by David Karp
Yes, in any way I can.
“Do you believe now that the State seeks only your happiness?”
Yes, I believe that.
“Do you acknowledge that you hold heresies?”
Yes, I do.
“Do you know what these heresies are?”
Yes, I do.
“Do you know how they arose?”
Some of them, yes.
“But not all?”
Some I don’t know. They came from—I don’t know.
“Do you care where they came from?”
No.
“Would you like to know where they came from?”
No. I don’t. I want to be rid of them. Please, please, help me get rid of them. I want to live a happy life. I don’t want to live like those other men in rooms they’ve made for themselves. It is awful to be mad.
“It is awful to be outside of the world. That is what you mean.”
Outside of the world?
“Yes, to be alone as those men were alone. Not to be with others in common hopes, common dreams, common feelings.”
Oh, yes, I see what you mean. They were all together in the same room but they were all alone by themselves. Yes, yes, you’re right. Madness is like heresy—it sets you apart from others. It can destroy you.
“Exactly. Heresy is madness—the most subtle sort. When you do not believe as all others do, then you are mad. You invent your own reality but that does not make it reality, does it?”
But what if all the others have invented a reality? What if there is a collective madness of a state?
“You are beginning to talk philosophically and to talk philosophically is to talk idly. This is not a world of idlers. This is a world of doers. Who is to decide what is real and what is not? The State, as directed by its citizens, determines reality. What everyone believes to be reality is reality. That is simple enough, isn’t it?”
Yes, but is it reality?
“It is reality for all the citizens of the State and that means everyone. To suppose any other reality is to be a heretic. To be a heretic is to be insane and you do not want to be insane, do you?”
No, no, of course not. Then something is real because everyone says it is real? Is that it?
“Of course. Do you remember the story of the man who said the moon had fallen into the well? He saw it in the bottom of the well and showed it to everyone in the village. But when it was pointed out to him that the moon was also in the sky and that what he saw in the well was only the reflection of the moon in the water he gave up his belief. The reality that everyone could see and believe was that the moon was still in the sky. For one man to say that the moon is in the well does not mean it is so. The moon may appear in the well and you may believe with all your heart that the moon is there and not in the sky, but it is madness to persist in the face of what everyone else believes.”
And if everyone believed that the moon was in the well—would the moon then be in the well?
“For the people of that village, yes. It would be in the well and any traveler who came through and thought differently would be mad.”
But the moon actually was in the sky. It had not fallen into the well. Physics, science, astronomy would prove it to be impossible.
“Nothing is impossible if people will believe it. That is the strength of common thinking. It eventually makes all the things it thinks come true.”
But how?
“By explaining away the apparent differences with discernible fact. If enough people believed the moon to be in the well, a bright person might suggest that the moon in the sky was merely a reflection of the moon in the well, and that would satisfy the appearance of the moon in the sky.”
But if the moon moved—I mean, if it was no longer seen in the well but still seen in the sky?
“There would, in time, be an explanation for that.”
And it would be true?
“It would be made the truth. What man wills reality to be he can make it become. Will you accept the reality of your fellow citizens?”
Yes, yes, I will. I see now what reality means.
“Then listen and be instructed.”
“The State exists for the good of all. Because of this, all must subordinate their desires to the desires of the State. In time the desires of any citizen will be identical with the desires of the State. No conflict can arise for no one man can wish more than happiness for himself and the State wishes happiness for all. You have no quarrel with your neighbor nor he with you. No city has a quarrel with another, no province with another. All are part of the State and all exist for the mutual good. Your life is good only in so far as it is part of other lives. Good citizens marry, have children, love their families, worship God, conduct themselves honestly. You cannot cheat anyone without cheating yourself. There is nothing in the State which is not yours for demonstrable need. But no man may expect the fruits of the State without labor.” The recorded voice went on and on, now rising, now falling as Burden listened under the heavy bathrobe, his face pale and covered with sweat.
Lark drew Doctor Emmerich aside as he read Burden’s medical report.
“That was a nasty crack on the arm,” Lark said.
“I was surprised it didn’t break the forearm,” Doctor Emmerich said.
“But the locked ward served its purpose admirably. He will get over the injury. There is one thing now, and that is speed. He will have to be under drugs three times a day for the next week. His resistance is down and the instruction must be continuous. There is also a matter of a new identity. Continue as you have been without mentioning his name or his old identity. We’ll begin the shaping of the new identity tomorrow or Sunday. It will all be done under narcotic suggestion. I don’t want any overt reference to his new identity before Monday, at the earliest.”
Emmerich nodded. “By the way, did you see the corpse the division finally selected?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Beautiful job. Right coloring, height, weight, most of the other dimensions. When’s the funeral?”
“Probably tomorrow. I know the body is on its way to Templar.”
