by Karel Čapek
“Won’t you come with me?” asked Bondy in astonishment.
“No, you go alone. And . . . I say, Bondy . . . don’t stay down there long.”
“Why not?” asked Bondy, growing a trifle suspicious.
“Oh, nothing much. Only I’ve a notion that perhaps it’s not quite healthy down there. Turn on the light, the switch is just by the door. That noise down in the cellar doesn’t come from my machine. It works noiselessly, steadily, and without any smell. . . . The roaring is only a . . . a ventilator. Well, now, you go on. I’ll wait here. Then you can tell me . . .”
******
Bondy went down the cellar steps, quite glad to be away from that madman for a while (quite mad, no doubt whatever about it) and rather worried as to the quickest means of getting out of the place altogether. Why, just look, the cellar had a huge thick reinforced door just like an armour-plated safe in a bank. And now let’s have a light. The switch was just by the door. And there in the middle of the arched concrete cellar, clean as a monastery cell, lay a gigantic copper cylinder resting on cement supports. It was closed on all sides except at the top, where there was a grating bedecked with seals. Inside the machine all was darkness and silence. With a smooth and regular motion the cylinder thrust forth a piston which slowly rotated a heavy fly-wheel. That was all. Only the ventilator in the cellar window kept up a ceaseless rattle.
Perhaps it was the draught from the ventilator or something—but Mr. Bondy felt a peculiar breeze upon his brow, and an eerie sensation as though his hair were standing on end; and then it seemed as if he were being borne through boundless space; and then as though he were floating in the air without any sensation of his own weight. G. H. Bondy fell on his knees, lost in a bewildering, shining ecstasy. He felt as if he must shout and sing, he seemed to hear about him the rustle of unceasing and innumerable wings. And suddenly someone seized him violently by the hand and dragged him from the cellar. It was Marek, wearing over his head a mask or a helmet like a diver’s, and he hauled Bondy up the stairs.
Up in the room he pulled off his metal head-covering and wiped away the sweat that soaked his brow.
“Only just in time,” he gasped, showing tremendous agitation.
* * *
1This name which Marek gave to his atomic boiler is, of course, quite incorrect, and is one of the melancholy results of the ignorance of Latin among technicians. A more exact term would have been Komburator, Atomic Kettle, Karbowatt, Disintegrator, Motor M, Bondymover, Hylergon, Molecular Disintegration Dynamo, E. W., and other designations which were later proposed. It was, of course, the bad one that was generally adopted.
CHAPTER III
PANTHEISM
G. H. BONDY felt rather as though he were dreaming. Marek settled him in an easy chair with quite maternal solicitude, and made haste to bring some brandy.
“Here, drink this up quickly,” he jerked out hoarsely, offering him the glass with a trembling hand. “You came over queer down there too, didn’t you?”
“On the contrary,” Bondy answered unsteadily. “It was . . . it was beautiful, old chap! I felt as if I were flying, or something like that.”
“Yes, yes,” said Marek quickly. “That’s exactly what I mean. As though you were flying along, or rather soaring upward, wasn’t that it?”
“It was a feeling of perfect bliss,” said Mr. Bondy. “I think it’s what you’d call being transported. As if there was something down there . . . something . . .”
“Something—holy?” asked Marek hesitatingly.
“Perhaps. Yes, man alive, you’re right. I never go to church, Rudy, never in my life, but down in that cellar I felt as if I were in church. Tell me, man, what did I do down there?”
“You went on your knees,” Marek muttered with a bitter smile, and began striding up and down the room.
Bondy stroked his bald head in bewilderment.
“That’s extraordinary. But come, on my knees? Well, then, tell me what . . . what is there in the cellar that acts on one so queerly?”
“The Karburator,” growled Marek, gnawing his lips. His cheeks seemed even more sunken than before, and were as pale as death.
“But, confound it, man,” cried Bondy in amazement, “how can it be?”
The engineer only shrugged his shoulders, and with bent head went on pacing up and down the room.
G. H. Bondy’s eyes followed him with childish astonishment. “The man’s crazy,” he said to himself. “All the same, what the devil is it that comes over one in that cellar? That tormenting bliss, that tremendous security, that terror, that overwhelming feeling of devotion, or whatever you like to call it.” Mr. Bondy arose and poured himself out another dash of brandy.
