domingo, 29 de enero de 2023

Tout va bien

 


Je n'étais pas sorti depuis le grand labour
J'attendais que les cris s'espacent et cessent enfin
Entre mourir de peur ou bien mourir de faim
J'ai pris tout mon courage et rampé vers le jour
Tu sais J'ai survécu dans un -endroit bizarre
Au fond d'une ambulance à moitié calcinée
Vivent parmi les morts et comme halluciné
Au coin de ce que fut notre gare Saint-Lazare
Je respire un grand coup et voilà que revient
Le soleil espéré et que cesse la bruine
Je trouve ce papier qui volait dans les ruines
Et j'écris cette lettre pour te dire Tout va bien

Tout va bien
Ici
Tout va bien
On sent
A des riens
Que la
Vie revient
Tout va bien
Mais oui
Tout va bien
Et le
Quotidien
Le dit
Le maintient
Tout va bien
Amour
Pour ton chien
Pour les
Parisiens
Pour mol
Et les tiens
Tout va bien
Crois-le
Tout va bien
Bonjour
Tout va bien
Je t'aime
Tout va bien

J'ai marché dans les rues ton ombre dans la mienne
Les vainqueurs distribuaient la soupe à l'Opéra
J'ai lapé dans le bol tendu par un para
Là où nous goûtions les tempêtes wagnériennes
On avait déblayé boulevard des Capucines
Vers l'Olympia en ruines j'ai vu quelques putains

C'est bon signe je crois lorsque le vieil instinct
Narguant les convenances remonte des racines
J'ai fait un grand détour pour ne pas rue Royale
Contempler le charnier où grouillent encore les rats
C'est là où fut dit-on abattu Jean Ferrat
Et le vent apportait des musiques martiales

Les vainqueurs défilaient commentés par Zitrone
Moi je ne disait rien les yeux sur la télé
Te mère se lamentait : ses opalines fêlées
Malgré l'ordre et la paix la faisaient rire jaune
Allez mon petit Jean votre quartier est triste
Et rempli de cadavres en décomposition
Restez donc à dîner Il y a une émission
Avec Mireille Mathieu je l'aime bien comme artiste
Mais puisque vous partez prenez garde aux patrouilles
Ils ont parqué les rouges au Palais des Congrès
Dans le Palais des Glaces les pédés sans regret
Et au Palais des Sports vos chers juifs ont la trouille

Pour revenir chez nous comment passer la Seine
Barbelés sur les ponts barbelés sur les quais
Près d'un cratère j'ai cru revoir le mastroquet
Où nous nous retrouvions en des heures moins malsaines
Ce bistrot déglingué c'était tout notre empire
Le futur y avait un visage précis
Naïfs que nous étions et aveuglés aussi
Qui nous Imaginions pouvoir prévoir le pire
Adieu notre jeunesse voilà le temps qui vient
Du bâillon des oeillères et de la pestilence
Le temps des ovations et celui des silences
Que l'on ne rompt que pour se redire:
Tout va bien

Tout va bien
Ici
Tout va bien
On sent
A des riens
Que la
Vie revient
Tout va bien
Mais oui
Tout va bien
Et le quotidien
Le dit
Le maintient
Tout va bien
Amour
Pour ton chien
Pour les
Parisiens
Pour moi
Et les tiens
Tout va bien
Crois-le
Tout va bien
Je t'aime
Tout va bien
Adieu
Tout va bien

Vivace mon amour on essaiera de l'être
Tu le seras aussi comme cette vie qui va
Comme l'est ce brin d'herbe cueilli dans les gravats
Que je glisse pour toi dans le pli de ma lettre
Jean Guidoni, "Tout va bien" (1968)

 

miércoles, 25 de enero de 2023

Chanson pour la fin du monde

 

 

Quand ils font de notre jeunesse
Un navire en plein naufrage
Sans radeau
Sans capitaine

Quand ils déchirent toutes les pages
Des chansons et des romans
Si victoire en est trop belle

Qaund ils achètent
Jusqu'aux planètes
Jusqu'aux amis !
Jusqu'aux amours !
Jusqu'aux poètes !

Quand ils s'acharnent sur nos guitares
Pour qu'elles ne veuillent
Jamais plus
Chanter sans voix

Quand ils feront de notre vie
D'une rose sans jardin
Un jardin sans hirondelles

Quand pour miеux tirer leurs canons
Dans les forêts, ils fеront couper
Jusqu'aux dernier chêne
Et quand l'ecorce, comme les biches
Seront offerts aux jeux stupides
Des gens riches

Quand ceux qui s'aiment
Comme l'ont s'aime
N'auront plus d'yeux
Pour se chercher entre les ruines

Quand ils auront fait de la Terre
Un immense terrain vague
Sans musique et sans poème

Quand les oiseaux devenus fous
Chercheront de l'eau partout
Pour y éteindre leurs ailes

Et quand Venise
Comme une femme
L'épée à mort
S'écroulera dans sa lagune

Et quand la Lune
Blanche grenade
Achévera les âmes entendre que nous fumes

Me diras-tu "mon pauvre amour"
Qu'ils faut toujours...
Leurs pardonner !


 

Nicole Louvier (1963)

La fin du monde (1872)

 


Et le monde finira par le feu.

 
De toutes les questions qui intéressent l’homme, il n’en est pas de plus digne de ses recherches que celle des destinées de la planète qu’il habite. La géologie et l’histoire nous ont appris bien des choses sur le passé de la Terre : nous savons au juste, à quelques millions de siècles près, l’âge de notre globe ; nous savons dans quel ordre les développements de la vie se sont progressivement manifestés et propagés à sa surface ; nous savons à quelle époque l’homme est venu enfin s’asseoir à ce banquet de la vie préparé pour lui, et dont il avait fallu plusieurs milliers d’années pour mettre le couvert. Nous savons tout cela, ou du moins nous croyons le savoir, ce qui revient exactement au même : mais si nous sommes fixés sur le passé, nous ne le sommes pas sur l’avenir. L’humanité n’en sait guère plus sur la durée probable de son existence, que chacun de nous n’en sait sur le nombre d’années qu’il lui reste à vivre:

La table est mise,
La chère exquise,
Que l’on se grise !
Trinquons, mes amis !

Fort bien : mais en sommes-nous au potage, ou au dessert ? Qui nous dit, hélas ! qu’on ne va pas servir le café tout à l’heure ? Nous allons, nous allons, insouciants de l’avenir du monde, sans jamais nous demander si par hasard cette barque frêle qui nous porte à travers l’océan de l’infini ne risque pas de chavirer tout à coup, ou si sa vieille coque, usée par le temps et détraquée par les agitations du voyage, n’a pas quelque voie d’eau par où la mort, goutte à goutte, s’infiltre dans cette carcasse, qui est la carcasse même de l’humanité, entendez-vous!

Le monde, c’est-à-dire pour nous le globe terrestre, n’a pas toujours existé. Il a commencé, donc il finira. Quand, voilà la question. Et tout d’abord demandons-nous si le monde peut finir par un accident, par une perturbation des lois actuelles.
Nous ne saurions l’admettre. Une telle hypothèse, en effet, serait en contradiction absolue avec l’opinion que nous entendons soutenir dans ce travail. Il est dès-lors bien clair que nous ne pouvons l’adopter.Toute discussion serait en effet impossible si l’on admettait l’opinion qu’on s’est proposé de combattre. Ainsi voilà un premier point parfaitement établi : la Terre ne sera pas détruite par accident ; elle finira par suite de l’action même des lois de sa vie actuelle: elle mourra, comme on dit, de sa belle mort.
Mais mourra-t-elle de vieillesse ? Mourra-t-elle de maladie ?
Je n’hésite pas à répondre : Non, elle ne mourra pas de vieillesse ; oui, elle mourra de maladie. Par suite d’excès.
J’ai dit que la Terre finira par suite de l’action même des lois de sa vie actuelle. Il s’agit maintenant de rechercher quel est, de tous ces agents fonctionnant pour l’entretien de la vie du globe terraqué, celui qui est appelé à la détruire un jour. Je le dis sans hésiter : cet agent, c’est celui-là même auquel la Terre a dû primitivement son existence : c’est la chaleur. La chaleur boira la mer ; la chaleur mangera la Terre : et voici comment cela arrivera.
Un jour, regardant fonctionner des locomotives, l’illustre Stephenson demandait à un grand chimiste anglais quelle était la force qui faisait mouvoir ces machines. Le chimiste répondit : « C’est le soleil. »
Et en effet toute la chaleur que nous mettons en liberté lorsque nous brûlons des combustibles végétaux, bois ou charbon, a été emmagasinée là par le soleil : un morceau de bois, un morceau de charbon, n’est donc, au pied de la lettre, autre chose qu’une conserve de rayons solaires. Plus la vie végétale se développe et plus il y accumulation de ces conserves. Si on en brûle beaucoup et qu’on en crée beaucoup, c’est-à-dire si la culture et l’industrie se développent, l’emmagasinement, d’une part, la mise en liberté, de l’autre, des rayons du soleil absorbés par la Terre, iront sans cesse en augmentant, et la Terre devra s’échauffer d’une manière continue. Que sera-ce si la population animale, si l’espèce humaine à son tour, suivent le même progrès?
Que sera-ce si des transformations considérables, nées du développement même de la vie animale à la surface du globe, viennent modifier la structure des terrains, déplacer le bassin des mers, et rassembler l’humanité sur des continents à la fois plus fertiles et plus perméables à la chaleur solaire ?
Or c’est précisément ce qui va arriver.

