The Alabaster Kingdom A Satirical Voyage to the Land of Ivory Complexions and Obsidian Hearts Preface by the Author It is now five years since I returned from that extraordinary voyage which forms the subject of the following narrative. During this interval, I have been repeatedly urged by persons of distinction and learning to commit my experiences to paper, not merely as a record of marvels witnessed in distant climes, but as a contribution to that growing body of literature which examines the peculiar institution of racial prejudice that has so disfigured the civilization of our age. The reader will forgive me if I observe, at the outset, that I write not for the amusement of children, nor for the gratification of those who seek only fantastic tales of foreign lands. My purpose is altogether more serious, though I shall endeavor to season my discourse with such wit and irony as may render the medicine more palatable. For I have observed, in my travels through the great empires of Europe and the Americas, a most curious and lamentable phenomenon: the belief, held with a fervor approaching religious conviction, that the possession of a pale complexion constitutes evidence of moral and intellectual superiority. This doctrine, which I have heard dignified by the name of “scientific racism,” has been advanced by learned gentlemen in universities, promoted by statesmen in parliaments, and enforced by magistrates in courts of law. It has served to justify the enslavement of millions, the dispossession of continents, and the degradation of entire peoples. And yet, when examined with the cold eye of reason, it reveals itself as nothing more than a monstrous superstition, a collective delusion no less absurd than the belief that the earth is flat or that the stars influence human destiny. It was my singular fortune—or misfortune, as the reader shall judge—to discover, in the course of my nautical wanderings, a nation that embodies this delusion in its most perfect and concentrated form. There, in the Alabaster Kingdom, I encountered a people who have carried the worship of whiteness to such extravagant lengths that they have transformed their entire society into a temple dedicated to this false god. And yet, as I was gradually to discover, the outward radiance of their appearance served only to conceal an inner darkness of such profound depth that it might have served as a model for the Inferno of Dante himself. I present this narrative, therefore, as a mirror in which my countrymen may see reflected, in exaggerated form, the follies and vices of their own society. If the Alabastrians appear ridiculous in their pretensions, let the reader remember that they are but ourselves, seen through a glass, darkly. If their customs provoke laughter, let it be the laughter of recognition. And if their cruelties excite indignation, let that indignation begin at home. I make no apology for the severity of my strictures. The time has passed when such matters could be discussed with the polite evasions of drawing-room conversation. The evil of racial prejudice is too deeply rooted, too widely spread, too murderous in its consequences, to be treated with anything less than the most unsparing candor. I have seen its effects in the slave markets of the New World, in the penal colonies of Australia, in the plantations of the Indies. I have witnessed the degradation it inflicts upon its victims and the moral corruption it works upon its beneficiaries. And I say, without fear of contradiction, that it constitutes the greatest scandal of our age, the most formidable obstacle to human progress, and the most flagrant violation of that Christian brotherhood which we profess but so seldom practice. Let those who doubt the reality of the Alabaster Kingdom consult the charts of the Dutch East India Company, where they will find recorded an island of considerable extent, situated in the Southern Ocean, approximately fifteen degrees south of the equator and one hundred and twenty degrees east of Greenwich. Let them inquire of Captain Cornelius van der Berg, who commanded the vessel that rescued me from that shore, or of the merchants of Batavia, who have traded with the natives for these two centuries past. The island exists; its people exist; and the narrative I am about to relate is, in all its essential particulars, strictly true. Whether the reader shall find in it matter for instruction or entertainment, for indignation or amusement, I cannot predict. But this I may venture to affirm: that no one who peruses these pages with attention will ever again regard the doctrine of white supremacy with the same complacent acceptance. For if my voyage to the Alabaster Kingdom taught me anything, it taught me this—that the color of a man’s skin is no more indicative of his worth than the color of his coat, and that the only true measure of human excellence is to be found in the contents of the heart. Lemuel Hartley, F.R.G.S. London, March 1847 Chapter the First: In Which I Embark Upon an Extraordinary Voyage, and After Various Perils, Make Landfall Upon an Unknown Shore I was born in the year 1802, in the town of Bristol, of respectable but not wealthy parents. My father, a ship’s carpenter who had risen to the position of master builder in the merchant service, intended that I should follow him in his trade; but a natural inclination for the sea, combined with a restless curiosity about foreign lands, led me instead to pursue a career as a naval surgeon. After serving for seven years in His Majesty’s ships, during which I visited the East and West Indies, the coast of Africa, and the ports of South America, I resigned my commission and entered the service of the Honourable Company of Merchant Adventurers, as surgeon aboard the good ship Resolution, bound for the Spice Islands. It was upon my third voyage in this capacity that the extraordinary events I am about to relate took place. We had left Batavia in the month of October, 1841, with a cargo of spices, coffee, and indigo, intending to make for the Cape of Good Hope and thence to England. The passage through the Sunda Strait was uneventful, and for three weeks we enjoyed favorable winds and clear skies. But on the twenty-third day out, we encountered a tempest of such violence that I have never seen its equal in all my years at sea. The storm descended upon us with the suddenness of a tropical squall, though it possessed the fury of a hurricane. The sky, which had been a cloudless blue at noon, was by two o’clock in the afternoon transformed into a mass of seething darkness, from which lightning flashed with almost continuous brilliance. The wind, which had been blowing steadily from the southeast, shifted without warning to the northwest, and increased to such a velocity that our topsails were torn to ribbons before they could be furled. For three days and nights we battled against the elements, driving before the wind under bare poles, our rudder smashed and our masts sprung. The captain, a brave and experienced seaman named Wilson, did everything that skill and courage could suggest to save the vessel; but on the fourth morning, a tremendous sea broke over our quarter, sweeping the deck clear of everything that was not firmly secured, and staving in the boats on the weather side. An hour later, the ship struck upon a reef, and though we were close enough to land to see the white breakers on the shore, we were powerless to prevent our destruction. I have no clear recollection of what followed. I remember the cry of “Breakers ahead!” and the terrible shock of the impact; I remember seeing the masts go by the board, and the rush of water into the hold; and I remember, with a clarity that time has not diminished, the face of young Thomas Wright, the ship’s boy, as he was swept past me into the boiling surf, his hand outstretched in a mute appeal for help that I was powerless to answer. After that, all is confusion and darkness, until I found myself lying upon a sandy beach, with the surf breaking over my