The Sirian Experiments

by Doris May Lessing Little Dorrit

  “Be careful,” he muttered, and we turned together to face the three evil ones, their hands outstretched for my headband, which was the easiest to take.

  “It would kill you,” I said coldly, and with contempt.

  And daring to do it, I turned my back on them and at Nasar’s urging ran down the steps into the snow, which was still smothering everything.

  I could hear the feet of the Puttiorans scraping and slipping on the steps.

  “I do not think you have understood,” said Nasar, into the whiteness. “This lady is from the High Command of Canopus. You know what the agreement is.”

  I saw their stone faces looming vaguely in the white—and then vanish.

  “Call a chair,” said Nasar to them. I saw the bearers shaking themselves free of the snow as they laboured running under the box-conveyance, but when we were in the box, Nasar and I, I had no time to think of them or of the Puttiorans, for now Nasar slumped back in the box, his eyes shut, breathing as if he were very ill, and shaking all over. Then his eyes were open and they stared, and from them poured liquid. Canopeans do not, normally, weep—that is behind them. The fact that Nasar wept now said everything.

  I remained quiet. I was bracing for what I thought would happen—and it did. When we were deposited at the foot of the great cone that soared above us into the whirling storm, the winds whining around it, there were the three stone men waiting for us.

  “Nasar,” I said, “one more effort; they are here.”

  Again he seemed to shudder as he took command of himself. We descended from the box, and walked straight up to the three.

  “You are fools,” said Nasar, using contempt like a weapon.

  “You gave us these,” we heard, and saw the hands stroking the golden earrings on those narrow rims around their ears. “You gave us these…”

  “Give them back,” I said. “Canopus commands… But they were running off into the white, for they weren’t going to give up this fancied authority of theirs—for now I understand that this indeed was how they saw it. All the bits of gold and metal and buttons and bracelets—they believed them to be intrinsic and unchanging substance of Canopus and authority for themselves.

  I saw Nasar staring after them, with the sombre anger that I was ready to believe was not only the characteristic of his subjection to this place but his characteristic and even, possibly, a Canopean characteristic.

  And again, my thought was answered: “Oh no,” he said, “that is not so. Believe me, fair Sirian. You must not think that, for your own sake…” and I saw him gazing at my earrings, my other appurtenances, and in such a way that for a moment I fancied myself back in the hands of the hungry ones in Elylé’s house.

  I walked swiftly away from him started up the stairs. So we went up together, I first, he behind, up and around, and around, and around, until we reached the top.

  I knew that I had by no means finished the battle: and that more was to come. I was prepared to face him then, as we entered that half-circle of a room, whose windows were showing a grey daylight where snow whirled. But Nasar staggered forward and had fallen across piles of cushions before I was fairly inside. I put some coverings over him and retired next door where I sat quietly in a window opening to watch the day come, a grey-gold light behind the white whirl.

  And what I was thinking then was not of what I was going to have to fight out with him but of those privileged citizens of Koshi in their soft-lit and luxurious rooms.

  It will not, I am sure, come as a surprise to any of my readers that I was thinking of the problem Sirius has perennially had with a privileged class, which seems to re-create itself constantly and everywhere. I am sure there are those have been wondering why I have not made the comparison more strongly before—particularly as I am known to have always been of the administrative party that has sought to check these privileged classes, when it has not been possible to prevent their emergence. I have more than once put forward the view that the possibility is we exaggerate the importance of this phenomenon. If a corrupt class can be expected to form, always and invariably, then this is as a result of, concomitant with, the strengthening and enlarging of a larger, and generally vigorous and active, class on which the effete ones float like scum on a wave. Has there ever been a society without its spoiled and rotten minority? Would it not be better to expect this, and to legislate limits to what cannot be prevented, rather than allowing fear of it to prevent reforming efforts to be made at all—for that was what tended to happen. There was for a time—students of this particular sociological problem will be familiar with it—a very vocal faction putting forward the point of view that there is no point whatever in making revolutions (this was particularly strong after the rebellions on our Colonised Planets during the phase of our Dark Age) because any revolution, no matter how pure and inspired, can be guaranteed to produce a privileged class within a generation. Worse; it was held that it was useless even to reform and reconstruct a society, for the same reason.

