The shadow of the great epidemic1 in Utopia fell upon our little band of Earthlings in the second day after their irruption. For more than twenty centuries the Utopians had had the completest freedom from infectious and contagious2 disease of all sorts. Not only had the graver epidemic fevers and all sorts of skin diseases gone out of the lives of animals and men, but all the minor3 infections of colds, coughs, influenzas and the like had also been mastered and ended. By isolation5, by the control of carriers, and so forth6, the fatal germs had been cornered and obliged to die out.
And there had followed a corresponding change in the Utopian physiology7. Secretions8 and reactions that had given the body resisting power to infection had diminished; the energy that produced them had been withdrawn9 to other more serviceable applications. The Utopian physiology, relieved of these merely defensive11 necessities, had simplified itself and become more direct and efficient. This cleaning up of infections was such ancient history in Utopia that only those who specialized12 in the history of pathology understood anything of the miseries13 mankind had suffered under from this source, and even these specialists do not seem to have had any idea of how far the race had lost its former resistance to infection. The first person to think of this lost resisting power seems to have been Mr. Rupert Catskill. Mr. Barnstaple recalled that when they had met early on the first morning of their stay in the Conference Gardens, he had been hinting that Nature was in some unexplained way on the side of the Earthlings.
If making them obnoxious14 was being on their side then certainly Nature was on their side. By the evening of the second day after their arrival nearly everybody who had been in contact with the Earthlings, with the exception of Lychnis, Serpentine15 and three or four others who had retained something of their ancestral antitoxins, was in a fever with cough, sore throat, aching bones, headache and such physical depression and misery16 as Utopia had not known for twenty centuries. The first inhabitant of Utopia to die was that leopard17 which had sniffed18 at Mr. Rupert Catskill on his first arrival. It was found unaccountably dead on the second morning after that encounter. In the afternoon of the same day one of the girls who had helped Lady Stella to unpack19 her bags sickened suddenly and died. . . .
Utopia was even less prepared for the coming of these disease germs than for the coming of the Earthlings who brought them. The monstrous20 multitude of general and fever hospitals, doctors, drug shops, and so forth that had existed in the Last Age of Confusion had long since passed out of memory; there was a surgical21 service for accidents and a watch kept upon the health of the young, and there were places of rest at which those who were extremely old were assisted, but there remained scarcely anything of the hygienic organization that had formerly22 struggled against disease. Abruptly23 the Utopian intelligence had to take up again a tangle24 of problems long since solved and set aside, to improvise25 forgotten apparatus26 and organizations for disinfection and treatment, and to return to all the disciplines of the war against diseases that had marked an epoch27 in its history twenty centuries before. In one respect indeed that war had left Utopia with certain permanent advantages. Nearly all the insect disease carriers had been exterminated28, and rats and mice and the untidier sorts of small bird had passed out of the problem of sanitation29. That set very definite limits to the spread of the new infections and to the nature of the infections that could be spread. It enabled the Earthlings only to communicate such ailments30 as could be breathed across an interval31, or conveyed by a contaminating touch. Though not one of them was ailing32 at all, it became clear that some one among them had brought latent measles33 into the Utopian universe, and that three or four of them had liberated34 a long suppressed influenza4. Themselves too tough to suffer, they remained at the focus of these two epidemics35, while their victims coughed and sneezed and kissed and whispered them about the Utopian planet. It was not until the afternoon of the second day after the irruption that Utopia realized what had happened, and set itself to deal with this relapse into barbaric solicitudes36.
Section 2
Mr. Barnstaple was probably the last of the Earthlings to hear of the epidemic. He was away from the rest of the party upon an expedition of his own.
It was early clear to him that the Utopians did not intend to devote any considerable amount of time or energy to the edification of their Earthling visitors. After the eclaircissement of the afternoon of the irruption there were no further attempts to lecture to the visitors upon the constitution and methods of Utopia and only some very brief questioning upon the earthly state of affairs. The Earthlings were left very much together to talk things out among themselves. Several Utopians were evidently entrusted37 with their comfort and well-being38, but they did not seem to think that their functions extended to edification. Mr. Barnstaple found much to irritate him in the ideas and comments of several of his associates, and so he obeyed his natural inclination39 to explore Utopia for himself. There was something that stirred his imagination in the vast plain below the lake that he had glimpsed before his aeroplane descended40 into the valley of the Conference, and on his second morning he had taken a little boat and rowed out across the lake to examine the dam that retained its waters and to get a view of the great plain from the parapet of the dam.
