by David Karp
“My purging you mean?” Burden said with a smile.
“Yes, Professor—your purging,” Lark said solemnly.
“Well—”
“We can arrange for your leave of absence from the college for one full week and you may telephone your wife to explain if you wish. I wouldn’t tell her the truth—but make some plausible excuse. I leave that up to you. She might, conceivably, be upset by news that you’ve been delayed here.”
“Yes,” Burden said, biting his lower lip, “she might, at that. I think I can satisfy Emma with a story of some sort. But—” Burden looked at Lark, “is this quite necessary? I mean, I am loyal to the State; I approve of our society, its aims, its methods—I have always been a supporter of the benevolent State and all it stood for.”
“That is why we are going to this much trouble, Professor Burden—we consider you far too valuable a person to be lost in a confused limbo of heresy. It’s my job, Professor Burden. Please let me do it.”
“Well,” Burden sighed, “all right. But I’m afraid you’re wrong. I’m not a heretic.”
“You are,” Lark said evenly. “We’ll prove it to you. But I think you’ve had enough. Have a good night’s rest, Professor.”
12
Lark returned on Sunday, the eighteenth of October, while Burden was having his lunch. With the doctor’s permission he was out of bed and the tray was set on the low table in front of the couch. He had been brought a faded blue bathrobe to wear over his pajamas. His temperature, according to the nurse, was normal.
“Good day, Professor,” Lark said as he entered, picking up the chair from the bedside and bringing it over to the table.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Lark. My lunch,” Burden gestured at the small dishes, “I’ll never get fat on it but at least it’s hot.”
Lark smiled a faintly appreciative smile.
“You know,” Burden continued as he cut a limp asparagus stalk with his fork, “I did some thinking last night after you left.”
“Good, Professor. I’m glad to hear that. Mind telling me what you thought?”
“This whole concept of heresy—isn’t it rather exaggerated? I mean, after all, what does it boil down to but some disagreement with the mores of society, with some official concepts, with some popular notions? Is that so terrible? Surely there is some latitude allowed for differences of opinion?”
“There is nothing wrong with differences of opinion provided the differences have to do with alternative courses of action or conduct. But a difference of opinion on—let’s use your own words—‘mores,’ ‘official concepts,’ ‘popular notions’ is quite important. A difference of opinion here is heresy, without a doubt. Let me illustrate this with a homely example. While you and your wife might disagree on the placement of furniture in your home and still remain happily and completely married, you could not disagree on the very need for a home and expect to maintain the marriage.”
“Oh, I see—principles, fundamentals.”
“Precisely. In the same relationship of citizen to state, agreement must be obtained on ‘principles,’ ‘fundamentals,’ to use your words again.”
“But on principles and fundamentals I do agree with the State, Mr. Lark.”
“I’m sorry, but you do not.”
“Oh, my black book of heresies. I forgot about them. It seems that we erased at least one heresy yesterday—my feeling that I was more sophisticated than the government. You proved me to be wrong.”
“I did no such thing. I merely demonstrated that one public servant could be at least as sophisticated as yourself. I proved myself to be your equal. But I do not constitute the government. You retain the heresy with a modification, a certain weakening. You surely believe that you are far more sophisticated than the vast majority of government workers, perhaps including some of the highest executives and administrators of the government. Don’t you?”
“Well, yes, I rather feel that you are an exceptional case.”
“I am not,” Lark said flatly.
“You’re not admitting, are you, that your intellectual equipment is on the same level with say, Mr. Conger’s?”
“I am admitting that. For the sort of work Mr. Conger does he is every bit as successful and astute as I for the work I do.”
“Well, yes, perhaps that’s so. But Conger’s intellectual level is much lower, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“I see you’re no heretic, Mr. Lark.”
“You think I’m responding like some official automaton, don’t you?”
“We-lll—”
“That I say one thing and believe another? That I am not being fully frank with you?”
“Mr. Lark, I can’t see into your mind as cleverly as you appear to be able to see into mine. All I can say is that Mr. Frank Conger may be fully able to handle the sort of work he does but that’s only because the work is not as demanding as the work you do.”
“Suppose I were to tell you that Conger and I regularly exchanged jobs as a matter of administrative routine?”
Burden gave Lark a look of surprise. “Really?”
“To be perfectly honest, we don’t. But it is quite possible, and in neither case would our work be impaired in any way. You find this remarkable?”
“I think you’re stretching matters a bit to make a point—the absolute standard of equality. I know it exists in theory but I’m afraid it doesn’t work out well in practice.”
“It exists in theory and is being put into practice by the State. Notice how many more people who would never normally go to college are attending your classes.”
“Unfortunately that’s so. Don’t raise your eyebrows. I did say unfortunately. The intellectual level of the freshman classes keeps going down semester after semester.”
“By your standards.”
“By any standards.”
“By ‘intellectual level’ what do you mean?”
“Ability to learn, the capacity for original thinking, the ability to understand abstract relationships, the appreciation of knowledge, the ability to retain, assimilate, and use the knowledge we pass on to our students.”