legs and the tropical sun beating down upon my face. I was, as far as I could discover, the sole survivor of the wreck. Of the thirty-seven souls who had sailed from Batavia, I alone had reached the shore alive. The beach was strewn with wreckage—spars, casks, fragments of the ship’s timbers—but of my companions there was no sign, save for one poor fellow who lay face down in the surf, his body already beginning to attract the attention of the crabs. I dragged myself above the high-water mark and collapsed upon the sand, exhausted and half-delirious. When I recovered my senses, the sun was setting, and a chill wind was blowing from the interior. I was bruised and lacerated, but apparently no bones were broken. My clothes were in tatters, and I had lost everything—my instruments, my books, my journal, even the few coins I had carried in my pocket. I was alone, destitute, and cast upon a shore of which I knew nothing, not even its name or its position. It was in this desperate condition that I first beheld the inhabitants of the Alabaster Kingdom. I had fallen into an uneasy sleep, and was awakened by the sound of voices. Opening my eyes, I saw a group of persons standing at a little distance, regarding me with evident curiosity. The light of the setting sun was behind them, so that at first I could distinguish nothing but their silhouettes; but even in that uncertain illumination, I was struck by something singular in their appearance. They were, without exception, of extraordinary pallor. Their skin, where it was exposed to view, seemed to glow with a luminous whiteness, as if illuminated from within. Their hair, which fell in long locks to their shoulders, was of the same bleached color, so fair as to be almost silver. They were dressed in garments of unbleached linen or cotton, which added to the general impression of whiteness, and several of them carried staffs of some pale wood that gleamed in the fading light. I rose to my feet, somewhat unsteadily, and made what I intended to be a gesture of greeting. At this, the group fell back a pace, and I heard them speaking among themselves in low voices. Their language was unlike anything I had ever heard—musical and flowing, with a rising and falling intonation that suggested a question even when, as I later learned, they were making a statement. Presently, one of their number stepped forward—a tall man of commanding presence, with features of remarkable regularity and a bearing that suggested authority. He was dressed in a long robe of white silk, embroidered at the hem with thread of silver, and upon his head he wore a cap of the same material, shaped like a Phrygian bonnet. His eyes, which were of a pale blue color, regarded me with an expression that I could not at first interpret—whether of curiosity, suspicion, or something else, I could not tell. “Stranger,” he said, in English that was heavily accented but perfectly intelligible, “from whence do you come, and what is your business upon our shore?” I explained, as briefly as I could, the circumstances of my shipwreck, and begged for assistance. The tall man listened with an air of grave attention, occasionally nodding his head as if in confirmation of some private thought. When I had finished, he turned to his companions and addressed them in their own language, whereupon they began to talk among themselves with considerable animation. “You are welcome to Alabastria,” the tall man said at length, turning again to me. “I am Lord Albus, Chief Magistrate of the Southern Province. These are my attendants. We were passing this way upon a tour of inspection when we observed the wreck of your vessel and came to investigate. It is fortunate for you that we did so, for the night brings many dangers to those who are unprepared.” I expressed my gratitude, and asked what manner of country I had come to. “You are in the Kingdom of Alabastria,” Lord Albus replied, with a visible swelling of pride, “the oldest, the noblest, and the most civilized nation in the world. Our history extends back ten thousand years, to the time when the Great White Ancestors emerged from the Sacred Snows and established their dominion over the lesser races. Our civilization has been the model for all others; our wisdom has been the light that has guided mankind out of darkness. You have been singularly fortunate, stranger, in being cast upon our shores, for there is no greater privilege than to behold the perfection of Alabastrian society.” I murmured some expression of appreciation, though I confess that this speech, with its tone of unmeasured self-congratulation, struck me as somewhat excessive. But I was in no position to be critical of my benefactors, and when Lord Albus offered to conduct me to the nearest town, where I might obtain food, clothing, and shelter, I accepted with genuine gratitude. We set out at once, for the darkness was gathering rapidly. The path led inland through a forest of tall trees, whose white bark and silver leaves seemed to glow in the twilight. The ground was covered with a kind of pale moss that gave off a faint luminescence, so that we had no need of torches to light our way. The air was filled with the scent of jasmine and orange blossoms, and the silence was broken only by the distant cry of night birds. After walking for about an hour, we emerged from the forest onto a broad plain, where I beheld for the first time the wonders of Alabastrian architecture. The town—which Lord Albus informed me was called Candidum—lay before us in the moonlight, a vision of such extraordinary beauty that I could scarcely believe my eyes. All the buildings were constructed of a white stone that gleamed like marble, with domes and spires that rose against the sky like frozen fountains. The streets were paved with the same material, and were so clean that they might have been washed each morning with milk. The houses were surrounded by gardens filled with white flowers—roses, lilies, jasmine, and many varieties I could not identify—whose perfume filled the air with an intoxicating sweetness. But it was the inhabitants who made the most powerful impression. The streets were thronged with people, all of them possessed of the same extraordinary pallor that I had observed in Lord Albus and his attendants. They were dressed in garments of white or pale colors, and many of them wore jewels—diamonds, pearls, and opals—that glittered in the moonlight. They moved with a slow, dignified grace, speaking in low voices and regarding one another with expressions of serene complacency. “Behold,” said Lord Albus, spreading his arms to embrace the scene, “the City of Candidum, jewel of the South. Is it not the most beautiful sight your eyes have ever beheld?” I assured him that it was indeed remarkable, and he smiled with satisfaction. “You are fortunate,” he said, “to have been born with a complexion so little removed from our own. In the lower districts, where the laboring classes dwell, you might pass unnoticed. But your hair and eyes betray your foreign origin. No matter—we shall find a place for you. We Alabastrians are not without compassion for the less fortunate races.” This speech, which I was to hear repeated in various forms throughout my stay in Alabastria, struck me at the time as merely eccentric. It was only gradually that I came to understand its full significance, and to appreciate the monstrous system of prejudice and oppression that lay concealed beneath this surface of beauty and refinement. Chapter the Second: In Which I Am Introduced to the Customs and Institutions of the Alabastrians, and Begin to Suspect That Their External Elegance Conceals Certain Moral Deficiencies I was conducted to a building of considerable size, which Lord Albus informed me was the Palace of Provincial Administration. It was constructed of white marble, with a portico supported by twelve columns of the Corinthian order, and a dome that rose to a height of at least a hundred feet. The interior was no less magnificent: the floors were of polished