We. Евгений Замятин

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 in front of me were 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 definitely felt fear. I felt as if I were trapped in a strange cage. I felt that I was caught in the wild hurricane of ancient life.

      “Do you know…” said I-330. “Step 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 in, sat down. From a shelf on the wall there looked straight into my face, somewhat smiling, the 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 curtain 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 poets were stronger rulers than the crowned ones. Why were they not isolated and exterminated? In our State—”

      “Oh, yes, in our State—” I began.

      But 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, it 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 that woman’s behavior.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