We - Yevgeny Zamyatin (whitelam books txt) 📗

Well, smell them! Good? Yes? Why not use a little bit of logic? The lilies-of-the-valley smell good; all right! But you cannot say about an odor, about the conception of an odor, that it is good or bad, can you? You can’t, can you? There is the smell of lilies-of-the-valley and there is the disagreeable smell of henbane. Both are odors. The ancient States had their spies; we have ours⁠ ⁠… yes, spies! I am not afraid of words. But is it not clear to you that there the spies were henbane; here they are lilies-of-the-valley? Yes, lilies-of-the-valley, yes!”

The rosy crescent quivered. Now I understand that it was only my impression but at that moment I was certain she was going to laugh. I shouted still louder:

“Yes, lilies-of-the-valley! And there is nothing funny about it, nothing funny!”

The smooth round globes of heads passing by were turning towards us. O-90 gently took my hand.

“You are so strange today⁠ ⁠… are you ill?”

My dream.⁠ ⁠… Yellow color.⁠ ⁠… Buddha.⁠ ⁠… It was at once born clearly upon me that I must go to the Medical Bureau.

“Yes, you are right, I am sick,” I said with joy (that seems to me an inexplicable contradiction; there was nothing to be joyful about).

“You must go at once to the doctor. You understand that; you are obliged to be healthy; it seems strange to have to prove it to you.”

“My dear O-, of course you are right. Absolutely right.”

I did not go to the Bureau of the Guardians; I could not; I had to go to the Medical Bureau; they kept me there until seventeen o’clock.

In the evening (incidentally, the Bureau of Guardians is closed evenings)⁠—in the evening O- came to see me. The curtains were not lowered. We busied ourselves with the arithmetical problems of an ancient textbook. This occupation always calms and purifies our thoughts. O- sat over her note book, her head slightly inclined to the left; she was so assiduous that she poked out her left cheek with the tongue from within. She looked so childlike, so charming.⁠ ⁠… I felt everything in me was pleasant, precise and simple.

She left. I remained alone. I breathed deeply two times (it is very good exercise before retiring for the night). Suddenly⁠—an unexpected odor reminiscent of something very disagreeable! I soon found out what was the matter: a branch of lily-of-the-valley was hidden in my bed. Immediately everything was aroused again, came up from the bottom. Decidedly, it was tactless on her part surreptitiously to put these lilies-of-the-valley there. Well, true I did not go; I didn’t, but was it my fault that I felt indisposed?

Record Eight

An irrational root⁠—R-13⁠—The triangle.

It was long ago during my schooldays, when I first encountered the square-root of minus one. I remember it all very clearly; a bright globe-like class hall, about a hundred round heads of children and Plappa⁠—our mathematician. We nicknamed him Plappa; it was a very much used-up mathematician, loosely screwed together; as the member of the class who was on duty that day would be putting the plug into the socket behind we would hear at first from the megaphone, “Plap-plap-plap-plap⁠—tshshsh.⁠ ⁠…” Only then the lesson would follow. One day Plappa told us about irrational numbers, and I remember I wept and banged the table with my fist and cried, “I do not want that square-root of minus one; take that square-root of minus one away!” This irrational root grew into me as something strange, foreign, terrible; it tortured me; it could not be thought out. It could not be defeated because it was beyond reason.

Now that square-root of minus one is here again. I read over what I have written and I clearly see that I was insincere with myself, that I lied to myself in order to avoid seeing that square-root of minus one. My sickness, etc., is all nonsense; I could go there. I feel sure that if such a thing had happened a week ago I should have gone without hesitating. Why then am I unable to go now?⁠ ⁠… Why?

Today, for instance, at exactly sixteen-ten I stood before the glittering Glass Wall. Above was the shining, golden, sun-like sign: “Bureau of Guardians.” Inside, a long queue of bluish-gray unifs awaiting their turns, faces shining like the oil lamps in an ancient temple. They came to accomplish a great thing: they came to put on the altar of the United State their beloved ones, their friends, their own selves. My whole being craved to join them, yet⁠ ⁠… I could not; my feet were as though melted into the glass plates of the sidewalk. I simply stood there looking foolish.

“Heh, mathematician! Dreaming?”

I shivered. Black eyes varnished with laughter looked at me⁠—thick negro lips! It was my old friend the poet, R-13, and with him rosy O-. I turned around angrily (I still believe that if they had not appeared I should have entered the Bureau and have torn the square-root of minus one out of my flesh).

“Not dreaming at all; if you will, ‘standing in adoration,’ ” I retorted quite brusquely.

“Oh, certainly, certainly! You, my friend, should never have become a mathematician; you should have become a poet, a great poet! Yes, come over to our trade, to the poets. Heh? If you will, I can arrange it in a jiffy. Heh?”

R-13 usually talks very fast: His words run in torrents, his thick lips sprinkle. Every p is a fountain, every “poets” a fountain.

“So far I have served knowledge, and I shall continue to serve knowledge.”

I frowned. I do not like, I do not understand jokes, and R-13 has the bad habit of joking.

“Heh, to the deuce with knowledge. Your much-heralded knowledge is but a form of cowardice. It is a fact! Yes, you want to encircle the infinite with a wall and you fear to cast a glance behind the wall. Yes, sir! And if ever you should glance beyond the wall you would be