Lorsqu’on compare le monde à ce qu’il était autrefois, on est tout de suite frappé d’un fait qui saute au yeux : ce fait, c’est le développement de la vie organique sur le globe. Depuis les sommets les plus élevés des montagnes jusqu’aux gouffres les plus profonds de la mer, des millions de milliards d’animalcules, d’animaux, de cryptogames ou de plantes supérieures, travaillent jour et nuit, depuis des siècles, comme ont travaillé ces foraminifères qui ont bâti la moitié de nos continents.

Ce travail allait assez vite déjà avant l’époque où l’homme apparut sur la Terre ; mais depuis l’apparition de l’homme il s’est développé avec une rapidité qui va tous les jours s’accélérant. Tant que l’humanité est restée parquée sur deux ou trois points de l’Asie, de l’Europe et de l’Afrique, on n’y a pas pris garde, parce que, sauf ces quelques foyers de concentration, la vie générale était encore à l’aise pour déverser sur les espaces libres le trop-plein accumulé sur certains points de la terre civilisée : c’est ainsi que la colonisation a peuplé de proche en proche des contrées jusqu’alors inhabitée et vierges de toute culture. Alors a commencé la première phase du progrès de la vie par l’action humaine : la phase agricole.
On a marché dans ce sens pendant six siècles environ. Mais on a découvert les grands gisements de houille, et presque en même temps la chimie et la vapeur : la Terre est entrée alors dans la phase industrielle, qui ne fait que commencer puisqu’elle n’a guère plus de soixante ans. Mais où ce mouvement nous mène, et de quel train nous y arriverons, c’est ce qu’il est facile de présumer d’après ce qui se passe déjà sous nos yeux. Il est évident, pour qui sait voir les choses, que depuis un demi-siècle, tout, bêtes et gens, tend à se multiplier, à foisonner, à pulluler dans une proportion vraiment inquiétante. On mange davantage, on boit davantage, on élève des vers à soie, on nourrit des volailles et on engraisse des bœufs.
En même temps on plante de tous les côtés ; on défriche, on invente des assolements fécondants et des cultures intensives : on compose des engrais artificiels qui doublent le rendement des terres ; on ne se contente pas de ce que produit la terre, et on sème à pleines mains, dans nos rivières, des saumons à cinq francs la dalle, et dans nos golfes, des huîtres à vingt-quatre sous la douzaine. Pendant ce temps, on fait fermenter d’énormes quantités de vin, de bières, de cidre ; on distille de véritables fleuves d’eau-de-vie, et puis on brûle des millions de tonnes de houille, sans compter qu’on perfectionne incessamment les appareils de chauffage, qu’on calfeutre de plus en plus les maisons, et qu’enfin on fabrique tous les jours à meilleur marché les étoffes de laine et de coton dont l’homme se sert pour se tenir au chaud.
À ce tableau déjà suffisamment sombre il convient d’ajouter les développements insensés de l’instruction publique, qu’on peut considérer comme une source de lumière et de chaleur, car si elle n’en dégage par elle-même, elle en multiplie la production en donnant à l’homme les moyens de perfectionner et d’étendre son action sur la nature.
Voilà où nous en sommes ; voilà où nous a conduits un seul demi-siècle d’industrialisme : évidemment il y a dans tout cela des symptômes manifestes d’une exubérance prochaine, et on peut dire qu’avant cent ans d’ici la Terre prendra du ventre. Alors commencera la redoutable période où l’excès de la production amènera l’excès de la consommation, L’EXCÈS DE LA CONSOMMATION L’EXCÈS DE CHALEUR, ET L’EXCÈS DE CHALEUR LA COMBUSTION SPONTANÉE DE LA TERRE ET DE TOUS SES HABITANTS.

Il n’est pas difficile de prévoir la série des phénomènes qui conduiront le globe, de degrés en degrés, à cette catastrophe finale. Quelque navrant que puisse être le tableau de ces phénomènes, je n’hésiterai pas à le tracer, parce que la prévision de ces faits, en éclairant les générations futures sur le danger des excès de la civilisation, leur servira peut-être à modérer l’abus de la vie et à reculer de quelques milliers d’années, ou tout au moins de quelques mois, la fatale échéance.
Voici donc ce qui va se passer.
Pendant une dizaine de siècles, tout ira de mieux en mieux. L’industrie surtout marchera à pas de géant. On commencera d’abord par épuiser tous les gisements de houille ; puis toutes les sources de pétrole ; puis on abattra toutes les forêts ; puis on brûlera directement l’oxygène de l’air et l’hydrogène de l’eau. A ce moment-là il y aura sur la surface du globe environ un milliard de machines à vapeur de mille chevaux en moyenne, soit mille milliard de chevaux-vapeur fonctionnant nuit et jour.
Tout travail physique est fait par des machines ou par des animaux : l’homme ne le connaît plus que sous la forme d’une gymnastique savante, pratiquée uniquement comme hygiène. Mais tandis que ses machines lui vomissent incessamment des torrents de produits manufacturés, de ses usines agricoles sort à flots pressés une foule de plus en plus compacte de moutons, de poulets, de bœufs, de dindons, de porcs, de canards, de veaux et d’oies, tout cela crevant de graisse, bêlant, gloussant, mugissant, glougloutant, grognant, nasillant, beuglant, sifflant, et demandant à grands cris des consommateurs!
Or, sous l’influence d’une alimentation de plus en plus abondante, de plus en plus succulente, la fécondité des races humaines et des races animales va de jour en jour en s’accroissant. Les maisons s’élèvent étage par étage ; on supprime d’abord les jardins, puis les cours. Les villes, puis les villages, commencent à projeter peu à peu des lignes de faubourgs dans toutes les directions ; bientôt des lignes transversales réunissent ces rayons.
Le mouvement progresse ; les villes voisines viennent à se toucher. Paris annexe Saint-Germain, Versailles, puis Beauvais, puis Châlons, puis Orléans, puis Tours ; Marseille annexe Toulon, Draguignan, Nice, Carpentras, Nîmes, Montpellier ; Bordeaux, Lyon et Lille se partagent le reste, et Paris finit par annexer Marseille, Lyon, Lille et Bordeaux. Et de même dans toute l’Europe, de même dans les quatre autres parties du monde.
Mais en même temps s’accroît la population animale. Toutes les espèces inutiles ont disparu : il ne reste plus que des bœufs, des moutons, des chevaux et de la volaille. Or, pour nourrir tout cela il faut des espaces libres à cultiver, et la place commence à manquer.
On réserve alors quelques terrains pour la culture, on y entasse des engrais, et là, couchées au milieu d’herbages de six pieds de hauteur, on voit se rouler des race inouïes de moutons et de bœufs sans cornes, sans poil, sans queue, sans pattes, sans os, et réduits par l’art des éleveurs à n’être plus qu’un monstrueux beefsteak alimenté par quatre estomacs insatiables !
Pendant ce temps, dans l’hémisphère austral, une révolution formidable va s’accomplir. Que dis-je? A peine cinquante mille ans se sont écoulés, et la voilà faite. Les polypiers ont réuni ensemble tous les continents et toutes les îles de l’Océan Pacifique et des mers du Sud : l’Amérique, l’Europe, l’Afrique, ont disparu sous les eaux de l’océan ; il n’en reste plus que quelques îles formées des derniers sommets des Alpes, des Pyrénées, des buttes Montmartre, des Carpathes, de l’Atlas, des Cordillères ; l’humanité, reculant peu à peu devant la mer, s’est répandue sur les plaines incommensurables que l’océan a abandonnées. Elle y a apporté sa civilisation foudroyante ; déjà, comme sur les anciens continents, l’espace commence à lui manquer.