The lake was much wider than he had thought it and the dam much larger. The water was crystalline clear and very cold, and there were but few fish in it. He had come out immediately after his breakfast, but it was near midday before he had got to the parapet of the great dam and could look down the lower valley to the great plain.
The dam was built of huge blocks of red and gold-veined rock, but steps at intervals41 gave access to the roadway along its crest42. The great seated figures which brooded over the distant plain had been put there, it would seem, in a mood of artistic43 light-heartedness. They sat as if they watched or thought, vast rude shapes, half mountainous, half human. Mr. Barnstaple guessed them to be perhaps two hundred feet high; by pacing the distance between two of them and afterwards counting the number of them, he came to the conclusion that the dam was between seven and ten miles long. On the far side it dropped sheerly for perhaps five hundred feet, and it was sustained by a series of enormous buttresses44 that passed almost insensibly into native rock. In the bays between these buttresses hummed great batteries of water turbines, and then, its first task done, the water dropped foaming46 and dishevelled and gathered in another broad lake retained by a second great dam two miles or so away and perhaps a thousand feet lower. Far away was a third lake and a third dam and then the plain. Only three or four minute-looking Utopians were visible amidst all this Titanic47 engineering.
Mr. Barnstaple stood, the smallest of objects, in the shadow of a brooding Colossus, and peered over these nearer things at the hazy48 levels of the plain beyond.
What sort of life was going on there? The relationship of plain to mountain reminded him very strongly of the Alps and the great plain of Northern Italy, down into which he had walked as the climax49 of many a summer holiday in his youth. In Italy he knew that those distant levels would be covered with clustering towns and villages and carefully irrigated50 and closely cultivated fields. A dense51 population would be toiling52 with an ant-like industry in the production of food; for ever increasing its numbers until those inevitable54 consequences of overcrowding, disease and pestilence55, established a sort of balance between the area of the land and the number of families scraping at it for nourishment56. As a toiling man can grow more food than he can actually eat, and as virtuous57 women can bear more children than the land can possibly employ, a surplus of landless population would be gathered in wen-like towns and cities, engaged there in legal and financial operations against the agriculturalist or in the manufacture of just plausible58 articles for sale.
Ninety-nine out of every hundred of this population would be concentrated from childhood to old age upon the difficult task which is known as “getting a living.” Amidst it, sustained by a pretence59 of magical propitiations, would rise shrines60 and temples, supporting a parasitic61 host of priests and monks62 and nuns63. Eating and breeding, the simple routines of the common life since human societies began, complications of food-getting, elaborations of acquisitiveness and a tribute paid to fear; such would be the spectacle that any warm and fertile stretch of earth would still display. There would be gleams of laughter and humour there, brief interludes of holiday, flashes of youth before its extinction64 in adult toil53; but a driven labour, the spite and hates of overcrowding, the eternal uncertainty65 of destitution66, would dominate the scene. Decrepitude67 would come by sixty; women would be old and worn out by forty. But this Utopian plain below, sunlit and fertile though it was, was under another law. Here that common life of mankind, its ancient traditions, its hoary68 jests and tales repeated generation after generation, its seasonal69 festivals, its pious70 fears and spasmodic indulgences, its limited yet incessant71 and pitifully childish hoping, and its abounding72 misery and tragic73 futility74, had come to an end. It had passed for ever out of this older world. That high tide of common living had receded75 and vanished while the soil was still productive and the sun still shone.
It was with something like awe76 that Mr. Barnstaple realized how clean a sweep had been made of the common life in a mere10 score of centuries, how boldly and dreadfully the mind of man had taken hold, soul and body and destiny, of the life and destiny of the race. He knew himself now for the creature of transition he was, so deep in the habits of the old, so sympathetic with the idea of the new that has still but scarcely dawned on earth. For long he had known how intensely he loathed77 and despised that reeking78 peasant life which is our past; he realized now for the first time how profoundly he feared the high austere79 Utopian life which lies before us. This world he looked out upon seemed very clean and dreadful to him. What were they doing upon those distant plains? What daily life did they lead there?