“Curiously enough, those things do not determine what standards the State has created for intellectual levels.”
“What?”
“The intellectual level is an arbitrary and rather romantic notion as you have described it. For instance, it could very easily encompass people who are irresponsible, unstable, treacherous, lazy, callous, indifferent, weak.”
“Well, yes, I guess so.”
“Do you think it is of any value to educate such persons?”
“No, not if the aim of education is to create useful people.”
“Precisely. And yet such persons might easily meet all the standards you describe as coming under an optimum intellectual level. The official State definition of intellectual level is quite different. Intellect divorced from character is meaningless. Society has no use for brilliant anarchists, for gifted idlers, for educated cynics, for clever nihilists. The State prefers its educated people to have character, to be honest, to be energetic, to be loyal, to be trustworthy. Such are the people who will take over the government, and eventually all governments.”
“Character before ability? It’s an odd concept. Why not both?”
“That is our hope, our goal—to combine both standards, yours and ours.”
“Well, that’s always been the aim and hope of education.”
“But, unfortunately, in the choice between the two, ability has always won and character has always lost. That’s because teachers have always had a mystique about ability. I would rather live in a nation of moral morons than in one of scintillating parasites.”
“Well, the choice is never that extreme, you know.”
“No, it isn’t. There is hope for training the morons. There is never a hope of reclaiming a parasite.”
“But the products of the local schools are so bad, Mr. Lark.”
“They will improve. Of
one thing we are certain—the local schools turn out young men and women who believe in the principles and fundamentals of the State, who are hard-working, serious, anxious to learn, and equally anxious to be of service to their fellows. That is paramount.”
“I suppose you could improve the scholastic qualities of such young people in time,” Burden said thoughtfully.
“We will. But, as you say, time is needed. First things first. And character comes first. The State demands character above all. Intelligence without character is intolerable. You remember the illustration of the platoon commander? The world could get along very well on a minimum of brains and a maximum of character. I shudder, however, if the situation should be revised.”
“But my dear Mr. Lark, the world has done without either of the two for such a long time.”
“Yes, and you know what a world it was—selfish, stupid, cruel, callous, allowing some nations to starve while others gorged themselves, living in a constant state of tension, the big nations hysterically jockeying for power and the small nations terrorized at the prospect of being ground between the millstones. You are not a historian, Professor Burden, else you would not so blithely suggest that the world has done without brains or character and could continue to do so. I must introduce you to a real historian one day—a Doctor Wright. I find him most stimulating.”
“I would like to meet your Doctor Wright,” Burden said, deciding that if Lark truly represented the character of man the State was trying to create it would be a remarkable world in fifty or seventy-five years. Lark was a remarkable man. The only thing Burden vaguely distrusted was Lark’s insistence that he was merely a routine product of the benevolent State. Lark might believe that but Burden knew it wasn’t true. Lark was head and shoulders above all the men Burden had met in government service. Burden decided that the curious blind spot in Lark’s make-up was that although he talked a great deal about reality he was intensely idealistic and romantic. Burden smiled at the thought.
“Are you smiling at me, Professor?” Lark asked.
“No, not really,” Burden said, again puzzled and faintly upset by Lark’s sure instinct for guessing what he thought. “I was smiling at what I thought was an amusing reversal. You think of me as being a romantic and yourself as a realist—whereas it just occurred to me that you are the romantic and I am the realist.”
“I am not much of a philosopher,” Lark said patiently, “but reality is something that undoubtedly changes in time. In the Middle Ages there were pious folk who thought angels could fly, but in reality no one could fly. In modern times even pious folk conceded that angels only flew metaphorically speaking but in reality almost anyone who was so inclined could fly. So what was reality in one age was quite different from the reality of another age. A state ruled by men of character for men and women of character was no reality in past ages. It is becoming a reality now.”
“Then you don’t believe in the immutable aspects of human nature?”
“Human nature is a myth. The human characteristics are the ability to laugh, the capacity for tears, the erectness of carriage, and opposed digits. Otherwise humans are indistinguishable from apes.”
“Reasoning?”
“Many animals can reason, Professor Burden, as many animals learn from experience. No, mankind is not a divine mystery. He is a riddle that demands patience and care and skill, but he is solvable.”
“But his creation—that’s a divine mystery, isn’t it, Mr. Lark?”
“Professor Burden—you’re descending to quibbling. The State has no desire to create men. It only desires to shape them. While science cannot create matter, the simplest technicians can shape it to desired ends and characteristics. Only God can make a tree, as the old poem goes, but ordinary workmen can change it into several thousand sheets of ordinary white paper.”
Burden smiled. “You know, I enjoy these talks, Mr. Lark. You’re a stimulating and sharp-witted young man. But what has all this to do with heresy? Aren’t we wasting our time?”
“Not at all,” Lark said, easing forward in his chair. “Our conversations actually amount to instruction—one of the therapeutic specifics for heretics.”
