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 his lot!
Another second. The hand moved down, switching in the current. The
lightning-sharp blade of the electric ray.... A faint crack like
a shiver, in the tubes of the Machine.... The prone body, covered
with a light phosphorescent smoke; then suddenly, under the eyes of
all, it began to melt,--to melt, to dissolve with terrible speed.
And then nothing; just a pool of chemically pure water which only a
moment ago was so red and pulsated in his heart....
All this was simple; all of us were familiar with the phenomenon,
dissociation of matter,--yes, the splitting of the atoms of the
human body! Yet every time we witnessed it, it seemed a miracle; it
was a symbol of the superhuman power of the Well-Doer.
Above, in front of Him, the burning faces of the female numbers,
mouths half open from emotion, flowers swaying in the wind.[2]
According to custom, ten women were covering with flowers the
unif of the Well-Doer, which was still wet with spray. With the
magnificent step of a supreme priest He slowly descended, slowly
passed between the rows of stands; and like tender white branches
there rose toward Him the arms of the women; and, millions like
one, our tempestuous cheers! Then cheers in honor of the Guardians,
who all unseen, were present among us.... Who knows, perhaps the
fancy of the ancient man foresaw them centuries ahead, when he
created the gentle and formidable "guardian-angels" assigned to each
one from the day of his birth?
[2] These flowers naturally were brought from the Botanical Museum.
I, personally, am unable to see anything beautiful in flowers, or
in anything else that belongs to the lower kingdom which now exists
only beyond the Green Wall. Only rational and useful things are
beautiful: machines, boots, formulae, food, etc.
Yes, there was in our celebration something of the ancient
religions, something purifying like a storm.... You whose lot it may
be to read this, are you familiar with such emotions? I am sorry for
you if you are not.