The twenty-ninth. From morning—a low, cottony sky full of holes, and through the holes—an icy breath. But the cave-god stuffed his belly from morning, graciously began to drone—and let there be holes, let Obertyshev, overgrown with teeth, count his logs—let him, it makes no difference: if only for today; tomorrow has no meaning in the cave; only after ages have passed will “tomorrow” and “the day after tomorrow” be known.
Masha got up and, rocked by an invisible wind, combed her hair as of old: over her ears with a parting in the middle. It was like the last, withered leaf fluttering on a bare tree. From the middle drawer of the desk Martin Martinych took papers, letters, a thermometer, some kind of blue phial (he hurriedly shoved it back, so Masha would not see) and, finally, from the furthest corner, a black lacquered box. In it, on the bottom, there still was some real—yes! yes! some most real tea! They drank real tea. Martin Martinych, having thrown back his head, listened to a voice so similar to that of the past:
“Mart, do you remember: my nice blue room, and the piano with its cover, and on the piano—a little wooden horse—an ashtray, and I was playing, and you came up from behind—”
Yes, that evening the universe was created, and the wonderful, wise old snout of the moon, and the nightingale-trill of bells in the hallway.
“And do you remember, Mart: the window open, the green sky—and below, from another world—the organ-grinder?”
Organ-grinder, marvelous organ-grinder—where are you?
“And on the embankment … remember? Branches—still bare, the water—reddish, and the last blue block of ice, resembling a coffin, floats by. And the coffin only made us laugh, for we—we’ll never die. Remember?”
Downstairs they began splitting wood with a stone axe. Suddenly they ceased, some sort of scurrying, a shout. And split in two, Martin Martinych with one half saw the immortal organ-grinder, the immortal little wooden horse, the immortal block of ice, and with the other—his breath punctuated—he was re-counting with Obertyshev the logs of firewood. Now Obertyshev has already counted them, now he is putting on his coat; all overgrown with teeth he savagely slams the door, and—
“Wait, Masha, it seems—it seems that someone is knocking at our door.”
No. No one. No one as yet. He can still breathe, he can still throw back his head and listen to the voice—so similar to the other, the former.
Dusk. The twenty-ninth of October has grown old. The staring, blurry eyes of an aged woman—and everything shrivels, wrinkles, hunches up under the fixed gaze. The vaulted ceiling is settling; the armchairs, the desk, Martin Martinych, the beds were flattened, and on the bed—a completely flat, paper-thin Masha.
Selikhov, the house-chairman, came at dusk. At one time he had been well over two hundred pounds, but now half of that had gone; he knocked about in his jacket-husk like a nut in a rattle. But he rumbled with laughter as of old.
“W-e-ll, Martin Martinych, in the first place—secondly, I congratulate your wife on the great day of her saint. Ah, yes! Of course! Of course! Obertyshev told me….”
Martin Martinych was shot from the armchair, he bolted, hurried to speak, to say something….
“Some tea … I’ll immediately—this very minute … Today we have real tea. Real tea! I only …”
“Some tea? You know, I’d prefer champagne. There ain’t any? No kidding? Har-har-har! And you know, the day before yesterday me and my friend brewed our own from Hoffman drops. What fun! He got potted. ‘I am Zinoviev;’ he says, ‘on your knees!’ What fun! And I was going home from there when on Mars Field a man comes toward me in shirt sleeves, by God! ‘What’s with you?’ I say. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he says, ‘They just undressed me and I am running home to Vasilievsky.’ What fun!”
Flattened, paper-thin, Masha laughed on the bed. Tying himself into a tight knot, Martin Martinych laughed louder and louder—in order to stoke Selikhov; so he would not stop, so he would say something more….
Selikhov was stopping, snorting slightly; he became still. He swayed in his jacket-husk—to the right, to the left: he got up.
“W-e-ll, ma’am, your hand. Pam! What? You don’t know? In their lingo, the pleasure’s all mine—p.a.m. What fun!”
He thundered in the hallway, in the vestibule. The last second: he will leave now, or …
The floor swayed and spun slightly under the feet of Martin Martinych. Smiling a clay smile, Martin Martinych supported himself on the doorjamb. Selikhov puffed while pounding his feet into huge overshoes.