“Instruction, eh? I’m afraid I’ve always thought of instruction as something more formal.”
“You see now how wrong you are. Instruction can arise from conversation as random as this and be effective. Is it effective, Professor Burden?”
“Oh, I guess so. Except that it seems to be such an enjoyable way of learning that I can hardly believe that it is learning at all. I mean, it sounds to me as if we’re both having a splendid time passing the hours, but not actually accomplishing anything.”
“We’re accomplishing a great deal, Professor. You see, pediatricians and child psychologists tell us that children learn from playing, that what seems to the adult to be random, pointless manipulation and childish handling is actually hard work that involves an enormous amount of instruction to the child on the sort of world he lives in, the things in it, its textures, shapes, colors, weights, and so on. So, like a child, Professor Burden, you are learning about the world in what may seem to you a fairly random and purposeless fashion—but you are learning. May I suggest some of the things you have already learned about yourself?”
“Please do,” Burden said, leaning back and watching Lark with interest.
“For one thing, you have learned that you hold some erroneous notions about the State, its functions and your attitudes toward it. You have learned that while you feel superior to the bureaucrats of the government you should not feel so—that there is justice in what they ask of you and all citizens of the State. You may continue to feel superior to these people but only at the expense of a faintly guilty conscience. You will check that feeling of superiority from time to time. You will think of me. You may even wonder how many persons like me are engaged in government. You may wonder if perhaps the government isn’t, in some ways, at least as sophisticated as yourself. You will cease thinking of every government functionary as some sort of shortsighted bumpkin with more power than is good for him. You have also learned that there are other valid standards of measuring the worth of college students than the ones you have been applying for years. You may also begin to weigh in your own mind the values you hold against the values the State finds important. You may even decide that perhaps the State’s values are more important for the immediate future, and that your own values, while quite worthy, are something to be realized sometime farther off. Think a little of all the things we have discussed, Professor Burden—see how your thinking may have been modified slightly here, sharpened slightly there, changed a little in direction. You have learned quite a lot in a short time, Professor Burden. For my part, I feel you’ve made good progress.”
“Mr. Lark, you should have been a teacher,” Burden said with open admiration.
“But I am, Professor Burden. And I am teaching what is probably the most vital subject in the world—the purposes, aims, and methods of the benevolent State. No state can hope to succeed by fiat. Historically such states have failed. A state must persuade its citizens to accept the premises on which it exists and functions. In some cases persuasion is quite simple, in others, difficult. But it must be accomplished with every citizen—particularly the intellectuals. You know, Professor Burden, that in other times and in other cultures you would have been shot out of hand for disagreeing with the state. I am not mentioning this to make you feel any gratitude. We know such methods are false, that they accomplish nothing, that they postpone the inevitable—that, in fact, they strengthen the ultimate rebellion. To display a weapon is to use your final argument—it is the pathetic threat of a threadbare political system. The Department has built its reputation on reason, justice, and benevolence. We have been successful, Professor. In fact, we have never had a failure. And yet, if we had chosen to be an instrument of terror, to insist upon conformity, the grounds surrounding these buildings would be filled with the graves of our failures. The Sta
te is immortal, it cannot concern itself with the immediate success—it must think generations ahead and behave in the present so that the following generations will accept it willingly, gratefully, understandingly. That’s why I am a teacher. That’s why all of us in the Department are teachers, and all of our functions are those of teachers. Even Mr. Conger, whom you tend to despise, is a teacher. He taught you to think about what you were saying, taught you to examine your motives. You learned from Mr. Conger—learned more than you realized. Think on what Mr. Conger’s instruction was and you’ll see that I was right. Think on it and you may even come to amend your opinion of Mr. Conger.”
“I think you may be right at that,” Burden said, puzzled now, wondering if he hadn’t, after all, made a complete fool of himself, acted arrogantly when he had no right or reason to act that way. Lark had a curiously sure instinct for awakening thoughts, for instilling doubts, for provoking self-questioning. Burden looked at him more closely, wondering exactly how important Lark was in the hierarchy of government. A man with such talents ought to hold an immensely important position and yet Burden wondered if he did. Could his own case of heresy be so minor that Lark was nothing more than one of a battery of investigators? He had said once he was Richard’s superior and Richard had spoken as if he were Conger’s superior. Then Lark was at least two cuts above Conger. But how high was that?
“Well,” Lark said, rising, “the doctor tells me that you ought to be out of bed and on your feet by tomorrow afternoon. I’m glad, Professor. It will make things more convenient for both of us.”
“It certainly will,” Burden said with a smile, “and what’s more, I’ll be able to get out of these pajamas. You don’t know how immoral it makes me feel to spend whole days dressed this way. Oh, by the way, you said you would send down that booklet listing my heresies. Remember?”
“I’ll see that you get it, Professor. But not right now. I think perhaps we ought to hold it until the end of the week. Then at the end of the week I think you can read it and understand the extent of your heresy and the progress you’ve made.”