Part 3 - The Machine Stops - E.M. Forster

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Episode Transcript

(00:00):
Chapter three, The Homeless. Duringthe years that followed Cuno's escapade, two
important developments took place in the machine. On the surface, they were revolutionary,
but in either case men's minds hadbeen prepared beforehand, and they did
but express tendencies that were latent already. The first of these was the abolition

(00:22):
of respirators. Advanced thinkers like Vashtihad always held it foolish to visit the
surface of the Earth. Airships mightbe necessary, but what was the good
of going out for mere curiosity andcalling along for a mile or two in
a terrestrial motor. The habit wasvulgar and perhaps faintly improper. It was
unproductive of ideas, and had noconnection with the habits that really mattered.

(00:46):
So respirators were abolished, and withthem, of course, the terrestrial motors,
and except for a few lecturers whocomplained that they were debarred access to
their subject matter, the development wasaccepted quietly. Those who still wanted to
know what the Earth was like had, after all, only to listen to
some gramophone or to look into somecinematophote, And even the lecturers acquiesced when

(01:07):
they found that a lecture on theSea was none the less stimulating when compiled
out of other lectures that had alreadybeen delivered on the same subject. Beware
of firsthand ideas, exclaimed one ofthe most advanced of them. Firsthand ideas
do not really exist. They arebut the physical impressions produced by love and
fear. And on this gross foundation, who could erect a philosophy. Let

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your ideas be second hand, and, if possible, tenth hand, for
then they will be far removed fromthat disturbing element direct observation. Do not
learn anything about this subject of mine, the French Revolution. Learn instead what
I think that n Chirmond thought,Uruzen thought, Gutch thought, Ho Young
thought, Chibo Singh thought, LafcadioHearne thought, Carlyle thought. Mirabeau said

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about the French Revolution. Through themedium of these eight great minds, the
blood that was shed at Paris andthe windows that were broken at or Sigh
will be clarified to an idea whichyou may employ most profitably in your daily
lives. But be sure that theintermediates are many and varied, For in
history, one authority exists to counteractanother. Uruzen must counteract the skepticism of

(02:15):
ho young and entermon. I mustmyself counteract the impetuosity of guts. You
who listen to me are in abetter position to judge about the French Revolution
than I am. Your descendants willbe even in a better position than you,
for they will learn what you thinkI think. And yet another intermediate
will be added to the chain.And in time, his voice rose,

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there will come a generation that hasgot beyond facts, beyond impressions, a
generation absolutely colorless, a generation seraphicallyfree from taint of personality, which will
see the French Revolution, not asit happened, nor as they would like
it to have happened, but asit would have happened had it taken place
in the days of the machine.Tremendous applause greeted this lecture, which did

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but voice a feeling already latent inthe minds of men, a feeling that
terrestrial facts must be ignored, andthat the abolition of respirators was a positive
gain. It was even suggested thatairships should be abolished too. This was
not done because airships had somehow workedthemselves into the machine system, but year
by year they were used less andmentioned less by thoughtful men. The second

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great development was the re establishment ofreligion. This too had been voiced in
the celebrated lecture. No one couldmistake their reverent tone in which the peroration
had concluded, and it awakened aresponsive echo in the heart of each.
Those who had long worshiped silently nowbegan to talk, to describe the strange
feeling of peace that came over themwhen they handled the book of the machine,

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the pleasure that it was to repeatcertain numerals out of it, however
little meeting those numerals, conveyed tothe outward ear, the ecstasy of touching
a button, however unimportant, orringing an electric bell, however superfluously.
The machine, they exclaimed, feedsus and clothes us and houses us.
Through it, we speak to oneanother. Through it, we see one
another. In it, we haveour being. The machine is the friend

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of ideas and the enemy of superstition. The machine is omnipotent, eternal.
Blessed is the machine. And beforelong this elocution was printed on the first
page of the book, and insubsequent editions the ritual swelled into a complicated
system of praise and prayer. Theword religion was seduleously avoided, and in
theory the machine was still the creationand the implement of man. But in

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practice all save a few retrogrades worshipedit as divine, nor was it worshiped
in unity. One believer would bechiefly impressed by the blue optic plates through
which he saw other believers, othersby the mending apparatus, which sinful Kudo
had compared to worms, another bythe lifts, another by the book,

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and each would pray to this orto that, and ask it to intercede
for him what the machine as awhole persecution that was also present. It
did not break out, for reasonsthat will be set forward shortly. But
it was latent, and all whodid not accept the minimum known as undenominational
mechanism lived in danger of homelessness,which means death. As we know.

