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    Chapter 2
    Previous Chapter
    Section 1.

    The Utopia of a modern dreamer must needs differ in one fundamental
    aspect from the Nowheres and Utopias men planned before Darwin
    quickened the thought of the world. Those were all perfect and
    static States, a balance of happiness won for ever against the
    forces of unrest and disorder that inhere in things. One beheld a
    healthy and simple generation enjoying the fruits of the earth in
    an atmosphere of virtue and happiness, to be followed by other
    virtuous, happy, and entirely similar generations, until the Gods
    grew weary. Change and development were dammed back by invincible
    dams for ever. But the Modern Utopia must be not static but kinetic,
    must shape not as a permanent state but as a hopeful stage, leading
    to a long ascent of stages. Nowadays we do not resist and overcome
    the great stream of things, but rather float upon it. We build now
    not citadels, but ships of state. For one ordered arrangement of
    citizens rejoicing in an equality of happiness safe and assured
    to them and their children for ever, we have to plan "a flexible
    common compromise, in which a perpetually novel succession of
    individualities may converge most effectually upon a comprehensive
    onward development." That is the first, most generalised difference
    between a Utopia based upon modern conceptions and all the Utopias
    that were written in the former time.

    Our business here is to be Utopian, to make vivid and credible,
    if we can, first this facet and then that, of an imaginary whole
    and happy world. Our deliberate intention is to be not, indeed,
    impossible, but most distinctly impracticable, by every scale that
    reaches only between to-day and to-morrow. We are to turn our backs
    for a space upon the insistent examination of the thing that is,
    and face towards the freer air, the ampler spaces of the thing
    that perhaps might be, to the projection of a State or city "worth
    while," to designing upon the sheet of our imaginations the picture
    of a life conceivably possible, and yet better worth living than
    our own. That is our present enterprise. We are going to lay down
    certain necessary starting propositions, and then we shall proceed
    to explore the sort of world these propositions give us....

    It is no doubt an optimistic enterprise. But it is good for awhile
    to be free from the carping note that must needs be audible when
    we discuss our present imperfections, to release ourselves from
    practical difficulties and the tangle of ways and means. It is good
    to stop by the track for a space, put aside the knapsack, wipe the
    brows, and talk a little of the upper slopes of the mountain we
    think we are climbing, would but the trees let us see it.

    There is to be no inquiry here of policy and method. This is to be a
    holiday from politics and movements and methods. But for all that,
    we must needs define certain limitations. Were we free to have our
    untrammelled desire, I suppose we should follow Morris to his
    Nowhere, we should change the nature of man and the nature of things
    together; we should make the whole race wise, tolerant, noble,
    perfect--wave our hands to a splendid anarchy, every man doing as
    it pleases him, and none pleased to do evil, in a world as good in
    its essential nature, as ripe and sunny, as the world before the
    Fall. But that golden age, that perfect world, comes out into the
    possibilities of space and time. In space and time the pervading
    Will to Live sustains for evermore a perpetuity of aggressions. Our
    proposal here is upon a more practical plane at least than that.
    We are to restrict ourselves first to the limitations of human
    possibility as we know them in the men and women of this world
    to-day, and then to all the inhumanity, all the insubordination of
    nature. We are to shape our state in a world of uncertain seasons,
    sudden catastrophes, antagonistic diseases, and inimical beasts and
    vermin, out of men and women with like passions, like uncertainties
    of mood and desire to our own. And, moreover, we are going to accept
    this world of conflict, to adopt no attitude of renunciation towards
    it, to face it in no ascetic spirit, but in the mood of the Western
    peoples, whose purpose is to survive and overcome. So much we adopt
    in common with those who deal not in Utopias, but in the world of
    Here and Now.

