opposition, but it was a hopeless task. If you want to understand the political history of Meccania you cannot do better than get him to talk to you if he is in the mood.”
We approached the asylum, which stood upon a lonely moorland, far away from any village. The gates were guarded by a single sentinel. As we walked along the path, after leaving our car in a yard near the lodge, we passed little groups of men working upon patches of garden. They looked up eagerly as we passed, and then turned back to their tasks. I noticed they were dressed in ordinary black clothes. It struck me at once, because I had become so used to seeing everybody in the familiar colours of one of the classes. On my mentioning this to Kwang, he said, “That is perfectly in accordance with the Meccanian system. These men now belong to no class; they are shut off from the rest of the world, and their only chance of returning to it is for them to renounce, formally and absolutely, all the errors of which they have been guilty.”
“And do many of them ‘recant’?” I asked.
“Very few. Most of them do not want to return to the ordinary life of Meccania, but occasionally the desire to be with some member of their family proves too strong for them. They are nearly all old people here now. None of the younger generation are attacked by the disease, and the authorities hope”—he smiled sardonically—“that in a few years the disease will have disappeared entirely.”
We first went to call upon Hospital-Governor Canting. He was in his office, which was comfortably furnished in very characteristic Meccanian taste. The chairs were all adjustable, and covered with ‘Art’ tapestry. The large table had huge legs like swollen pillars—they were really made of thin cast-iron. There were the usual large portraits of the Emperor and Empress, and busts of Prince Mechow and Prince Bludiron. There was the usual large bookcase, full of volumes of reports bound in leather-substitute, and stamped with the arms of Meccania. Governor Canting wore the green uniform of the Fourth Class, with various silver facings and buttons, and a collar of the special kind worn by all the clergy of the Meccanian Church. He was writing at his table when we were shown in. He greeted Kwang almost effusively and bowed to me, with the usual Meccanian attitudes, as I was introduced.
“So you have brought your friend to see our system of treatment,” he said, smiling. “It is very unusual for us to receive visits at all,”—here he turned to me,—“but Mr. Kwang is quite a privileged person in Meccania. If only there were more people like Mr. Kwang we should not be so much misunderstood, and the victims of so much envy, malice and uncharitableness. Still, it is a sad experience for you.”
“Do many of the patients suffer acutely?” I asked, hardly knowing what was the right cue.
“Oh, I did not mean that. No, no, they don’t suffer much. But it is sad to think that men who might have been worthy citizens, some of them as writers, some as teachers, some even as doctors—men who might have served the State in a hundred ways—are wasting their talents and hindering the spread of our Culture.”
“It must be a terrible affliction,” I said. “Do they not sometimes feel it themselves in their moments of clearness of mind?”
He looked at me, a little in doubt as to my meaning, but my face must have reassured him. “The strange thing about this disease,” he said, “is that the patients suffer no pain directly from it; and you must remember that in practically all cases—just as in alcoholism—it is self-induced. There may be some little hereditary tendency, but the disease itself is certainly not inherited, and can be counteracted in its early stages by prophylactic treatment, as we have now fully demonstrated. As I say, it is self-induced, and it is therefore very difficult, even for a Christian minister who realises his duties to the State as well as to the Church, always to feel charitably towards these patients. We cannot shut our eyes to the fact of moral responsibility, and when I think of the obstinacy of these men I am tempted to lose patience. And their conceit! To presume that they—a few hundreds of them at most—know better than all the wise and loyal statesmen of Meccania, better than all the experts, better than all the millions of loyal citizens. But it is when I see what a poor miserable handful of men they are after all that I can find in my heart to pity them.”
“And how is my special case?” asked Kwang, when he could get a word in.
“Just the same,” said Canting—“just the same. You will find him perhaps a little weaker. I will not go with you. You seem to succeed best with him by yourself; and no doubt you have instructed your friend as to the peculiar nature of his malady.”
“Yes,” said Kwang; “my friend has read my little monograph, and he thought the case so remarkable that with the consent and approval of Dr. Narrowman I brought him to see Patient Stillman in the flesh. I shall get him to talk a little.”
“Good,” replied Canting; “but you will never cure him. You were quite right in what you once said—Prevention is the only cure. If we had developed our prophylactic system earlier it might have saved him, but he is too old now.”
After some preliminary formalities we were taken by one of the warders, who was evidently acquainted with Kwang through his many previous visits, to a room at the end of a long corridor, where we found Mr. Stillman, who greeted us cordially but with old-fashioned dignity. His manner struck me as being very different from that of the modern Meccanians. Clearly he belonged to another generation. The room, which was about twenty feet by ten, was a bed-sitting-room, furnished with one of those contrivances which becomes a bed by night and a false cupboard by day. There was an easy chair with the usual mechanical adjustments, a table, two bedroom chairs, a small sideboard and cupboard, a few other articles of necessity and a shelf of books. There were no bolts or bars or chains—the room suggested a hospital rather than a prison. Mr. Stillman was a fine old man, and, although growing feeble in body, was still vigorous in mind. When seated he held his head erect, and looked us frankly in the face, but with a wistful expression. He had evidently been a good-looking man, but his face bore traces of long suffering. Except that he did not pace about his cell, he reminded me of a caged lion. One of the orderlies brought in a tray of tea for the three of us. Mr. Stillman said what a pleasure it was to see a human being now and then, and, turning to me, explained that, except to Mr. Kwang and the officials and the doctors, he had not spoken to anyone for five years. “Until five years ago,” he said, “I was able to do a little work in the gardens, and could converse with my fellow-prisoners—patients, I mean—but only about our work, and in the presence of a warder. Still, that was some relief. Indeed, it was a great relief, for every one of the patients is a kind of brother—otherwise he would not be here. There are only a few hundreds of us left—perhaps a couple of thousands altogether—I don’t know. We have about two hundred here, and this is one of the largest hospitals, or prisons, in the country—so at least I was told.”
“But why is conversation not permitted?” I said. “To be deprived of conversation must surely aggravate any tendency to mental instability.”
“The theory is that communication with our fellow-patients would hinder our recovery,” he replied, with a significant smile.
“But what are you supposed to be suffering from?” I said.
“A mental disease known only to the Government of Meccania,” he answered. “You must have heard of it. Mr. Kwang knows all about it. The real name for it is ‘heresy,’ but they call it Znednettlapseiwz. I suffer very badly from it and am incurable—at least I hope so,” he added bitterly.
At this point Kwang announced that he wished to visit another patient, and that he would leave us together so that I might have a long talk undisturbed. It was evident that he occupied a privileged position, or he would never have been able to have such access to these patients. When he had left the room I did my best to get Mr. Stillman to talk, but I hardly knew how to induce him to tell me his story. I said, “I suppose you are not treated badly, apart from this prohibition about conversing with your fellow-sufferers?”
“We are fed with the exact amount of food we require,” he replied; “we are clothed—and thank God we do not wear any of the seven uniforms; and we are decently warm, except sometimes in winter when, I suppose, something goes wrong with the apparatus.”
“What?”