time that most people who have made their labour contribution produce neither new beauty nor new wisdom, but are simply busy about those pleasant activities and enjoyments that reassure them that they are alive. They help, it may be, by reception and reverberation, and they hinder nothing. ...

In the old days, every ordinary person’s ambition was to own a little property. It might be a patch of land or a house free from other people’s control. The English used to call this an ‘independence’. The desire for freedom and prosperity was evidently so strong because people dreamed of expressing themselves. They wanted to do something with their property, to play with it, and to make it a distinctive personal pleasure. Property was never more than a means to an end, and greed was only a distortion of that desire. People owned property so they could act freely. Now everyone has their own rooms and secure privacy. So this desire to own has found a new outlet. People study, save, and strive so they can leave something behind. It might be a series of panels in a public arcade, a row of carved figures along a terrace, a grove, or a pavilion. Or they devote themselves to solving some still puzzling mystery of the natural world, just as people once devoted themselves to accumulating riches. Work once made up the whole of social life, for most people spent their entire lives earning a living. Now it is no more than the burden carried by those old climbers. They carried backpacks of provisions so that they could climb mountains. In our free and generous age, it matters little that most people produce neither new beauty nor new wisdom after doing their share of work. They simply keep busy with pleasant activities and enjoyments that reassure them they are alive. They may help by receiving and reflecting what others create, and they hinder nothing. ...

Now all this phase of gigantic change in the contours and appearances of human life which is going on about us, a change as rapid and as wonderful as the swift ripening of adolescence to manhood after the barbaric boyish years, is correlated with moral and mental changes at least as unprecedented. It is not as if old things were going out of life and new things coming in, it is rather that the altered circumstances of men are making an appeal to elements in his nature that have hitherto been suppressed, and checking tendencies that have hitherto been over-stimulated and over-developed. He has not so much grown and altered his essential being as turned new aspects to the light. Such turnings round into a new attitude the world has seen on a less extensive scale before. The Highlanders of the seventeenth century, for example, were cruel and bloodthirsty robbers, in the nineteenth their descendants were conspicuously trusty and honourable men. There was not a people in Western Europe in the early twentieth century that seemed capable of hideous massacres, and none that had not been guilty of them within the previous two centuries. The free, frank, kindly, gentle life of the prosperous classes in any European country before the years of the last wars was in a different world of thought and feeling from that of the dingy, suspicious, secretive, and uncharitable existence of the respectable poor, or the constant personal violence, the squalor and naïve passions of the lowest stratum. Yet there were no real differences of blood and inherent quality between these worlds; their differences were all in circumstances, suggestion, and habits of mind. And turning to more individual instances the constantly observed difference between one portion of a life and another consequent upon a religious conversion, were a standing example of the versatile possibilities of human nature.

The shape and appearance of human life are changing enormously all around us. The change is as rapid and wonderful as the swift growth from adolescence to manhood after the barbaric years of boyhood. It goes hand in hand with moral and mental changes that are at least as unprecedented. It is not simply that old things are passing out of life and new things are coming in. Rather, people’s changed circumstances are appealing to parts of their nature that have so far been suppressed. At the same time, these circumstances are restraining tendencies that have been overstimulated and overdeveloped. People have not so much grown or changed in their essential nature as turned new sides of themselves toward the light. The world has seen such shifts in attitude before, though on a smaller scale. The Highlanders of the seventeenth century, for example, were cruel and bloodthirsty robbers. In the nineteenth century, their descendants were notably trustworthy and honorable. In the early twentieth century, no people in Western Europe seemed capable of hideous massacres. Yet every one of them had been guilty of such massacres within the previous two centuries. Before the years of the last wars, the prosperous classes in every European country lived freely, openly, kindly, and gently. Their world of thought and feeling was different from that of the respectable poor, whose lives were dingy, suspicious, secretive, and uncharitable. It was also different from the lowest stratum, with its constant personal violence, squalor, and naïve passions. Yet there were no real differences of blood or inherent quality between these worlds. All their differences lay in circumstances, suggestion, and habits of mind. There were individual examples, too. Religious conversion was a familiar and constant example of the many possibilities of human nature. People often showed a marked difference between their lives before and after such a conversion.