In his overshoes, in his fur coat, mammoth-like, he straightened up, caught his breath. Then silently he took Martin Martinych by the arm, silently he opened the door into the arctic study, silently he sat down on the sofa.
The floor in the study—a block of ice; scarcely audible, the block cracked, broke from the shore—and carried, carried, spun Martin Martinych, and from there—from the sofa, the distant shore—Selikhov can barely be heard.
“In the first place—secondly, my dear sir, I must tell you: I’d take that Obertyshev, like a louse, and by God … But you understand: since he has complained officially, since he says—‘tomorrow I’ll go to the criminal investigation office.’ … What a louse! I can suggest only one thing: go to him, today, right now—and stuff those logs down his throat.”
The block of ice—faster and faster. The minute, flattened, scarcely visible—a splinter—Martin Martinych answered to himself; and not about firewood, but about something else:
“Very well. Today. Right away.”
“That’s fine, that’s fine! He’s such a louse, such a louse, I’ll tell you….”
It is still dark in the cave. Cold, blind, made of clay—Martin Martinych dully stumbled against the flood-confounded objects in the cave. He started: a voice resembling Masha’s, her former voice:
“What were you and Selikhov talking about? What? Ration cards? Mart, I was lying and thinking: if we’d gather our strength and go somewhere, where there is Sun … Oh! How noisy you are! As if on purpose. Don’t you know!—I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”
A knife on glass. However—now it made no difference. Mechanical arms and legs. Some sort of chains, a winch, are needed to raise and lower them, like the sheers of a ship; and to turn the winch—one man is not enough: three are needed. Tightening the chains beyond his strength, Martin Martinych set a teakettle and saucepan to heat, threw on the last Obertyshev logs.
“Do you hear what I am telling you? Why are you silent? Do you hear?”
This, of course, is not Masha; no, it is not her voice. Martin Martinych moved slower and slower, his feet were swallowed by quicksand, the winch turned harder and harder. Suddenly a chain tore loose from some block, a sheer-arm crashed down, awkwardly bumped the tea-kettle and saucepan—they clattered to the floor, the cave-god hissed like a snake. And over there, from the distant shore, from the bed—a strange piercing voice:
“You did that on purpose! Go away! This very instant! I don’t want to see anybody, I don’t need anything, I don’t need anything! Go away!”
The twenty-ninth of October died, and the immortal organ-grinder died, and the blocks of ice on the reddish water at sunset, and Masha. And this is good. There should be no fantastic tomorrow, no Obertyshev, no Selikhov, no him—no Martin Martinych; everything should die.
The mechanical, distant Martin Martinych was still doing something. Perhaps he again was lighting the stove, and was gathering the contents of the saucepan from the floor, and was setting the teakettle to boil; and perhaps Masha was saying something—he did not hear; there were only dully aching indentations in the clay from some sort of words, from the corners of the chiffonier, chairs, desk.
Martin Martinych was slowly extracting from the desk bundles of letters, a thermometer, sealing-wax, a little box of tea, and again—letters. And finally, somewhere from the very bottom, a small dark-blue phial.
Ten o’clock: the light was turned on. Bare, harsh, plain, cold (like cave life, and death) electric light. And b
eside the flat-iron, the 74th Opus, the flat cakes—such a plain, blue phial.
The cast-iron god droned kindly, devouring the parchment-yellow, bluish and white paper of the letters. The teakettle rattled its lid, quietly bringing itself to mind. Masha turned around:
“Has the tea boiled? Mart dear, give me—”
She saw it. One second, pierced through and through by the clear, bare, cruel electric light: huddled before the stove—Martin Martinych; on the letters—a reddish reflection, like the water at sunset; and there—the blue phial.
“Mart … You … you already want to …”
It is quiet. Indifferently devouring the immortal, bitter, tender, yellow, white, blue words—quietly purred the cast-iron god. And Masha—just as simply as when asking for tea:
“Mart, dear! Mart—give it to me.”
Martin Martinych smiled from afar.
“But you do know, Masha: there’s only enough for one.”
