A DIARY OF THE DYING

How strange the words look scribbled at the top of the empty page of my book!  How stranger still that it is I, Edward Malone, who have written them ­I who started only some twelve hours ago from my rooms in Streatham without one thought of the marvels which the day was to bring forth!  I look back at the chain of incidents, my interview with McArdle, Challenger’s first note of alarm in the Times, the absurd journey in the train, the pleasant luncheon, the catastrophe, and now it has come to this ­that we linger alone upon an empty planet, and so sure is our fate that I can regard these lines, written from mechanical professional habit and never to be seen by human eyes, as the words of one who is already dead, so closely does he stand to the shadowed borderland over which all outside this one little circle of friends have already gone.  I feel how wise and true were the words of Challenger when he said that the real tragedy would be if we were left behind when all that is noble and good and beautiful had passed.  But of that there can surely be no danger.  Already our second tube of oxygen is drawing to an end.  We can count the poor dregs of our lives almost to a minute.

We have just been treated to a lecture, a good quarter of an hour long, from Challenger, who was so excited that he roared and bellowed as if he were addressing his old rows of scientific sceptics in the Queen’s Hall.  He had certainly a strange audience to harangue:  his wife perfectly acquiescent and absolutely ignorant of his meaning, Summerlee seated in the shadow, querulous and critical but interested, Lord John lounging in a corner somewhat bored by the whole proceeding, and myself beside the window watching the scene with a kind of detached attention, as if it were all a dream or something in which I had no personal interest whatever.  Challenger sat at the centre table with the electric light illuminating the slide under the microscope which he had brought from his dressing room.  The small vivid circle of white light from the mirror left half of his rugged, bearded face in brilliant radiance and half in deepest shadow.  He had, it seems, been working of late upon the lowest forms of life, and what excited him at the present moment was that in the microscopic slide made up the day before he found the amoeba to be still alive.

“You can see it for yourselves,” he kept repeating in great excitement.  “Summerlee, will you step across and satisfy yourself upon the point?  Malone, will you kindly verify what I say?  The little spindle-shaped things in the centre are diatoms and may be disregarded since they are probably vegetable rather than animal.  But the right-hand side you will see an undoubted amoeba, moving sluggishly across the field.  The upper screw is the fine adjustment.  Look at it for yourselves.”

Summerlee did so and acquiesced.  So did I and perceived a little creature which looked as if it were made of ground glass flowing in a sticky way across the lighted circle.  Lord John was prepared to take him on trust.

“I’m not troublin’ my head whether he’s alive or dead,” said he.  “We don’t so much as know each other by sight, so why should I take it to heart?  I don’t suppose he’s worryin’ himself over the state of our health.”

I laughed at this, and Challenger looked in my direction with his coldest and most supercilious stare.  It was a most petrifying experience.

“The flippancy of the half-educated is more obstructive to science than the obtuseness of the ignorant,” said he.  “If Lord John Roxton would condescend ­”

“My dear George, don’t be so peppery,” said his wife, with her hand on the black mane that drooped over the microscope.  “What can it matter whether the amoeba is alive or not?”

“It matters a great deal,” said Challenger gruffly.

“Well, let’s hear about it,” said Lord John with a good-humoured smile.  “We may as well talk about that as anything else.  If you think I’ve been too off-hand with the thing, or hurt its feelin’s in any way, I’ll apologize.”

“For my part,” remarked Summerlee in his creaky, argumentative voice, “I can’t see why you should attach such importance to the creature being alive.  It is in the same atmosphere as ourselves, so naturally the poison does not act upon it.  If it were outside of this room it would be dead, like all other animal life.”

“Your remarks, my good Summerlee,” said Challenger with enormous condescension (oh, if I could paint that over-bearing, arrogant face in the vivid circle of reflection from the microscope mirror!) ­“your remarks show that you imperfectly appreciate the situation.  This specimen was mounted yesterday and is hermetically sealed.  None of our oxygen can reach it.  But the ether, of course, has penetrated to it, as to every other point upon the universe.  Therefore, it has survived the poison.  Hence, we may argue that every amoeba outside this room, instead of being dead, as you have erroneously stated, has really survived the catastrophe.”

“Well, even now I don’t feel inclined to hip-hurrah about it,” said Lord John.  “What does it matter?”

“It just matters this, that the world is a living instead of a dead one.  If you had the scientific imagination, you would cast your mind forward from this one fact, and you would see some few millions of years hence ­a mere passing moment in the enormous flux of the ages ­the whole world teeming once more with the animal and human life which will spring from this tiny root.  You have seen a prairie fire where the flames have swept every trace of grass or plant from the surface of the earth and left only a blackened waste.  You would think that it must be forever desert.  Yet the roots of growth have been left behind, and when you pass the place a few years hence you can no longer tell where the black scars used to be.  Here in this tiny creature are the roots of growth of the animal world, and by its inherent development, and evolution, it will surely in time remove every trace of this incomparable crisis in which we are now involved.”