    Certain liberties, however, following the best Utopian precedents,
    we may take with existing fact. We assume that the tone of public
    thought may be entirely different from what it is in the present
    world. We permit ourselves a free hand with the mental conflict of
    life, within the possibilities of the human mind as we know it. We
    permit ourselves also a free hand with all the apparatus of
    existence that man has, so to speak, made for himself, with houses,
    roads, clothing, canals, machinery, with laws, boundaries,
    conventions, and traditions, with schools, with literature and
    religious organisation, with creeds and customs, with everything, in
    fact, that it lies within man's power to alter. That, indeed, is the
    cardinal assumption of all Utopian speculations old and new; the
    Republic and Laws of Plato, and More's Utopia, Howells' implicit
    Altruria, and Bellamy's future Boston, Comte's great Western
    Republic, Hertzka's Freeland, Cabet's Icaria, and Campanella's City
    of the Sun, are built, just as we shall build, upon that, upon the
    hypothesis of the complete emancipation of a community of men from
    tradition, from habits, from legal bonds, and that subtler servitude
    possessions entail. And much of the essential value of all such
    speculations lies in this assumption of emancipation, lies in that
    regard towards human freedom, in the undying interest of the human
    power of self-escape, the power to resist the causation of the past,
    and to evade, initiate, endeavour, and overcome.


    Section 2.

    There are very definite artistic limitations also.

    There must always be a certain effect of hardness and thinness about
    Utopian speculations. Their common fault is to be comprehensively
    jejune. That which is the blood and warmth and reality of life is
    largely absent; there are no individualities, but only generalised
    people. In almost every Utopia--except, perhaps, Morris's "News from
    Nowhere"--one sees handsome but characterless buildings, symmetrical
    and perfect cultivations, and a multitude of people, healthy, happy,
    beautifully dressed, but without any personal distinction whatever.
    Too often the prospect resembles the key to one of those large
    pictures of coronations, royal weddings, parliaments, conferences,
    and gatherings so popular in Victorian times, in which, instead of a
    face, each figure bears a neat oval with its index number legibly
    inscribed. This burthens us with an incurable effect of unreality,
    and I do not see how it is altogether to be escaped. It is a
    disadvantage that has to be accepted. Whatever institution has
    existed or exists, however irrational, however preposterous, has, by
    virtue of its contact with individualities, an effect of realness
    and rightness no untried thing may share. It has ripened, it has
    been christened with blood, it has been stained and mellowed by
    handling, it has been rounded and dented to the softened contours
    that we associate with life; it has been salted, maybe, in a brine
    of tears. But the thing that is merely proposed, the thing that is
    merely suggested, however rational, however necessary, seems strange
    and inhuman in its clear, hard, uncompromising lines, its
    unqualified angles and surfaces.

    There is no help for it, there it is! The Master suffers with the
    last and least of his successors. For all the humanity he wins to,
    through his dramatic device of dialogue, I doubt if anyone has ever
    been warmed to desire himself a citizen in the Republic of Plato; I
    doubt if anyone could stand a month of the relentless publicity of
    virtue planned by More.... No one wants to live in any community of
    intercourse really, save for the sake of the individualities he
    would meet there. The fertilising conflict of individualities is the
    ultimate meaning of the personal life, and all our Utopias no more
    than schemes for bettering that interplay. At least, that is how
    life shapes itself more and more to modern perceptions. Until you
    bring in individualities, nothing comes into being, and a Universe
    ceases when you shiver the mirror of the least of individual


    Section 3.

    No less than a planet will serve the purpose of a modern Utopia.
    Time was when a mountain valley or an island seemed to promise
    sufficient isolation for a polity to maintain itself intact from
    outward force; the Republic of Plato stood armed ready for defensive
    war, and the New Atlantis and the Utopia of More in theory, like
    China and Japan through many centuries of effectual practice, held
    themselves isolated from intruders. Such late instances as Butler's
    satirical "Erewhon," and Mr. Stead's queendom of inverted sexual
    conditions in Central Africa, found the Tibetan method of
    slaughtering the inquiring visitor a simple, sufficient rule. But
    the whole trend of modern thought is against the permanence of any
    such enclosures. We are acutely aware nowadays that, however subtly
    contrived a State may be, outside your boundary lines the epidemic,
    the breeding barbarian or the economic power, will gather its
    strength to overcome you. The swift march of invention is all for
    the invader. Now, perhaps you might still guard a rocky coast or a
    narrow pass; but what of that near to-morrow when the flying machine
    soars overhead, free to descend at this point or that? A state
    powerful enough to keep isolated under modern conditions would be
    powerful enough to rule the world, would be, indeed, if not actively
    ruling, yet passively acquiescent in all other human organisations,
    and so responsible for them altogether. World-state, therefore, it
    must be.