La voilà dans ses derniers retranchements : c’est là qu’elle va lutter contre l’envahissement de la vie animale.
C’est là qu’elle va périr !
Elle est sur un terrain calcaire ; elle fait passer incessamment à l’état de chaux une masse énorme de matières animalisées ; cette masse, exposée aux rayons d’un soleil torride, emmagasine incessamment de nouvelles unités de chaleur, pendant que le fonctionnement des machines, la combustion des foyers et le développement de la chaleur animale, élèvent incessamment la température ambiante. Et pendant ce temps la production animale continue à s’accroître ; et il arrive un moment où l’équilibre étant rompu, il devient manifeste que la production va déborder la consommation.
Alors commence à se former, sur l’écorce du globe, d’abord presque une pellicule, puis une couche appréciable de détritus irréductibles : la Terre est saturée de vie. La fermentation commence. Le thermomètre monte, la baromètre descend, l’hygromètre marche vers zéro. Les fleurs se fanent, les feuilles jaunissent, les parchemins se recroquevillent : tout sèche et devient cassant.
Les animaux diminuent par l’effet de la chaleur et de l’évaporation. L’homme à son tour maigrit et se dessèche ; tous les tempéraments se fondent en un seul, le bilieux ; et le dernier des lymphatiques offre avec larmes sa fille et cent millions de dot au dernier des scrofuleux, qui n’a pas un sou de fortune, et qui refuse par orgueil !
La chaleur augmente et les sources tarissent. Les porteurs d’eau s’élèvent par degrés au rang de capitalistes, puis de millionnaires, si bien que la charge de Grand Porteur d’Eau du prince finit par devenir une des premières dignités de l’État. Toutes les bassesses, toutes les infamies qu’on voit faire aujourd’hui pour une pièce d’or, on les fait pour un verre d’eau, et l’Amour lui-même, abandonnant son carquois et ses flèches, les remplace par une carafe frappée.
Dans cette atmosphère torride, un morceau de glace se paye par vingt fois son poids de diamants ! L’empereur d’Australie, dans un accès d’aliénation mentale, se fait faire un tutti frutti qui lui coûte une année de sa liste civile! ! ! Un savant fait une fortune colossal en obtenant un hectolitre d’eau fraîche à 45 degrés ! ! ! !
Les ruisseaux se dessèchent ; les écrevisses, se bousculant tumultueusement pour courir après ces filets d’eau tiède qui les abandonnent, changent, chemin faisant, de couleur, et tournent à l’écarlate. Les poissons, le cœur affadi et la vessie natatoire distendue, se laissent aller vers les fleuves, le ventre en l’air et la nageoire inerte.
Et l’espèce humaine commence à s’affoler visiblement. Des passions étranges, des colères inouïes, des amours foudroyantes, des plaisirs insensés, font de la vie une série de détonations furieuses, ou plutôt une explosion continue, qui commence à la naissance et qui ne finit qu’à la mort. Dans ce monde torréfié par une combustion implacable, tout est roussi, craquelé, grillé, rôti, et après l’eau, qui s’évapore, on sent diminuer l’air, qui se raréfie. Effroyable calamité ! les rivières à leur tour et les fleuves ont disparu : les mers commencent à tiédir, puis à s’échauffer : les voilà qui déjà mijotent comme sur un feux doux.
D’abord les petits poissons, asphyxiés, montrent leur ventre à la surface ; viennent ensuite les algues, que la chaleur a détachées du fond ; enfin s’élèvent, cuits au bleu et rendant leur graisse par larges taches, les Requins, les Baleines, et la Pieuvre énorme, et le Kraken cru fabuleux, et le Serpent de mer trop contesté ; et de ces graisses, de ces herbes et de ces poissons cuits ensemble, l’océan qui fume fait une incommensurable bouillabaisse. Une écœurante odeur de cuisine se répand sur toute la terre habitée ; elle y règne un siècle à peine : l’océan s’évapore et ne laisse plus de son existence d’autre trace que des arêtes de poissons éparses sur des plaines désertes…..
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
La fin commence.
Sous la triple influence de la chaleur, de l’asphyxie et de la dessiccation, l’espèce humaine s’anéantit peu à peu : l’homme s’effrite, s’écaille, et au moindre choc tombe par morceaux. Il ne lui reste plus, pour remplacer les légumes, que quelques plantes métalliques qu’il parvient à faire pousser à force de les arroser de vitriol ! Pour étancher la soif qui le dévore, pour ranimer son système nerveux calciné, pour liquéfier son albumine qui se coagule, il n’a plus d’autres liquides que l’acide sulfurique ou l’eau forte.
Vains efforts.
À chaque souffle de vent qui vient agiter cette atmosphère anhydre, des milliers de créatures humaines sont desséchées instantanément ; et le cavalier sur son cheval, l’avocat à la barre, le juge sur son siège, l’acrobate sur sa corde, l’ouvrière à sa fenêtre, le roi sur son trône, s’arrêtent momifiés!

Et alors vient le dernier jour.
Ils ne sont plus que trente-sept, errants comme des spectres d’amadou au milieu d’une population effroyable de momies qui les regardent avec des yeux semblables à des raisins de Corinthe.
Et ils se prennent les mains, et ils commencent une ronde furieuse, et à chaque tour un des danseurs trébuche et tombe mort avec un bruit sec. Et le trente-sixième tour fini, le survivant demeure seul en face de ce monceau misérable où sont rassemblés les derniers débris de la race humaine!
Il jette un dernier regard sur la Terre ; il lui dit adieu au nom de nous tous, et de ses pauvres yeux brûlés tombe une larme, la dernière larme de l’humanité. Il la recueille dans sa main, il la boit, et il meurt en regardant le ciel.

Pouff ! ! ! !
Une petite flamme bleuâtre s’élève en tremblotant ; puis deux, puis trois, puis mille. Le globe entier s’embrase, brûle un instant, s’éteint.
Tout est fini : la Terre est morte..
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Morne et glacée, elle roule tristement dans les déserts silencieux de l’infini; et de tant de beauté, de tant de gloire, de tant de joies, de tant de larmes, de tant d’amours, il ne reste plus qu’une petite pierre calcinée, errant misérable à travers les sphères lumineuses des mondes nouveaux.

Adieu, Terre ! Adieu, souvenirs touchants de nos histoires, de notre génie, de nos douleurs et de nos amours ! Adieu, Nature, toi dont la majesté douce et sereine nous consolait si bien de nos souffrances ! Adieu, bois frais et sombres, où pendant les belles nuits d’été, à la lumière argentée de la lune, on entendait chanter le rossignol ! Adieu, créatures terribles et charmantes qui meniez le monde avec une larme ou un sourire, et que nous appelions de noms si doux ! Ah ! puisqu’il ne reste plus rien de vous, tout est bien fini: LA TERRE EST MORTE.

Eugène Mouton, "La fin du monde", Nouvelles et fantaisies humoristiques, Paris, Librairie générale, 1872.

 

jueves, 19 de enero de 2023

Shall We Commit Suicide?


 

" The story of the human race is War. Except for brief and precarious interludes, there has never been peace in the world; and before history began, murderous strife was universal and unending. But up to the present time the means of destruction at the disposal of man have not kept pace with his ferocity. Reciprocal extermination was impossible in the Stone Age. One cannot do much with a clumsy club. Besides, men were so scarce and hid so well that they were hard to find. They fled so fast that they were hard to catch. Human legs could only cover a certain distance each day. With the best will in the world to destroy his species, each man was restricted to a very limited area of activity. It was impossible to make any effective progress on these lines. Meanwhile one had to live and hunt and sleep. So on the balance the life-forces kept a steady lead over the forces of death, and gradually tribes, villages, and governments were evolved. 

The effort at destruction then entered upon a new phase. War became a collective enterprise. Roads were made which facilitated the movement of large numbers of men. Armies were organized. Many improvements in the apparatus of slaughter were devised. In particular the use of metal, and above all steel, for piercing and cutting human flesh, opened out a promising field. Bows and arrows, slings, chariots, horses, and elephants lent valuable assistance. But here again another set of checks began to operate. The governments were not sufficiently secure. The armies were liable to violent internal disagreements. It was extremely difficult to feed large numbers of men once they were concentrated, and consequently the efficiency of the efforts at destruction became fitful and was tremendously hampered by defective organization. Thus again there was a balance on the credit side of life. The world rolled forward, and human society entered upon a vaster and more complex age. 

It was not until the dawn of the twentieth century of the Christian era that War really began to enter into its kingdom as the potential destroyer of the human race. The organization of mankind into great States and Empires and the rise of nations to full collective consciousness enabled enterprises of slaughter to be planned and executed upon a scale and with a perseverance never before imagined. All the noblest virtues of individuals were gathered together to strengthen the destructive capacity of the mass. Good finances, the resources of world-wide credit and trade, the accumulation of large capital reserves, made it possible to divert for considerable periods the energies of whole peoples to the task of Devastation. Democratic institutions gave expression to the willpower of millions. Education not only brought the course of the conflict within the comprehension of everyone, but rendered each person serviceable in a high degree for the purpose in hand. The Press afforded a means of unification and of mutual encouragement; Religion, having discreetly avoided conflict on the fundamental issues, offered its encouragements and consolations, through all its forms, impartially to all the combatants. Lastly, Science unfolded her treasures and her secrets to the desperate demands of men, and placed in their hands agencies and apparatus almost decisive in their character.

 In consequence many novel features presented themselves. Instead of merely starving fortified towns, whole nations were methodically subjected to the process of reduction by famine. The entire population in one capacity or another took part in the War; all were equally the object of attack. The Air opened paths along which death and terror could be carried far behind the lines of the actual armies, to women, children, the aged, the sick, who in earlier struggles would perforce have been left untouched. Marvellous organizations of railroads, steamships, and motor vehicles placed and maintained tens of millions of men continuously in action. Healing and surgery in their exquisite developments returned them again and again to the shambles. Nothing was wasted that could contribute to the process of waste. The last dying kick was brought into military utility. 

But all that happened in the four years of the Great War was only a prelude to what was preparing for the fifth year. The campaign of the year 1919 would have witnessed an immense accession to the power of destruction. Had the Germans retained the morale to make good their retreat to the Rhine, they would have been assaulted in the summer of 1919 with forces and by methods incomparably more prodigious than any yet employed. Thousands of aeroplanes would have shattered their cities. Scores of thousands of cannon would have blasted their front. Arrangements were being made to carry simultaneously a quarter of a million men, together with all their requirements, continuously forward across country in mechanical vehicles moving ten or fifteen miles each day. Poison gases of incredible malignity, against which only a secret mask (which the Germans could not obtain in time) was proof, would have stifled all resistance and paralysed all life on the hostile front subjected to attack. No doubt the Germans too had their plans. But the hour of wrath had passed. (...) The campaign of 1919 was never fought; but its ideas go marching along. In every Army they are being explored, elaborated, refined under the surface of peace, and should war come again to the world it is not with the weapons and agencies prepared for 1919 that it will be fought, but with developments and extensions of these which will be incomparably more formidable and fatal. 