“Mart, I’m gone anyway. This is not me—it makes no difference, I’ll … Mart, you do understand—Mart, have a pity for me—Mart!”
Oh, that same—that same voice … And if you would throw back your head …
“Masha, I deceived you: there’s not a single log in our study. And I went to Obertyshev, and there between the doors … I stole—do you understand? And Selikhov told me … I must take them back right away—but I’ve burned them all, I’ve burned them all—all of them!”
Indifferently, the cast-iron god drowses. Dying out, the cave vaults shudders slightly, and slightly shudder the houses, the rocks, the mammoths, Masha.
“Mart, if you still love me … Please, Mart. Remember! Mart, dear, give it to me!”
The immortal wooden little horse, the organ-grinder, the block of ice. And this voice … Martin Martinych slowly rose from his knees. Slowly, with difficulty turning the winch, he took the phial from the table and gave it to Masha.
She threw off the blanket, sat on the bed—rosy, quick, immortal, like the water had once been at sunset, grabbed the phial, laughed.
“So you see: not without cause have I lain and thought of leaving here. Turn on another lamp—that one, on the table. That’s right. Now throw something else in the stove—I wish the the fire would …”
Martin Martinych, without looking, scooped some papers out of the desk, threw them in the stove.
“Now … Go take a short walk. It seems that the moon is out there—my moon: remember? Don’t forget—take the key, otherwise you’ll lock the door, and won’t be able to …”
No, there was no moon there. Low, dark thick clouds—a vault, and everything—one huge, quiet cave. Narrow, endless passageways between walls; and resembling houses—dark, ice-encrusted rocks; and in the rocks—deep holes glowing crimson; there, in the holes by the fire—squatting people. A light, icy draught blows white dust from under their feet, and heard by no one—over the white dust, over the boulders, over the caves, over the squatting people—the huge, measured tread of some super-mammothish mammoth.
(1920-2)
Translated by Gleb Struve
[from] WE
Record 1
Synopsis: An Announcement / The Wisest of Lines / A Poem
I am simply transcribing—word for word—what was printed in the State Gazette today:
“In 120 days the construction of INTEGRAL will be completed. The mighty, historical hour is near when the first INTEGRAL will soar into universal space. One thousand years ago, your heroic ancestors subjugated the entire earthly sphere to the power of the United State. Awaiting you is an even more glorious feat: the integration of the infinite equation of the universe by means of the glass, electrical, fire-breathing INTEGRAL. Awaiting you is the subjugation of those unknown creatures inhabiting other planets to the beneficent yoke of reason—and perhaps still living in a wild state of freedom. If they will not comprehend that we bring them a mathematically infallible happiness, our duty is to force them to be happy. But before arms—we will attempt words.
In the name of the Benefactor it is hereby announced to all the numbers of the United State:
Everyone who feels capable is obliged to compose treatises, poems, manifestoes, odes or other works, on the beauty and grandeur of the United State.
This will be the first cargo which the INTEGRAL will carry.
All hail to the United State, all hail to the numbers, all hail to the Benefactor!”
I am writing this—and I feel: my cheeks are burning. Yes: the integration of the grandiose universal equation. Yes: to unbend the wild curve, to straighten it out along a tangent—an asymptote—to a straight line. Because the line of the United State—is a straight line. A great, divine, precise, wise, straight line—the wisest of lines …
I, D-503, the builder of the INTEGRAL,—I am only one of the mathematicians of the United State. My pen, accustomed to figures, is not capable of creating the music of assonances and rhythms. I am merely attempting to record what I see, what I think—more accurately, what we think (that is it precisely: we, and let this WE be the title of my records). Yet this will be a derivative of our life, of the mathematically perfect life of the United State, and if that is so, will it actually not be in itself, independently of my will, a poem? It will—that I believe and know.
I am writing this and I feel: my cheeks are burning. Probably, this is similar to what a woman experiences when for the first time she senses within herself the pulse of a new—still tiny, blind human being. It is I and simultaneously—not I. And for long months it will be necessary to nourish it with one’s life fluid, with one’s blood, and then—painfully tear it away from oneself and lay it at the feet of the United State.
But I am ready, just as everyone is,—or almost everyone of us. I am ready.