“Dooced interestin’!” said Lord John, lounging across and looking through the microscope.  “Funny little chap to hang number one among the family portraits.  Got a fine big shirt-stud on him!”

“The dark object is his nucleus,” said Challenger with the air of a nurse teaching letters to a baby.

“Well, we needn’t feel lonely,” said Lord John laughing.  “There’s somebody livin’ besides us on the earth.”

“You seem to take it for granted, Challenger,” said Summerlee, “that the object for which this world was created was that it should produce and sustain human life.”

“Well, sir, and what object do you suggest?” asked Challenger, bristling at the least hint of contradiction.

“Sometimes I think that it is only the monstrous conceit of mankind which makes him think that all this stage was erected for him to strut upon.”

“We cannot be dogmatic about it, but at least without what you have ventured to call monstrous conceit we can surely say that we are the highest thing in nature.”

“The highest of which we have cognizance.”

“That, sir, goes without saying.”

“Think of all the millions and possibly billions of years that the earth swung empty through space ­or, if not empty, at least without a sign or thought of the human race.  Think of it, washed by the rain and scorched by the sun and swept by the wind for those unnumbered ages.  Man only came into being yesterday so far as geological times goes.  Why, then, should it be taken for granted that all this stupendous preparation was for his benefit?”

“For whose then ­or for what?”

Summerlee shrugged his shoulders.

“How can we tell?  For some reason altogether beyond our conception ­and man may have been a mere accident, a by-product evolved in the process.  It is as if the scum upon the surface of the ocean imagined that the ocean was created in order to produce and sustain it or a mouse in a cathedral thought that the building was its own proper ordained residence.”

I have jotted down the very words of their argument, but now it degenerates into a mere noisy wrangle with much polysyllabic scientific jargon upon each side.  It is no doubt a privilege to hear two such brains discuss the highest questions; but as they are in perpetual disagreement, plain folk like Lord John and I get little that is positive from the exhibition.  They neutralize each other and we are left as they found us.  Now the hubbub has ceased, and Summerlee is coiled up in his chair, while Challenger, still fingering the screws of his microscope, is keeping up a continual low, deep, inarticulate growl like the sea after a storm.  Lord John comes over to me, and we look out together into the night.

There is a pale new moon ­the last moon that human eyes will ever rest upon ­and the stars are most brilliant.  Even in the clear plateau air of South America I have never seen them brighter.  Possibly this etheric change has some effect upon light.  The funeral pyre of Brighton is still blazing, and there is a very distant patch of scarlet in the western sky, which may mean trouble at Arundel or Chichester, possibly even at Portsmouth.  I sit and muse and make an occasional note.  There is a sweet melancholy in the air.  Youth and beauty and chivalry and love ­is this to be the end of it all?  The starlit earth looks a dreamland of gentle peace.  Who would imagine it as the terrible Golgotha strewn with the bodies of the human race?  Suddenly, I find myself laughing.

“Halloa, young fellah!” says Lord John, staring at me in surprise.  “We could do with a joke in these hard times.  What was it, then?”

“I was thinking of all the great unsolved questions,” I answer, “the questions that we spent so much labor and thought over.  Think of Anglo-German competition, for example ­or the Persian Gulf that my old chief was so keen about.  Whoever would have guessed, when we fumed and fretted so, how they were to be eventually solved?”

We fall into silence again.  I fancy that each of us is thinking of friends that have gone before.  Mrs. Challenger is sobbing quietly, and her husband is whispering to her.  My mind turns to all the most unlikely people, and I see each of them lying white and rigid as poor Austin does in the yard.  There is McArdle, for example, I know exactly where he is, with his face upon his writing desk and his hand on his own telephone, just as I heard him fall.  Beaumont, the editor, too ­I suppose he is lying upon the blue-and-red Turkey carpet which adorned his sanctum.  And the fellows in the reporters’ room ­Macdona and Murray and Bond.  They had certainly died hard at work on their job, with note-books full of vivid impressions and strange happenings in their hands.  I could just imagine how this one would have been packed off to the doctors, and that other to Westminster, and yet a third to St. Paul’s.  What glorious rows of head-lines they must have seen as a last vision beautiful, never destined to materialize in printer’s ink!  I could see Macdona among the doctors ­“Hope in Harley Street” ­Mac had always a weakness for alliteration.  “Interview with Mr. Soley Wilson.”  “Famous Specialist says ‘Never despair!’” “Our Special Correspondent found the eminent scientist seated upon the roof, whither he had retreated to avoid the crowd of terrified patients who had stormed his dwelling.  With a manner which plainly showed his appreciation of the immense gravity of the occasion, the celebrated physician refused to admit that every avenue of hope had been closed.”  That’s how Mac would start.  Then there was Bond; he would probably do St. Paul’s.  He fancied his own literary touch.  My word, what a theme for him!  “Standing in the little gallery under the dome and looking down upon that packed mass of despairing humanity, groveling at this last instant before a Power which they had so persistently ignored, there rose to my ears from the swaying crowd such a low moan of entreaty and terror, such a shuddering cry for help to the Unknown, that ­” and so forth.