alabaster, the walls were adorned with frescoes depicting scenes from Alabastrian history, and the furniture was of ivory inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I was shown to a chamber where I might refresh myself, and servants brought me water for washing, clean linen, and a robe of white silk such as was worn by the upper classes. When I had made myself presentable, I was conducted to the great hall, where Lord Albus awaited me at the head of a long table laden with food. The repast that was set before me was of the most exquisite description. There were dishes of fish from the surrounding seas, prepared with delicate sauces; fowls of various kinds, roasted and served with fruits; vegetables of unfamiliar appearance but excellent flavor; and wines of such clarity and bouquet that I could not help but inquire their origin. “All that you see,” Lord Albus explained, “is the product of Alabastrian soil and Alabastrian labor. Our climate is peculiarly favorable to the production of white things—white grapes, white peaches, white corn, even white cattle. We have bred our plants and animals over centuries to eliminate any trace of color, which we regard as a sign of inferiority. The dark races, who inhabit the islands to the south, cultivate colored fruits and vegetables—red tomatoes, yellow bananas, purple grapes—but we Alabastrians would never permit such things to defile our tables.” “But surely,” I objected, “the color of a fruit has no bearing upon its nutritional value?” Lord Albus smiled tolerantly, as one might at the naivety of a child. “You speak from ignorance, my friend. It is a well-established scientific fact that whiteness is the mark of superiority in all things. The whitest wheat produces the finest flour; the whitest wool makes the softest cloth; the whitest skin conceals the noblest soul. This is not mere superstition, but a principle confirmed by our most eminent philosophers.” I was about to inquire further into these philosophical principles, but Lord Albus turned the conversation to other matters, asking me about my country and my voyages. I described England as best I could, emphasizing its achievements in commerce, science, and the arts; but I observed that Lord Albus listened with a condescending smile, as if to say that all our accomplishments were but pale imitations of Alabastrian perfection. “You English,” he said, when I had finished, “are not without certain crude energies. Your ships sail to every corner of the globe; your factories produce goods in vast quantities; your armies conquer distant lands. But you lack the essential quality that distinguishes the truly civilized nation: the worship of whiteness. You permit persons of color to walk your streets; you employ them in positions of responsibility; you even, I am told, intermarry with them. Such practices would be unthinkable in Alabastria.” “We have our prejudices, certainly,” I replied, somewhat nettled by his tone. “But we also have our laws, which guarantee certain rights to all men, regardless of their complexion.” “Laws!” Lord Albus exclaimed, with a gesture of contempt. “What are laws but the devices by which the inferior seek to restrain the superior? In Alabastria, we have no need of such contrivances. Our superiority is so manifest that it requires no enforcement. The darker races acknowledge it instinctively, and submit to our guidance with gratitude.” This conversation, which continued late into the night, left me with a profound sense of unease. The self-assurance of Lord Albus, his utter conviction of the righteousness of his prejudices, and his casual dismissal of all who differed from him, were qualities that I had encountered before—in the slave markets of Charleston, in the plantations of Jamaica, in the drawing-rooms of London where wealthy merchants discussed the “civilizing mission” of the white race. But never had I met with so concentrated and systematic an expression of these sentiments as I found in Alabastria. In the days that followed, I was given every opportunity to observe the workings of Alabastrian society. Lord Albus, who seemed to have taken a liking to me, appointed one of his secretaries—a young man named Candidus—to show me the sights of the city and explain its institutions. Candidus was a pleasant enough companion, well-informed and agreeable in his manners; but he shared fully in the prejudices of his countrymen, and his conversation was filled with disparaging references to the “colored races” who formed, as I gradually learned, the majority of the population. The social structure of Alabastria, as explained to me by Candidus, was based upon a strict hierarchy of complexion. At the apex were the Albi, or Pure Whites, who constituted about one-tenth of the population and monopolized all positions of power and privilege. Below them were the Candidi, or Cream-Coloreds, who were permitted to engage in trade and the professions, but were excluded from the highest offices. Then came the Lactei, or Milky-Whites, who were employed in clerical and supervisory positions. And at the bottom, forming a vast submerged mass of laborers and servants, were the Colorati—the people of color, whose complexions ranged from olive to ebony, and who were regarded as little better than beasts of burden. “But surely,” I protested, when Candidus had explained this system, “there are among the Colorati individuals of intelligence and ability who might be fitted for higher positions?” Candidus shook his head with the air of one who has long since abandoned such illusions. “It is impossible,” he said. “The color of the skin is the outward sign of inner qualities. A Coloratus may be strong, docile, and even cunning in a low way; but he lacks the higher faculties of reason, imagination, and moral sense. This has been proven by our most eminent scientists, who have measured the cranial capacities of the various races and found a direct correlation between paleness of complexion and volume of the brain.” “I have heard of such studies,” I replied, “but I confess I have never found them convincing. In my own country, we have men of African descent who have distinguished themselves in literature, the arts, and even the sciences. The poet Wheatley, the actor Aldridge, the mathematician Banneker—these are names that command respect even among the most prejudiced.” “Anomalies,” Candidus said dismissively. “The exceptions that prove the rule. No doubt among the apes there are individuals that display a certain cleverness; but no one would therefore argue that apes are the equals of men. The Colorati are, if I may speak plainly, a lower order of being, intermediate between the true humans—that is, ourselves—and the higher animals. To treat them as equals would be as absurd as to expect a dog to appreciate Shakespeare or a horse to understand Euclid.” I was shocked by the brutality of this comparison, but I judged it prudent to conceal my feelings. I was, after all, a stranger in a strange land, dependent upon the hospitality of my hosts, and in no position to challenge their most cherished beliefs. I resolved, therefore, to observe and to learn, hoping that time would reveal whether this harsh doctrine was indeed the foundation of Alabastrian society, or merely the theoretical rationalization of a more complex reality. My observations, however, served only to confirm the rigor of the caste system. In the streets of Candidum, I saw Colorati stepping aside to let Albi pass, lowering their eyes in token of submission, and even prostrating themselves in the presence of high officials. They were dressed in coarse garments of brown or gray, in marked contrast to the white raiment of their superiors, and they lived in a separate quarter of the city—a maze of narrow alleys and dilapidated hovels that Candidus referred to as the “Pigment District.” “You must not suppose that we are cruel to our inferiors,” Candidus assured me, as we passed through the marketplace where Colorati were unloading sacks of grain under the supervision of