We
wrote for contemporaries, some for the future generations but
none of them ever wrote for their ancestors, or beings like their
primitive, distant ancestors.
RECORD SIX
An Accident
The Cursed "It's Clear"
Twenty-four Hours
I must repeat, I made it my duty to write concealing nothing.
Therefore I must point out now that sad as it may be, the process
of hardening and crystallization of life has evidently not been
completed even here in our State. A few steps remain to be made
before we reach the ideal. The ideal (it's clear), is to be found
where nothing _happens_, but here.... I will give you an example: in
the State paper I read that in two days the holiday of Justice will
be celebrated on the Plaza of the Cube. This means that again some
Number has impeded the smooth run of the great State machine. Again
something that was not foreseen, or forecalculated _happened_.
Besides, something _happened_ to me. True, it occurred during the
personal hour, that is during the time specifically assigned to
unforeseen circumstances, yet....
At about sixteen (to be exact, ten minutes to sixteen), I was at
home. Suddenly the telephone: "D-503?"--a woman's voice.
"Yes."
"Are you free?"
"Yes."
"It is I, I-330. I shall run over to you immediately. We shall go
together to the Ancient House. Agreed?"
I-330!... This I- irritates me, repels me. She almost frightens me;
but just because of that I answered, "Yes."
In five minutes we were in an aero. Blue sky of May. The light sun
in its golden aero buzzed behind us without catching up and without
lagging behind. Ahead of us a white cataract of a cloud. Yes, a
white cataract of a cloud nonsensically fluffy like the cheeks of
an ancient cupid. That cloud was disturbing. The front window was
open; it was windy; lips were dry. Against one's will one passed the
tongue constantly over them and thought about lips.
Already we saw in the distance the hazy green spots on the other
side of the Wall. Then a slight involuntary sinking of the heart,
down--down--down, as if from a steep mountain, and we were at the
Ancient House.
That strange, delicate, blind establishment is covered all around
with a glass shell, otherwise it would undoubtedly have fallen
to pieces long ago. At the glass door we found an old woman all
wrinkles, especially her mouth which was all made up of folds and
pleats. Her lips had disappeared, having folded inward; her mouth
seemed grown together. It seemed incredible that she should be able
to talk and yet she did:
"Well, dear, come again to see my little house?"
Her wrinkles shone, that is, her wrinkles diverged like rays, which
created the impression of shining.
"Yes, grandmother," answered I-330.
The wrinkles continued to shine.
"And the sun, eh,--do you see it, you rogue, you! I know, I know.
It's all right. Go all by yourselves,--I shall remain here in the
sunshine."
Hmm.... Apparently my companion was a frequent guest here. Something
disturbed me; probably that unpleasant optical impression,--the
cloud on the smooth blue surface of the sky.
While we were ascending the wide, dark stairs, I-330 said, "I love
her, that old woman."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Perhaps for her mouth,--or perhaps for nothing, just
so."
I shrugged my shoulders. She continued walking upstairs with a faint
smile or perhaps without a smile at all.
I felt very guilty. It is clear that there must not be "love, just
so," but "love because of." For all elements of nature should be....
"It's clear ..." I began, but I stopped at that word and cast
a furtive look at I-330. Did she notice it or not? She looked
somewhere, down; her eyes were closed like curtains.
It struck me suddenly: evening about twenty-two; you walk on the
avenue and among the brightly lighted, transparent, cubic cells, are
dark spaces, lowered curtains, and there behind the curtains....
What has she behind her curtains? Why did she phone me today? Why
did she bring me here? and all this....
She opened a heavy, squeaking, opaque door and we found ourselves
in a sombre disorderly space (they called it an "apartment"). The
same strange "royal" musical instrument and a wild, unorganized,
crazy loudness of colors and forms like their ancient music. A white
plane above, dark blue walls, red, green, orange bindings of ancient
books, yellow bronze candelabras, a statue of Buddha, furniture
with lines distorted by epilepsy, impossible to reduce to any clear
equation.
I could hardly bear that chaos. But my companion apparently
possessed a stronger constitution.
"This is my most beloved--" she suddenly caught herself (again a
smile,--bite, and white sharp teeth), "to be more exact, the most
nonsensical of all 'apartments'."
"Or to be most exact, of all the States. Thousands of microscopic
States, fighting eternal wars, pitiless like--"
"Oh yes, it's clear," said I-330 with apparent sincerity.
We passed through a room where we found a few small children's beds
(children in those days were also private property). Then more
rooms, glimmering mirrors, sombre closets, unbearably loud-colored
divans, an enormous "fireplace," a large mahogany bed. Our
contemporary beautiful, transparent, eternal glass was represented
here only by pitiful, delicate, tiny squares of windows.
"And to think; here there was love 'just so'; they burned and
tortured themselves" (again the curtain of the eyes was lowered),
"What a stupid, uneconomical spending of human energy. Am I not
right?"
She spoke as though reading my thoughts but in her smile there
remained always that irritating X. There behind the curtains
something was going on, I don't know what, but something that made
me lose my patience. I wanted to quarrel with her, to scream at her
(exactly, to scream), but I had to agree. It was impossible not to
agree.