The catastrophe of the atomic bombs which shook men out of cities and businesses and economic relations shook them also out of their old established habits of thought, and out of the lightly held beliefs and prejudices that came down to them from the past. To borrow a word from the old-fashioned chemists, men were made nascent; they were released from old ties; for good or evil they were ready for new associations. The council carried them forward for good; perhaps if his bombs had reached their destination King Ferdinand Charles might have carried them back to an endless chain of evils. But his task would have been a harder one than the council’s. The moral shock of the atomic bombs had been a profound one, and for a while the cunning side of the human animal was overpowered by its sincere realisation of the vital necessity for reconstruction. The litigious and trading spirits cowered together, scared at their own consequences; men thought twice before they sought mean advantages in the face of the unusual eagerness to realise new aspirations, and when at last the weeds revived again and ‘claims’ began to sprout, they sprouted upon the stony soil of law-courts reformed, of laws that pointed to the future instead of the past, and under the blazing sunshine of a transforming world. A new literature, a new interpretation of history were springing into existence, a new teaching was already in the schools, a new faith in the young. The worthy man who forestalled the building of a research city for the English upon the Sussex downs by buying up a series of estates, was dispossessed and laughed out of court when he made his demand for some preposterous compensation; the owner of the discredited Dass patents makes his last appearance upon the scroll of history as the insolvent proprietor of a paper called The Cry for Justice, in which he duns the world for a hundred million pounds. That was the ingenuous Dass’s idea of justice, that he ought to be paid about five million pounds annually because he had annexed the selvage of one of Holsten’s discoveries. Dass came at last to believe quite firmly in his right, and he died a victim of conspiracy mania in a private hospital at Nice. Both of these men would probably have ended their days enormously wealthy, and of course ennobled in the England of the opening twentieth century, and it is just this novelty of their fates that marks the quality of the new age.

The catastrophe of the atomic bombs drove people out of their cities, businesses, and economic relationships. It also shook them out of their old habits of thought and the beliefs and prejudices they had inherited and accepted lightly. To borrow a word from old-fashioned chemists, people were made nascent. They were freed from old ties and ready to form new ones, for good or evil. The council led them toward good. Perhaps, if his bombs had reached their destination, King Ferdinand Charles might have led them back into an endless chain of evils. But his task would have been harder than the council’s. The moral shock of the atomic bombs had been profound. For a while, people’s sincere recognition of the vital need to rebuild overcame their cunning. Those inclined to sue and trade cowered together, frightened by the consequences of their own actions. People thought twice before seeking petty advantages, when others were so unusually eager to realize new aspirations. At last the weeds revived and ‘claims’ began to sprout again. But they sprouted in the stony soil of reformed courts and laws that looked to the future instead of the past. And they grew beneath the blazing sunshine of a changing world. A new literature and a new interpretation of history were emerging. A new kind of teaching was already in the schools, and the young had a new faith. One worthy man tried to prevent a research city for the English from being built on the Sussex downs. He bought up a series of estates on the site. He was stripped of his property and laughed out of court when he demanded outrageous compensation. The owner of the discredited Dass patents makes his last appearance in history as the bankrupt owner of a newspaper called The Cry for Justice. In it, he keeps demanding a hundred million pounds from the world. That was the innocent Dass’s idea of justice. He believed he should be paid about five million pounds a year because he had claimed a small part of one of Holsten’s discoveries. Dass eventually came to believe firmly in his right to the money. He died a victim of conspiracy mania in a private hospital at Nice. Both men would probably have ended their days enormously wealthy in the England of the early twentieth century. They would, of course, have been made nobles. It is precisely the unfamiliar nature of their fates that reveals the character of the new age.