“I say, Marek,” he said, “I’ve got it now.”
“Got what?” exclaimed Marek, halting.
“That business in the cellar. That queer psychical condition. It’s some form of poisoning, isn’t it? . . .”
Marek gave an angry laugh. “Oh, yes, of course, poisoning!”
“I thought so at once,” declared Bondy, his mind at rest in an instant. “That apparatus of yours produces something, ah . . . er . . . something like ozone, doesn’t it? Or more likely poisonous gas. And when anyone inhales it, it . . . er . . . poisons him or excites him somehow, isn’t that it? Why, of course, man, it’s nothing but poisonous gases; they’re probably given off somehow by the combustion of the coal in that . . . that Karburator of yours. Some sort of illuminating gas or paradise gas, or phosgene or something of the sort. That’s why you’ve put in the ventilator, and that’s why you wear a gas-mask when you go into the cellar, isn’t it? Just some confounded gases.”
“If only there were nothing but gases!” Marek burst out, shaking his fists threateningly. “Look here, Bondy, that’s why I must sell that Karburator! I simply can’t stand it—I can’t stand it . . . I can’t stand it,” he shouted, well-nigh weeping. “I never dreamed my Karburator would do anything like this . . . this . . . terrifying mischief! Just think, it’s been going on like that from the very beginning! And every one feels it who comes near the thing. You haven’t any notion even yet, Bondy. But our porter caught it properly.”
“Poor fellow!” said the astonished Bondy, full of sympathy. “And did he die of it?”
“No, but he got converted,” cried Marek in despair. “Bondy, you’re a man I can confide in. My invention, my Karburator, has one terrible defect. Nevertheless, you’re going to buy it or else take it from me as a gift. You will, Bondy—even if it spews forth demons. It doesn’t matter to you, Bondy, so long as you can get your millions out of it. And you’ll get them, man. It’s a stupendous thing, I tell you—; but I don’t want to have anything more to do with it. You haven’t such a sensitive conscience as I have, you know, Bondy. It’ll bring in millions, thousands of millions; but it will lay a frightful load upon your conscience. Make up your mind!”
“Oh, leave me alone,” Mr. Bondy protested. “If it gives off poisonous gases, the authorities will prohibit it, and there’s an end of it. You know the wretched state of affairs here. Now in America . . .”
“It isn’t poisonous gases,” Marek exclaimed. “It’s something a thousand times worse. Mark what I tell you, Bondy, it’s something beyond human reason, but there’s not a scrap of deception about it. Well, then, my Karburator actually does burn up matter, causes its utter combustion, so that not even a grain of dust remains. Or rather, it breaks it up, crushes it, splits it up into electrons, consumes it, grinds it—I don’t know how to express it—in short, uses it up completely. You have no idea what a colossal amount of energy is contained in the atoms. With half a hundredweight of coal in the Karburaator you can sail right round the world in a steamship, you can light the whole city of Prague, you can supply power for the whole of a huge factory, or anything you like. A bit of coal the size of a nut will do the heating and the cooking for a whole family. And ultimately we shan’t even require coal; we can do our heating with the first pebble or handful of dirt we pick up
in front of the house. Every scrap of matter has in it more energy than an enormous boiler; you’ve only to extract it. You’ve only to know how to secure total combustion! Well, Bondy, I can do it; my Karburator can do it. You’ll admit, Bondy, that it has been worth while toiling over it for twenty years.”
“Look here, Rudy,” Bondy began slowly, “it’s all very extraordinary—but I believe you, so to speak. On my soul, I do believe you. You know, when I stood in front of that Karburator of yours, I felt that I was in the presence of something overpoweringly great, something a man could not withstand. I can’t help it: I believe you. Down there in the cellar you have something uncanny, something that will overturn the whole world.”
“Alas, Bondy,” Marek whispered anxiously, “that’s just where the trouble is. Listen, and I’ll tell you the whole thing. Have you ever read Spinoza?”
“No.”
“No more had I. But now, you see, I am beginning to read that sort of thing. I don’t understand it—it’s terribly difficult stuff for us technical people—but there’s something in it. Do you by any chance believe in God?”
“I? Well, now. . .” G. H. Bondy deliberated. “Upon my word, I couldn’t say. Perhaps there is a God, but He’s on some other planet. Not on ours. Oh, well, that sort of thing doesn’t fit in with our times at all. Tell me, what makes you drag that into it?”