Yes, it would be a great end for a reporter, though, like myself, he would die with the treasures still unused.  What would Bond not give, poor chap, to see “J.  H. B.” at the foot of a column like that?

But what drivel I am writing!  It is just an attempt to pass the weary time.  Mrs. Challenger has gone to the inner dressing-room, and the Professor says that she is asleep.  He is making notes and consulting books at the central table, as calmly as if years of placid work lay before him.  He writes with a very noisy quill pen which seems to be screeching scorn at all who disagree with him.

Summerlee has dropped off in his chair and gives from time to time a peculiarly exasperating snore.  Lord John lies back with his hands in his pockets and his eyes closed.  How people can sleep under such conditions is more than I can imagine.

Three-thirty a.m.  I have just wakened with a start.  It was five minutes past eleven when I made my last entry.  I remember winding up my watch and noting the time.  So I have wasted some five hours of the little span still left to us.  Who would have believed it possible?  But I feel very much fresher, and ready for my fate ­or try to persuade myself that I am.  And yet, the fitter a man is, and the higher his tide of life, the more must he shrink from death.  How wise and how merciful is that provision of nature by which his earthly anchor is usually loosened by many little imperceptible tugs, until his consciousness has drifted out of its untenable earthly harbor into the great sea beyond!

Mrs. Challenger is still in the dressing room.  Challenger has fallen asleep in his chair.  What a picture!  His enormous frame leans back, his huge, hairy hands are clasped across his waistcoat, and his head is so tilted that I can see nothing above his collar save a tangled bristle of luxuriant beard.  He shakes with the vibration of his own snoring.  Summerlee adds his occasional high tenor to Challenger’s sonorous bass.  Lord John is sleeping also, his long body doubled up sideways in a basket-chair.  The first cold light of dawn is just stealing into the room, and everything is grey and mournful.

I look out at the sunrise ­that fateful sunrise which will shine upon an unpeopled world.  The human race is gone, extinguished in a day, but the planets swing round and the tides rise or fall, and the wind whispers, and all nature goes her way, down, as it would seem, to the very amoeba, with never a sign that he who styled himself the lord of creation had ever blessed or cursed the universe with his presence.  Down in the yard lies Austin with sprawling limbs, his face glimmering white in the dawn, and the hose nozzle still projecting from his dead hand.  The whole of human kind is typified in that one half-ludicrous and half-pathetic figure, lying so helpless beside the machine which it used to control.

Here end the notes which I made at the time.  Henceforward events were too swift and too poignant to allow me to write, but they are too clearly outlined in my memory that any detail could escape me.

Some chokiness in my throat made me look at the oxygen cylinders, and I was startled at what I saw.  The sands of our lives were running very low.  At some period in the night Challenger had switched the tube from the third to the fourth cylinder.  Now it was clear that this also was nearly exhausted.  That horrible feeling of constriction was closing in upon me.  I ran across and, unscrewing the nozzle, I changed it to our last supply.  Even as I did so my conscience pricked me, for I felt that perhaps if I had held my hand all of them might have passed in their sleep.  The thought was banished, however, by the voice of the lady from the inner room crying: ­

“George, George, I am stifling!”

“It is all right, Mrs. Challenger,” I answered as the others started to their feet.  “I have just turned on a fresh supply.”

Even at such a moment I could not help smiling at Challenger, who with a great hairy fist in each eye was like a huge, bearded baby, new wakened out of sleep.  Summerlee was shivering like a man with the ague, human fears, as he realized his position, rising for an instant above the stoicism of the man of science.  Lord John, however, was as cool and alert as if he had just been roused on a hunting morning.

“Fifthly and lastly,” said he, glancing at the tube.  “Say, young fellah, don’t tell me you’ve been writin’ up your impressions in that paper on your knee.”

“Just a few notes to pass the time.”

“Well, I don’t believe anyone but an Irishman would have done that.  I expect you’ll have to wait till little brother amoeba gets grown up before you’ll find a reader.  He don’t seem to take much stock of things just at present.  Well, Herr Professor, what are the prospects?”

Challenger was looking out at the great drifts of morning mist which lay over the landscape.  Here and there the wooded hills rose like conical islands out of this woolly sea.