The new government early discovered the need of a universal education to fit men to the great conceptions of its universal rule. It made no wrangling attacks on the local, racial, and sectarian forms of religious profession that at that time divided the earth into a patchwork of hatreds and distrusts; it left these organisations to make their peace with God in their own time; but it proclaimed as if it were a mere secular truth that sacrifice was expected from all, that respect had to be shown to all; it revived schools or set them up afresh all around the world, and everywhere these schools taught the history of war and the consequences and moral of the Last War; everywhere it was taught not as a sentiment but as a matter of fact that the salvation of the world from waste and contention was the common duty and occupation of all men and women. These things which are now the elementary commonplaces of human intercourse seemed to the councillors of Brissago, when first they dared to proclaim them, marvellously daring discoveries, not untouched by doubt, that flushed the cheek and fired the eye.

The new government soon realized that everyone needed an education to prepare them for the great ideas behind its universal rule. At the time, local, racial, and sectarian forms of religious worship divided the earth into a patchwork of hatred and distrust. The government did not attack them in bitter disputes. It left these religious organizations to make their peace with God in their own time. But it declared, as if stating a simple secular truth, that sacrifice was expected from everyone and that everyone deserved respect. It reopened schools or established new ones around the world. Everywhere, these schools taught the history of war and the consequences and lesson of the Last War. Everywhere, they taught that saving the world from waste and conflict was the shared duty and work of all men and women. They taught this not as a sentiment, but as a fact. These ideas are now basic commonplaces of human interaction. But when the councillors of Brissago first dared to proclaim them, they seemed like marvelously daring discoveries. The councillors still had some doubts about them, but the ideas made their cheeks flush and their eyes shine.

The council placed all this educational reconstruction in the hands of a committee of men and women, which did its work during the next few decades with remarkable breadth and effectiveness. This educational committee was, and is, the correlative upon the mental and spiritual side of the redistribution committee. And prominent upon it, and indeed for a time quite dominating it, was a Russian named Karenin, who was singular in being a congenital cripple. His body was bent so that he walked with difficulty, suffered much pain as he grew older, and had at last to undergo two operations. The second killed him. Already malformation, which was to be seen in every crowd during the middle ages so that the crippled beggar was, as it were, an essential feature of the human spectacle, was becoming a strange thing in the world. It had a curious effect upon Karenin’s colleagues; their feeling towards him was mingled with pity and a sense of inhumanity that it needed usage rather than reason to overcome. He had a strong face, with little bright brown eyes rather deeply sunken and a large resolute thin-lipped mouth. His skin was very yellow and wrinkled, and his hair iron gray. He was at all times an impatient and sometimes an angry man, but this was forgiven him because of the hot wire of suffering that was manifestly thrust through his being. At the end of his life his personal prestige was very great. To him far more than to any contemporary is it due that self-abnegation, self-identification with the world spirit, was made the basis of universal education. That general memorandum to the teachers which is the key-note of the modern educational system, was probably entirely his work.

The council placed the entire rebuilding of education in the hands of a committee of men and women. Over the next few decades, the committee worked with remarkable breadth and effectiveness. The educational committee was, and still is, the counterpart of the redistribution committee in matters of mind and spirit. A Russian named Karenin was a prominent member, and for a time he more or less dominated the committee. He was unusual because he had been crippled from birth. His body was bent, and he walked with difficulty. As he grew older, he suffered great pain and eventually had to undergo two operations. The second operation killed him. By then, physical deformity was becoming rare in the world. In the Middle Ages, it could be seen in every crowd. The crippled beggar was, so to speak, an essential part of the human scene. Karenin’s condition had a curious effect on his colleagues. Their feelings toward him mingled pity with a sense that he was inhuman. Only becoming used to him, rather than reason, could overcome that feeling. Karenin had a strong face, with small, bright brown eyes set rather deep and a large, determined mouth with thin lips. His skin was very yellow and wrinkled, and his hair was iron gray. He was always impatient and sometimes angry. But people forgave him because his suffering was plain to see, like a hot wire driven through his being. By the end of his life, he was held in very high regard. More than any of his contemporaries, he was responsible for making self-denial and identification with the world spirit the basis of universal education. He probably wrote the entire general memorandum to teachers that is the keynote of the modern educational system.