Lactei overseers. “On the contrary, we regard them with a kind of paternal affection. They are like children, or perhaps like domestic animals—incapable of self-direction, but capable of great loyalty and even affection when properly treated. We provide them with food, shelter, and protection; in return, they render us their labor. It is a fair exchange, and one that benefits both parties.” “But are they not permitted to improve their condition?” I asked. “Is there no path by which a Coloratus might rise to a higher rank?” Candidus smiled pityingly. “You are thinking like a European, my friend. In your countries, where the races are mixed and the distinctions blurred, such mobility may be possible—though I understand it leads to endless confusion and social disorder. Here in Alabastria, the boundaries are fixed by nature herself. A Coloratus may become a skilled artisan, a trusted servant, even a wealthy man by the standards of his class; but he can never become an Albus. The very idea is absurd—as absurd as for a crow to aspire to the plumage of a swan.” I was silent, contemplating this doctrine of immutable inequality. It seemed to me the very antithesis of everything I had been taught to value—the Christian belief in the equality of souls before God, the Enlightenment faith in the universality of human rights, the democratic principle that merit, not birth, should determine a man’s station. And yet, as I looked about me at the serene beauty of Alabastrian society—the clean streets, the orderly markets, the graceful manners of the upper classes—I could not deny that it possessed a certain charm, a superficial attractiveness that might easily deceive the unwary observer. It was only later, when I had penetrated beneath this polished surface, that I discovered the corruption and cruelty that lay concealed within. Chapter the Third: In Which I Attend the Great Festival of Whiteness, and Witness the Extraordinary Ceremonies by Which the Alabastrians Celebrate Their Complexional Superiority I had been in Candidum for about a fortnight when I learned that the city was preparing to celebrate the annual Festival of Whiteness—a religious and civic ceremony of great antiquity and importance. Lord Albus, who continued to take a kindly interest in my education, invited me to accompany him to the principal ceremonies, and I accepted with alacrity, eager to observe this curious rite. The festival lasted for three days, and its observances were elaborate in the extreme. On the first day, the entire population was required to undergo a ritual purification, washing themselves with a special soap made from white clay and almond oil, and anointing their bodies with a lotion that gave the skin a pearly luster. Even the Colorati were expected to participate in this ceremony, though they were provided with an inferior soap that, as Candidus explained, “could not possibly make them white, but might at least render them less offensive to the eye.” “For,” he added, “it is a principle of our religion that all should strive to approach the ideal of whiteness, even if they can never fully attain it. The Coloratus who keeps himself clean and avoids the sun shows a proper respect for the divine order, whereas one who neglects his appearance is guilty of impiety.” The second day was devoted to processions and public ceremonies. In the morning, the priests of the Temple of Albedo—the supreme religious authority in Alabastria—paraded through the streets carrying images of the Great White Ancestors, legendary figures who were said to have emerged from the primordial snows at the dawn of creation. These images were of ivory, dressed in robes of white silk, and so lifelike in their workmanship that they seemed about to speak. Behind the priests came the civil magistrates, the military officers, and the great merchants, all dressed in their most magnificent white raiment, and all displaying upon their faces that expression of serene self-satisfaction that I had come to recognize as the hallmark of the Alabastrian upper class. They were followed by the lower orders—Candidi, Lactei, and even a few Colorati who had been granted special permission to participate—forming a procession that extended for more than a mile. The climax of the ceremony occurred at noon, when the procession reached the Great Square, where a platform had been erected for the High Priest of Albedo. This dignitary, a man of extraordinary pallor whose skin was said to have been preserved from any exposure to the sun for his entire life, delivered an address that lasted for more than two hours, expounding the theological foundations of Alabastrian supremacy. “Brethren,” he began, in a voice that carried to every corner of the square, “we are gathered today to give thanks to the Divine Whiteness, the source and principle of all that is good, true, and beautiful. We, the children of Albedo, have been chosen from among all the peoples of the earth to embody this divine attribute, to preserve it undefiled, and to extend its dominion over the darker regions of the world.” He went on to recount the history of the Alabastrian people, from their mythical origins in the Sacred Snows to their present state of civilized perfection. He described the “Age of Darkness” that had preceded their enlightenment, when the ancestors of the Colorati had ruled the island in savage anarchy, and he praised the Great White Ancestors who had overthrown this barbarism and established the ordered hierarchy of the present day. “And let us not forget,” he continued, with a note of warning in his voice, “that this order is not merely a human contrivance, but a reflection of the divine plan. The whiteness of our skin is the outward sign of the purity of our souls; the darkness of the inferior races is the mark of their spiritual degradation. To question this hierarchy is to question the wisdom of the Creator; to seek to overturn it is to rebel against the very nature of existence.” The congregation responded with a murmur of assent, and I observed that even the Colorati in the crowd bowed their heads in apparent acceptance of this doctrine. I was later to learn that they had little choice in the matter, for any sign of dissent would have been punished with extreme severity. The third day of the festival was given over to private celebrations and the exchange of gifts. I was invited to dine with Lord Albus and his family, and I had the opportunity to observe the domestic manners of the Alabastrian aristocracy at close quarters. The household of Lord Albus was conducted with a formality that would have seemed excessive even in the court of St. James. Every action, from the serving of the food to the conduct of conversation, was governed by elaborate rules that had been codified over centuries. The servants—who were all Colorati of the darkest complexion, dressed in white livery that made their skin appear even darker by contrast—moved about their duties with the silent efficiency of automata, never speaking unless spoken to, and never meeting the eyes of their masters. “You observe our domestic arrangements,” Lord Albus said to me, as we sat at table. “I flatter myself that there is no household in Alabastria more efficiently managed. My servants are the best in the province—docile, obedient, and grateful for the protection I afford them. I have never had to punish one of them severely; a word of reproof is sufficient to bring them to a proper sense of their shortcomings.” “And if a word of reproof were not sufficient?” I inquired. Lord Albus shrugged. “Then I should sell them, and purchase others more amenable to discipline. It is a simple matter of property rights. The Colorati are, in the eyes of the law, chattels—movable goods that may be bought, sold, or transferred at the will of their owners. This is not cruelty, you understand, but necessity. If they were granted the rights of citizens, they would be quite incapable of exercising them; they would fall into disputes, commit crimes, and generally create the most