We - Yevgeny Zamyatin (whitelam books txt) 📗

list, and this will be better for you; you must feel happy now. I shall never again.⁠ ⁠…”

“Goodbye, O-.”

Never again. Yes, that is better. She is right. But, why then?⁠ ⁠… Why then?⁠ ⁠…

Record Nineteen

The infinitesimal of the third order⁠—From under the forehead⁠—Over the railing.

There in the strange corridor lighted by the dotted line of dim little electric lamps⁠ ⁠… or no, no, later, when we had already reached one of the nooks in the courtyard of the Ancient House, she said, “Day-after-tomorrow.” That “day-after-tomorrow” is today. And everything seems to have wings and to fly; the day flies; and our Integral too already has wings. We finished placing the motor and tried it out today, without switching it in. What magnificent, powerful salvos! Each of them sounded for me like a salute in honor of her, the only one⁠—in honor of today!

At the time of the first explosion about a dozen loafing Numbers from the docks stood near the main tube⁠—and nothing was left of them save a few crumbs and a little soot. With pride I write down now that this occurrence did not disturb the rhythm of our work even for a second. Not a man shrank. We and our lathes continued our rectilinear or curved motions with the same sparkling and polished precision as before, as if nothing had happened. As a matter of fact, what did happen? A dozen Numbers represent hardly one hundred millionth part of the United State. For practical consideration, that is but an infinitesimal of the third order. That pity, a result of arithmetical ignorance, was known to the ancients; to us it seems absurd.

It seems droll to me also, that yesterday I was thinking, even relating in these pages about a gray blot! All that was only the “softening of the surface” which is normally as hard as diamond, like our walls. (There is an ancient saying: “Shooting beans at a stone wall⁠—”)

Sixteen o’clock. I did not go for the supplementary walk; who knows, she might come now, when the sun is so noisily bright.

I am almost the only one in his room. Through the walls full of sunshine I see for a distance to the right and to the left and below strings of other rooms, repeating each other as if in a mirror, hanging in the air and empty. Only on the bluish stairway, striped by the golden ink of the sun, is seen rising a thin, gray shadow. Already I hear steps, and I see through the door and I feel a smile pasted to my face like a plaster. But it passed to another stairway and down. The click of the switchboard! I threw myself to that little white slit and⁠ ⁠… an unfamiliar male Number! (A consonant means a male Number.)

The elevator groaned and stopped. A big, slovenly, slanting forehead stood before me, and the eyes⁠ ⁠… They impressed me strangely; it seemed as if the man talked with his eyes which were deep under the forehead.

“Here is a letter from her, for you.” (From under the awning of that forehead.) “She asked that everything⁠ ⁠… as requested in the letter⁠ ⁠… without fail.” This too, from under the forehead, from under the awning, and he turned, looked about.

“No, there is nobody, nobody. Quickly! the letter!”

He put the letter in my hand and went out without a word.

A pink check fell out of the envelope. It was hers, her check! Her tender perfume! I felt like running to catch up with that wonderful under-the-forehead one. A tiny note followed the check from the envelope; three lines: “The check⁠ ⁠… Lower the curtains without fail, as if I were actually with you. It is necessary that they should think that I⁠ ⁠… I am very, very sorry.”

I tore the note into small bits. A glance at the mirror revealed my distorted, broken eyebrows. I took the check and was ready to do with it as I had done with the note. “She asked that everything⁠ ⁠… as requested in the letter⁠ ⁠… without fail.” My arms weakened and the hands loosened. The check was back on the table. She is stronger than I, stronger than I. It seemed as though I were going to act as she wished. Besides⁠ ⁠… however, it is a long time before evening.

The check remained on the table. In the mirror⁠—my distorted, broken eyebrows. Oh, why did I not have a doctor’s certificate for today? I should like to go and walk, walk without end around the Green Wall and then to fall on my bed⁠ ⁠… to the bottom of.⁠ ⁠… Yet I had to go to Auditorium No. 13, and I should have to grip myself, so as to bear up for two hours! Two hours without motion, at a time when I wanted to scream and stamp my feet!

The lecture was on. It was very strange to hear from the sparkling tube of the phono-lecturer not the usual metallic voice but a soft, velvety, mossy one. It was a woman’s voice and I seemed to have a vision of the woman: a little hook-like old woman, like the one of the Ancient House.

The Ancient House! Suddenly from within me a powerful fountain of.⁠ ⁠… I had to use all my strength to control myself, so as not to fill the auditorium with screams. The soft mossy words were piercing me, yet only empty words about children and child-production reached my ear. I was like a photographic plate: everything was making its imprint with a strange, senseless precision on me; the golden scythe which was nothing more than the reflection of light from the megaphone of the lecture apparatus, under the megaphone a child, a living illustration. It was leaning toward the megaphone, the angle of its infinitesimal unif in its mouth, its little fist clenched firmly, its thumb squeezed into the fist, a light fluffy pleat of skin at the wrist. Like a photographic plate I was taking the impression of all this. Now