‘Whosoever would save his soul shall lose it,’ he wrote. ‘That is the device upon the seal of this document, and the starting point of all we have to do. It is a mistake to regard it as anything but a plain statement of fact. It is the basis for your work. You have to teach self-forgetfulness, and everything else that you have to teach is contributory and subordinate to that end. Education is the release of man from self. You have to widen the horizons of your children, encourage and intensify their curiosity and their creative impulses, and cultivate and enlarge their sympathies. That is what you are for. Under your guidance and the suggestions you will bring to bear on them, they have to shed the old Adam of instinctive suspicions, hostilities, and passions, and to find themselves again in the great being of the universe. The little circles of their egotisms have to be opened out until they become arcs in the sweep of the racial purpose. And this that you teach to others you must learn also sedulously yourselves. Philosophy, discovery, art, every sort of skill, every sort of service, love: these are the means of salvation from that narrow loneliness of desire, that brooding preoccupation with self and egotistical relationships, which is hell for the individual, treason to the race, and exile from God....’

‘Whoever tries to save his soul will lose it,’ he wrote. ‘Those words are the motto on this document’s seal. They are the starting point for all we have to do. It is a mistake to see them as anything but a plain statement of fact. They are the basis for your work. You must teach people to forget themselves. Everything else you teach must serve that goal and be secondary to it. Education frees people from themselves. You must broaden your children’s horizons. Encourage and deepen their curiosity and creative impulses. Develop and expand their sympathy for others. That is what you are here to do. ‘Through your guidance and the ideas you offer, children must shed the old Adam of instinctive suspicion, hostility, and passion. They must find themselves again in the great being of the universe. The small circles of their egos must open out until they become arcs in the sweep of humanity’s purpose. And you must also work diligently to learn what you teach others. ‘Philosophy, discovery, art, every kind of skill, every kind of service, and love can save us. They can save us from the narrow loneliness of desire and the brooding concern with ourselves and our self-centered relationships. That concern is hell for the individual, treason against humanity, and exile from God....’

As things round themselves off and accomplish themselves, one begins for the first time to see them clearly. From the perspectives of a new age one can look back upon the great and widening stream of literature with a complete understanding. Things link up that seemed disconnected, and things that were once condemned as harsh and aimless are seen to be but factors in the statement of a gigantic problem. An enormous bulk of the sincerer writing of the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries falls together now into an unanticipated unanimity; one sees it as a huge tissue of variations upon one theme, the conflict of human egotism and personal passion and narrow imaginations on the one hand, against the growing sense of wider necessities and a possible, more spacious life.

As things come to completion, we begin to see them clearly for the first time. From the perspective of a new age, we can look back on the great and widening stream of literature with complete understanding. Works that seemed disconnected now link together. Works once condemned as harsh and aimless are now seen as parts of a statement of a gigantic problem. A vast amount of the more sincere writing of the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries now comes together in an unexpected unity. We see it as a huge fabric of variations on one theme: the conflict between human selfishness, personal passion, and narrow imaginations on one side, and a growing sense of broader needs and the possibility of a more expansive life on the other.

That conflict is in evidence in so early a work as Voltaire’s Candide, for example, in which the desire for justice as well as happiness beats against human contrariety and takes refuge at last in a forced and inconclusive contentment with little things. Candide was but one of the pioneers of a literature of uneasy complaint that was presently an innumerable multitude of books. The novels more particularly of the nineteenth century, if one excludes the mere story-tellers from our consideration, witness to this uneasy realisation of changes that call for effort and of the lack of that effort. In a thousand aspects, now tragically, now comically, now with a funny affectation of divine detachment, a countless host of witnesses tell their story of lives fretting between dreams and limitations. Now one laughs, now one weeps, now one reads with a blank astonishment at this huge and almost unpremeditated record of how the growing human spirit, now warily, now eagerly, now furiously, and always, as it seems, unsuccessfully, tried to adapt itself to the maddening misfit of its patched and ancient garments. And always in these books as one draws nearer to the heart of the matter there comes a disconcerting evasion. It was the fantastic convention of the time that a writer should not touch upon religion. To do so was to rouse the jealous fury of the great multitude of professional religious teachers. It was permitted to state the discord, but it was forbidden to glance at any possible reconciliation. Religion was the privilege of the pulpit....