“I don’t believe in anything,” said Marek in a hard voice. “I don’t want to believe. I have always been an atheist. I believed in matter and in progress and in nothing else. I’m a scientific man, Bondy; and science cannot admit the existence of God.”
“From the business point of view,” Mr. Bondy remarked, “it’s a matter of indifference. If He wants to exist, in Heaven’s name, let Him. We aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“But from the scientific point of view, Bondy,” cried the engineer sternly, “it is absolutely intolerable. It’s a case of Him or science. I don’t assert that God does not exist; I only assert that He ought not to exist, or at least ought not to let Himself be seen. And I believe that science is crowding Him out step by step, or at any rate is preventing Him from letting Himself be seen; and I believe that that is the greatest mission of science.”
“Possibly,” said Bondy calmly. “But go on.”
“And now just imagine, Bondy, that—But wait, I’ll put it to you this way. Do you know what Pantheism is? It’s the belief that God, or the Absolute, if you prefer it, is manifest in everything that exists. In men, as in stones, in the grass, the water—everywhere. And do you know what Spinoza teaches? That matter is only the outward manifestation, only one phase of the divine substance, the other phase of which is spirit. And do you know what Fechner teaches?”
“No, I don’t,” the other admitted.
“Fechner teaches that everything, everything that is, is penetrated with the divine, that God fills with His being the whole of the matter in the world. And do you know Leibniz? Leibniz teaches that physical matter is composed of psychical atoms, monads, whose nature is divine. What do you say to that?”
“I don’t know,” said G. H. Bondy. “I don’t understand it.”
“Nor do I. It’s fearfully abstruse. But let us assume, for the sake of argument, that God is contained in all forms of physical matter, that He is, as it were, imprisoned in it. And when you smash this matter up completely, He flies out of it as though from a box. He is suddenly set free. He is released from matter as illuminating gas is from coal. You have only to burn one single atom up completely, and immediately the whole cellar is filled with the Absolute. It’s simply appalling how quickly it spreads.”
“Hold on,” Mr. Bondy interrupted. “Say that all over again, but say it slowly.”
“Look at it like this then,” said Marek. “We’re assuming that all matter contains the Absolute in some state of confinement. We can call it a latent imprisoned force, or simply say that as God is omnipresent He is therefore present in all matter and in every particle of matter. And now suppose you utterly destroy a piece of matter, apparently leaving not the slightest residue. Then, since all matter is really Matter plus Absolute, what you have destroyed is only the matter, and you’re left with an indestructible residue—free and active Absolute. You’re left with the chemically unanalysable, immaterial residue, which shows no spectrum lines, neither atomic weight nor chemical affinity, no obedience to Boyle’s law, none, none whatever, of the properties of matter. What is left behind is pure God. A chemical nullity which acts with monstrous energy. Being immaterial, it is not subject to the laws of matter. Thence, it already follows that its manifestations are contrary to nature and downright miraculous. All this proceeds from the assumption that God is present in all matter. Can you imagine, for the sake of argument, that He is really so present?”
“I certainly can,” said Bondy. “What then?”
“Good,” said Marek, rising to his feet. “Then it’s the solemn truth.”
CHAPTER IV
GOD IN THE CELLAR
G. H. BONDY sucked meditatively at his cigar. “And how did you find it out, old chap?” he asked at last. “By the effect on myself,” said the engineer, resuming his march up and down the room. “As a result of its complete disintegration of matter, my Perfect Karburator manufactures a by-product: pure and unconfined Absolute, God in a chemically pure form. At one end, so to speak, it emits mechanical power, and at the other, the divine principle. Just as when you split water up into hydrogen and oxygen, only on an immensely larger scale.”
“Hm,” said Mr. Bondy. “And then—?”
“I’ve an idea,” continued Marek cautiously, “that there are many of the elect who can separate the material substance in themselves from the divine substance. They can release or distil the Absolute, as it were, from their material selves. Christ and the miracle-workers, fakirs, mediums, and prophets have achieved it by means of their psychic power. My Karburator does it by a purely mechanical process. It acts, you might say, as a factory for the Absolute.”
“Facts,” said G. H. Bondy. “Stick to facts.”