It is in these circumstances that we have entered upon that period of Exhaustion which has been described as Peace. It gives us at any rate an opportunity to consider the general situation. Certain sombre facts emerge solid, inexorable, like the shapes of mountains from drifting mist. It is established that henceforward whole populations will take part in war, all doing their utmost, all subjected to the fury of the enemy. It is established that nations who believe their life is at stake will not be restrained from using any means to secure their existence. It is probable — nay, certain — that among the means which will next time be at their disposal will be agencies and processes of destruction wholesale, unlimited, and perhaps, once launched, uncontrollable. Mankind has never been in this position before. Without having improved appreciably in virtue or enjoying wiser guidance, it has got into its hands for the first time the tools by which it can unfailingly accomplish its own extermination. That is the point in human destinies to which all the glories and toils of men have at last led them. They would do well to pause and ponder upon their new responsibilities. Death stands at attention, obedient, expectant, ready to serve, ready to shear away the peoples en masse; ready, if called on, to pulverize, without hope of repair, what is left of civilization. He awaits only the word of command. He awaits it from a frail, bewildered being, long his victim, now — for one occasion only — his Master. 

(...)  May there not be methods of using explosive energy incomparably more intense than anything heretofore discovered? Might not a bomb no bigger than an orange be found to possess a secret power to destroy a whole block of buildings — nay, to concentrate the force of a thousand tons of cordite and blast a township at a stroke? Could not explosives even of the existing type be guided automatically in flying machines by wireless or other rays, without a human pilot, in ceaseless procession upon a hostile city, arsenal, camp, or dockyard? As for Poison Gas and Chemical Warfare in all its forms, only the first chapter has been written of a terrible book. Certainly every one of these new avenues to destruction is being studied on both sides of the Rhine, with all the science and patience of which man is capable. And why should it be supposed that these resources will be limited to Inorganic Chemistry? A study of Disease — of Pestilences methodically prepared and deliberately launched upon man and beast — is certainly being pursued in the laboratories of more than one great country. Blight to destroy crops. Anthrax to slay horses and cattle. Plague to poison not armies only but whole districts — such are the lines along which military science is remorselessly advancing. It is evident that, whereas an equally-contested war under such conditions might work the ruin of the world and cause an immeasurable diminution of the human race, the possession by one side of some overwhelming scientific advantage would lead to the complete enslavement of the unwary party. Not only are the powers now in the hands of man capable of destroying the life of nations, but for the first time they afford to one group of civilized men the opportunity of reducing their opponents to absolute helplessness.

(...) All the hideousness of the Explosive era will continue; and to it will surely be added the gruesome complications of Poison and of Pestilence scientifically applied. Such, then, is the peril with which mankind menaces itself: means of destruction incalculable in their effects, wholesale and frightful in their character, and unrelated to any form of human merit; the march of Science unfolding ever more appalling possibilities; and the fires of hatred burning deep in the hearts of some of the greatest peoples of the world, fanned by continual provocation and unceasing fear, and fed by the deepest sense of national wrong or national danger! On the other hand, there is the blessed respite of Exhaustion, offering to the nations a final chance to control their destinies and avert what may well be a general doom. Surely if a sense of selfpreservation still exists among men, if the will to live resides not merely in individuals or nations but in humanity as a whole, the prevention of the supreme catastrophe ought to be the paramount object of all endeavour (...) of all who wish to spare their children torments and disasters compared with which those we have suffered will be but a pale preliminar"

 

Winston Churchill, Shall We Commit Suicide? (1924)

martes, 17 de enero de 2023

How Will The World End?

 


MANY of us are apt, not without some reason, to regard the world we live in as the centre of the universe, and to look upon the sun, the moon, and the stars as objects placed in the heavens for the special benefit of the human race. That the earth is but a minute object in the Cosmos; that it forms one of a number of bodies, many of them larger than itself, revolving around their central luminary, the sun; that there exist in the realms of space myriads of similar suns, centres themselves of other solar systems; that millions of planets, which we cannot see, are inhabited with races of intelligent beings -- these are facts of which almost everybody must cognisant, but on which few bestow much time or thought.

Astronomy teaches that, just as our solar system had a beginning, so it must have an end, and that, as at one time life was impossible upon the earth, so there will come a time when man will no longer be able to exist.

Science, cold and calculating, has foretold the physical end of the world -- has prophesied the destruction of the globe and all its contents.

Birth, life, death -- it has been well been said --appear to be the rule of the universe at large, as well as in our own little corner of it. Suns and planets are evolved, they flourish, and at length decay; and new suns and systems will arise to take their places.

The "End of the World" may be taken in two different senses, as meaning either the annihilation of our planet by sudden catastrophe, or by gradual decay, or else the disappearance of human life from the face of the globe, owing to some state of circumstances, possible, at any rate, if not probable.

It is our purpose in this article briefly to consider some of the opinions held by men of learning and repute regarding the end of the world, and to emphasise the lesson taught by Nature that the individual counts for nothing in the history of the race, the race for nothing in the life of the planet, and the planet for nothing in the duration of the Universe.

Very many derive their inspiration on this absorbing subject from the Bible, where we read: "The day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night; in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heal, the earth also, and the works that are therein, shall be burned up."

Every child knows that water was the agency of destruction in the ancient world, and that the rainbow was placed in the sky as a token that life should never be destroyed by this cause again. All through the Bible we may trace the prophecy that the world would come to an end by being consumed with fire.

It is out of our province here to touch on the signs given in the Bible whereby the arrival of the last day may be predicted. Certain preachers have brought great ridicule on themselves by their very certain statements on this point, but they seem little abashed when their prophecies do not come true, and merely alter dates and times to suit the next occasion.

Many readers will call to mind a rhyme which at the time terrorised the minds of hundreds of thousands of young and ignorant people --

"The world unto an end shall come
In Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-One."
The date has been often changed and will (it may safely be said) continue to be changed for the benefit of future generations. It is curious to notice that hardly two philosophers agree as to the manner in which the end of the world may be expected to arrive. Some put their faith in a celestial catastrophe so terrible as literally to wipe our earth out of existence, while others prefer to believe that though man may no longer be able to exist, the world will still continue its appointed motions.

Lord Kelvin startled us not long ago by affirming that there was only oxygen in the atmosphere sufficient to last mankind for some 300 years, and that the world was doomed to die of suffocation. Everyone knows that in an atmosphere devoid of oxygen no animal being can live for long. Put a mouse under an air-tight glass containing some burning substance that exhausts the oxygen, and it will be speedily suffocated. Thus will it be (so says Lord Kelvin) with man, who is himself lighting the fires for the suffocation of his progeny.

On an average it requires three tons of oxygen to consume one ton of fuel, and the oxygen that exists in our atmosphere is practically all the supply available for the purpose. As shown by the barometer the average weight of the air is 14.9 pounds to the square inch, which gives a total weight for the earth of 1,020,000,000,000 tons of oxygen. At the rate of three tons of oxygen to one ton of fuel, the weight of fuel which can be consumed by this oxygen is 340,000,000,000 tons.

Now to see how the oxygen can keep pace with the fuel. The whole world consumes about 600,000,000 tons of coal a year, and to this must be added the consumption of oxygen by wood and other vegetable substances which raises the equivalent coal consumption of the world to not less than 1,000,000,000 tons a year.

Thus, even at the present rate of fuel consumption there is only oxygen to last 340 years, and long before this time the atmosphere would have become so vitiated with carbonic acid gas, and so weakened in oxygen, that either we should have to emigrate to some other sphere, or else give up the habit of breathing altogether.

Following in Lord Kelvin's footsteps, Professor Rees, a prominent American scientist, has been going further into the question of the exhaustion of the air supply of the world. He gives definite warning of the coming "failure" of the air.

"'Free as the air we breathe,'" he writes, will, in the distant future, become an out-of-date, misleading expression. Air will no longer be free, for it will be manufactured and sold like any other necessary. Those who will not work for their daily air supply, and who cannot afford to buy it, will perish, for Nature will have exhausted her supply. The artificial air will be stored up in enormous reservoirs, and to these receptacles applicants will come for their daily supply of oxygen. This will then be carried home and doled out to the family as part of the day's means to support life. The manufactured oxygen will be breathed in as a diver inhales the air supplied him when he sinks beneath the waves.

"'Died from air starvation' will be a connmon verdict in the coroners' courts of the future, for 'no money, no air,' will be the rule of life. The wealthy will gain a reputation for charity by free gifts of air to the aged poor at Christmas time. Men and women will no longer be able to look at each other with eyes of love, for everyone will be clothed in a great air helmet, like a diver of to-day."

There is, however, a silver lining of hope fringing these gloomy clouds of speculation. Lord Kelvin himself is not wholly a prophet of evil, neither are his views of an entirely pessimistic nature. He looks to the agriculturist to improve his methods, so that the plant life on the globe may be able to absorb the surplus carbonic acid gas and to release sufficient new oxygen to cope with the growing consumption of fuel.