    That leaves no room for a modern Utopia in Central Africa, or in
    South America, or round about the pole, those last refuges of
    ideality. The floating isle of La Cite Morellyste no longer avails.
    We need a planet. Lord Erskine, the author of a Utopia ("Armata")
    that might have been inspired by Mr. Hewins, was the first of all
    Utopists to perceive this--he joined his twin planets pole to pole
    by a sort of umbilical cord. But the modern imagination, obsessed
    by physics, must travel further than that.

    Out beyond Sirius, far in the deeps of space, beyond the flight of a
    cannon-ball flying for a billion years, beyond the range of unaided
    vision, blazes the star that is _our_ Utopia's sun. To those who
    know where to look, with a good opera-glass aiding good eyes, it
    and three fellows that seem in a cluster with it--though they are
    incredible billions of miles nearer--make just the faintest speck
    of light. About it go planets, even as our planets, but weaving a
    different fate, and in its place among them is Utopia, with its
    sister mate, the Moon. It is a planet like our planet, the same
    continents, the same islands, the same oceans and seas, another
    Fuji-Yama is beautiful there dominating another Yokohama--and
    another Matterhorn overlooks the icy disorder of another Theodule.
    It is so like our planet that a terrestrial botanist might find his
    every species there, even to the meanest pondweed or the remotest
    Alpine blossom....

    Only when he had gathered that last and turned about to find his inn
    again, perhaps he would not find his inn!

    Suppose now that two of us were actually to turn about in just that
    fashion. Two, I think, for to face a strange planet, even though it
    be a wholly civilised one, without some other familiar backing,
    dashes the courage overmuch. Suppose that we were indeed so
    translated even as we stood. You figure us upon some high pass in
    the Alps, and though I--being one easily made giddy by stooping--am
    no botanist myself, if my companion were to have a specimen tin
    under his arm--so long as it is not painted that abominable popular
    Swiss apple green--I would make it no occasion for quarrel! We have
    tramped and botanised and come to a rest, and, sitting among rocks,
    we have eaten our lunch and finished our bottle of Yvorne, and
    fallen into a talk of Utopias, and said such things as I have been
    saying. I could figure it myself upon that little neck of the
    Lucendro Pass, upon the shoulder of the Piz Lucendro, for there once
    I lunched and talked very pleasantly, and we are looking down upon
    the Val Bedretto, and Villa and Fontana and Airolo try to hide from
    us under the mountain side--three-quarters of a mile they are
    vertically below. (Lantern.) With that absurd nearness of effect
    one gets in the Alps, we see the little train a dozen miles away,
    running down the Biaschina to Italy, and the Lukmanier Pass beyond
    Piora left of us, and the San Giacomo right, mere footpaths under
    our feet....

    And behold! in the twinkling of an eye we are in that other

    We should scarcely note the change. Not a cloud would have gone from
    the sky. It might be the remote town below would take a different
    air, and my companion the botanist, with his educated observation,
    might almost see as much, and the train, perhaps, would be gone out
    of the picture, and the embanked straightness of the Ticino in the
    Ambri-Piotta meadows--that might be altered, but that would be all
    the visible change. Yet I have an idea that in some obscure manner
    we should come to feel at once a difference in things.

    The botanist's glance would, under a subtle attraction, float back
    to Airolo. "It's queer," he would say quite idly, "but I never
    noticed that building there to the right before."

    "Which building?"

    "That to the right--with a queer sort of thing----"

    "I see now. Yes. Yes, it's certainly an odd-looking affair.... And
    big, you know! Handsome! I wonder----"

    That would interrupt our Utopian speculations. We should both
    discover that the little towns below had changed--but how, we should
    not have marked them well enough to know. It would be indefinable, a
    change in the quality of their grouping, a change in the quality of
    their remote, small shapes.

    I should flick a few crumbs from my knee, perhaps. "It's odd," I
    should say, for the tenth or eleventh time, with a motion to rise,
    and we should get up and stretch ourselves, and, still a little
    puzzled, turn our faces towards the path that clambers down over
    the tumbled rocks and runs round by the still clear lake and down
    towards the Hospice of St. Gotthard--if perchance we could still
    find that path.

    Long before we got to that, before even we got to the great high
    road, we should have hints from the stone cabin in the nape of the
    pass--it would be gone or wonderfully changed--from the very goats
    upon the rocks, from the little hut by the rough bridge of stone,
    that a mighty difference had come to the world of men.

