City of Endless Night

by Hastings , Milo M. ;

  The necessary matters of the inspection of pedigrees and the signing of my card of authorisation had been conducted by the young mother with the cool self-possession of a well disciplined school-mistress. Her attitude and manner revealed the thoroughness of her education and training for her duties and functions in life. And yet, though she relieved me so skillfully of what I feared would be an embarrassing situation, I conceived an intense dislike for this most exemplary young mother, for she made me feel that a man was a most useless and insignificant creature to be tolerated as a necessary evil in this maternal world.

  ‘Surely,’ said Frau Karoline, as I returned her pedigree, ‘you could not do better for your firstborn child than to honor me with his motherhood. Not only is my pedigree of the purest of chemical lines, reaching back to the establishment of the eugenic control, but I myself have taken the highest honors in the training for motherhood.’

  ‘Yes,’ I acknowledged, ‘you seem very well trained.’

  ‘I am particularly well versed,’ she continued, ‘in maternal psychology; and I have successfully cultivated calmness. In the final tests before my confirmation for maternity I was found to be entirely free from erotic and sentimental emotions.’

  ‘But,’ I ventured, ‘is not maternal love a sentimental emotion?’

  ‘By no means,’ replied Frau Karoline. ‘Maternal love of the highest order, such as I possess, is purely intellectual; it recognizes only the passions for the greatness of race and the glory of the Royal House. Such love must be born of the intellect; that is why we women of the scientific group are the best of all mothers. Thus, were I not wholly free from weak sentimentality, I might desire that my second child be sired by the father of my first, but the Eugenic Office has determined that I would bear a stronger child from a younger father, therefore I acquiesced to their change of assignment without emotion, as becomes a proper mother of our well bred race. My first child is extremely intellectual but he is not quite perfect physically, and a mother such as I should bear only perfect children. That alone is the supreme purpose of motherhood. Do you not see that I am fitted for perfect motherhood?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, as I recalled that my instructions were to pay compliments, ‘you seem to be a perfect mother.’

  But the cold and logical perfection of Frau Karoline dampened my curiosity and oppressed my spirit of adventure, and I closed the interview with all possible speed and fled headlong to the nearest elevator that would carry me from the level.

  IV

  In my first experience I had suffered nothing worse than an embarrassing half hour, so, with more confidence I pressed the bell the second evening, at the apartment of Frau Augusta, daughter of Gustave Schnorr, Authority on Synthetic Nicotine.

  Frau Augusta was a woman of thirty-five. She was well-preserved, more handsome and less coldly inhuman than the younger woman.

  ‘We will get the formalities over since you have been told they are necessary,’ said Frau Augusta, as she reached for my card and folder and, at the same time, handing me her own pedigree.

  Peering over the top of the chart that recorded the antecedents of Gustave Schnorr, I saw his daughter going through my own folder with the businesslike dispatch of a society dowager examining the ‘character’ of a new housemaid.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she said, raising her brows. ‘I thought I knew the family. Your Uncle Otto was my second mate. He is the father of my third son and my twin girls. I have no more promising children. Have you ever met him? He is in the aluminum-tempering laboratories.’

  I could only stare stupidly, struck dumb with embarrassment.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ went on Frau Augusta, ‘it is hardly to be expected since you have upwards of a hundred uncles.’ She arose and, going toward a shelf where half a dozen pictures of half a dozen men reposed in an orderly row, took the second one of the group and handed it to me.

  ‘He is a fine man,’ she said, with a very full degree of pride for a past and partial possession. ‘I fear the Staff erred in transferring him, but then of course the twin girls were most unexpected and unfortunate since the Armstadt line is supposed to sire seventy-five per cent male offspring.

  ‘What do you think? Isn’t the Eugenic Office a little unfair at times? My fifth man thought so. He said it was a case of politics. I don’t know. I thought politics was something ancient that they had in old books like churches and families.’

  ‘I am sure I do not know,’ I murmured, as I fumbled the portrait of my putative uncle.

  ‘Of course,’ continued the voluble Fran Augusta, ‘you must not think I am criticizing the authorities. It is all very necessary. And for the most part I think they have done very well by me. My ten children have six fathers. All of them but the first were men of most gracious manner and superior intelligence. The first one had his paternity right revoked, so I feel satisfied on that score, even if his son is not gifted – and yet the boy has beautiful hair – I think he would make an excellent violinist. But then perhaps he wouldn’t have been able to play, so maybe it is all right, though I would think music would be more easily learned than chemistry. But then since I cannot read either I ought not to judge. I will show you his picture. I may as well show you all their pictures. I don’t see why you elected fathers should not see our children – but then I suppose it might produce quarrels. Some women are so foolish and insist on talking about the children they have already borne in a way that makes a man feel that his own children could never come up to them. Now I never do that. Why should one? The future is always more interesting than the past. I haven’t a single child that has not won the porcelain cross for obedience. Even my youngest – he is only fourteen months – obeys as if he were a full-grown man. Some say mental and physical excellence are not correlated – but that is a prejudice because of those great labor beasts. There isn’t one of my children that has fallen below the minimum growth standards, except my third daughter, and her father was undersized, so it is no fault of mine.’