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To attribute these two great developments tothe Central Committee is to take a very
narrow view of civilization. The CentralCommittee announced the developments, it is true,
but they were no more the causeof them than were the kings of
the imperialistic period the cause of war. Rather, did they yield to some
invincible pressure which came. No oneknew whither and which, when gratified,

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was succeeded by some new pressure equallyinvincible. To such a state of affairs,
it is convenient to give the nameof progress. No one confessed the
machine was out of hand. Yearby year it was served with increased efficiency
and decreased intelligence. The better aman knew his own duties upon it,
the less he understood the duties ofhis neighbor. And in all the world

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there was not one who under didthe monster as a whole. Those master
brains had perished. They had leftfull directions, it is true, and
their successors had, each of themmastered a portion of those directions. But
humanity, in its desire for comfort, had overreached itself. It had exploited
the riches of nature too far.Quietly and complacently. It was sinking into

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decadence. And progress had come tome in the progress of the machine.
As for Vashti, her life wentpeacefully forward until the final disaster. She
made her room dark and slept,She awoke and made the room light.
She lectured and attended lectures. Sheexchanged ideas with her innumerable friends, and
believed she was growing more spiritual.At times a friend was granted euthanasia and

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left his or her room for thehomelessness that is beyond all human conception.
Vashti did not much mind. Afteran unsuccessful lecture, She would sometimes ask
for euthanasia herself, but the deathrate was not permitted to exceed the birth
rate, and the machine had hithertorefused it to her. The troubles began
quietly, long before she was consciousof them. One day, she was

(07:04):
astonished at receiving a message from herson. They never communicated, having nothing
in common, and she had onlyheard indirectly that he was still alive and
had been transferred from the northern hemisphere, where he had behaved so mischievously,
to the southern, indeed, toa room not far from her own.
Does he want me to visit him? She thought, Never again, never,

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and I have not the time.No, it was madness of another
kind. He refused to visualize hisface upon the blue plate, and,
speaking out of the darkness with solemnity, said, the machine stops. What
do you say? The machine isstopping. I know it, I know
the signs. She burst into apeal of laughter. He heard her and

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was angry, and they spoke.No more can you imagine anything more absurd,
She cried to a friend, Aman who was my son, believed
that the machine is stopping. Itwould be impious if it was not mad.
The machine is stopping. Her friendreplied, what does that mean?
The phrase conveys nothing to me,nor to me he does not refer,

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I suppose to the trouble there hasbeen lately with the music. Oh no,
of course, not let us talkabout music. Have you complained to
the authorities? Yes, And theysay at once mending, and referred me
to the committee of the mending apparatus. I complained of those curious, gasping
sighs that disfigure the symphonies of theBrisbane school. They sound like someone in
pain. The Committee of the mendingapparatus say that it shall be remedied shortly,

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obscurely. Worried, she resumed herlife. For one thing, the
defect in the music irritated her.For another thing, she could not forget
Cuno's speech. If he had knownthat the music was out of repair,
he could not know it, forhe detested music. If he had known
that it was wrong, the machinestops was exactly the venomous sort of remark
he would have made. Of course, he had made it at a venture.

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But the coincidence annoyed her, andshe spoke with some petulance to the
Committee of the Mending Apparatus. Theyreplied, as before, though the defects
would be set right shortly, shortlyat once. She retorted, why should
I be worried by imperfect music?Things are always put right at once.
If you do not mend it atonce, I shall complain to the Central
Committee. No personal complaints are receivedby the Central Committee. The Committee of

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the Mending Apparatus replied, through whomam I to make my complaint? Then
through us I complain, Then yourcomplaints shall be forwarded in its turn?
Have others complained? This question wasunmechanical, and the Committee of the Mending
Apparatus refused to answer it. Itis too bad, she exclaimed to another
of her friends. There never wassuch an unfortunate woman as myself. I

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can never be sure of my music. Now it gets worse and worse each
time I summon it. I toohave my troubles, the friend replied,
Sometimes my ideas are interrupted by aslight, jarring noise. What is it?
I do not know whether it isinside my head or inside the wall.
Complaint. In either case, Ihave complained, and my complaint will

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be forwarded in its turn to theCentral Committee. Time passed, and they
resented the defects no longer. Thedefects had not been remedied, but the
human tissues in that latter day hadbecome so subservient that they readily adapted themselves
to every caprice of the machine.The sigh at the crisis of the Brisbane
Symphony no longer irritated Vashti. Sheaccepted it as part of the melody.