“These are facts. I constructed my Perfect Karburator only in theory to begin with. Then I made a little model, which wouldn’t go. The fourth model was the first that really worked. It was only about so big, but it ran quite nicely. But even while I was working with it on this small scale, I felt peculiar physical effects—a strange exhilaration—a ‘fey’ feeling. But I thought it was due to being so pleased about the invention, or to being overworked, perhaps. It was then that I first began to prophesy and perform miracles.”
“To do what?” Bondy cried.
“To prophesy and perform miracles,” Marek repeated gloomily. “I had moments of astounding illumination. I saw, for instance, quite clearly, things that would happen in the future. I predicted even your visit here. And once I tore my nail off on a lathe. I looked at the damaged finger, and all at once a new nail grew on it. Very likely I’d formed the wish, but all the same it’s queer and . . . terrible. Another time—just think of it—I rose right up into the air. It’s called levitation, you know. I never believed in any rubbish of that kind, so you can imagine the shock it gave me.”
“I can quite believe it,” said Bondy gravely. “It must be most distressing.”
“Extremely distressing. I thought it must be due to nerves, a kind of auto-suggestion or something. In the meanwhile I erected the big Karburator in the cellar and started it off. As I told you, it’s been running now for six weeks, day and night. And it was there that I first realized the full significance of the business. In a single day the cellar was chock-full of the Absolute, ready to burst with it; and it began to spread all over the house. The pure Absolute pentrates all matter, you know, but it takes a little longer with solid substances. In the air it spread as swiftly as light. When I went in, I tell you, man, it took me like a stroke. I shrieked out aloud. I don’t know where I got the strength to run away. When I got upstairs, I thought over the whole business. My first notion was that it
must be some new intoxicating, stimulating gas, developed by the process of complete combustion. That’s why I had that ventilator fixed up, from the outside. Two of the fitters on the job “saw the light” and had visions; the third was a drinker and so perhaps to some extent immune. As long as I thought it was only a gas, I made a series of experiments with it, and it’s interesting to find that any light burns much more brightly in the Absolute. If it would let itself be confined in glass bulbs, I’d fill lamps with it; but it escapes from any vessel, however thick you make it. Then I decided it must be some sort of Ultra-X-ray, but there’s no trace of any form of electricity, and it makes no impression on photo-sensitive plates. On the third day, the porter and his wife, who live just over the cellar, had to be taken off to the sanatorium.”
“What for?” asked Bondy.
“He got religion. He was inspired. He gave religious addresses and performed miracles. His wife uttered prophecies. My porter had been a thoroughly hard-headed chap, a monist and a freethinker, and an unusually steady fellow. Well, just fancy, from no visible cause whatever, he started healing people by laying on of hands. Of course, Bondy, he was reported at once. The district health officer, who is a friend of mine, was tremendously upset about it; so, to avoid any scandal, I had the porter sent to a sanatorium. They say he’s better now; quite cured. He has lost the power to perform miracles. I’m going to send him on the land to recuperate. . . . Then I began to work miracles myself and see into the future. Among other things, I had visions of gigantic, swampy primeval forests, overgrown with mosses and inhabited by weird monsters—probably because the Karburator was burning Upper Silesian coal, which is of the oldest formation. Possibly the God of the Carboniferous Age is in it.”
Mr. Bondy shuddered. “Marek, this is frightful!”
“It is indeed,” said Marek sorrowfully. “Gradually I began to see that it wasn’t gas, but the Absolute. The symptoms were terrible. I could read people’s thoughts, light emanated from me, I had a desperate struggle not to become absorbed in prayer and preach belief in God. I tried to clog the Karburator up with sand, but I was seized with a bout of levitation. That machine won’t let anything stop it. I don’t sleep at home nowadays. Even in the factory there have been several serious cases of illumination among the workmen. I don’t know where to turn, Bondy. Yes, I’ve tried every possible isolating material that might prevent the Absolute from getting out of the cellar. Ashes, sand, metal walls, nothing can keep it back. I’ve even tried covering the cellar with the work of Professor Krejči, Spencer, Haeckel, and all the Positivists you can think of: would you believe it, the Absolute goes calmly through even that stuff! Even papers, prayer-books, Lives of the Saints, Patriotic Song-books, university lectures, best-sellers, political treatises, and Parliamentary Reports, present no obstacle to it. I’m simply desperate. You can’t shut it up, you can’t soak it up. It’s mischief let loose.”