  As the loquacious mother chattered on, she produced an album, through which I now turned, inspecting the annual photographs of her blond brood, each of which was labeled with the statistics of physical growth and the tests of psychic development.

  Strive as I might I could think of no comments to make, but the mother came to the rescue. Unfastening the binding of the loose-leaf album she hastily shuffled the sheets and brought into an orderly array on the table before me ten photographs all taken at the age of one year. ‘That is the only fair way to view them,’ she said, ‘for of course one cannot compare the picture of a boy of fifteen with an infant of one year. But at an equal age the comparison is fair to all and now you can surely tell me which is the most intelligent.’

  I gazed hopelessly at the infantile portraits which, despite their varied paternity, looked as alike as a row of peas in a pod.

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Frau Augusta, ‘after all is it fair to ask you, since the twins are your cousins?’

  Desperately I wondered which were the twins.

  ‘They resemble you quite remarkably, don’t you think so? Except that your hair is quite dark for an Armstadt.’ Frau Augusta turned and glanced furtively at my identification folder. ‘Of course! your mother. I had almost forgotten who your mother was, but now I remember, she had most remarkably dark hair. It will probably prove a dominant characteristic and your children will also be dark-haired. Now I should like that by way of a change.’

  I became alarmed at this turn of the conversation toward the more specific function of my visit, and resolved to make my exit with all possible speed ‘consistent with dignity and propriety’.

  Meanwhile, as she reassembled the scattered sheets of the portrait album, the official mother chattered on concerning her children’s attributes, while I shifted uneasily in my chair and looked about the room for my hat – forgetting in my embarrassment that I was dwelling in a sunless, rainless city and possessed no hat.

  At last there was a lull in the monologue and
I arose and said I must be going.

  Frau Augusta looked pained and I recalled that I had not yet complimented her upon her intelligence and fitness to be the mother of coming generations of chemical scientists, but I stubbornly resolved not to resume my seat.

  ‘You are young,’ said Frau Augusta, who had risen and shifted her position till she stood between me and the door. ‘Surely you have not yet made many calls on the maternity level.’ Then she sighed, ‘I do not see why they assign a man only three names to select from. Surely they could be more liberal.’ She paused and her face hardened. ‘And to think that you men are permitted to call as often as you like upon those degenerate hussies who have been forbidden the sacred duties of motherhood. It is a very wicked institution, that level of lust – someday we women – we mothers of Berlin – will rise in our wrath and see that they are banished to the mines, for they produce nothing but sin and misery in this man-made world.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘the system is very wrong, but –’

  ‘But the authorities, you need not say it, I have heard it all before, the authorities, always the authorities. Why should men always be the authorities? Why do we mothers of Berlin have no rights? Why are we not consulted in these matters? Why must we always submit?’

  Then suddenly, and very much to my surprise, she placed her hands upon my shoulders and said hoarsely: ‘Tell me about the Free Level. Are the women there more beautiful than I?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘very few of them are beautiful, and those of the labor groups are most gross and stupid.’

  ‘Then why,’ wailed Frau Augusta, ‘was I not allowed to go? Why was I penned up here and made to bear children when others revel in the delights of love and song and laughter?’

  ‘But,’ I said, shocked at this unexpected revelation of character, ‘yours is the more honorable, more virtuous life. You were chosen for motherhood because you are a woman of superior intelligence.’

  ‘It’s a lie,’ cried Frau Augusta. ‘I have no intelligence. I want none. But I am as beautiful as they. But no, they would not let me go. They penned me up here with these saintly mothers and these angelic children. Children, children everywhere, millions and millions of them, and not a man but doctors, and you elected fathers who are sent here to bring us pain and sorrow. You say nothing of love – your eyes are cold. The last one said he loved me – the brute! He came but thrice, when my child was born he sent me a flower. But that is the official rule. And I hate him, and hate his child that has his lying eyes.’

  The distraught woman covered her face with her hands and burst into violent weeping.

  When she had ceased her sobs I tried to explain to her the philosophy of contentment with life’s lot. I told her of the seamy side of the gown that cloaks licentiousness and of the sorrows and bitterness of the ashes of burned out love. With the most iridescent words at my command I painted for her the halo of the madonna’s glory, and translated for her the English verse that informs us that there is not a flower in any land, nor a pearl in any sea, that is as beautiful and lovely as any child on any mother’s knee.

  But I do not think I altogether consoled Frau Augusta for my German vocabulary was essentially scientific, not poetic. But I made a noble effort and when I left her I felt very much the preacher, for the function of the preacher, not unlike death, is to make us cling to those ills we have when we would fly to others that we know not of.

  V

  There remained but one card unsigned of the three given me.