(10:35):
The jarring noise, whether in thehead or in the wall, was no
longer resented by her friend. Andso with the moldy artificial fruit, and
so with the bath water that beganto stink, and so with the defective
rhymes that the poetry machine had takento omit. All were bitterly complained of
at first, and then acquiesced inand forgotten. Things went from bad to
worse unchallenged. It was otherwise withthe failure of the sleeping apparatus that was

(11:00):
a more serious stoppage. There camea day when over the whole world,
in Sumatra, in Wessex, inthe innumerable cities of Courland. In Brazil,
the bends, when summoned by theirtired owners, failed to appear.
It may seem a ludicrous matter,but from it we may date the collapse
of humanity. The committee responsible forthe failure was assailed by complainants, whom

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it referred as usual to the Committeeof the Mending Apparatus, who in its
turn assured them that their complaints wouldbe forwarded to the central Committee. But
the discontent grew, for mankind wasnot yet sufficiently adaptable to do without sleeping.
Someone is meddling with the machine,they began. Someone is trying to
make himself king. To reintroduce thepersonal element. Punish that man with homelessness.

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To the rescue, Avenge the machine, Avenge the machine, war,
kill the man. But the Committeeof the Mending Apparatus now came forward and
allayed the panic with well chosen words. It confessed that the mending Apparatus was
itself indeed of repair. The effectof this frank confession was admirable, of
course, said a famous luxurer,he of the French Revolution, who gilded

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each new decay with splendor. Ofcourse, we shall not press our complaints
Now the mending apparatus has treated usso well in the past that we all
sympathize with it and will wait patientlyfor its recovery. In its own good
time, it will resume its duties. Meanwhile, let us do without our
beds, our tabloids, our littlewants. Such I feel sure would be

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the wish of the machine thousands ofmiles away. His audience applauded. The
machine still linked them under the seas, beneath the roots of the mountains were
in the wires through which they sawand heard. The enormous eyes and ears
that were their heritage, and thehum of many workings clothed their thoughts in
one garment of subserviency. Only theold and the sick remained ungrateful, For

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it was rumored that euthanasia, toowas out of order, and that pain
had reappeared among men. It becamedifficult to read. A blight entered the
atmosphere and dulled its luminosity. Attimes Vashti could scarcely see across her room.
The air too was foul, loud, were the complaints impotent in the
remedies heroic The tone of the lectureras he cried courage, courage, what

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matter? So long as the machinegoes on to it. The darkness and
the light are one. And thoughthings improved again after a time, the
old brilliancy was never recaptured, andhumanity never recovered from its entrance into twilight.
There was an hysterical talk of measuresof provisional dictatorship, and the inhabitants
of Sumatra were asked to familiarize themselveswith the workings of the central power station,

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the said power station being situated inFrance. But for the most part
panic reigned, and men spent theirstrength praying to their books tangible proofs of
the machines omnipotence. There were gradationsof terror. At time came rumors of
hope. The mending apparatus was almostmended, the enemies of the machine had
been got under. New nerve centerswere evolving, which would do the work

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even more magnificently than before. Butthere came a day when, without the
slightest warning, without any previous hintof feebleness, the entire communication system broke
down all over the world, andthe world as they understood it ended.
Vashi was lecturing at the time,and her earlier remarks had been punctuated with
applause. As she proceeded, theaudience became silent, and at the conclusion

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there was no sound. Somewhat displeased, she called to a friend who was
a specialist in sympathy. No sound, doubtless, the friend was sleeping,
and so with an next friend,whom she tried to summon, and so
with the next, until she rememberedKuno's cryptic remark, the machine stops.
The phrase still conveyed nothing. Ifeternity was stopping, it would of course

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be set going shortly. For example, there was still a little light and
air. The atmosphere had improved afew hours previously. There was still the
book, and while there was thebook, there was security. Then she
broke down. If the cessation ofactivity came an unexpected terror, silence.
She had never known silence, andthe coming of it nearly killed her.

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It did kill many thousands of peopleoutright. Ever since her birth, she
had been surrounded by the steady hum. It was to the ear what artificial
air was to the lungs, andagonizing pains shot across her head, and
scarcely knowing what she did, shestumbled forward and pressed the unfamiliar button,
the one that opened the door ofher cell. Now the door of the
cell worked on a simple hinge ofits own. It was not connected with

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the central power station dying far awayin France. It opened, rousing immoderate
hopes in Vashti, for she thoughtthat the machine had been mended. It
opened, and she saw the dimtunnel that curved far away towards freedom.
One look, and then she shrankback, for the tunnel was full of
people. She was almost the lastin that city to have taken alarm.