  This point of view certainly had the effect of causing a slump in morale, and a general pessimism, and had to be proscribed for a time because of this. Yes, we (that is, the administrative class) were indeed aware of the humour of the situation: that we were imposing the strictest penalties on the proponents of the viewpoint that the rulers (for we are certainly that) must not be attacked and criticised because our continual tendency towards corruption must not only be expected but cannot be averted: we were vigorously encouraging opposition and criticism, even to the extent, at one point, of actually setting up a party ourselves—secretly, of course—so alarmed were we at the pervasive cynicism and disgust. I myself was too well known a figure to be one of these individuals, but three of my progeny (not by Ambien I) took part, and so I had the benefit of their reports. It is my view now, after what I am sure must be conceded as pretty long and thorough experience, that there is nothing to be done to prevent an effete class; it can be postponed for a time, at the best. But it certainly can be circumscribed, and a difficulty in the way of such circumscription is a too-violent, an emotional judgement of such—after all—weak and pointless people. There has never been a self-indulgent privileged class that has not destroyed itself, or allowed itself to be destroyed, almost as soon it has come into being and grown, and flourished… temporarily.

  But as I watched the snow fall there, with these thoughts in my mind, I was again wondering about Canopus: how did that great Empire deal with these problems? If they had them at all?—for we had never heard of them! And if they did not arise with them, why not?

  I did not sit alone there for long. I listened for sounds on the other side of the dividing wall, for I had a good idea that Nasar was in too poor an emotional state to rest, let alone sleep. I heard him moving about, clumsily and roughly. There was a silence for a while, but then I heard him enter from the stairs—he had been to the foodshop. He muttered, then he groaned. I believed I heard him weep.

  I changed my garments, putting on my Sirian garb of the Colonial Service from some impulse, of which I was fully conscious, to stand on an exact and accurate footing with Nasar. I then asked if I might enter, and having repeated it and heard his “Very well then, come in!”—I went in. He was stretched out full length, on his side, head propped on his elbow. He was dishevelled. His eyes were red. So dejected was he that I could have believed him surrounded by a thick black cloud. He was certainly quite repulsive, and I heard myself mutter: “But he’s so ugly!” So much for the outward form of attraction! And I could not help remembering the “insect people” who were superior, so Klorathy said, and whom I found repulsive.

  And he knew what I was thinking, for while he did not look up, he smiled briefly and bitterly. He said, “Help yourself if you are hungry.” He had brought some sort of tea, and bread. I filled a cup for myself and refilled his, a service that he did not acknowledge, for he stared unblinking, seeing very little. I wondered briefly if I should seat myself low, like him; or put myself in a magisterial chair—
for that there going to be a confrontation I had no doubt. But in the end I took my cup to a window opening and looked out, which is what I wanted to do. I was able to see to the northeast, where the snow had stopped falling. And to the southeast, where it was retreating. The tall thin brown cones were reappearing from white obliterating clouds, and the cold fluffy masses seemed to pile themselves halfway up—but of course this was an illusion. Already around the bases of the towers now the snow had stopped falling, armies of small figures were at work making tunnels and runnels for themselves, and the huddle of the lower town, which had been blotted out by the storm, was reappearing under the efforts of this energetic swarm.

  There was an idea—no, a memory—persistently presenting itself in my mind: this was that I recognised the black emotions that emanated from Nasar. Not so very long ago, one of our officials on Planet 9 had become demoralised after having been left there—so I thought, and so I put forward on his behalf—for too long. He had allowed himself to become a tool of an anti-Sirian party. I had been sent to adjudicate the situation. There was no doubt he was guilty, and I took him back to our Home Planet where, unfortunately, he was executed.

