Erewhon Revisited

Here he resolved to pass the night. He chose a part where the trees were thickest, lit his fire, plucked and cleaned four quails, filled his billy with water from the stream hard by, made tea in his pannikin, grilled two of his birds on the embers, ate them, and when he had done all this, he lit his pipe and began to think things over. “So far so good,” said he to himself; but hardly had the words passed through his mind before he was startled by the sound of voices, still at some distance, but evidently drawing towards him.

He instantly gathered up his billy, pannikin, tea, biscuits, and blanket, all of which he had determined to discard and hide on the following morning; everything that could betray him he carried full haste into the wood some few yards off, in the direction opposite to that from which the voices were coming, but he let his quails lie where they were, and put his pipe and tobacco in his pocket.

The voices drew nearer and nearer, and it was all my father could do to get back and sit down innocently by his fire, before he could hear what was being said.

“Thank goodness,” said one of the speakers (of course in the Erewhonian language), “we seem to be finding somebody at last. I hope it is not some poacher; we had better be careful.”

“Nonsense!” said the other. “It must be one of the rangers. No one would dare to light a fire while poaching on the King’s preserves. What o’clock do you make it?”

Panky assented, but then, turning sharply to my father, he said, “My man, what are you doing in the forbidden dress? Why are you not in ranger’s uniform, and what is the meaning of all those quails?” For his seedling idea that my father was in reality a poacher was doing its best to grow.

Quick as thought my father answered, “The Head Ranger sent me a message this morning to deliver him three dozen quails at Sunchildston by tomorrow afternoon. As for the dress, we can run the quails down quicker in it, and he says nothing to us so long as we only wear out old clothes and put on our uniforms before we near the town. My uniform is in the ranger’s shelter an hour and a half higher up the valley.”

“See what comes,” said Panky, “of having a whippersnapper not yet twenty years old in the responsible post of Head Ranger. As for this fellow, he may be speaking the truth, but I distrust him.”

“The man is all right, Panky,” said Hanky, “and seems to be a decent fellow enough.” Then to my father, “How many brace have you got?” And he looked at them a little wistfully.

“I have been at it all day, sir, and I have only got eight brace. I must run down ten more brace tomorrow.”

There are many in Bridgeford who hate this story of the horses.”

The youth was now quite reassured. “So there are here, sir,” he said warmly, “and who hate the Sunchild too. If there is such a hell as he used to talk about to my mother, we doubt not but that he will be cast into its deepest fires. See how he has turned us all upside down. But we dare not say what we think. There is no courage left in Erewhon.”

Then waxing calmer he said, “It is you Bridgeford people and your Musical Banks that have done it all. The Musical Bank Managers saw that the people were falling away from them. Finding that the vulgar believed this foreign devil Higgs⁠—for he gave this name to my mother when he was in prison⁠—finding that⁠—But you know all this as well as I do. How can you Bridgeford Professors pretend to believe about these horses, and about the Sunchild’s being son to the sun, when all the time you know there is no truth in it?”

“My son⁠—for considering the difference in our ages I may be allowed to call you so⁠—we at Bridgeford are much like you at Sunch’ston; we dare not always say what we think. Nor would it be wise to do so, when we should not be listened to. This fire must burn itself out, for it has got such hold that nothing can either stay or turn it.

“Ts, ts, ts,” he said, when my father had enquired about terms and asked whether he might see the system at work. “How unfortunate that you should have called on a Saturday afternoon. We always have a half-holiday. But stay⁠—yes⁠—that will do very nicely; I will send for them into school as a means of stimulating their refractory system.”

He called his servant and told him to ring the boys into school. Then, turning to my father he said, “Stand here, sir, by the window; you will see them all come trooping in. H’m, h’m, I am sorry to see them still come back as soon as they hear the bell. I suppose I shall ding some recalcitrancy into them some day, but it is uphill work. Do you see the head-boy⁠—the third of those that are coming up the path? I shall have to get rid of him. Do you see him? he is going back to whip up the laggers⁠—and now he has boxed a boy’s ears: that boy is one of the most hopeful under my care. I feel sure he has been using improper language, and my head-boy has checked him instead of encouraging him.” And so on till the boys were all in school.

“You see, my dear sir,” he said to my father, “we are in an impossible position. We have to obey instructions from the Grand Council of Education at Bridgeford, and they have established these institutions in consequence of the Sunchild’s having said that we should aim at promoting the greatest happiness of the greatest number.

Here he again glared at my father, whose blood was boiling. George had not positively forbidden him to speak out; he therefore sprang to his feet, “You lying hound,” he cried, “I am the Sunchild, and you know it.”

George, who knew that he had my father in his own hands, made no attempt to stop him, and was delighted that he should have declared himself though he had felt it his duty to tell him not to do so. Yram turned pale. Hanky roared out, “Tear him in pieces⁠—leave not a single limb on his body. Take him out and burn him alive.” The vergers made a dash for him⁠—but George’s brothers seized them. The crowd seemed for a moment inclined to do as Hanky bade them, but Yram rose from her place, and held up her hand as one who claimed attention. She advanced towards George and my father as unconcernedly as though she were merely walking out of church, but she still held her hand uplifted. All eyes were turned on her, as well as on George and my father, and the icy calm of her self-possession chilled those who were inclined for the moment to take Hanky’s words literally. There was not a trace of fluster in her gait, action, or words, as she said⁠—

“My friends, this temple, and this day, must not be profaned with blood. My son will take this poor madman to the prison. Let him be judged and punished according to law. Make room, that he and my son may pass.”