Those sources of Nature at present allowed (except in a few instances) to run to waste -- the tides, the ceaseless movement of the waves, waterfalls, solar energy, the wind, the ether, atmospheric electricity -- all these in times to come will be made to supply the energy that we require for daily needs. If this be the case, we shall not die of suffocation after all.

But though we may escape suffocation, there is yet the chance that some day there will be no air for poor humanity to breathe. Mr. Nikola Tesla, of world-wide fame, announces that if we are not cautious we may set light to the atmosphere with our electric discharges of a "few million volts."

He suggests that "periodical cessations of organic life on the globe " might have been caused through the ignition of the air by flashes of lightning. Electricity is, indeed, a mysterious force, and Mr. Tesla's warning certainly appeals to the imagination. It would be interesting to know if the distinguished American electrician has a remedy to propose.

Mr. H. G. Wells has drawn in his romance, "The Time Machine," a strangely impressive picture of the end of the world as he conceives it. The last man, according to his conception, freezes to death, and life becomes unsupportable on our planet, not because of great heat, but rather from intense cold.

Mr. Wells has the testimony of science on his side. and has indeed based his assumptions on the learned treatises of Professor J.H. Darwin.

By dint of laborious calculation it has been shown that the sun's heat is by slow degrees becoming less and less, and that some day, long years hence, the sun will no longer give out the warmth necessary for human existence. Mounting his "time machine," Mr. Wells plunges off into the future, and, when he has journeyed millions of years hence, he finds a slowly freezing world in which man and beast fail to find the means of subduing the pangs of hunger or of protecting themselves from the cold. The sun hangs in a grey sky -- a pale, weird, ash-coloured ball, incapable of supplying light and warmth.

Loathsome animals of huge size, brought into existence by the altered condition of affairs, creep over the masses of ice and crawl over the frozen seas and lakes. Little by little all trace of vegetation disappears -- a steady snowstorm settles down over the earth, and our planet revolves in space for a short time only to fall a frozen mass into the bosom of the dying sun.

That the solar temperature is declining is, I think, universally conceded by astronomers, who also admit the steady contraction of our great luminary. The sun is now apparently contracting at the rate of 220 feet per annum, and if we look forward through a vista of many thousands of years we see the sun ever diminishing in dimensions. There is, however no cause for immediate alarm, and millions of years must elapse before our sun will have vanished from the heavens.

Looking back at the past history of the earth the astronomer pictures a time when the earth was a sun. Coming down the ages he shows us a globe whose condition resembles that of Jupiter and Saturn, planets at the present time with dense atmospheres still loaded with the waters which are to form their future oceans. Peering into the future he recognises in the moon's actual condition a stage through which our planet will assuredly have to pass.

The earth's inherent heat must pass away, the life on her surface slowly disappear, until she becomes made up, as we believe the moon to be, of desert continents and frost bound oceans, lifeless as at the beginning of her history, but no longer -- as Mr. Proctor put it -- "possessing that potentiality of life which existed in her substance before life appeared upon her surface. Long as has been, and doubtless will be, the duration of life upon the earth, it seems less than a second of time compared with those two awful time-intervals, one past, when as yet life had not begun; the other still to come, when all life shall have passed away."

There are writers who combat the theory that all orbs in space tend towards death and declare that this seeming tendency will be counterbalanced by some restorative forces.

Scientific men, however, reply that they are at present unaware of any such forces, and that in the light of their present knowledge every sun and every planet must be slowly yet surely wasting away.

Reference has been made to the possible annihilation of our planet by some dire catastrophe. One of the supporters of this theory is Professor Falb, a well-known astronomer, who prophesied the destruction of the world on November 13th, 1899, through collision with a comet known as Biela's. On the 29th of October, 1899, came a telegram from Santiago, Chili, announcing that Biela's comet had been observed from there and was visible to the naked eye. This announcement following on Prof. Falb's prophecy actually caused no little dismay among the poorer classes of the Continental peasantry, though in England and America little alarm was felt. Needless to state, the 13th of November came and went without the occurrence of any untoward event.

This is not the first time that this particular comet has been credited with being the instrument by which the Creator was to bring to a conclusion the existence of mankind on earth.

Between 1828 and 1832 it was generally prophesied that Biela's comet would come into collision with the earth during the latter year (the year of its first return after discovery), and there is reason to believe that a good deal of alarm was caused by such assertions.

The history of this comet may be told in a few words. On February 27th, 1826, M. Biela, in Bohemia, discovered a faint comet whose orbit -- or path round the sun -- was traversed, he calculated, in about six and three-quarter years. It was found that in 1832 this comet would pass within 20,000 miles of the earth's orbit; but, as the earth would not reach that particular point till one month after the comet had passed it, no danger to the world need have been apprehended. The assurances of the astronomer failed, however, to satisfy the minds of many ignorant and unscientific persons who pretended to be greatly alarmed at the imminent destruction of our planet.

Astronomers predicted that Biela's comet would be visible at intervals of six and three-quarter years. It returned regularly up to 1846, when it appeared divided into two distinct comets. Such a celestial apparition had never been observed before, and astronomers viewed it with the keenest interest and excitement. On January 14th the distance between the two bodies was 177,000 miles, and this was increased on February 23rd to 191,000. On the 22nd of April the comets had disappeared.

In 1852 they returned, and the distance between them now was 1,624,000 miles, and, as neither contained a proper "nucleus," it was decided that they were in process of disintegration. Since 1852 the two comets have never been seen again, and since 187 Biela's comet has not been seen, and astronomers conclude that it must have undergone the fate of all comets which approach the sun frequently and nearly -- they either fall into its vast mass and are consumed like moths around a candle, or else they waste their substance in forming tails of such extreme length that they become so attenuated as to be no longer visible.

But, the reader may ask, are there not other comets against which the earth is likely to collide with disastrous consequence to herself and to her inhabitants ? It is estimated that there are about 17,500,000 comets in connection with the solar system alone. Is it not possible that any of these may come into contact with the earth?

In 1832, our planet is known to have actually passed through the tails of comets, hut nothing came of it. What would happen if we unfortunately encountered the actual nucleus of one is a question more easily asked than answered.

Such a catastrophe, though possible, is exceedingly remote, however. Another question now arises: may not the extinction of the human race be brought about by some lower order usurping dominion over and finally destroying mankind ?

At first sight the idea seems absurd. Man, the lord of creation, to be driven off the globe by the creatures over whom he has so long held dominion! Preposterous! Let us see what science has to say to this.

Countless ages ago in the world's past history there was a time when huge monsters, both on land and sea, were common. These reigned supreme for a time, only to succumb at length and disappear. Many species even within our own time have become extinct; can man then always hope to have the preeminence?

"When once a type is gone," said the late Mr. J. F. Nesbit, "Nature never renews it. So infinite are her resources that no pattern, no number of patterns, matters. And it may be that man, a late arrival, is destined to a far shorter use of the earth than the cockroach or the lobster."

Not over flattering to human vanity, but nevertheless true!

It is conceivable that changes of climate, and gradual developments and modifications of which we know little, might concur in bringing some land species into dangerous prominence.

The vivid imagination of Mr. H. G. Wells, ever ready -- like the fat boy in Pickwick - to make our flesh creep, once pictured a world devoured hy ants! We have all read of the migratory ants of Central Africa, against which no man can stand. On the march they swiftly clear out whole villages, drive men and animals before them in headlong rout, and kill and eat every living creature they can capture.

At present they are kept under by animals which prey on them, but supposing these checks to be removed!

We know how easy it is to disturb Nature's balance; rabbits introduced thoughtlessly into Australia and Californlia rapidly became a serious pest; sparrows have in many cases brought ruin to the farmers; hyacinths, planted in Florida rivers, so multiplied that navigation soon became impossible.

Nature, again unassisted by man, sometimes produces what we call plagues of certain species. Must we then not allow the possibility of the extinction of man by the enormous increase and spread of a lower order?

If the reader be still unconvinced let him turn to Mr. Wells' picture of the sudden appearance out of the sea of a race of amphibious monsters, capable of sweeping man and all his contrivances out of existence.

Fossil remains of crabs, 6ft. in length, have been discovered, and such enormous creatures might -- owing to some cause or other -- multiply exceedingly.

If we imagine a shark that could raid out upon the land, or a tiger that could take refuge in the sea, we should have a fair suggestion of what a terrible monster a large predatory crab might prove. And, so far as zoological science goes, we must, at least, admit that such a creation is an evolutionary possibility.

Then there are the cuttlefish, the octopus, and other denizens of the deep, any of which might conceivably grow in numbers, and extinguish man. And even if we escape death from monsters, there is the chance of our falling victims to those invisible enemies. the insidious microbes.

At present, it is true, conditions do not favour their rapid spread, but some radical change in the climate might flood the world with death-dealing micro-organisms. The fact is, we know little about the origin of diseases, and why at certain seasons certain epidemics arise.

The bacillus of plague, of influenza, of cholera, of typhoid, or any other disease propagated by germs, finds that the climatic or atmospheric conditions are favourable, and promptly proceeds to multiply, and, once it had a free run, it could destroy the entire human race in a month.

Turning now to another side of the question, we may consider the condition of man in the event of some radical change in the constitution of our planet. Suppose another glacial epoch should occur, would man survive ? He might retreat into the tropics where ice has never been; but so would also all the animal life, and one shudders to contemplate the entire animal kingdom huddled together in a circumscribed area in the centre of the earth.