He knew enough of Utopia now to know that the whole land would be like a garden, with every natural tendency to beauty seized upon and developed and every innate80 ugliness corrected and overcome. These people could work and struggle for loveliness, he knew, for his two rose growers had taught him as much. And to and fro the food folk and the housing people and those who ordered the general life went, keeping the economic machine running so smoothly81 that one heard nothing of the jangling and jarring and internal breakages that constitute the dominant82 melody in our earth’s affairs. The ages of economic disputes and experiments had come to an end; the right way to do things had been found. And the population of this Utopia, which had shrunken at one time to only two hundred million, was now increasing again to keep pace with the constant increase in human resources. Having freed itself from a thousand evils that would otherwise have grown with its growth, the race could grow indeed.
And down there under the blue haze83 of the great plain almost all those who were not engaged in the affairs of food and architecture, health, education and the correlation84 of activities, were busied upon creative work; they were continually exploring the world without or the world within, through scientific research and artistic creation. They were continually adding to their collective power over life or to the realized worth of life.
Mr. Barnstaple was accustomed to think of our own world as a wild rush of inventions and knowledge, but all the progress of earth for a hundred years could not compare, he knew, with the forward swing of these millions of associated intelligences in one single year. Knowledge swept forward here and darkness passed as the shadow of a cloud passes on a windy day. Down there they were assaying the minerals that lie in the heart of their planet, and weaving a web to capture the sun and the stars. Life marched here; it was terrifying to think with what strides. Terrifying — because at the back of Mr. Barnstaple’s mind, as at the back of so many intelligent minds in our world still, had been the persuasion85 that presently everything would be known and the scientific process come to an end. And then we should be happy for ever after.
He was not really acclimatized to progress. He had always thought of Utopia as a tranquillity87 with everything settled for good. Even today it seemed tranquil86 under that level haze, but he knew that this quiet was the steadiness of a mill race, which seems almost motionless in its quiet onrush until a bubble or a fleck88 of foam45 or some stick or leaf shoots along it and reveals its velocity89.
And how did it feel to be living in Utopia? The lives of the people must be like the lives of very successful artists or scientific workers in this world, a continual refreshing90 discovery of new things, a constant adventure into the unknown and untried. For recreation they went about their planet, and there was much love and laughter and friendship in Utopia and an abundant easy informal social life. Games that did not involve bodily exercise, those substitutes of the half-witted for research and mental effort, had gone entirely91 out of life, but many active games were played for the sake of fun and bodily vigour92. . . . It must be a good life for those who had been educated to live it, indeed a most enviable life.
And pervading93 it all must be the happy sense that it mattered; it went on to endless consequences. And they loved no doubt — subtly and deliciously — but perhaps a little hardly. Perhaps in those distant plains there was not much pity nor tenderness. Bright and lovely beings they were — in no way pitiful. There would be no need for those qualities. . . .
Yet the woman Lychnis looked kind. . . .
Did they keep faith or need to keep faith as earthly lovers do? What was love like in Utopia? Lovers still whispered in the dusk. . . . What was the essence of love? A preference, a sweet pride, a delightful94 gift won, the most exquisite95 reassurance96 of body and mind.
What could it be like to love and be loved by one of these Utopian women? — to have her glowing face close to one’s own — to be quickened into life by her kiss? . . .
Mr. Barnstaple sat in his flannels97, bare-footed, in the shadow of a stone Colossus. He felt like some minute stray insect perched upon the big dam. It seemed to him that it was impossible that this triumphant98 Utopian race could ever fall back again from its magnificent attack upon the dominion99 of all things. High and tremendously this world had clambered and was still clambering. Surely it was safe now in its attainment100. Yet all this stupendous security and mastery of nature had come about in the little space of three thousand years. . . .
The race could not have altered fundamentally in that brief interval. Essentially101 it was still a stone-age race, it was not twenty thousand years away from the days when it knew nothing of metals and could not read nor write. Deep in its nature, arrested and undeveloped, there still lay the seeds of anger and fear and dissension. There must still be many uneasy and insubordinate spirits in this Utopia. Eugenics had scarcely begun here. He remembered the keen sweet face of the young girl who had spoken to him in the starlight on the night of his arrival, and the note of romantic eagerness in her voice when she had asked if Lord Barralonga was not a very vigorous and cruel man.
Did the romantic spirit still trouble imaginations here? Possibly only adolescent imaginations.
Might not some great shock or some phase of confusion still be possible to this immense order? Might not its system of education become wearied by its task of discipline and fall a prey102 to the experimental spirit? Might not the unforeseen be still lying in wait for this race? Suppose there should prove to be an infection in Father Amerton’s religious fervour or Rupert Catskill’s incurable103 craving104 for fantastic enterprises!