    And presently, amazed and amazing, we should happen on a man--no
    Swiss--dressed in unfamiliar clothing and speaking an unfamiliar


    Section 4.

    Before nightfall we should be drenched in wonders, but still we
    should have wonder left for the thing my companion, with his
    scientific training, would no doubt be the first to see. He would
    glance up, with that proprietary eye of the man who knows his
    constellations down to the little Greek letters. I imagine his
    exclamation. He would at first doubt his eyes. I should inquire the
    cause of his consternation, and it would be hard to explain. He
    would ask me with a certain singularity of manner for "Orion," and I
    should not find him; for the Great Bear, and it would have vanished.
    "Where?" I should ask, and "where?" seeking among that scattered
    starriness, and slowly I should acquire the wonder that possessed

    Then, for the first time, perhaps, we should realise from
    this unfamiliar heaven that not the world had changed, but
    ourselves--that we had come into the uttermost deeps of space.


    Section 5.

    We need suppose no linguistic impediments to intercourse. The whole
    world will surely have a common language, that is quite elementarily
    Utopian, and since we are free of the trammels of convincing
    story-telling, we may suppose that language to be sufficiently our
    own to understand. Indeed, should we be in Utopia at all, if we
    could not talk to everyone? That accursed bar of language, that
    hostile inscription in the foreigner's eyes, "deaf and dumb to you,
    sir, and so--your enemy," is the very first of the defects and
    complications one has fled the earth to escape.

    But what sort of language would we have the world speak, if we were
    told the miracle of Babel was presently to be reversed?

    If I may take a daring image, a mediaeval liberty, I would suppose
    that in this lonely place the Spirit of Creation spoke to us on this
    matter. "You are wise men," that Spirit might say--and I, being a
    suspicious, touchy, over-earnest man for all my predisposition to
    plumpness, would instantly scent the irony (while my companion, I
    fancy, might even plume himself), "and to beget your wisdom is
    chiefly why the world was made. You are so good as to propose an
    acceleration of that tedious multitudinous evolution upon which I am
    engaged. I gather, a universal tongue would serve you there. While I
    sit here among these mountains--I have been filing away at them for
    this last aeon or so, just to attract your hotels, you know--will
    you be so kind----? A few hints----?"

    Then the Spirit of Creation might transiently smile, a smile that
    would be like the passing of a cloud. All the mountain wilderness
    about us would be radiantly lit. (You know those swift moments, when
    warmth and brightness drift by, in lonely and desolate places.)

    Yet, after all, why should two men be smiled into apathy by the
    Infinite? Here we are, with our knobby little heads, our eyes and
    hands and feet and stout hearts, and if not us or ours, still the
    endless multitudes about us and in our loins are to come at last to
    the World State and a greater fellowship and the universal tongue.
    Let us to the extent of our ability, if not answer that question, at
    any rate try to think ourselves within sight of the best thing
    possible. That, after all, is our purpose, to imagine our best and
    strive for it, and it is a worse folly and a worse sin than
    presumption, to abandon striving because the best of all our bests
    looks mean amidst the suns.

    Now you as a botanist would, I suppose, incline to something as
    they say, "scientific." You wince under that most offensive
    epithet--and I am able to give you my intelligent sympathy--though
    "pseudo-scientific" and "quasi-scientific" are worse by far for the
    skin. You would begin to talk of scientific languages, of Esperanto,
    La Langue Bleue, New Latin, Volapuk, and Lord Lytton, of the
    philosophical language of Archbishop Whateley, Lady Welby's work
    upon Significs and the like. You would tell me of the remarkable
    precisions, the encyclopaedic quality of chemical terminology, and
    at the word terminology I should insinuate a comment on that eminent
    American biologist, Professor Mark Baldwin, who has carried the
    language biological to such heights of expressive clearness as to be
    triumphantly and invincibly unreadable. (Which foreshadows the line
    of my defence.)

    You make your ideal clear, a scientific language you demand, without
    ambiguity, as precise as mathematical formulae, and with every term
    in relations of exact logical consistency with every other. It will
    be a language with all the inflexions of verbs and nouns regular and
    all its constructions inevitable, each word clearly distinguishable
    from every other word in sound as well as spelling.