Record 2
Synopsis: Ballet / Square Harmony / X
Spring. From beyond the Green Wall, from the wild invisible plains, the wind carries the yellow pollen of some kind of flowers. Your lips grow dry from this sweet pollen—every minute you pass your tongue over them—and it must be that all the women you meet have sweet lips (and the men as well, of course). This somewhat hinders logical thinking.
But then, what a sky! Blue, unspoiled by a single cloud (what wild tastes the ancients had if their poets could be inspired by those ugly, disorderly, clumsily jostling clumps of vapor). I love—I am certain that I will not be mistaken if I say: we love—this same sterile, immaculate sky alone. On such days—the whole world is cast of that very same immutable eternal glass as the Green Wall, as all of our buildings. On such days you see into the bluest depths of things, you see certain of their amazing equations, hitherto unknown—in something most common, prosaic.
Why, just take this example. This morning I was at the launching site where the INTEGRAL is being built—and suddenly I caught sight of the machine benches: with eyes closed, in self-oblivion, the spheres of the regulators were spinning; flashing, the levers were bending to the right and to the left; the pendulum rod was proudly dipping its shoulders; to the rhythm of an inaudible music the blade of a tooling lathe bobbed up and down in a dance. I suddenly perceived all the beauty of this grandiose mechanical ballet suffused with the buoyant azure sun.
And further—in the same vein: why—beautiful? Why is the dance beautiful? Answer: because it was a nonfree motion, because the whole profound meaning of the dance is precisely in its absolute, aesthetic subordination, in its ideal nonfreedom. And if it is true that our ancestors would surrender themselves utterly to dance during—the most inspired moments of their life (religious mysteries, military parades), then this signified but one thing: from time immemorial, the instinct for nonfreedom has been organically inherent in man, and in our present-day life—are only consciously …
I shall have to finish later: the intercom has clicked. I looked up: 0-90, of course. In half a minute she herself would be here: to take me for the walk.
Dear O!—it always seemed to me—that she resembled her name: approximately 10 cen
timeters shorter than the Maternal Norm—and thus seemingly turned so roundly as though on a lathe,—and the pink O—her mouth—opened wide to greet every word of mine. And moreover: the round, plump little fold of skin on the wrist of her hand—the kind that children often have.
When she entered, the logical flywheel was still humming at full force in me and because of its momentum I began to talk about the formula I had just constructed which included all of us, as well as the machines and the dance.
“Marvelous. Isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes, marvelous. Spring,” 0-90 gave me a pink smile.
Well, there, how do you like that: spring … She talks about spring. Women … I fell silent.
Downstairs. The avenue was full: the post-lunch private hour, in weather like this—we usually spend on a supplementary walk. As always, the music factory was playing the March of the United State with all its pipes. In even ranks, four abreast, solemnly keeping time to the rhythm, the numbers walked—hundreds, thousands of numbers, in pale-blue unifs (probably from the ancient Uniforme), with golden badges on their chests—a state number for every male and female. I too—we, the four of us,—were one of the countless waves in this mighty torrent. To the left of me was 0-90 (if one of my hairy ancestors had been writing this about a thousand years ago—he probably would have called her by that amusing word my); to the right—two other strangers, a female-number and a male-number.
A sky of blissful blue, minute, toylike suns in each of the badges, faces unclouded by the insanity of thoughts … Rays of light—you understand: everything made of some indivisible, radiant, smiling matter. And the rhythmic measures of the brass: “Tra-ta-ta-tam. Tra-ta-ta-tam,” those were the brass steps gleaming in the sun and with each step—you climbed higher and higher, into the dizzy azure.
And then, just as had been the case that morning, at the launching site, once again I perceived, as if only then for the first time in my life—I perceived everything: the absolutely straight streets, the glass pavements shimmering with rays of light, the divine parallelepipeds of transparent dwellings, the square harmony of the grayish-blue ranks. To illustrate: it was as though not entire generations, but I—yes I alone—had conquered the old God and the old life, yes, I alone had created all of this, and I, like a tower, I was afraid to move my elbow lest the walls, cupolas, machines collapse in showering fragments …
Worlds Apart Page 58