No! It was inconceivable. The achievement of this world was too calmly great and assured.
Mr. Barnstaple stood up and made his way down the steps of the great dam to where, far below, his little skiff floated like a minute flower-petal upon the clear water.
Section 3
He became aware of a considerable commotion105 in the Conference places.
There were more than thirty aeroplanes circling in the air and descending106 and ascending107 from the park, and a great number of big white vehicles were coming and going by the pass road. Also people seemed to be moving briskly among the houses, but it was too far off to distinguish what they were doing. He stared for a time and then got into his little boat.
He could not watch what was going on as he returned across the lake because his back was towards the slopes, but once an aeroplane came down very close to him, and he saw its occupant looking at him as he rowed. And once when he rested from rowing and sat round to look he saw what he thought was a litter carried by two men.
As he drew near the shore a boat put off to meet him. He was astonished to see that its occupants were wearing what looked like helmets of glass with white pointed108 visors. He was enormously astonished and puzzled.
As they approached their message resonated into his mind. “Quarantine. You have to go into quarantine. You Earthlings have started an epidemic and it is necessary to put you into quarantine.”
Then these glass helmets must be a sort of gas-mask!
When they came alongside him he saw that this was so. They were made of highly flexible and perfectly109 translucent110 material. . . .
Section 4
Mr. Barnstaple was taken past some sleeping loggias where Utopians were lying in beds, while others who wore gas-masks waited upon them. He found that all the Earthlings and all their possessions, except their cars, were assembled in the hall of the first day’s Conference. He was told that the whole party were to be removed to a new place where they could be isolated111 and treated.
The only Utopians with the party were two who wore gas-masks and lounged in the open portico112 in attitudes disagreeably suggestive of sentries113 or custodians114.
The Earthlings sat about in little groups among the seats, except for Mr. Rupert Catskill, who was walking up and down in the apse talking. He was hatless, flushed and excited, with his hair in some disorder115.
“It’s what I foresaw would happen all along,” he repeated. “Didn’t I tell you Nature was on our side? Didn’t I say it?”
Mr. Burleigh was shocked and argumentative. “For the life of me I can’t see the logic116 of it,” he declared. “Here are we — absolutely the only perfectly immune people here — and we — we are to be isolated.”
“They say they catch things from us,” said Lady Stella.
“Very well,” said Mr. Burleigh, making his point with his long white hand. “Very well, then let them be isolated! This is — Chinese; this is topsy-turvy. I’m disappointed in them.”
“I suppose it’s their world,” said Mr. Hunker, “and we’ve got to do things their way.”
Mr. Catskill concentrated upon Lord Barralonga and the two chauffeurs117. “I welcome this treatment. I welcome it.”
“What’s your idea, Rupert?” said his lordship. “We lose our freedom of action.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Catskill. “Not at all. We gain it. We are to be isolated. We are to be put by ourselves in some island or mountain. Well and good. Well and good. This is only the beginning of our adventures. We shall see what we shall see.”
“But how?”
“Wait a little. Until we can speak more freely. . . . These are panic measures. This pestilence is only in its opening stage. Everything is just beginning. Trust me.”
Mr. Barnstaple sat sulkily by his valise, avoiding the challenge of Mr. Catskill’s eye.
点击
收听单词发音
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1
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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secretions
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| n.分泌（物）( secretion的名词复数 ) | |
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9
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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improvise
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| v.即兴创作；临时准备，临时凑成 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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exterminated
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| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sanitation
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| n.公共卫生，环境卫生，卫生设备 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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epidemics
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| n．流行病 | |
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solicitudes
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| n.关心，挂念，渴望( solicitude的名词复数 ) | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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irrigated
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| [医]冲洗的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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parasitic
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| adj.寄生的 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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decrepitude
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| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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seasonal
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| adj.季节的，季节性的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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correlation
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| n.相互关系，相关，关连 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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fleck
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| n.斑点，微粒 vt.使有斑点，使成斑驳 | |
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velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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105
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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106
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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111
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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112
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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113
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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114
custodians
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| n.看守人，保管人( custodian的名词复数 ) | |
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115
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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116
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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117
chauffeurs
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| n.受雇于人的汽车司机( chauffeur的名词复数 ) | |
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