We - Yevgeny Zamyatin (whitelam books txt) 📗

Dear O-.⁠ ⁠… Dear R-.⁠ ⁠… He also has (I do not know why I write this “also,” but I write as it comes from my pen), he too has something which is not entirely clear in him. Yet I, he and O-, we are a triangle; I confess, not an isosceles triangle but a triangle nevertheless. We, to speak in the language of our ancestors (perhaps to you, my planetary readers, this is the more comprehensible language) we are a family. And one feels so good at times, when one is able for a short while, at least, to close oneself within a firm triangle, to close oneself away from anything that.⁠ ⁠…

Liturgy⁠—Iambus⁠—The cast-iron hand.

A solemn bright day. On such days one forgets one’s weaknesses, inexactitudes, illnesses, and everything is crystalline and imperturbable like our new glass.⁠ ⁠…

The Plaza of the Cube. Sixty-six imposing concentric circles⁠—stands. Sixty-six rows of quiet serene faces. Eyes reflecting the shining of the sky⁠—or perhaps it is the shining of the United State. Red like blood, are the flowers⁠—the lips of the women. Like soft garlands the faces of the children in the first rows, nearest the place of action. Profound, austere, gothic silence.

To judge by the descriptions which reach us from the ancients, they felt somewhat like this during their “Church services,” but they served their nonsensical unknown god; we serve our rational god, whom we most thoroughly know. Their god gave them nothing but eternal, torturing seeking; our god gives us absolute truth, that is, he has rid us of any kind of doubt. Their god did not invent anything cleverer than sacrificing oneself, nobody knows what for; we bring to our god, The United State, a quiet, rational, carefully thought-out sacrifice.

Yes, it was a solemn liturgy for the United State, a reminiscence of the great days, years, of the Two Hundred Years’ War⁠—a magnificent celebration of the victory of all over one, of the sum over the individual!

That one stood on the steps of the Cube which was filled with sunlight. A white, no not even white, but already colorless glass face, lips of glass. And only the eyes⁠—thirsty, swallowing, black holes leading into that dreadful world from which he was only a few minutes away. The golden badge with the number already had been taken off. His hands were tied with a red ribbon. (A symbol of ancient custom. The explanation of it is that in the old times when this sort of thing was not done in the name of the United State, the convicted naturally considered that they had the right to resist, hence their hands were usually bound with chains.)

On the top of the Cube, next to the Machine, the motionless, metallic figure of him whom we call the Well-Doer. One could not see his face from below. All one could see was that it was bounded by austere, magnificent, square lines. And his hands.⁠ ⁠… Did you ever notice how sometimes in a photograph the hands, if they were too near the camera, come out enormous? They then compel your attention, overshadow everything else. Those hands of his, heavy hands, quiet for the time being, were stony hands⁠—it seemed the knees on which they rested must have had pains to bear their weight.

Suddenly one of those hands rose slowly. A slow cast-iron gesture; obeying the will of the lifted hand, a Number came out on the platform. It was one of the State poets, whose fortunate lot it was to crown our celebration with his verses.

Divine iambic brass verses thundered over the many stands. They dealt with the man, who, his reason lost and lips like glass, stood on the steps and waited for the logical consequences of his own insane deeds.

… A blaze.⁠ ⁠… Buildings were swaying in those iambic lines, and sprinkling upward their liquified golden substance, they broke and fell. The green trees were scorched, their sap slowly ran out and they remained standing like black crosses, like skeletons. Then appeared Prometheus (that meant us).

“… he harnessed fire
With machines and steel
And fettered chaos with Law.⁠ ⁠…”

The world was renovated; it became like steel⁠—a sun of steel, trees of steel, men of steel. Suddenly an insane man, “Unchained the fire and set it free,” and again the world had perished.⁠ ⁠… Unfortunately I have a bad memory for poetry, but one thing I am sure of: one could not choose more instructive or more beautiful parables.

Another slow, heavy gesture of the cast-iron hand and another poet appeared on the steps of the Cube. I stood up! Impossible! But⁠ ⁠… thick negro lips⁠—it was he. Why did he not tell me that he was to be invested with such high.⁠ ⁠… His lips trembled; they were gray. Oh, I certainly understood; to be face to face with the Well-Doer, face to face with the hosts of Guardians! Yet one should not allow oneself to be so upset.

Swift sharp verses like an axe.⁠ ⁠… They told about an unheard-of crime, about sacrilegious poems in which the Well-Doer was called.⁠ ⁠… But no, I do not dare to repeat.⁠ ⁠…

R-13 was pale when he finished, and looking at no one (I did not expect such bashfulness of him) he descended and sat down. For an infinitesimal fraction of a second I saw right beside him somebody’s face⁠—a sharp, black triangle⁠—and instantly I lost it; my eyes, thousands of eyes, were directed upward toward the Machine. Then⁠—again the superhuman, cast-iron, gesture of the hand.

Swayed by an unknown wind the criminal moved; one step⁠ ⁠… one more,⁠ ⁠… then the last step in his life. His face was turned to the sky, his head thrown backward⁠—he was on his last.⁠—⁠ ⁠… Heavy, stony like fate, the Well-Doer went around the machine, put his enormous hand on the lever.⁠ ⁠… Not a whisper, not a breath around; all eyes were upon that hand.⁠ ⁠… What crushing, scorching power one must feel to be the tool, to be the resultant of hundreds of thousands of wills! How great