VI. The Sunset of Mankind

by H. G. Wells

I quickly noticed something peculiar about my little hosts: they seemed to lack any real interest. They approached me with excited exclamations, much like children, but just as quickly as they arrived, they lost focus and wandered off to chase after something else. Once dinner was over and my attempts at conversation fizzled out, I realized that most of the crowd that had gathered around me had vanished. It was strange how quickly I began to overlook these little people. After satisfying my hunger, I stepped back out into the sunlit world.

The evening calm enveloped the landscape as I exited the grand hall, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. At first, everything felt disorienting. The world was so vastly different from what I had known—even the flowers. The large building I had just left sat on the slope of a wide river valley, but the Thames had shifted, perhaps a mile from where it used to flow. I decided to climb to the top of a nearby hill, about a mile and a half away, where I could get a better view of this planet in the year 802,701 A.D. That, I should mention, was the date my time machine had recorded.

As I walked, I absorbed every detail that might help me understand the state of this ruined yet beautiful world. Just a little way up the hill, I came across a massive pile of granite, held together by chunks of aluminum—a vast maze of steep walls and crumpled heaps, interspersed with clusters of stunning, pagoda-like plants. They looked like nettles, but they were beautifully tinted with brown around the leaves and didn’t sting. It was clearly the remnants of some grand structure, though I couldn't figure out its original purpose. This spot would later become significant for me, leading to a bizarre experience and an even stranger discovery, but I would save that story for another time.

As I paused on a terrace to catch my breath, a sudden thought struck me: there were no small houses in sight. It seemed that the concept of the single house, and perhaps even the family unit, had vanished. Scattered among the greenery were grand, palace-like buildings, but the quaint homes and cottages that define the English landscape had disappeared.

“Communism,” I mused to myself.

Then another thought followed. I glanced at the half-dozen little figures trailing behind me. In an instant, I realized they all wore the same type of clothing, had the same smooth, hairless faces, and shared a similar, rounded physique. It might seem odd that I hadn’t noticed this before, but everything felt so foreign. Now, the similarity was clear. In terms of clothing and the physical traits that typically distinguish the sexes, these future people were remarkably alike. The children appeared to be merely smaller versions of their parents. I concluded that the children of this era were exceptionally advanced, at least physically, and I would later find plenty of evidence to support my observation.

Observing the ease and security in which these people lived, I thought that this close resemblance between the sexes was to be expected. The traditional strengths of men and the gentleness of women, the family unit, and the division of labor were all products of a time when physical strength mattered most. In a society where the population is balanced and plentiful, having many children becomes more of a burden than a blessing. When violence is rare and children are safe, the need for a strong family structure diminishes, and the distinctions between the sexes regarding child-rearing fade away. We can see hints of this even in our own time, and in this future world, it was fully realized. I remind you, though, that this was merely my speculation at the time; later, I would come to understand how far off I was from the truth.

While I pondered these thoughts, something caught my eye—a charming little structure that resembled a well beneath a dome. I briefly found it amusing that wells still existed, then returned to my reflections. There were no large buildings near the hilltop, and as my walking abilities seemed almost miraculous, I soon found myself alone for the first time. With a strange sense of freedom and adventure, I pressed on toward the crest.

I found a seat made of a yellow metal I didn’t recognize, its surface corroded in places with a pinkish rust and half-covered in soft moss. The armrests were shaped like griffin heads, and as I settled onto it, I took in the expansive view of our old world under the fading light of the day. It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the western sky ablaze with gold, streaked with horizontal bands of purple and crimson. Below me lay the Thames valley, the river glinting like a band of polished steel.

I had already noticed the grand palaces scattered among the lush greenery, some in ruins while others were still inhabited. Here and there, a white or silver figure emerged from the overgrown gardens, and the sharp lines of cupolas and obelisks punctuated the landscape. There were no hedges, no signs of ownership, no evidence of farming; the entire earth had transformed into a garden.

As I watched, I began to interpret the scene before me. My thoughts took shape that evening, though later I realized I had grasped only a fragment of the truth.

It struck me that I had stumbled upon humanity in decline. The fiery sunset made me ponder the twilight of mankind. For the first time, I began to understand an odd consequence of the social efforts we were currently engaged in. Upon reflection, it seemed quite logical. Strength arises from necessity; security encourages weakness. The work of improving life—the true civilizing process that makes existence more secure—had steadily reached a peak. One victory of united humanity over nature had followed another. What were now mere dreams had become deliberate projects, actively pursued. And the result was what lay before me.