  I believed him capable of rehabilitation. He had radiated this same sullen explosive anger that, not being allowed to express itself outwardly, was as if the whole organism was vibrating on a strong discordant note.

  I could see that Nasar was not able to keep still, but continually shifted position, how he jerked and twitched, how his eyes roved and glanced everywhere, how he sighed and then flung back his head, gasped, and again stared sombrely in front of him. But he was watching me, too, I could see that he was calculating—on guard, preparing himself. Was he planning to return to subjection to Elylé? If so, having felt the strength of it myself, I could understand it—understand it even as I shuddered.

  “Quite so,” said he suddenly. “But no, I shall not go back. I’ve been able to break it at last. And I suppose for that I have to thank you.”

  I was reflecting on how, and when, he was able to know I thought, as he went on: “But there is a price to pay, dear Sirius. And I am sure you will not be surprised to know what it is.”

  At this it came into my head that he going to demand the prescribed artefacts from me: that I had by no means finished with that pressure.

  “Exactly so,” he said. “As you can see, I no longer have the things I need to protect me here…” “You have given them away,” I said—dry enough.

  At which he leaped up, and began striding around and about the room, sometimes stopping and standing quite still, eyes staring, mouth open; then going on again, restless, discoordinated, driven—it was making me feel quite ill watching him, so I turned my back and looked out past the brown spires into the back of the retreating storm, and heard the winds whine and whisper around the grey sky.

  “I have to have them,” he said. “I have to.”

  “And so do I. I was invited here. I am here because of that. And I was given the things. And told how to use them. And I do not feel entitled to give them away.”

  “To give them back—to Nasar of Canopus.”

  “I was told most specifically not to give them to anybody,” I said.

  I felt his eyes on me, and turned and he stood staring—trapped. That is how he felt.

  And now I knew what he was thinking, and I said, “There is nothing to stop you from taking them. You are stronger than me. But then, Canopus has always been in a position simply to take.”

  I saw him shudder as if a black force had let him go, so that he could stand up straight, and breathe more easily.

  “Thank you for reminding me," he said. Oh, not without humour—and I heard that note with enough relief! But he had spoken also with a note of responsibility. For he looked at me differently. “Yes, thank you. Thank you, Sirius.” He stood, as if waiting for more.

  I turned and faced him fully. I was conscious of every sort of irony, and sorrow in this situation: I, in my garb of the top administration, but still of Sirius, and Canopus, our magnanimous superior, but in the shape of this criminal official. The word was taken up by him at once.

  “You have criminals,” he said, smiling. “With us—we merely fall by the wayside.” And he laughed genuinely; and the laugh changed, as it were, midway, and the haunted driven one was back, and once again he was being impelled to stride around and across and back and forth.

  “What do you do with your criminals, Sirius? What would happen to me, if I were one of yours?”

  “I think you would be executed.”

  “Yes. That is what I thought. And suppose I agree with you and not with my own dear Empire? Suppose I think I ought to be executed?”

  “You want to be punished?” I enquired, as I dry as I could manage. And again I saw him straighten, the black weight on him lift.

  He said, just as dry, “Yes, perhaps that is it. But Sirius, when I say that they have made a mistake, I mean it. I have not been strong enough for my work.”

  “Do you never get leave?” I asked. “They surely do not put you here indefinitely—not for the long ages you tell me you have been stationed here.”

  And now he came to stand by me, in my window embrasure, leaning against the inner wall, looking at me.

  “I take it,” said he, “that you are of the liberal party on Sirius.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Poor Sirius,” he said softly, those dark-bronze, or copper, or amber eyes full and strong on my face. “Poor, poor Sirius.”