    That, at any rate, is the sort of thing one hears demanded, and if
    only because the demand rests upon implications that reach far
    beyond the region of language, it is worth considering here. It
    implies, indeed, almost everything that we are endeavouring to
    repudiate in this particular work. It implies that the whole
    intellectual basis of mankind is established, that the rules of
    logic, the systems of counting and measurement, the general
    categories and schemes of resemblance and difference, are
    established for the human mind for ever--blank Comte-ism, in fact,
    of the blankest description. But, indeed, the science of logic and
    the whole framework of philosophical thought men have kept since the
    days of Plato and Aristotle, has no more essential permanence as
    a final expression of the human mind, than the Scottish Longer
    Catechism. Amidst the welter of modern thought, a philosophy long
    lost to men rises again into being, like some blind and almost
    formless embryo, that must presently develop sight, and form, and
    power, a philosophy in which this assumption is denied. [Footnote:
    The serious reader may refer at leisure to Sidgwick's Use of Words
    in Reasoning (particularly), and to Bosanquet's Essentials of Logic,
    Bradley's Principles of Logic, and Sigwart's Logik; the lighter
    minded may read and mark the temper of Professor Case in the British
    Encyclopaedia, article Logic (Vol. XXX.). I have appended to his
    book a rude sketch of a philosophy upon new lines, originally read
    by me to the Oxford Phil. Soc. in 1903.]

    All through this Utopian excursion, I must warn you, you shall feel
    the thrust and disturbance of that insurgent movement. In the
    reiterated use of "Unique," you will, as it were, get the gleam of
    its integument; in the insistence upon individuality, and the
    individual difference as the significance of life, you will feel the
    texture of its shaping body. Nothing endures, nothing is precise and
    certain (except the mind of a pedant), perfection is the mere
    repudiation of that ineluctable marginal inexactitude which is the
    mysterious inmost quality of Being. Being, indeed!--there is no
    being, but a universal becoming of individualities, and Plato turned
    his back on truth when he turned towards his museum of specific
    ideals. Heraclitus, that lost and misinterpreted giant, may perhaps
    be coming to his own....

    There is no abiding thing in what we know. We change from weaker to
    stronger lights, and each more powerful light pierces our hitherto
    opaque foundations and reveals fresh and different opacities below.
    We can never foretell which of our seemingly assured fundamentals
    the next change will not affect. What folly, then, to dream of
    mapping out our minds in however general terms, of providing for
    the endless mysteries of the future a terminology and an idiom! We
    follow the vein, we mine and accumulate our treasure, but who can
    tell which way the vein may trend? Language is the nourishment of
    the thought of man, that serves only as it undergoes metabolism, and
    becomes thought and lives, and in its very living passes away. You
    scientific people, with your fancy of a terrible exactitude in
    language, of indestructible foundations built, as that Wordsworthian
    doggerel on the title-page of Nature says, "for aye," are
    marvellously without imagination!

    The language of Utopia will no doubt be one and indivisible; all
    mankind will, in the measure of their individual differences in
    quality, be brought into the same phase, into a common resonance of
    thought, but the language they will speak will still be a living
    tongue, an animated system of imperfections, which every individual
    man will infinitesimally modify. Through the universal freedom of
    exchange and movement, the developing change in its general spirit
    will be a world-wide change; that is the quality of its
    universality. I fancy it will be a coalesced language, a synthesis
    of many. Such a language as English is a coalesced language; it is a
    coalescence of Anglo-Saxon and Norman French and Scholar's Latin,
    welded into one speech more ample and more powerful and beautiful
    than either. The Utopian tongue might well present a more spacious
    coalescence, and hold in the frame of such an uninflected or
    slightly inflected idiom as English already presents, a profuse
    vocabulary into which have been cast a dozen once separate tongues,
    superposed and then welded together through bilingual and trilingual
    compromises. [Footnote: Vide an excellent article, La Langue
    Francaise en l'an 2003, par Leon Bollack, in La Revue, 15 Juillet,
    1903.] In the past ingenious men have speculated on the inquiry,
    "Which language will survive?" The question was badly put. I think
    now that this wedding and survival of several in a common offspring
    is a far more probable thing.


    Section 6.