A famous savant has imagined that the force of the earth's gravitation might be doubled by some cause hitherto undreamt of, and that marked changes in the structure of human beings would take place. Men and women would appear in these altered circumstances stunted, thick-limbed, flat-footed, with enormous jaws underlying diminutive skulls. Along with the change in man's structure would come a change in the animal kingdom, so that four-footed, six-footed, and eight-footed monsters would arise, and if these increased rapidly, they would soon rid the world of their two- footed adversaries. Or, if on the other hand, through some cause, the force of gravity were to diminish, we might find ourselves flying into the unknown regions of space!

An alarmist correspondent recently wrote to a daily paper foretelling the collapse of the earth by reason of the constant drawing out of her vital fluid in the shape of -- oil! This theory is a novel one, and deserves a word of explanation here. According to the writer, the interior of the earth is liquid oil, and if this is drawn out the outside crust must give way. Each country, urges the terror-stricken individual, should pass a law constituting it a criminal offence to draw a drop of liquid oil out of the earth.

In his imagination he sees cities and towns engulfed in vast chasms, and mountains shifted from their bases, while millions of human beings, old, young, rich, and poor, each with their different lamps, are marching on to destruction, sitting by their funeral pyre, the burning lamp, while smoke, fire, darkness, horror, confusion, cover the face of all things. Truly, a dire disaster, but one which we cannot take quite seriously.

According to a French savant, M. de Lapparent, man will finally disappear from the globe because, in 4,000,000 years, the rivers and seas will have completely washed away all solid land. Man, however, is an adaptive creature, and may escape extinction by assuming the shape and nature of a fish.

Lastly, the extinction of the human race by starvation or by thirst may be considered. Sir William Crookes recently startled civilised nations by affirming that in 1931--just thirty-one years from this present year of grace 1900--there will not be enough wheat to supply the needs of the bread eaters of the world. The failure of our food supply is a calamity too awful to contemplate, and the prospect of mankind slowly dying from starvation is calculated to plunge into the depths of despair the cheeriest optimist that ever lived.

It may be interesting to mention the reasons which led Sir William Crookes to prophesy that in thirty-one years from now the world will not be able to produce enough bread for man's needs.

He argued thus:

In 1871 the bread-eaters of the world mumbered ... 371,000,000
In 1881 the bread-eaters of the world numbered ... 416,000,000
In 1891 the bread-eaters of the world numbered ... 472,600,000
In 1898 the bread-eaters of the world numbered ... 516,500,000
In 1931 the bread-eaters of thc world will number . 746,500,000
The augumentation of the world's bread-eating population in a geometrical ratio is evinced by the fact that the yearly aggregates grow progressively larger. In the early seventies they rose 4,300,000 per annum. In the eighties they increased by more than 6,000,000 per annum, necessitating annual additions to the bread supply nearly one half greater than sufficed twenty-five years ago.

To supply 516,500,000 bread-eaters in 1898 required 2,324,000,000 bushels of wheat; to supply 746,600,000 in 1931 will require 3,357,000,000 bushels.

Should all the wheat-growing countries add to their area to the utmost capacity, on the most careful calculation the yield would give us only an addition of some 100,000,000 acres, supplying at the average world-yield of 12.7 bushels to the acre, 1,270,000,000 bushels. Adding 2,324,000,000 to 1,270,000,000 we get 3,594,000,000 bushels, or just enough to supply the increase of population among bread-eaters till the year 1931.

While these lines were being written, the writer chanced upon a paper in a German magazine, by Dr. Albert Battandier, on the absorbing topic: "Is the world nearing starvation ?"

The raison d'etre of this article was a statement by a Belgian statistician, General Brialmont, that in less than 180 years the population of the globe would be so dense that the earth could no longer nourish its inhabitants, and that hundreds of millions of human beings must die yearly of hunger.

General Brialmont, though he postpones the evil day, agrees with Sir William Crookes as to the failure of the world's food supply sooner or later, if things go on as they are doing at present.

"It is the chemist," says Sir Wiiliam Crookes, "who must come to the rescue of the threatened communities. It is through the laboratory that starvation may ultimately be turned into plenty."

Since by the year 1931 the area of cultivation can be no further extended, the farmer must endeavour to raise the average yield per acre. If atmospheric nitrogen could only be made generally available as manure in accordance with Nikola Tesla's great scheme, then the ground might be made to bear twice as large crops as it does at present.

Then there is the view, held by many eminent natural philosophers, that in the near Iuture the chemist will produce food artificially in his laboratory, thus rendering the tilling of the soil no longer a necessary labour.

M. Berthelot, the great French chemist, is an ardent supporter of this theory. According to him bread, meat, vegetables, etc., will some years hence be only a distant memory, and a dinner menu will be made up as follows:--

A small tablet of nitrogenous matter.
Pastilles of fatty material.
A little sugar.
A little seasoning.
"And then," exclaims the enthusiast," when the nourishment of man is no longer a daily problem, when we are no longer forced to ask humbly of God our daily bread, the earth will become a vast garden, natural subterranean streams will rise to the surface, and the human race will live in the legendary abundance of the Golden Age."

Others might be apt to view a world like this as a very dull place for mortals. Still, one might get used to tablets and pastilles in time.

As to the death of man from thirst a word must be said. The originator of this theory is M. X. Stanier, Professor of Geology at the Agricultural Institute of Gembloux.

M. Stanier allows that the idea of mankind dying from thirst seems paradoxical when we consider the seemingly inexhaustible supplies man possesses in the oceans and seas which cover three-quarters of the surface of the globe. Still, there is some danger of this vast quantity disappearing. In the past the terrestrial crust, says M. Stanier, has absorbed large quantities of water; this action is always going on, and is likely to assume greater proportions in the future. On account of its weight water tends to descend into deep holes; while the centre of the globe remains in a fiery condition this absorption is slow, but as the cooling of the interior goes on, the surface water will penetrate more and more, and will enter into combination with the recently solidified rocks in the heart of the earth, which are specially absorptive by reason of their metallic composition.

"The oceans," prophesies M. Stanier, " will grow smaller and smaller; the rains which nourish the continents will become rarer and rarer, while the deserts will enlarge their boundaries and gradually absorb the fertile plains."

In order the better to point his moral, M. Stanier asks us to consider the planet Mars, the inhabitants of which are slowly dying from want of water. What were formerly supposed to be Martian seas are, on the contrary (so M. Stanier would have us believe), nothing but immense arid plains.

"One stage more, and all life will have disappeared on the planet Mars."

These, then, are some of the predictions as to the end of the world. Whichever of these may come true, man seems doomed to destruction. Fortunately the evil is a long way off yet. In the meantime let us take for our motto these fine lines:

"Like the star
Which shines afar,
Without haste,
Without rest;
Let each man wheel,
With steady sway,
Round the task
Which rules the day,
And do his best."

 

 Herbert C. Fyfe, How Will The World End? Pearson's Magazine, July 1900

 

lunes, 16 de enero de 2023

LA FIN PROCHAINE DU GENRE HUMAIN (1831)



"On parle beaucoup de l'amélioration de l'espèce humaine et de sa destinée progressionnelle; on ne parle jamais de sa fin. C'est une erreur qui caractérise singulièrement la vanité de l'homme que de croire  la race d'Adam immortelle au milieu de tout ce qui meurt, et d'imaginer que le principe  de destruction qui mine les soleils ménagera respectueusement l'organisation du triste quadrupède vertical auquel appartient maintenant l'empire du monde. Si on vient vous parler en philosophe ou en théologien de la  dernière catastrophe du globe, voilà tout à  coup la catastrophe des dernières familles qui se figure à votre pensée; des peuples luttant contre l'invasion d'un déluge ou d'un incendie; des femmes qui gémissent en emportant leurs nouveau-nés dans leurs bras; des vieillards qui reprochent à l'univers son empressement à mourir, parce qu'ils avoient, eux, quelques jours à vivre encore. J'aime à croire, si notre planète vit âge de planète, que cela ne sera pas si tragique, au moins pour notre noble race d'anthropomorphes, dont la durée générique est loin d'être essentiellement mesurée sur celle d'une sphère minérale de neuf mille lieues de circonférence. A moins d'accident, car les planètes n'en sont pas exemptes, il y aura longtemps alors que des espèces nouvelles s'amuseront à recomposer de débris fossiles le squelette de l'homme, et à lui chercher une place convenable à côté de ceux du singe et de la chauve-souris. C'est la marche de la nature; il n'y a rien à y faire.

Je me souviens peu de ce que je savois de philosophie physique et d'histoire naturelle quand je croyois savoir quelque chose; mais il me semble qu'il y a des principes si rationnels dans les sciences de faits qu'on peut mettre les académies au défi d'y rien changer. Ceux-là sont tels que vous avez le droit de les convertir en axiomes, et de leur imprimer le même sceau d'infaillibilité qu'à une addition de deux chiffres exactement faite. J'en rapporterai quelques-unes pour prouver à quel point cette proposition est naïve; j'ai peur qu'elle ne le soit trop.

Et d'abord les corps les plus simplement organisés sont les plus durables.

Et secondement les premières combinaisons élémentaires qui aient produit l'être ont été les plus simples.

Et troisièmement, à mesure que les élaborations permanentes de l'agent créateur se compliquent, elles perdent en vitalité ce qu'elles gagnent en perfection.