intolerable disorder. Our system protects them from their own weaknesses, even as it protects us from their potential violence.” “But surely,” I objected, “there are among them individuals of exceptional ability, who might rise above the condition of their race?” Lord Albus shook his head. “There you fall into the common error of the foreigner. You suppose that intelligence is distributed according to individual merit, whereas in fact it is determined by racial type. A Coloratus may be clever in a low, cunning way—he may learn to perform certain tasks with skill, to mimic the manners of his betters, even to acquire a smattering of knowledge. But he can never achieve true understanding, the higher synthesis of reason and imagination that characterizes the white mind. It is as impossible as for a dog to learn to read, or a parrot to compose poetry.” I was about to reply when I was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who whispered something in Lord Albus’s ear. His lordship’s face darkened, and he rose from the table with an apology. “I am called away upon a matter of business,” he said. “One of my Colorati has been detected in an act of theft. I must attend to his punishment. You will excuse me, I trust.” I expressed my willingness to accompany him, if he had no objection, for I was curious to see how justice was administered in Alabastria. He assented, and we proceeded to a courtyard at the rear of the palace, where a small crowd had gathered. In the center of the courtyard stood a young Coloratus, perhaps twenty years of age, his hands bound behind him and his face marked with signs of recent beating. Before him stood an overseer, armed with a whip of knotted cords, who was reading from a document that apparently detailed the prisoner’s offense. “The slave named Niger,” the overseer intoned, “is accused of stealing a loaf of bread from his master’s kitchen. The theft has been witnessed by two credible persons, and the stolen property was found in his possession. By the laws of Alabastria, the penalty for theft by a Coloratus is twenty lashes.” I was about to protest that this seemed a disproportionate punishment for so trivial an offense, but Lord Albus laid a restraining hand upon my arm. “You do not understand,” he whispered. “These people are not like us. They do not feel pain as we do, nor do they possess the moral sense that would make punishment a deterrent. The lash is not, for them, a source of suffering, but merely a stimulus to proper behavior. It is the only language they understand.” I watched, horrified, as the sentence was carried out. The young man was stripped to the waist and bound to a post, and the overseer proceeded to administer the lashes with a methodical precision that was more terrible than any passionate cruelty. At each stroke, the victim’s body jerked convulsively, and his cries echoed through the courtyard; but the overseer continued without pause, counting aloud until the full number had been delivered. When it was over, the young man was cut down and dragged away, his back a mass of bleeding welts. The spectators dispersed with the air of persons who have witnessed a routine and unremarkable event, and Lord Albus turned to me with a smile. “You see how it is,” he said. “Justice is swift and certain in Alabastria. We do not waste time with trials and appeals, as you do in Europe. The facts are ascertained, the penalty is applied, and the matter is concluded. It is a system that has served us well for ten thousand years.” I made some reply, I know not what, and shortly afterward took my leave, pleading fatigue. But in truth I was shaken to the core by what I had witnessed. The easy brutality of the punishment, the casual indifference of the spectators, and above all the serene self-righteousness of Lord Albus, who truly believed that he was acting in accordance with the highest principles of justice—all these things combined to fill me with a profound sense of revulsion. That night, I lay awake for many hours, reflecting upon the nature of the society in which I found myself. On the surface, it was a model of beauty and order—the clean streets, the elegant architecture, the refined manners of the upper classes. But beneath this surface lay a system of oppression so comprehensive, so deeply rooted in the very foundations of the culture, that it seemed almost to be taken for granted by all who participated in it. I thought of the young man who had been whipped for stealing a loaf of bread, and I wondered what desperation had driven him to such an act. I thought of the countless others who labored in the fields and workshops of Alabastria, their lives governed by the whims of their masters, their bodies subject to arbitrary punishment, their souls denied any recognition of their common humanity. And I thought of the doctrines that justified this system—the pseudoscientific theories of racial hierarchy, the theological rationalizations of divine election, the social theories that represented oppression as paternal care. It seemed to me that I was looking into a mirror, distorted and magnified, of my own society. For were not these same doctrines preached, in somewhat milder form, in the churches and universities of Europe? Did not our own planters and merchants justify their exploitation of the African and the Asian by similar appeals to natural superiority and civilizing mission? The Alabastrians had merely carried these principles to their logical conclusion, creating a society in which the distinction between the white and the colored was inscribed in law, sanctioned by religion, and enforced with unsparing rigor. And yet, even as I condemned this system, I was forced to acknowledge its power. The Alabastrians were not hypocrites, in the ordinary sense of the word. They did not preach one thing and practice another; they genuinely believed in the righteousness of their cause, and their belief gave them a strength and confidence that was formidable to behold. They had created a world in which their prejudices were confirmed at every turn, in which every institution reinforced their sense of superiority, and in which dissent was so thoroughly suppressed that it seemed not to exist at all. How was such a system to be challenged? By what arguments could these people be brought to see the injustice of their ways? These were the questions that occupied my mind as I finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, and they were to continue to trouble me throughout my stay in Alabastria. Chapter the Fourth: In Which I Visit the Academy of Chromatic Science, and Learn of the Extraordinary Theories by Which the Alabastrians Justify Their Supremacy It was Lord Albus who suggested that I should visit the Academy of Chromatic Science, the principal institution of learning in Alabastria. “You are a man of science yourself,” he observed, “and you will doubtless be interested in the discoveries that our scholars have made regarding the nature of race and color. I believe you will find that we have carried these studies further than any European philosopher.” I accepted the invitation with genuine curiosity, for I was eager to examine the intellectual foundations of Alabastrian racism. The Academy was situated in the northern quarter of the city, in a building of extraordinary size and magnificence. Its facade was decorated with statues of the great Alabastrian scientists of the past, all of them represented with features of idealized whiteness, and its interior contained lecture halls, laboratories, and libraries that would have been the envy of any European university. I was received by the President of the Academy, a venerable gentleman named Professor Albus Magnus, whose complexion was of such extraordinary pallor that he seemed almost to be carved from marble. His hair and beard were white as snow, and his eyes, which were of a pale, watery blue, regarded me with an expression of benign condescension. “You are welcome, Dr. Hartley,” he said, after Lord Albus had introduced