That conflict can be seen as early as Voltaire’s Candide, for example. In it, the desire for justice as well as happiness runs up against human resistance. In the end, it takes refuge in a forced and inconclusive contentment with little things. Candide was only one of the first in a literature of uneasy complaint. Soon there were countless books of this kind. The novels of the nineteenth century, in particular, show an uneasy awareness of changes that demanded effort, and of the failure to make that effort. This is true if we leave out the mere storytellers. In countless ways, sometimes tragic, sometimes comic, sometimes with a funny pretense of godlike detachment, countless witnesses tell their stories. They tell of lives caught in restless frustration between dreams and limitations. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we weep, and sometimes we read in blank astonishment. The vast record seems almost unplanned. It shows how the growing human spirit tried to adapt to the maddening misfit of its patched and ancient clothes. Sometimes it tried cautiously, sometimes eagerly, sometimes furiously, and always, it seems, without success. And always, as we draw closer to the heart of the matter in these books, we find a troubling evasion. By a strange convention of the time, a writer was not supposed to touch on religion. To do so was to arouse the jealous fury of the great multitude of professional religious teachers. Writers were allowed to describe the conflict, but forbidden even to glance at any possible reconciliation. Religion was the privilege of the pulpit....

It was not only from the novels that religion was omitted. It was ignored by the newspapers; it was pedantically disregarded in the discussion of business questions, it played a trivial and apologetic part in public affairs. And this was done not out of contempt but respect. The hold of the old religious organisations upon men’s respect was still enormous, so enormous that there seemed to be a quality of irreverence in applying religion to the developments of every day. This strange suspension of religion lasted over into the beginnings of the new age. It was the clear vision of Marcus Karenin much more than any other contemporary influence which brought it back into the texture of human life. He saw religion without hallucinations, without superstitious reverence, as a common thing as necessary as food and air, as land and energy to the life of man and the well-being of the Republic. He saw that indeed it had already percolated away from the temples and hierarchies and symbols in which men had sought to imprison it, that it was already at work anonymously and obscurely in the universal acceptance of the greater state. He gave it clearer expression, rephrased it to the lights and perspectives of the new dawn....

Religion was left out not only of novels. Newspapers ignored it too. In discussions of business, it was pointedly disregarded. In public affairs, it played a minor, apologetic part. And this was done out of respect, not contempt. People still had enormous respect for the old religious organizations. Their respect was so great that applying religion to everyday developments seemed almost irreverent. This strange suspension of religion continued into the beginning of the new age. More than any other influence of his time, Marcus Karenin’s clear vision brought religion back into the fabric of human life. He saw religion without illusions or superstitious reverence. He saw it as an ordinary thing, as necessary as food, air, land, and energy to human life and the well-being of the Republic. He saw that religion had already seeped out of the temples, hierarchies, and symbols in which people had tried to confine it. It was already at work, unnoticed and unnamed, in the universal acceptance of the greater state. He gave it clearer expression and restated it in the light and from the perspective of the new dawn....