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People at any time repelled her.And these were nightmares from her worst dreams.
People were crawling about. People werescreaming, whimpering, gasping for breath,
touching each other, vanishing in thedark, and ever and anon being
pushed off the platform onto the liverail. Some were fighting round the electric
bells, trying to summon trains whichcould not be summoned. Others were yelling

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for euthanasia, or for respirators,or blaspheeming the machine. Others stood at
the doors of their cells, fearing, like herself, either to stop in
them or to leave them. Andbehind all the uproar was silence, the
silence which is the voice of theearth and of the generations who have gone.
No, it was worse than solitude. She closed the door again and

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sat down to wait for the end. The disintegration went on, accompanied by
horrible cracks and rumbling. The valvesthat restrained the medical apparatus must have weakened,
for it ruptured and hung hideously fromthe ceiling. The floor heaved and
fell and flung her from her chair, A tube ooze towards her serpent fashion,
and at last the final horror approach. Light began to ebb, and

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she knew that civilizations long day wasclosed. She whirled round, praying to
be saved from this at any rate, kissing the book, pressing button after
button. The uproar outside was increasingand even penetrated the wall. Slowly,
the brilliancy of her cell was dimmed, the reflections faded from her metal switches.
Now she could not see the readingstand, now, not the book,

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though she held it in her hand. Light followed the flight of sound.
Air was following light, and theoriginal void returned in the cavern from
which it had been so long excluded. Vashti continued to whirl like the devotees
of an earlier religion, screaming,praying, striking at the buttons with bleeding
hands. It was thus that sheopened her prison and escaped. Escaped in

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the spirit, at least, soit seems to me. Ere my meditation
closes that she escaped in the body. I cannot perceive that she struck by
chance the switch that released the door, and the rush of foul air on
her skin. The loud, throbbingwhispers in her ears told her that she
was facing the tunnel again, andthat tremendous platform on which he had seen
men fighting. They were not fightingnow. Only the whispers remained, and

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the little whimpering groans. They weredying by the hundreds out in the dark.
She burst into tears. Tears answeredher. They wept for humanity,
those two, not for themselves.They could not bear that this should be
the end. Ere silence was completed. Their hearts were opened, and they
knew what had been important on theearth. Man, the flower of all

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flesh, the noblest of all creatures, visible man, who had once made
God in his image, and hadmirrored his strength on the constellations. Beautiful
naked man was dying, strangled inthe garments, that he had woven.
Century after century had he toiled,and here was his reward. Truly,
the garment had seemed heavenly at first, shot with the colors of culture,

(18:47):
sown with the threads of self denial, And heavenly it had been so long
as it was a garment, andno more so long as man could shed
it at will and live by theessence that is his soul, and the
essence equally divine that his body.The sin against the body. It was
for that that they wept in chief, the centuries of wrong, against the
muscles and the nerves, those fiveportals by which we can alone apprehend,

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glassing it over with talk of evolution, until the body was white pap the
home of ideas as colorless, less, sloshy stirrings of a spirit that had
grasped the stars. Where are you? She sobbed his voice in the darkness,
said, here is there any hope? Kuno none for us? Where

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are you? She crawled towards him, over the bodies of the dead.
His blood spurted over her hands.Quicker, he gasped, I am dying.
But we touch, we talk,not through the machine. He kissed
her. We have come back toour own. We die, but we
have recaptured life as it was inWessex when Alfred overthrew the Danes. We

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know what they know outside, thosewho dwelt in a cloud that is the
color of a pearl. But Cuno, is it true? Are there still
men on the surface of the earth? Is this, this tunnel poisoned darkness?
Really not the end? He replied. I have seen them, spoken
to them, Love them. Theyare hiding in the mist and the ferns

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until our civilization stops. Today theyare the homeless. Tomorrow, Oh,
tomorrow, some fool will start themachine again. Tomorrow, never said Kuno.
Never, humanity has learnt its lesson. As he spoke, the whole
city was broken like a honey comb. An airship had sailed in through the
volmitory into a ruined wharf. Itcrashed downwards, exploding as it went,

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rending gallery after gallery with its wingsof steel. For a moment they saw
the nations of the dead, andbefore they joined them scraps of the untainted
sky. End of chapter three.The Machine Stops by E. M. Forster