Et voilà pourquoi les huîtres de Lucrin, si estimées d'Apicius, seront probablement belles encore, et vermeilles, et succulentes, quand elles n'auront plus à redouter depuis des siècles, dans la race d'Apicius, le plus insatiable des animaux ostréophages.

Et voilà pourquoi les algues de la mer verront finir des générations de coquillages; et les rochers qu'elles embrassent des générations de plantes marines; et le monde ses rochers dissous; et le tourbillon ses mondes, et l'infini ses tourbillons.

Tout passe du simple au composé en s'enrichissant graduellement de nouvelles acquisitions organiques, et tout retourne du composé au simple pour lui rendre ses éléments.

Ainsi une existence complète c'est une existence qui commence à mourir.

Les développements d'une existence complète ont cependant des limites inconnues devant lesquelles ils reculent tout à coup comme la sève du chêne ou le vol du condor; et ce qui est vrai des individus après soixante siècles d'observation est également vrai des espèces. Au moins faut-il convenir que cette induction est universellement reçue, car il n'y a point d'autre preuve de la mort.

Autrement, si l'on admettoit la perfectibilité indéfinie des espèces, qui n'est qu'une théorie, et que l'on ne contestât pas la décadence indéfinie des espèces, qui est un fait, ce seroit l'huître qui finiroit par manger Apicius.

Il n'y a qu'un moyen de défendre le système de la perfectibilité humaine; c'est de faire intervenir au dénouement de la discussion la machine tragique des Grecs, un dieu. Alors le paradoxe change de nom, il devient dogme, et je ne m'en mêle plus. Vous en savez plus que la science, et je ne suis pas même
 savant.

Sous l'aspect philosophique et scientifique de la question, et je ne vois pas sous quel autre aspect on oseroit la considérer aujour-d'hui, elle va se réduire presque à rien :

Les espèces finissent; donc l'espèce homme doit finir.

Elles finissent après avoir accompli les conditions possibles de leur développement; reste-t-il à l'homme des conditions possibles de développement à remplir?

S'il ne lui en reste plus, quelles sont les marques de sa décadence, et à quel âge en est-il arrivé? Voilà ce que je voudrois éclaircir en m'affranchissant de ce fatras technique des méthodes où l'on retombe toujours malgré soi quand on a eu le malheur de lire. (...) 

Voici l'homme, résultat culminant d'une œuvre de providence ou de hasard; l'homme soumis à toutes les vicissitudes du temps, qui altère, qui détruit, qui décompose tout; et condamné à les subir avec plus de promptitude et d'intensité en raison même de la complication de ses organes et du pouvoir de son intelligence; l'homme presque aussi vital que les anges, et moins vivace que les reptiles. C'est la condition essentielle de sa supériorité.

A lui finit, selon vous, l'échelle ascendante de l'organisation animale; il ne lui reste plus qu'à descendre vers la mort.

La religion seule a le droit de supposer qu'il étoit réservé à une autre destination; elle l'a fait, mais en reconnoissant qu'il l'avoit perdue, tant se manifestoient déjà sensiblement les progrès de sa dégénération inévitable, au temps des premières religions écrites! Ainsi, aux yeux du chrétien comme aux yeux du philosophe, l'espèce est appelée à mourir de mort; car ce n'est pas au père des hommes lui seul que s'est adressée cette terrible et profonde révélation de Dieu; ce n'est pas seulement à chacun de ses descendants pris dans son individualité mortelle : c'est à tout le genre humain, qui doit aussi mourir un jour comme un seul homme.

Ce phénomène de la destruction des êtres au bout d'un certain période n'étoit plus un nouveau mystère, selon toute apparence, dès le sixième des grands jours de la création. La terre avoit dû voir se renouveler plusieurs fois et les animaux qui la parcourent, et les plantes qui la décorent. La demeure de l'homme naissant étoit le tombeau d'une multitude d'existences qu'Adam ne put nommer dans le Paradis terrestre, parce qu'elles avoient cessé d'être avant qu'il fût. Sous ses pieds gisoient, réunies à l'humus reproducteur, ces immenses forêts de juncacées gigantesques, et restituées en fossiles à la forme minérale de la matière, ces familles de sauriens incommensurables qui livrent encore aujourd'hui à l'investigation du savant les vestiges authentiques de plusieurs créations successivement rendues au foyer des créations éternelles.

(...)  Les premières générations d'hommes, qui duroient longtemps et qui avoient des loisirs pour observer, parce que la terre n'étoit pas encore une arène- c'étoit toujours un spectacle-ne tardèrent pas sans doute à reconnoître, sous l'œuvre annuelle des reproductions, le travail sourd et permanent de la destruction, qui modifie, oblitère, transforme tout, et puis fait tout disparoître à son jour. (...) Une tradition perpétuée d'âge en âge, et qui subsiste encore dans leurs livres sacrés, entretenoit chez eux le souvenir du béhémoth et du léviathan, ces colosses du monde vivant, et celui du griffon au bec et au vol d'aigle, qui avoit quatre pieds de lion. Dans la race même de l'homme, elles purent déjà observer une déclivité menaçante. Ce ne furent bientôt plus ces géants millénaires dont il est question dans toutes les histoires, et dont tant de monuments presque indestructibles attestent la puissance. Leur mission d'ascendant et de conquête s'étoit accomplie en peu de temps, soit qu'il entre dans l'essence des espèces jeunes d'épuiser rapidement, en luxe inutile, le feu surabondant qui les vivifie, soit qu'il ait convenu à Dieu de hâter sous les regards de sa seule créature raisonnante les scènes qui pouvoient lui faire comprendre le secret de son organisation et de sa décadence. Il est probable qu'il ne fut pas question alors de la perfectibilité indéfinie de la race humaine. Ce ridicule étoit réservé à des nains de cinq pieds entassés dans des cloaques odieux pour souffrir et pour mourir, et qui expirent tout caducs, à soixante ans, dans une atmosphère de sang et de boue, sur la page où ils délaient dans quelques gouttes d'encre ce dernier mensonge de la vanité.

Il n'y a plus de sophismes dans tout cela; car, à force de nous rapprocher de la matière et d'y chercher notre origine, nous y avons trouvé du moins les ruines de ce qui étoit avant nous. Il n'y a point de dendrite qui ne conserve l'empreinte d'une plante inconnue. Vous verrez des fleurs enchâssées dans le cristal laiteux de l'agathe, comme le bouquet merveilleux de la fiancée d'un génie. Ce sable que vous roulez sous vos pieds et qui étincelle de reflets de nacre, ce sont les débris d'un nautile qui n'est plus; celui-là qui se maintient en disques solides et dorés, parce qu'il s'est revêtu, comme les courtisans habiles qui savent survivre aux révolutions, de la couche la plus solide des métaux, c'est un ammonite dont l'espèce est perdue.

Et puis cherchez ce qui adviendra de l'espèce humaine tout entière: un sable à rouler sous les pieds!...


Charles Nodier, LA FIN PROCHAINE DU GENRE HUMAIN (1831)

viernes, 29 de abril de 2022

Edgardo and Selina

CHAPTER I.


The sun was setting over Sloperton Grange, and reddened the window of the lonely chamber in the western tower, supposed to be haunted by Sir Edward Sedilia, the founder of the Grange. In the dreamy distance arose the gilded mausoleum of Lady Felicia Sedilia, who haunted that portion of Sedilia Manor, known as "Stiff-uns Acre." A little to the left of the Grange might have been seen a mouldering ruin, known as "Guy's Keep," haunted by the spirit of Sir Guy Sedilia, who was found, one morning, crushed by one of the fallen battlements. Yet, as the setting sun gilded these objects, a beautiful and almost holy calm seemed diffused about the Grange.

The Lady Selina sat by an oriel window, overlooking the park. The sun sank gently in the bosom of the German Ocean, and yet the lady did not lift her beautiful head from the finely curved arm and diminutive hand which supported it. When darkness finally shrouded the landscape she started, for the sound of horse-hoofs clattered over the stones of the avenue. She had scarcely risen before an aristocratic young man fell on his knees before her.

"My Selina!"

"Edgardo! You here?"

"Yes, dearest."

"And--you--you--have--seen nothing?" said the lady in an agitated voice and nervous manner, turning her face aside to conceal her emotion.

"Nothing--that is nothing of any account," said Edgardo. "I passed the ghost of your aunt in the park, noticed the spectre of your uncle in the ruined keep, and observed the familiar features of the spirit of your great-grandfather at his usual post. But nothing beyond these trifles, my Selina. Nothing more, love, absolutely nothing."

The young man turned his dark liquid orbs fondly upon the ingenuous face of his betrothed.

"My own Edgardo!--and you still love me? You still would marry me in spite of this dark mystery which surrounds me? In spite of the fatal history of my race? In spite of the ominous predictions of my aged nurse?"

"I would, Selina"; and the young man passed his arm around her yielding waist. The two lovers gazed at each other's faces in unspeakable bliss. Suddenly Selina started.

"Leave me, Edgardo! leave me! A mysterious something--a fatal misgiving--a dark ambiguity--an equivocal mistrust oppresses me. I would be alone!"

The young man arose, and cast a loving glance on the lady. "Then we will be married on the seventeenth."

"The seventeenth," repeated Selina, with a mysterious shudder.