  Now this was quite unexpected, and I was thrown off my balance with him. We stood there, very close, looking into each other’s faces. I was not now thinking of Klorathy, or of my search for his real friendship, or anything of the sort: I felt near, because of what Nasar had said, to some sort of mystery or understanding.

  I waited until I could speak moderately, and said: “Why do you not simply go back home and tell them what you are saying to me.”

  “Because I done so already.”

  “So you have been on leave?”

  “Yes. But it was a long time ago—just after what these poor wretches call ‘the Punishment.’ But Sirius, to spend time there—and then to return here—do you know what that means? How one feels? How utterly intolerable…” and he struck off and away again, and began his despairing pacing.

  “In short,” he said, “it is not worthwhile to go home if one has to come back. And in my case I have to come back. That is what they say. This is my place. This hellhole. Shikasta the disgraced and the shameful one. This.”

  “Rohanda is very beautiful,” I said, with a sigh for my long stay on the Southern Continent, before the failure of the Lock. “No planet in our system is anything near as beautiful or as rich…” I was looking at the golden light in the grey sky to the southeast where the storm had now quite gone away. The brown cone nearest to this one showed the most elegant pattern of black markings all the way up, each touched with white: the snow underlined each window opening, and the symmetry and balance of the patterns gave me the deepest satisfaction; and that is what Rohanda—I was simply not prepared to use their niggardly little word for it—so plentifully did offer. A rich food for the senses—always and generously.

  “Yes, it is beautiful,” he said in a stifled voice, and he stood upright, eyes closed, his hand at his throat, and his eyes closed tight, quivering. He was thinking of Elylé.

  “I understand,” I said quietly. His eyes flew open: he gazed at me, sombre, but himself, and he strode across and bent over me, looking into my eyes. “Desiccated bureaucrat though I am, I understand very well. I wish I did not.” And I could not prevent myself shuddering.

  “Thank you,” he said and went off again.

  “I would like to know about this city—before it was spoiled.”

  He laughed, and with such bitterness. “And the other cities—before they were spoiled—because they are spoiled, always.”

  “Always?”

  “Yes.”

  “So then yo
u have to make allowances for that?”

  “Yes,” he said with a sigh, the driven black one gone again, and he simple and there with me. “Yes. We make allowances. We know that if we build a city, or make a jewel, or a song, or a thought, then it will at once start to slide away, fall away—just as I have done, Sirius—and then—pfft!—that’s it, it’s over. This city, you say: the city of the twenty-one tall cones? And what of the city just there—can you see?"—and he pointed to where the storm had gone. I could just see a blur on the white horizon.

  “That is the city of the gardens. That was the city of the gardens…”

  “And what is it now?”

  “It is a city of gardens,” he said, grim and savage, black and vibrating. “A gardened city. Elylé adores it. She has her place there, fountains and delights… Elylé, Elylé,” he moaned suddenly, rocking, his hands up over his face.

  “Nasar,” I said sharply and he sighed and came to himself.

  “You are going to have to give me your earrings,” said he, coming up to me, taking me by the shoulders and peering into my face. The grip of those large hands bore heavily and he felt me brace myself and he loosened them. “There’s nothing to you,” he said, incredulously. “A dry bone of a woman, with your judicious little face and your…”

  “No, I am not Elylé,” I said steadily. “Do you want me to be sorry for that?”

  “No,” he said simply, coming to himself.

  “Nasar, is it that you want the earrings because you can stay here instead of going back home—and you have been ordered back home and don’t want to go?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “But wouldn’t they—come after you and punish you?”

  “No,” he said, with his short laugh, that I now knew to associate with his inner comparisons between Canopus and what I made of Canopus as a Sirian. “No. What need of punishments? What punishments could conceivably be worse than this…” and he shut his eyes, and flung back his head with something like a howl—yes, it was like the howl of a desperate animal. “Ohhh,” he groaned, or howled, “to be this, to have become part of it, to be Shikasta, to be Shammat…”