“It might be a winding sheet,” said Mrs. Challenger, who had entered in her dressing-gown.  “There’s that song of yours, George, ’Ring out the old, ring in the new.’  It was prophetic.  But you are shivering, my poor dear friends.  I have been warm under a coverlet all night, and you cold in your chairs.  But I’ll soon set you right.”

The brave little creature hurried away, and presently we heard the sizzling of a kettle.  She was back soon with five steaming cups of cocoa upon a tray.

“Drink these,” said she.  “You will feel so much better.”

And we did.  Summerlee asked if he might light his pipe, and we all had cigarettes.  It steadied our nerves, I think, but it was a mistake, for it made a dreadful atmosphere in that stuffy room.  Challenger had to open the ventilator.

“How long, Challenger?” asked Lord John.

“Possibly three hours,” he answered with a shrug.

“I used to be frightened,” said his wife.  “But the nearer I get to it, the easier it seems.  Don’t you think we ought to pray, George?”

“You will pray, dear, if you wish,” the big man answered, very gently.  “We all have our own ways of praying.  Mine is a complete acquiescence in whatever fate may send me ­a cheerful acquiescence.  The highest religion and the highest science seem to unite on that.”

“I cannot truthfully describe my mental attitude as acquiescence and far less cheerful acquiescence,” grumbled Summerlee over his pipe.  “I submit because I have to.  I confess that I should have liked another year of life to finish my classification of the chalk fossils.”

“Your unfinished work is a small thing,” said Challenger pompously, “when weighed against the fact that my own magnum opus, ‘The Ladder of Life,’ is still in the first stages.  My brain, my reading, my experience ­in fact, my whole unique equipment ­were to be condensed into that epoch-making volume.  And yet, as I say, I acquiesce.”

“I expect we’ve all left some loose ends stickin’ out,” said Lord John.  “What are yours, young fellah?”

“I was working at a book of verses,” I answered.

“Well, the world has escaped that, anyhow,” said Lord John.  “There’s always compensation somewhere if you grope around.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“Well, it just so happens that I was tidied up and ready.  I’d promised Merivale to go to Tibet for a snow leopard in the spring.  But it’s hard on you, Mrs. Challenger, when you have just built up this pretty home.”

“Where George is, there is my home.  But, oh, what would I not give for one last walk together in the fresh morning air upon those beautiful downs!”

Our hearts re-echoed her words.  The sun had burst through the gauzy mists which veiled it, and the whole broad Weald was washed in golden light.  Sitting in our dark and poisonous atmosphere that glorious, clean, wind-swept countryside seemed a very dream of beauty.  Mrs. Challenger held her hand stretched out to it in her longing.  We drew up chairs and sat in a semicircle in the window.  The atmosphere was already very close.  It seemed to me that the shadows of death were drawing in upon us ­the last of our race.  It was like an invisible curtain closing down upon every side.

“That cylinder is not lastin’ too well,” said Lord John with a long gasp for breath.

“The amount contained is variable,” said Challenger, “depending upon the pressure and care with which it has been bottled.  I am inclined to agree with you, Roxton, that this one is defective.”

“So we are to be cheated out of the last hour of our lives,” Summerlee remarked bitterly.  “An excellent final illustration of the sordid age in which we have lived.  Well, Challenger, now is your time if you wish to study the subjective phenomena of physical dissolution.”

“Sit on the stool at my knee and give me your hand,” said Challenger to his wife.  “I think, my friends, that a further delay in this insufferable atmosphere is hardly advisable.  You would not desire it, dear, would you?”

His wife gave a little groan and sank her face against his leg.

“I’ve seen the folk bathin’ in the Serpentine in winter,” said Lord John.  “When the rest are in, you see one or two shiverin’ on the bank, envyin’ the others that have taken the plunge.  It’s the last that have the worst of it.  I’m all for a header and have done with it.”

“You would open the window and face the ether?”

“Better be poisoned than stifled.”

Summerlee nodded his reluctant acquiescence and held out his thin hand to Challenger.

“We’ve had our quarrels in our time, but that’s all over,” said he.  “We were good friends and had a respect for each other under the surface.  Good-by!”

“Good-by, young fellah!” said Lord John.  “The window’s plastered up.  You can’t open it.”

Challenger stooped and raised his wife, pressing her to his breast, while she threw her arms round his neck.

“Give me that field-glass, Malone,” said he gravely.

I handed it to him.

“Into the hands of the Power that made us we render ourselves again!” he shouted in his voice of thunder, and at the words he hurled the field-glass through the window.

Full in our flushed faces, before the last tinkle of falling fragments had died away, there came the wholesome breath of the wind, blowing strong and sweet.

I don’t know how long we sat in amazed silence.  Then as in a dream, I heard Challenger’s voice once more.

“We are back in normal conditions,” he cried.  “The world has cleared the poison belt, but we alone of all mankind are saved.”