They embraced and parted. As the clatter of hoofs in the court- yard died away, the Lady Selina sank into the chair she had just quitted.

"The seventeenth," she repeated slowly, with the same fateful shudder. "Ah!--what if he should know that I have another husband living? Dare I reveal to him that I have two legitimate and three natural children? Dare I repeat to him the history of my youth? Dare I confess that at the age of seven I poisoned my sister, by putting verdigris in her cream-tarts,--that I threw my cousin from a swing at the age of twelve? That the lady's-maid who incurred the displeasure of my girlhood now lies at the bottom of the horse- pond? No! no! he is too pure,--too good,--too innocent, to hear such improper conversation!" and her whole body writhed as she rocked to and fro in a paroxysm of grief.

But she was soon calm. Rising to her feet, she opened a secret panel in the wall, and revealed a slow-match ready for lighting.

"This match," said the Lady Selina, "is connected with a mine beneath the western tower, where my three children are confined; another branch of it lies under the parish church, where the record of my first marriage is kept. I have only to light this match and the whole of my past life is swept away!" she approached the match with a lighted candle.

But a hand was laid upon her arm, and with a shriek the Lady Selina fell on her knees before the spectre of Sir Guy.



CHAPTER II.


"Forbear, Selina," said the phantom in a hollow voice.

"Why should I forbear?" responded Selina haughtily, as she recovered her courage. "You know the secret of our race?"

"I do. Understand me,--I do not object to the eccentricities of your youth. I know the fearful destiny which, pursuing you, led you to poison your sister and drown your lady's-maid. I know the awful doom which I have brought upon this house! But if you make way with these children--"

"Well," said the Lady Selina, hastily.

"They will haunt you!"

"Well, I fear them not," said Selina, drawing her superb figure to its full height.

"Yes, but, my dear child, what place are they to haunt? The ruin is sacred to your uncle's spirit. Your aunt monopolizes the park, and, I must be allowed to state, not unfrequently trespasses upon the grounds of others. The horse-pond is frequented by the spirit of your maid, and your murdered sister walks these corridors. To be plain, there is no room at Sloperton Grange for another ghost. I cannot have them in my room,--for you know I don't like children. Think of this, rash girl, and forbear! Would you, Selina," said the phantom, mournfully,--"would you force your great-grandfather's spirit to take lodgings elsewhere?"

Lady Selina's hand trembled; the lighted candle fell from her nerveless fingers.

"No," she cried passionately; "never!" and fell fainting to the floor.



CHAPTER III


Edgardo galloped rapidly towards Sloperton. When the outline of the Grange had faded away in the darkness, he reined his magnificent steed beside the ruins of Guy's Keep.

"It wants but a few minutes of the hour," he said, consulting his watch by the light of the moon. "He dare not break his word. He will come." He paused, and peered anxiously into the darkness. "But come what may, she is mine," he continued, as his thoughts reverted fondly to the fair lady he had quitted. "Yet if she knew all. If she knew that I were a disgraced and ruined man,--a felon and an outcast. If she knew that at the age of fourteen I murdered my Latin tutor and forged my uncle's will. If she knew that I had three wives already, and that the fourth victim of misplaced confidence and my unfortunate peculiarity is expected to be at Sloperton by to-night's train with her baby. But no; she must not know it. Constance must not arrive. Burke the Slogger must attend to that.

"Ha! here he is! Well?"

These words were addressed to a ruffian in a slouched hat, who suddenly appeared from Guy's Keep.

"I be's here, measter," said the villain, with a disgracefully low accent and complete disregard of grammatical rules.

"It is well. Listen: I'm in possession of facts that will send you to the gallows. I know of the murder of Bill Smithers, the robbery of the tollgate-keeper, and the making away of the youngest daughter of Sir Reginald de Walton. A word from me, and the officers of justice are on your track."

Burke the Slogger trembled.

"Hark ye! serve my purpose, and I may yet save you. The 5.30 train from Clapham will be due at Sloperton at 9.25. IT MUST NOT ARRIVE!"

The villain's eyes sparkled as he nodded at Edgardo.

"Enough,--you understand; leave me!"



CHAPTER IV.


About half a mile from Sloperton Station the South Clapham and Medway line crossed a bridge over Sloperton-on-Trent. As the shades of evening were closing, a man in a slouched hat might have been seen carrying a saw and axe under his arm, hanging about the bridge. From time to time he disappeared in the shadow of its abutments, but the sound of a saw and axe still betrayed his vicinity. At exactly nine o'clock he reappeared, and, crossing to the Sloperton side, rested his shoulder against the abutment and gave a shove. The bridge swayed a moment, and then fell with a splash into the water, leaving a space of one hundred feet between the two banks. This done, Burke the Slogger,--for it was he,--with a fiendish chuckle seated himself on the divided railway track and awaited the coming of the train.

A shriek from the woods announced its approach. For an instant Burke the Slogger saw the glaring of a red lamp. The ground trembled. The train was going with fearful rapidity. Another second and it had reached the bank. Burke the Slogger uttered a fiendish laugh. But the next moment the train leaped across the chasm, striking the rails exactly even, and, dashing out the life of Burke the Slogger, sped away to Sloperton.

The first object that greeted Edgardo, as he rode up to the station on the arrival of the train, was the body of Burke the Slogger hanging on the cow-catcher; the second was the face of his deserted wife looking from the windows of a second-class carriage.



CHAPTER V.


A nameless terror seemed to have taken possession of Clarissa, Lady Selina's maid, as she rushed into the presence of her mistress.

"O my lady, such news!"

"Explain yourself," said her mistress, rising.

"An accident has happened on the railway, and a man has been killed."

"What--not Edgardo!" almost screamed Selina.

"No, Burke the Slogger!" your ladyship.

"My first husband!" said Lady Selina, sinking on her knees. "Just Heaven, I thank thee!"



CHAPTER VI.


The morning of the seventeenth dawned brightly over Sloperton. "A fine day for the wedding," said the sexton to Swipes, the butler of Sloperton Grange. The aged retainer shook his head sadly. "Alas! there's no trusting in signs!" he continued. "Seventy-five years ago, on a day like this, my young mistress--" But he was cut short by the appearance of a stranger.

"I would see Sir Edgardo," said the new-comer, impatiently.

The bridegroom, who, with the rest of the wedding-train, was about stepping into the carriage to proceed to the parish church, drew the stranger aside.

"It's done!" said the stranger, in a hoarse whisper.

"Ah! and you buried her?"

"With the others!"

"Enough. No more at present. Meet me after the ceremony, and you shall have your reward."

The stranger shuffled away, and Edgardo returned to his bride. "A trifling matter of business I had forgotten, my dear Selina; let us proceed." And the young man pressed the timid hand of his blushing bride as he handed her into the carriage. The cavalcade rode out of the court-yard. At the same moment, the deep bell on Guy's Keep tolled ominously.



CHAPTER VII.


Scarcely had the wedding-train left the Grange, than Alice Sedilia, youngest daughter of Lady Selina, made her escape from the western tower, owing to a lack of watchfulness on the part of Clarissa. The innocent child, freed from restraint, rambled through the lonely corridors, and finally, opening a door, found herself in her mother's boudoir. For some time she amused herself by examining the various ornaments and elegant trifles with which it was filled. Then, in pursuance of a childish freak, she dressed herself in her mother's laces and ribbons. In this occupation she chanced to touch a peg which proved to be a spring that opened a secret panel in the wall. Alice uttered a cry of delight as she noticed what, to her childish fancy, appeared to be the slow-match of a fire- work. Taking a lucifer match in her hand she approached the fuse. She hesitated a moment. What would her mother and her nurse say?

Suddenly the ringing of the chimes of Sloperton parish church met her ear. Alice knew that the sound signified that the marriage party had entered the church, and that she was secure from interruption. With a childish smile upon her lips, Alice Sedilia touched off the slow-match.



CHAPTER VIII.


At exactly two o'clock on the seventeenth, Rupert Sedilia, who had just returned from India, was thoughtfully descending the hill toward Sloperton manor. "If I can prove that my aunt Lady Selina was married before my father died, I can establish my claim to Sloperton Grange," he uttered, half aloud. He paused, for a sudden trembling of the earth beneath his feet, and a terrific explosion, as of a park of artillery, arrested his progress. At the same moment he beheld a dense cloud of smoke envelop the churchyard of Sloperton, and the western tower of the Grange seemed to be lifted bodily from its foundation. The air seemed filled with falling fragments, and two dark objects struck the earth close at his feet. Rupert picked them up. One seemed to be a heavy volume bound in brass.

A cry burst from his lips.

"The Parish Records." He opened the volume hastily. It contained the marriage of Lady Selina to "Burke the Slogger."

The second object proved to be a piece of parchment. He tore it open with trembling fingers. It was the missing will of Sir James Sedilia!



CHAPTER IX.

When the bells again rang on the new parish church of Sloperton it was for the marriage of Sir Rupert Sedilia and his cousin, the only remaining members of the family.

Five more ghosts were added to the supernatural population of Sloperton Grange. Perhaps this was the reason why Sir Rupert sold the property shortly afterward, and that for many years a dark shadow seemed to hang over the ruins of Sloperton Grange.

THE END.

Bret Harte, "Selina Sedilia, by Miss Μ. E. B-dd-n and Mrs. H-n-y W-d"
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