us. “We are always pleased to receive visitors from abroad, even from those less advanced regions of the world. I understand that you wish to learn something of our scientific doctrines?” I assured him that this was indeed my desire, and he proceeded to conduct me on a tour of the institution. “Our Academy,” he began, “was founded three thousand years ago, in the Age of Enlightenment that followed the overthrow of the Colorati tyranny. Its purpose has always been to investigate the nature of whiteness and to establish, by rigorous scientific methods, the basis of Alabastrian superiority. We have made, if I may say so, remarkable progress in these studies.” He led me to a large hall where a lecture was in progress. The subject, as indicated by a placard at the entrance, was “The Cranial Characteristics of the Inferior Races.” The lecturer, a middle-aged man with the earnest manner of one who expounds an important truth, was illustrating his discourse with diagrams and specimens that were displayed upon a table. “Observe,” he was saying, pointing to a series of skulls that ranged in color from pale yellow to deep black, “the progressive degradation of the cranial structure as we descend the scale of whiteness. Here we have the skull of a pure Albus, with its high forehead, its well-developed frontal sinuses, and its capacious brain-case. Note the elegance of its proportions, the delicacy of its features, the general suggestion of intellectual refinement.” He picked up the skull and held it before the audience, who murmured in appreciative recognition of its beauties. “Now compare it with this,” he continued, taking up another specimen. “This is the skull of a typical Niger, a member of the darkest and most degraded of the racial types. Observe the sloping forehead, the prognathous jaw, the heavy brow-ridges. These are not merely aesthetic defects; they are indications of a fundamentally different type of brain, one that is incapable of the higher forms of abstract thought.” I was about to interrupt with an objection, but Professor Magnus laid a restraining hand upon my arm. “Pray, allow the lecturer to finish,” he whispered. “You will have an opportunity to ask questions afterward.” The lecture continued for another hour, during which the speaker expounded a comprehensive theory of racial hierarchy based upon cranial measurements. He produced tables and statistics to demonstrate the correlation between skin color and brain size; he cited case studies of Colorati who had been subjected to various tests of intelligence and had invariably performed poorly; and he concluded with a passionate peroration on the duty of the white races to maintain their purity against the encroachment of inferior blood. “For,” he declared, “if we permit the mixing of the races, if we allow our sacred whiteness to be diluted by the dark taint of the Colorati, we shall inevitably decline to the level of those we have dominated. History provides us with abundant examples of such degenerations—the fall of ancient civilizations, the decline of once-noble families, the corruption of pure stocks by admixture with baser elements. It is our duty, our sacred duty, to preserve the purity of our race, even if this requires the most drastic measures.” When the lecture was concluded, I was introduced to the speaker, whose name was Dr. Pallidus. He received my congratulations with modest satisfaction, and invited me to examine his specimens more closely. “You are, I understand, a medical man,” he said. “You will appreciate the rigor of our methods. These skulls have all been measured according to the most precise standards, and the data have been verified by independent observers. There is no possibility of error.” I picked up one of the specimens—a skull of dark brown coloration—and examined it with professional attention. It seemed to me to be entirely normal in its proportions, showing no signs of the “degradation” that Dr. Pallidus had described. “Forgive me,” I said, “but I am not convinced that these measurements prove what you claim. In my own country, we have men of African descent who have distinguished themselves in every field of intellectual endeavor. The poet Phillis Wheatley, the mathematician Benjamin Banneker, the actor Ira Aldridge—these are names that command universal respect. How do you account for such exceptions to your rule?” Dr. Pallidus smiled tolerantly. “You speak of exceptions, Dr. Hartley, but I assure you that they prove the rule. These individuals you mention—if indeed their achievements are as great as you claim, which I must take upon your word—are doubtless the products of some unusual admixture of blood, or perhaps the beneficiaries of exceptional training. They do not invalidate the general principle that the darker races are intellectually inferior to the lighter.” “But surely,” I persisted, “if a single individual of dark complexion can achieve intellectual distinction, this demonstrates that color is not a reliable indicator of ability?” “Not at all,” Dr. Pallidus replied. “It merely demonstrates the existence of variation within the racial type. Just as there are unusually large dogs and unusually small horses, so there are unusually intelligent Colorati. But these are statistical anomalies, of no significance for the general theory. The average brain capacity of the Negro race is, as our measurements clearly show, significantly lower than that of the Caucasian. This is a scientific fact, established beyond the possibility of doubt.” “But who established the standards by which these measurements are made?” I asked. “Who determined that a high forehead is a sign of intelligence, or that a prognathous jaw indicates moral deficiency? Are these not merely arbitrary conventions, reflecting the prejudices of those who devised them?” Dr. Pallidus looked at me with an expression of pained surprise, as if I had uttered a blasphemy. “You question the validity of our methods?” he said. “But these are the methods that have been employed by the greatest scientists of Alabastria for three thousand years! They have been verified by countless observations, confirmed by every test that ingenuity can devise. To doubt them is to doubt the foundations of science itself.” “I do not doubt science,” I replied. “But I have observed that science is often employed to justify the prejudices of those who practice it. In my own country, we have had men of science who claimed to prove the inferiority of women, the criminality of the poor, the degeneracy of the Irish—all by methods that appeared rigorous to their inventors, but that we now recognize as mere rationalizations of social prejudice. I cannot help but suspect that your cranial measurements serve a similar purpose.” There was a moment of shocked silence. Professor Magnus and Dr. Pallidus exchanged glances of consternation, and I realized that I had committed a serious breach of etiquette. In Alabastria, it seemed, the doctrines of racial science were not to be questioned; they were articles of faith, as sacred as the tenets of religion. “You are a foreigner,” Professor Magnus said at length, with an effort at patience, “and you cannot be expected to understand the subtleties of our science. But I must tell you that your skepticism is misplaced. Our doctrines are not mere theories; they are facts, established by observation and confirmed by experience. Every aspect of Alabastrian society testifies to their truth. Look about you at the achievements of our civilization—the beauty of our cities, the refinement of our arts, the complexity of our institutions. Are these the products of inferior minds? And compare them with the squalor and barbarism of the Colorati nations. Can you deny the evidence of your own senses?” “I do not deny your achievements,” I replied. “But I question whether they are the result of racial superiority, rather than of historical circumstance, economic advantage, and the systematic exclusion of others from the benefits of education and opportunity. In my own country, we