    This talk of languages, however, is a digression. We were on our
    way along the faint path that runs round the rim of the Lake of
    Lucendro, and we were just upon the point of coming upon our first
    Utopian man. He was, I said, no Swiss. Yet he would have been a
    Swiss on mother Earth, and here he would have the same face, with
    some difference, maybe, in the expression; the same physique, though
    a little better developed, perhaps--the same complexion. He would
    have different habits, different traditions, different knowledge,
    different ideas, different clothing, and different appliances, but,
    except for all that, he would be the same man. We very distinctly
    provided at the outset that the modern Utopia must have people
    inherently the same as those in the world.

    There is more, perhaps, in that than appears at the first

    That proposition gives one characteristic difference between a
    modern Utopia and almost all its predecessors. It is to be a world
    Utopia, we have agreed, no less; and so we must needs face the fact
    that we are to have differences of race. Even the lower class of
    Plato's Republic was not specifically of different race. But this is
    a Utopia as wide as Christian charity, and white and black, brown,
    red and yellow, all tints of skin, all types of body and character,
    will be there. How we are to adjust their differences is a master
    question, and the matter is not even to be opened in this chapter.
    It will need a whole chapter even to glance at its issues. But here
    we underline that stipulation; every race of this planet earth is
    to be found in the strictest parallelism there, in numbers the
    same--only, as I say, with an entirely different set of traditions,
    ideals, ideas, and purposes, and so moving under those different
    skies to an altogether different destiny.

    There follows a curious development of this to anyone clearly
    impressed by the uniqueness and the unique significance of
    individualities. Races are no hard and fast things, no crowd of
    identically similar persons, but massed sub-races, and tribes
    and families, each after its kind unique, and these again are
    clusterings of still smaller uniques and so down to each several
    person. So that our first convention works out to this, that not
    only is every earthly mountain, river, plant, and beast in that
    parallel planet beyond Sirius also, but every man, woman, and child
    alive has a Utopian parallel. From now onward, of course, the fates
    of these two planets will diverge, men will die here whom wisdom
    will save there, and perhaps conversely here we shall save men;
    children will be born to them and not to us, to us and not to them,
    but this, this moment of reading, is the starting moment, and for
    the first and last occasion the populations of our planets are

    We must in these days make some such supposition. The alternative is
    a Utopia of dolls in the likeness of angels--imaginary laws to fit
    incredible people, an unattractive undertaking.

    For example, we must assume there is a man such as I might have
    been, better informed, better disciplined, better employed, thinner
    and more active--and I wonder what he is doing!--and you, Sir or
    Madam, are in duplicate also, and all the men and women that you
    know and I. I doubt if we shall meet our doubles, or if it would be
    pleasant for us to do so; but as we come down from these lonely
    mountains to the roads and houses and living places of the Utopian
    world-state, we shall certainly find, here and there, faces that
    will remind us singularly of those who have lived under our

    There are some you never wish to meet again, you say, and some, I
    gather, you do. "And One----!"

    It is strange, but this figure of the botanist will not keep in
    place. It sprang up between us, dear reader, as a passing
    illustrative invention. I do not know what put him into my head, and
    for the moment, it fell in with my humour for a space to foist the
    man's personality upon you as yours and call you scientific--that
    most abusive word. But here he is, indisputably, with me in Utopia,
    and lapsing from our high speculative theme into halting but
    intimate confidences. He declares he has not come to Utopia to meet
    again with his sorrows.

    What sorrows?

    I protest, even warmly, that neither he nor his sorrows were in my

    He is a man, I should think, of thirty-nine, a man whose life has
    been neither tragedy nor a joyous adventure, a man with one of
    those faces that have gained interest rather than force or nobility
    from their commerce with life. He is something refined, with
    some knowledge, perhaps, of the minor pains and all the civil
    self-controls; he has read more than he has suffered, and suffered
    rather than done. He regards me with his blue-grey eye, from which
    all interest in this Utopia has faded.

    "It is a trouble," he says, "that has come into my life only for a
    month or so--at least acutely again. I thought it was all over.
    There was someone----"

    It is an amazing story to hear upon a mountain crest in Utopia, this
    Hampstead affair, this story of a Frognal heart. "Frognal," he says,
    is the place where they met, and it summons to my memory the word
    on a board at the corner of a flint-dressed new road, an estate
    development road, with a vista of villas up a hill. He had known
    her before he got his professorship, and neither her "people" nor
    his--he speaks that detestable middle-class dialect in which aunts
    and things with money and the right of intervention are called
    "people"!--approved of the affair. "She was, I think, rather easily
    swayed," he says. "But that's not fair to her, perhaps. She thought
    too much of others. If they seemed distressed, or if they seemed to
    think a course right----" ...