Even so, I realized that today’s sanitation and agriculture were still in their infancy. Our science had tackled only a small part of the vast field of human disease, yet it was making steady progress. Our agricultural practices managed to eliminate a weed here and there and cultivated perhaps a handful of beneficial plants, leaving many others to fend for themselves. We improved our favorite plants and animals—though there were so few—gradually through selective breeding. A new, better peach here, a seedless grape there, a sweeter, larger flower, or a more convenient breed of cattle. We advanced slowly because our ideals were vague and our knowledge limited; nature, too, was hesitant and slow under our clumsy hands. One day, all of this would be better organized and even more effective. That was the direction we were heading, despite the occasional setbacks. The world would become intelligent, educated, and cooperative; progress would accelerate toward the mastery of nature. Ultimately, we would wisely and carefully rebalance animal and plant life to meet our human needs.

This adjustment, I thought, must have already been accomplished, and done well; achieved for all time, in the span of time my machine had traversed. The air was free of gnats, the earth devoid of weeds or fungi; everywhere I saw fruits and sweet, delightful flowers, and brilliant butterflies flitted about. The ideal of preventive medicine had been realized. Diseases had been eradicated. During my entire stay, I saw no signs of contagious illness. I would later explain that even the processes of decay and rot had been profoundly altered by these changes.

Social progress had also been made. I observed humanity living in splendid shelters, beautifully clothed, and so far, I hadn’t witnessed anyone engaged in labor. There were no signs of struggle, neither social nor economic. The shop, the advertisements, the hustle and bustle of commerce that formed the backbone of our world—these were all gone. On that golden evening, it was only natural for me to envision a social paradise. I guessed that the challenges of population growth had been addressed, and that population had stabilized.

"But with this shift in circumstances comes the need for adjustments. What, if biological science is to be trusted, drives human intelligence and vitality? It's hardship and freedom—conditions where the active, strong, and clever thrive while the weaker ones fall behind. These conditions reward the loyal partnerships of capable individuals, as well as self-restraint, patience, and decisiveness. The family unit and the emotions that come with it—intense jealousy, deep affection for children, and parental devotion—find their justification in the dangers that threaten the young.

But now, where are those dangers? A sentiment is emerging, one that will only grow stronger, against marital jealousy, against fierce motherhood, against all forms of passion; these are unnecessary now, mere remnants of a savage past that disrupts our refined and pleasant lives.

I reflected on the physical frailty of the people, their lack of intelligence, and the grand ruins around me, which only reinforced my belief in a complete conquest of nature. After the struggle comes peace. Humanity had once been strong, vibrant, and intelligent, channeling its abundant energy into transforming its environment. Now, we were witnessing the consequences of those transformed conditions.

In this new era of perfect comfort and security, the restless energy that once represented strength could easily become a weakness. Even in our own time, certain instincts and desires, once essential for survival, now lead to failure. Take physical courage and the love of battle; they offer little benefit—perhaps even hinder—civilized individuals. In a state of balance and security, both intellectual and physical power would feel out of place. For countless years, I believed there had been no threat of war or violence, no danger from wild animals, no debilitating diseases that required robust health, no need for hard labor. In such a life, what we consider weak are just as equipped as the strong; they are no longer weak at all. In fact, they are better equipped, as the strong would be restless with an energy that had nowhere to go.

The stunning beauty of the structures I observed was likely the last flourish of humanity's now purposeless energy before it settled into perfect harmony with its surroundings—the culmination of a triumph that ushered in the last great peace. This has always been the fate of energy in times of security; it turns to art and eroticism, leading to languor and decay.

Eventually, even this artistic drive would fade away—it was already on the brink of extinction in the time I witnessed. The remnants of the artistic spirit remained in their love for flowers, dancing, and singing in the sunlight, but that too would eventually dissolve into a state of contented inactivity. We are kept sharp by the grindstone of pain and necessity, and it struck me that here, at last, that dreaded grindstone had been shattered!

As I stood there in the encroaching darkness, I felt that I had unraveled the world's mystery—understood the entire secret of these delightful people. Perhaps the measures they had taken to control population growth had worked too well, leading to a decline in their numbers rather than a stable population. That could explain the abandoned ruins. My explanation was simple and seemed plausible—just like most misguided theories!"