have seen how the children of the poor, given access to schooling, can rise to positions of distinction; how the descendants of slaves, emancipated and enfranchised, can become productive citizens. It seems to me that the differences you attribute to race are in fact the products of environment and social structure.” “Environment!” Dr. Pallidus exclaimed, with a scornful laugh. “You speak like the philosophers of the last century, who believed that human nature was infinitely malleable. We have progressed beyond such naivety. We know, from our studies of heredity, that the qualities of the race are fixed and immutable. A Coloratus, however well-educated, however carefully nurtured, can never become an Albus. The very idea is absurd—as absurd as to expect a pig to become a horse through proper training.” The conversation continued for some time, but I could see that I was making no impression upon my interlocutors. They were so thoroughly convinced of the truth of their doctrines, so completely enclosed within the circle of their own assumptions, that no argument from outside could penetrate their defenses. I left the Academy with a heavy heart, more convinced than ever that the evil of Alabastrian society lay not merely in its institutions, but in the very minds of those who controlled them. Chapter the Fifth: In Which I Venture into the Pigment District, and Discover the True Condition of the Colorati Under Alabastrian Rule The events I have related in the preceding chapter had the effect of arousing in me a profound curiosity about the condition of the Colorati. Hitherto, I had seen them only as servants, laborers, and the passive recipients of Alabastrian justice; but I suspected that there was another side to their existence, hidden from the view of their masters, in which they might display those qualities of intelligence and feeling that the Alabastrians denied them. I expressed this desire to Candidus, who was horrified by the suggestion. “You wish to visit the Pigment District?” he exclaimed. “But it is impossible—quite impossible! The place is dangerous, filthy, and altogether unsuitable for a person of your station. Besides, the Colorati are not accustomed to receiving visitors; they would not know how to behave in the presence of a white man.” “I am willing to take the risk,” I replied. “In my profession, I have often visited the poorest quarters of European cities, and I have never come to harm. I am curious to see how the Colorati live, and to judge for myself whether they are indeed the degraded beings that your philosophers describe.” Candidus continued to object, but I was persistent, and at length he reluctantly consented to accompany me on a brief excursion into the district. “But you must promise,” he insisted, “to follow my lead in all things, and to leave immediately if I judge it necessary. The Colorati are unpredictable, and one never knows when they may become violent.” I gave him the required assurance, and we set out early one morning, before the heat of the day had become oppressive. The Pigment District lay to the east of the city center, beyond the marketplaces and warehouses, in a low-lying area that was subject to flooding during the rainy season. As we approached it, I observed a marked change in the appearance of the buildings. The white marble of the upper city gave way to crude structures of wood and mud, roofed with thatch or corrugated iron. The streets, which in the Alabastrian quarter were kept scrupulously clean, were here choked with refuse, and the air was thick with the stench of decay. “You see,” Candidus observed, with a gesture of disgust, “how these people live. They are incapable of maintaining the most elementary standards of cleanliness. No matter how often we instruct them in the principles of hygiene, they revert to their natural squalor.” “But surely,” I objected, “they lack the means to live otherwise? They are paid starvation wages, crowded into inadequate dwellings, and denied access to the amenities that would make cleanliness possible.” “They are paid what they are worth,” Candidus replied stiffly. “If we were to pay them more, they would only squander it on drink and debauchery. As for their dwellings—well, they are accustomed to such conditions. They do not feel discomfort as we do.” We continued through the maze of narrow alleys, attracting considerable attention as we went. The inhabitants—men, women, and children of every shade from olive to ebony—stared at us with expressions that ranged from curiosity to hostility. Some turned away as we approached, as if fearing to meet our eyes; others followed us at a distance, whispering among themselves. Presently, we came to an open space where a group of Colorati were gathered around a speaker who was addressing them from a makeshift platform. The speaker was an elderly man, whose hair was white with age but whose skin was of a deep brown color. He was speaking in the Alabastrian language, but with an accent and idiom that suggested a level of education unusual among his class. “Brothers and sisters,” he was saying, “we have been told, since the day of our birth, that we are inferior to the Albi—that our dark skin is the mark of our degradation, and that our proper place is in servitude to our white masters. But I tell you that this is a lie—a lie invented by our oppressors to justify their tyranny. We are men and women, created by the same God who created them, endowed with the same faculties, entitled to the same rights. The color of our skin is no more indicative of our worth than the color of our clothes. It is a mere accident of climate and heredity, without moral significance.” “This is dangerous talk,” Candidus whispered to me. “The man is a known agitator. He has been imprisoned twice for spreading seditious doctrines. We should leave at once.” But I was fascinated by the speaker’s words, which echoed my own thoughts so closely. “Let us hear what he has to say,” I urged. The old man continued: “They point to our poverty, our ignorance, our apparent degradation, as proof of our inferiority. But who made us poor? Who keeps us ignorant? Who degrades us by denying us the rights of citizens, the privileges of education, the dignity of free labor? It is they, our masters, who have reduced us to this condition, and who now use that condition as an argument for our continued subjugation.” A murmur of assent rose from the crowd, and I saw several heads nodding in agreement. “But the day will come,” the speaker continued, his voice rising with prophetic fervor, “when this system of oppression will be overthrown. The Albi are few, and we are many. Their power rests upon our acquiescence, and when we withdraw that acquiescence—when we refuse any longer to labor for their benefit, to submit to their laws, to acknowledge their false superiority—their empire will crumble like a house of sand.” At this point, Candidus could contain himself no longer. “This is treason!” he cried, pushing forward through the crowd. “You will cease this seditious speech at once, or I shall report you to the authorities!” The speaker paused, and regarded Candidus with an expression of calm dignity. “I speak the truth,” he said, “and the truth is not treason, except to those who live by falsehood. But I see that my words are offensive to your ears, and I will say no more.” He descended from his platform, and the crowd began to disperse. But I was determined to speak with him, and I approached him as he was gathering his papers. “Sir,” I said, “I am a stranger in your country, but I am deeply interested in what you have said. Would you do me the honor of conversing with me further?” The old man looked at me with surprise, but also with a certain curiosity. “You are not an Albus,” he observed. “Your complexion is darker than theirs, and your accent is foreign. Who are you, and what brings you to our district?” I explained my situation, and he listened with close attention. When I had finished, he extended his hand in greeting. “I am called