    Have I come to Utopia to hear this sort of thing?


    Section 7.

    It is necessary to turn the botanist's thoughts into a worthier
    channel. It is necessary to override these modest regrets, this
    intrusive, petty love story. Does he realise this is indeed Utopia?
    Turn your mind, I insist, to this Utopia of mine, and leave these
    earthly troubles to their proper planet. Do you realise just where
    the propositions necessary to a modern Utopia are taking us?
    Everyone on earth will have to be here;--themselves, but with a
    difference. Somewhere here in this world is, for example, Mr.
    Chamberlain, and the King is here (no doubt incognito), and all the
    Royal Academy, and Sandow, and Mr. Arnold White.

    But these famous names do not appeal to him.

    My mind goes from this prominent and typical personage to that, and
    for a time I forget my companion. I am distracted by the curious
    side issues this general proposition trails after it. There will be
    so-and-so, and so-and-so. The name and figure of Mr. Roosevelt jerks
    into focus, and obliterates an attempt to acclimatise the Emperor of
    the Germans. What, for instance, will Utopia do with Mr. Roosevelt?
    There drifts across my inner vision the image of a strenuous
    struggle with Utopian constables, the voice that has thrilled
    terrestrial millions in eloquent protest. The writ of arrest,
    drifting loose in the conflict, comes to my feet; I impale the scrap
    of paper, and read--but can it be?--"attempted disorganisation? ...
    incitements to disarrange? ... the balance of population?"

    The trend of my logic for once has led us into a facetious alley.
    One might indeed keep in this key, and write an agreeable little
    Utopia, that like the holy families of the mediaeval artists (or
    Michael Angelo's Last Judgement) should compliment one's friends in
    various degrees. Or one might embark upon a speculative treatment of
    the entire Almanach de Gotha, something on the lines of Epistemon's
    vision of the damned great, when

    "Xerxes was a crier of mustard.
    Romulus was a salter and a patcher of patterns...."

    That incomparable catalogue! That incomparable catalogue! Inspired
    by the Muse of Parody, we might go on to the pages of "Who's Who,"
    and even, with an eye to the obdurate republic, to "Who's Who in
    America," and make the most delightful and extensive arrangements.
    Now where shall we put this most excellent man? And this? ...

    But, indeed, it is doubtful if we shall meet any of these doubles
    during our Utopian journey, or know them when we meet them. I doubt
    if anyone will be making the best of both these worlds. The great
    men in this still unexplored Utopia may be but village Hampdens in
    our own, and earthly goatherds and obscure illiterates sit here in
    the seats of the mighty.

    That again opens agreeable vistas left of us and right.

    But my botanist obtrudes his personality again. His thoughts have
    travelled by a different route.

    "I know," he says, "that she will be happier here, and that they
    will value her better than she has been valued upon earth."

    His interruption serves to turn me back from my momentary
    contemplation of those popular effigies inflated by old newspapers
    and windy report, the earthly great. He sets me thinking of more
    personal and intimate applications, of the human beings one knows
    with a certain approximation to real knowledge, of the actual common
    substance of life. He turns me to the thought of rivalries and
    tendernesses, of differences and disappointments. I am suddenly
    brought painfully against the things that might have been. What if
    instead of that Utopia of vacant ovals we meet relinquished loves
    here, and opportunities lost and faces as they might have looked to

    I turn to my botanist almost reprovingly. "You know, she won't be
    quite the same lady here that you knew in Frognal," I say, and wrest
    myself from a subject that is no longer agreeable by rising to my

    "And besides," I say, standing above him, "the chances against our
    meeting her are a million to one.... And we loiter! This is not the
    business we have come upon, but a mere incidental kink in our larger
    plan. The fact remains, these people we have come to see are people
    with like infirmities to our own--and only the conditions are
    changed. Let us pursue the tenour of our inquiry."

    With that I lead the way round the edge of the Lake of Lucendro
    towards our Utopian world.

    (You figure him doing it.)

    Down the mountain we shall go and down the passes, and as the
    valleys open the world will open, Utopia, where men and women are
    happy and laws are wise, and where all that is tangled and confused
    in human affairs has been unravelled and made right.
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