We stopped in front of a mirror. At that moment I saw only her eyes.
An idea came to me: human beings are built as nonsensically as these
stupid "apartments," human heads are opaque, and there are only two
very small windows that lead inside,--the eyes. She seemed to have
guessed my thoughts; she turned around: "Well, here they are, my
eyes,--well" (this suddenly, then silence).
There were in front of me two gloomy dark windows and behind them
inside, such strange hidden life. I saw there only fire, burning
like a peculiar "fireplace" and unknown figures resembling....
All this was certainly very natural; I saw in her eyes the
reflection of my own face. But my feelings were unnatural and not
like me. Evidently the depressing influence of the surroundings was
beginning to tell on me. I felt definitely fear. I felt as if I were
trapped and caged in a strange cage. I felt that I was caught in the
wild hurricane of ancient life.
"Do you know ..." said I-330, "step out for a moment into the next
room." Her voice came from there,--from inside, from behind the dark
window-eyes,--where the fireplace was blazing.
I went out, sat down. From a shelf on the wall there looked
straight into my face, somewhat smiling, a snub-nosed, asymmetrical
physiognomy of one of the ancient poets; I think it was Pushkin.
"Why do I sit here enduring this smile with such resignation and
what is this all about? Why am I here? And why all these strange
sensations, this irritating, repellent female, this strange game?"
The door of the closet slammed; there was the rustle of silk. I
felt it difficult to restrain myself from getting up and, and.... I
don't remember exactly; probably I wanted to tell her a number of
disagreeable things. But she had already appeared.
She was dressed in a short bright-yellowish dress, black hat, black
stockings. The dress was of light silk,--I saw clearly very long
black stockings above the knees, an uncovered neck and the shadow
between....
"It's clear that you want to seem original. But is it possible that
you--?"
"It is clear," interrupted I-330, "that to be original means to
stand out among others; consequently to be original means to violate
the law of equality. What was called in the language of the ancients
'to be common' is with us only the fulfilling of one's duty. For--"
"Yes, yes, exactly," I interrupted impatiently, "and there is no
use, no use...."
She came near the bust of the snub-nosed poet, lowered the curtains
on the wild fire of her eyes and said, this time I think she was
really in earnest, or perhaps she merely wanted to soften my
impatience with her, but she said a very reasonable thing:
"Don't you think it surprising that once people could stand types
like this? Not only stand them but worship them. What a slavish
spirit, don't you think so?"
"It's clear ... that is...!" I wanted ... (damn that cursed "it's
clear!").
"Oh, yes, I understand. But in fact these were rulers stronger than
the crowned ones. Why were they not isolated and exterminated? In
our State--"
"Oh, yes, in our State--" I began.
Suddenly she laughed. I saw the laughter in her eyes. I saw the
resounding sharp curve of that laughter, flexible, tense like a
whip. I remember my whole body shivered. I thought of grasping her
... and I don't know what.... I had to do something, mattered little
what; automatically I looked at my golden badge, glanced at my
watch,--ten minutes to seventeen!
"Don't you think it is time to go?" I said in as polite a tone as
possible.
"And if I should ask you to stay here with me?"
"What? Do you realize what you are saying? In ten minutes I must be
in the auditorium."
"And 'all the Numbers must take the prescribed courses in art and
science'," said I-330 with my voice.
Then she lifted the curtain, opened her eyes,--through the dark
windows the fire was blazing.
"I have a physician in the Medical Bureau; he is registered to me;
if I ask him, he will give you a certificate declaring that you are
ill. All right?"
Understood! At last I understood where this game was leading.
"Ah, so! But you know that every honest Number as a matter of course
must immediately go to the office of the Guardians and--"
"And as a matter not of course?" (Sharp smile-bite) "I am very
curious to know; will you or will you not go to the Guardians?"
"Are you going to remain here?"
I grasped the knob of the door. It was a brass knob, a cold, brass
knob and I heard, cold like brass, her voice:
"Just a minute, may I?"
She went to the telephone, called a Number,--I was so upset it
escaped me,--and spoke loudly: "I shall be waiting for you in the
Ancient House. Yes, yes, alone."
I turned the cold brass knob.
"May I take the aero?"
"Oh yes, certainly, please!"
In the sunshine at the gate the old woman was dozing like a plant.
Again I was surprised to see her grown-together mouth open, and to
hear her say:
"And your lady, did she remain alone?"
"Alone."
The mouth of the old woman grew together again; she shook her head;
apparently even her weakening brain understood the stupidity and the
danger of the behaviour of that woman.
At seventeen o'clock exactly, I was at the lecture. There I suddenly
realized that I did not tell the whole truth to the old woman. I-330
was not there alone _now_. Possibly this fact, that I involuntarily
told the old woman a lie, was torturing me now and distracting my
attention. Yes, not alone,--that was the point.
After twenty-one-thirty o'clock I had a free hour. I could therefore
have gone to the office of the Guardians to make my report; but
after that stupid adventure I was so tired--besides, the law
provides two days. I shall have time tomorrow; I have another
twenty-four hours.
RECORD SEVEN
An Eyelash
Taylor
Henbane and Lily of the Valley
Night. Green, orange, blue. The red royal instrument. The yellow