Niger by my enemies,” he said, “but my true name is Melancthon. I was once a teacher in the Alabastrian schools, before my views made me unacceptable to the authorities. Now I live among my own people, trying to awaken them to a sense of their dignity and their rights.” “Your words moved me deeply,” I said. “They express thoughts that I have long held, but dared not speak in the presence of my hosts.” “Then you are a rare man,” Melancthon replied. “Most Europeans who come to Alabastria are content to accept the doctrines of their hosts, or at least to remain silent in the face of their cruelties. But you, I perceive, have a mind of your own.” Candidus, who had been listening to this exchange with growing impatience, now intervened. “Dr. Hartley,” he said, “we must leave at once. It is not safe for you to be seen conversing with this man. If Lord Albus were to hear of it—” “Let Lord Albus hear what he will,” I replied. “I am a free man, and I will speak with whom I please.” Candidus stared at me in consternation, as if I had uttered something incomprehensible. Then, with a gesture of resignation, he withdrew to a little distance, where he could observe us without being implicated in our conversation. Melancthon smiled. “Your companion is a typical Alabastrian,” he observed. “He cannot conceive of a relationship between a white man and a man of color that is not based upon domination and submission. The very idea of equality is foreign to his understanding.” “I fear you are right,” I said. “But tell me, how did you come to hold the views you have expressed? In a society where such ideas are forbidden, how did you acquire the knowledge and the courage to challenge the prevailing orthodoxy?” Melancthon led me to a bench in the shade of a dilapidated building, and we sat down to talk. He told me that he had been born into a family of Colorati who had enjoyed certain privileges because of their service to an Alabastrian master. His father had been a skilled artisan, employed in the construction of the very buildings that now excluded him from their precincts, and he had managed to secure for his son an education that was normally reserved for the white elite. “I was taught to read and write,” Melancthon explained, “to speak the language of the Albi with proper grammar, even to appreciate their literature and their philosophy. I was, in effect, trained to be a servant of their culture—a native who could mediate between them and the mass of the Colorati population. And for a time, I accepted this role. I believed that by demonstrating my intelligence and my loyalty, I could earn a place in their society, perhaps even win some improvement in the condition of my people.” “But you were disappointed?” “Worse than disappointed—I was awakened to the truth. I discovered that no matter how hard I worked, no matter how much I proved my abilities, I could never be accepted as an equal. The Albi would praise my accomplishments, even reward me with money and position; but they would never acknowledge that I was fundamentally the same as themselves. To do so would be to undermine the very foundation of their society—the belief that whiteness is the mark of superiority.” “And so you became a rebel?” “I became a truth-teller. I began to study the history of my people, to learn of the time before the Albi came to power, when the Colorati had their own kingdoms, their own arts and sciences. I discovered that the doctrine of white supremacy was not an eternal truth, but a relatively recent invention, devised to justify the conquest and enslavement of darker peoples. And I realized that the only hope for my people lay in rejecting this doctrine, in reclaiming our own history and our own dignity, and in struggling for our liberation.” “But surely,” I objected, “there are risks in such a course? The Alabastrians are powerful, and their control is absolute.” “There are risks, certainly. I have been imprisoned twice, as your companion observed, and I live under constant threat of further punishment. But what is the alternative? To accept my subjugation in silence, to collaborate in the oppression of my own people, to betray the truth for the sake of personal safety? I cannot do it. I would rather die than live as a slave, even a comfortable slave.” I was deeply moved by this man’s courage and conviction. Here, in the midst of squalor and oppression, I had found a spirit that was truly free—a mind that had liberated itself from the prejudices of its society, and that was willing to risk everything for the sake of truth and justice. “Tell me,” I said, “what can be done? Is there no hope of reform, no possibility of persuading the Alabastrians to change their ways?” Melancthon shook his head. “They will not change voluntarily. Their entire society is built upon the exploitation of my people; to acknowledge our equality would be to undermine their economic system, their political structure, their very sense of identity. Change will come only when we force it—when we organize, when we resist, when we make the cost of their domination too high to bear.” “But such a course might lead to bloodshed, to civil war.” “It might. And I deplore violence as much as any man. But I tell you this: the violence of the oppressed, when it comes, is merely the echo of the violence of the oppressor. For three thousand years, the Albi have maintained their power by force—by the lash, the prison, the executioner’s block. If we must use force to overthrow them, it is only because they have left us no other choice.” Our conversation was interrupted by the approach of a group of Colorati, who had come to seek Melancthon’s counsel. I took my leave, pressing his hand in token of my respect, and rejoined Candidus, who was pacing impatiently at the edge of the square. “You have ruined yourself,” he said, as we made our way back to the white quarter. “Lord Albus will hear of this, and he will be furious. You have consorted with enemies of the state, listened to treasonous doctrines, even shaken hands with a known agitator. Your position here is no longer tenable.” “Then I shall leave,” I replied calmly. “I have seen enough of Alabastria to understand its true nature. It is a beautiful shell, concealing a rotten core. I would rather live among honest poverty than share in such corrupt luxury.” Candidus looked at me with an expression of genuine bewilderment. “I do not understand you,” he said. “You are a white man—almost white, at any rate. You have been welcomed into our society, treated with honor and respect. And yet you throw it all away for the sake of a few dark-skinned laborers who would cut your throat as soon as look at you.” “You are wrong about them,” I said. “They are not the degraded beings you imagine. They are men and women, with the same feelings, the same aspirations, the same capacity for virtue and intelligence as yourself. The only difference is that they have been denied the opportunity to develop these qualities.” “You have been deceived by Melancthon’s rhetoric,” Candidus replied. “He is a clever man, I grant you, clever in the way that a fox is clever. He knows how to play upon the sympathies of idealistic foreigners, to present his people as innocent victims of oppression. But you have not seen them as they truly are—in their natural state, without the restraint of Alabastrian authority. I have witnessed the results of their ‘liberation’ in the outlying districts, where the control of the Albi is weak. They revert at once to barbarism—stealing, fighting, engaging in the most disgusting practices. It is only our firm guidance that keeps them from destroying themselves.” We argued in this manner all the way back to the palace, neither convincing the other. When we arrived, I was summoned at once to Lord Albus’s presence, and I knew that my situation had indeed become critical. Chapter the Sixth: In Which I Am Called to Account by Lord Albus, and Resolve to Depart from Alabastria Lord Albus received me in his private study, a room of considerable size lined with