But if we return to our novels for our evidence of the spirit of the times it becomes evident as one reads them in their chronological order, so far as that is now ascertainable, that as one comes to the latter nineteenth and the earlier twentieth century the writers are much more acutely aware of secular change than their predecessors were. The earlier novelists tried to show ‘life as it is,’ the latter showed life as it changes. More and more of their characters are engaged in adaptation to change or suffering from the effects of world changes. And as we come up to the time of the Last Wars, this newer conception of the everyday life as a reaction to an accelerated development is continually more manifest. Barnet’s book, which has served us so well, is frankly a picture of the world coming about like a ship that sails into the wind. Our later novelists give a vast gallery of individual conflicts in which old habits and customs, limited ideas, ungenerous temperaments, and innate obsessions are pitted against this great opening out of life that has happened to us. They tell us of the feelings of old people who have been wrenched away from familiar surroundings, and how they have had to make peace with uncomfortable comforts and conveniences that are still strange to them. They give us the discord between the opening egotisms of youths and the ill-defined limitations of a changing social life. They tell of the universal struggle of jealousy to capture and cripple our souls, of romantic failures and tragical misconceptions of the trend of the world, of the spirit of adventure, and the urgency of curiosity, and how these serve the universal drift. And all their stories lead in the end either to happiness missed or happiness won, to disaster or salvation. The clearer their vision and the subtler their art, the more certainly do these novels tell of the possibility of salvation for all the world. For any road in life leads to religion for those upon it who will follow it far enough....

But if we return to our novels for evidence of the spirit of the times, a change becomes clear. When we read them in chronological order, as far as we can now determine it, the later writers show a sharper awareness of long-term change. This is true as we come to the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The earlier novelists tried to show ‘life as it is.’ The later ones showed life as it changes. More and more of their characters are adapting to change or suffering from the effects of changes in the world. As we approach the time of the Last Wars, this newer view of everyday life becomes ever clearer. Everyday life is seen as a response to accelerating development. Barnet’s book, which has served us so well, openly depicts the world changing course like a ship turning into the wind. Our later novelists present a vast gallery of individual conflicts. In these, old habits and customs, limited ideas, ungenerous temperaments, and inborn obsessions struggle against the great opening up of life that we have experienced. The novelists tell us how old people feel when torn from familiar surroundings. They show how these people have had to make peace with comforts and conveniences that are uncomfortable because they are still strange to them. The novels show the clash between the emerging self-assertion of young people and the unclear limits of a changing social life. They tell of the universal struggle of jealousy to capture and cripple our souls. They tell of romantic failures and tragic misunderstandings of the direction the world is taking. They also tell of the spirit of adventure and the urgency of curiosity, and how these serve the general movement of life. And all their stories lead in the end either to happiness missed or happiness won, to disaster or salvation. The clearer their vision and the subtler their art, the more surely these novels tell of the possibility of salvation for all the world. For anyone who follows a road in life far enough will find that it leads to religion....

It would have seemed a strange thing to the men of the former time that it should be an open question as it is to-day whether the world is wholly Christian or not Christian at all. But assuredly we have the spirit, and as surely have we left many temporary forms behind. Christianity was the first expression of world religion, the first complete repudiation of tribalism and war and disputation. That it fell presently into the ways of more ancient rituals cannot alter that. The common sense of mankind has toiled through two thousand years of chastening experience to find at last how sound a meaning attaches to the familiar phrases of the Christian faith. The scientific thinker as he widens out to the moral problems of the collective life, comes inevitably upon the words of Christ, and as inevitably does the Christian, as his thought grows clearer, arrive at the world republic. As for the claims of the sects, as for the use of a name and successions, we live in a time that has shaken itself free from such claims and consistencies.

People in earlier times would have found it strange that we now debate whether the world is entirely Christian or not Christian at all. But we surely have the spirit of Christianity, and we have just as surely left many temporary forms behind. Christianity was the first expression of a world religion. It was the first complete rejection of tribalism, war, and disputes. Christianity soon adopted the practices of older rituals, but that cannot change what it was. Through two thousand years of hard experience, humanity’s common sense has finally discovered the sound meaning in the familiar phrases of the Christian faith. As a scientific thinker turns to the moral problems of life in society, he inevitably comes upon the words of Christ. Just as inevitably, as a Christian’s thinking becomes clearer, he arrives at the idea of a world republic. As for the claims of religious sects, the use of a name, and the passing down of authority, we live in a time that has freed itself from such claims and concerns with consistency.