  Frau Matilda, daughter of Siegfried Oberwinder, Analine Analyst, was registered as eighteen and evidently an inexperienced mother-elect as I was a father-elect. The nature of the man is to hold the virgin above the madonna, and in starting on my third journey to the maternity level, I found hitherto inexperienced feelings tugging at my heartstrings and resolved that whatever she might be, I would be dignified and formal yet most courteous and kind.

  My ring was answered by a slender, frightened girl. She was so shy that she could only nod for me to enter. I offered my card and folder, smiling to reassure her, but she retreated precipitously into a far corner and sat staring at me beseechingly with big gray eyes that seemed the only striking feature of her small pinched face.

  ‘I am sorry if I frighten you,’ I said, ‘but of course you know that I am sent by the eugenic authorities. I will not detain you long. All that is really necessary is for you to sign this card.’

  She timidly signed the card and returned it to the corner of the table.

  I felt extremely sorry for the fluttering creature; and, knowing that I could not alter her lot, I sought to speak words of encouragement. ‘If you find it hard now,’ I said, ‘it is only because you are young and a stranger to life, but you will be recompensed when you know the joys of motherhood.’

  At my words a look of consecrated purpose glowed in the girl’s white face. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘I wish very much to be a mother. I have studied so hard to learn. I wish only to give myself to the holy duties of maternity. But I am so afraid.’

  ‘But you need not be afraid of me,’ I said. ‘This is only a formal call which I have made because the Eugenic Staff ordered it so. But it seems to me that some better plan might be made for these meetings. Some social life might be arranged so that you would become acquainted with the men who are to be the fathers of your children under less embarrassing circumstances.’

  ‘I try so hard not to be afraid of men, for I know they are necessary to eugenics.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said dryly, ‘I suppose they are, though I think I would prefer to put it that the love of man and woman is necessary to parenthood.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said in a frightened voice, ‘not that, that is very wicked.’

  ‘So you were taught that you should not love men? No wonder you are afraid of them.’

  ‘I was taught to respect men for they are the fathers of children,’ she replied.

  ‘Then,’ I asked, deciding to probe the philosophy of the education for maternity, ‘why are not the fathers permitted to enjoy their fatherhood and live with the mother and the children?’

  Frau Matilda now gazed at me with open-mouthed astonishment. ‘What a beautiful idea!’ she exclaimed with rapture.

  ‘Yes, I rather like it myself – the family –’

  ‘The family!’ cried the girl in horror.

  ‘That is what we were talking about.’

  ‘But the family is forbidden. It is very wrong, very uneugenic. You must be a wicked man to speak to me of that.’

  ‘You have been taught some very foolish ideas,’ I replied.

  ‘How dare you!’ she cried, in alarm. ‘I have been taught what is right, and I want to do what is right and loyal. I passed all my examinations. I am a good mother-elect, and you say these forbidden things to me. You talk of love and families. You insult me. And if you select me, I shall – I shall claim exemption, –’ and with that she rose and darted through the inner door.

  I waited for a time and then gently approached the door, which I saw had swung to with springs and had neither latch nor lock. My gentle rap upon the hollow panel was answered by a muffled sob. I realized the hopelessness of further words and silently turned from the door and left the apartment.

  The streets of the level were almost deserted for the curfew had rung and the lights glowed dim as in a hospital ward at night. I hurried silently along, shut in by enclosing walls and the lowering ceiling of the street. From everywhere I seemed to feel upon me the beseeching, haunting gray eyes of Frau Matilda. My soul was troubled, for it seemed to stagger beneath the burden of its realization of a lost humanity. And with me walked gray shadows of other men, felt-footed through the gloom, and they walked hurriedly as men fleeing from a house of death.

  VI

  My next duty as a German father-elect was to report to the Eugenic Office. There at least I could deal with men; and there I went, nursing rebellion yet trying my utmost to appear outwardly calm.

  To
the clerk I offered my three signed cards by way of introduction.

  ‘And which do you select?’ asked the oldish man over his rimless glasses.

  ‘None.’

  ‘Ah, but you must.’

  ‘But what if I refuse to do so?’

  ‘That is most unusual.’

  ‘But does it ever happen?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ admitted the clerk, ‘but only by Petition Extraordinary to the Chief of the Staff. But it is most unusual, and if he refuses to grant it you may be dishonored even to the extent of having your election to paternity suspended, may be even permanently canceled.’

  ‘You mean –’ I stammered.

  ‘Exactly – you refuse to accept any one of the three women when all are most scientifically selected for you. Does it not throw some doubts upon your own psychic fitness for mating at all? If I may suggest, Herr Colonel – it would be wiser for you to select someone of the three – you have yet plenty of time.’

  ‘No,’ I said, trying to hide my elation. ‘I will not do so. I will make the Petition Extraordinary to your chief.’

  ‘Now?’ stammered the clerk.

  ‘Yes, now; how do I go about it?’

  ‘You must first consult the Investigator.’

  After a few formalities I was conducted to that official.

  ‘You refuse to make selection?’ enquired the Investigator.

  ‘Yes.’