“I suppose the wife will take it hard.”
“A man cut down in the prime of his life? Yes, I imagine she will. But accidents do happen. She has the house, her two sons, and she won’t lack money under the widows’ pension plans and the various monies due her from the college and from Burden’s professional funds. She’ll be all right.”
Emmerich nodded thoughtfully and turned back to look at Burden, stretched out on the examination table, the recording machine beside him softly humming its instruction. “There’s something very wonderful about creating a new human personality,” the doctor said softly.
“Yes,” Lark agreed quietly, and wondered whether Doctor Wright would concede that he had succeeded, after all.
20
Burden’s funeral at Templar was fully attended even though it fell on Saturday, October 24. Emma Burden stood at the graveside, pale and frozen, hardly crying, watching the ceremony with dull eyes. Mark and Paul stood sturdily by her side, both boys crying but holding their mother’s arms as if she were the one who needed comfort the most.
The leaden-colored skies darkened and an unseasonable fall of light snow began, coating the broken yellow earth, falling into the open grave and onto the coat collars and hats of the funeral party. The snow was light and cold and stirred by a strong northerly wind so that people began to turn away from the grave and the wind in order to catch their breaths. As soon as the gravediggers began their job the funeral party, as if of one mind, began to disperse. The dean of the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences accompanied Mrs. Burden, along with the two boys and Doctor Middleton.
In the Burden home the dean waited a few moments to speak to Emma Burden and then left, but not before drawing the two weeping boys aside in the foyer near the staircase.
“Now, boys, you’ve got to take care of your mother. This is an awful thing for her and fo
r you, too. But you’re old enough now to wipe away your tears and comfort your mother. This is something that could have happened to anyone. You have a very brave and very fine father. I think as you grow older you’ll come to appreciate him more and more. He’s not dead, you know. He’s very much alive—in the books he wrote, in the students he taught, in you and in the love your mother has for him. He’s all around you. He isn’t gone. You have to understand that.” The dean stopped, as if uncertain what to say next, and then clapped both boys firmly on the shoulder and left the house.
In the living room Emma Burden sat on the couch and listened to Doctor Middleton. He was saying much the same thing to her that the dean had said to the boys but it carried more conviction from Doctor Middleton.
“We had our differences, but underneath I always thought of us as friends—good, dear friends. And that’s what I want you to feel about me, Emma. You’re not moving away. You’re staying here, keeping the house. You’ll see me and all of his friends. The boys are going to grow up and go to school and they’ll go to Templar and nowhere else. So try to remember that life has a way of continuing no matter how impossible the idea seems to you at the moment. And try to remember that there are friends—good friends who care about you.”
“Thank you,” Emma Burden finally managed softly, and Doctor Middleton squeezed her hand comfortingly and rose.
“If you like I can ask Paula to come over and stay with you for awhile,” Middleton said.
“No, no,” Emma shook her head, “the boys are with me and they’ll be enough.”
As if they had been waiting for those words, Mark and Paul entered, their eyes swollen and red. Middleton nodded, squeezed Emma’s hand again as if he could think of nothing else to do, and then walked out of the room, patting Mark’s shoulder as he passed.
The boys came over to their mother and sat down and snuggled against her. She put her arms around them. All three leaned their heads together and stared at the windows where the snow came in flurries, brightening the window for long moments and then fully dying away as if the storm were over.
“Where are we going to find someone like your father, boys?” Emma Burden said in soft despair and pulled the boys closer to her.
ii
“Well, Mr. Hughes, awake, I see?” The nurse was young and would have been pretty if she had not worked so hard to color her face.
“Yes,” he answered and wondered why he hesitated over his name. Hughes was his name. Why did he keep forgetting it?
“Are you ready for your bath?”
“Yes, I’m ready,” he said, and waited for her to help him but she only smiled and started to walk off. “Aren’t you going to help me?” he asked her. The nurse stopped and turned around.
“Help you do what?”
“Help me out of bed?”
“Why, Mr. Hughes,” she giggled unaccountably, “you’re a flirt.”
He looked at her as if the suggestion was astonishing. Her smile disappeared and she moved a step nearer. “You don’t need any help,” she said gently, “you can get out of bed by yourself.”
“I’ve been very sick,” he said, as if he were still not certain that this was the case.
“Ye-ss,” she admitted, “but you’re fine now. You can get out of bed any time.”
He paused for such a long time that she finally pursed her lips with mock annoyance. “Well, if you’re going to be a great big baby about it—I’ll help you. Now, come on, Mr. Hughes.” She held out a strong, rounded young arm. Slowly, not quite trusting himself, he eased part way off the bed, testing his leg. It felt wobbly and he held on to her more tightly.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said firmly, “you’ve got to walk by yourself.” He could smell the cheap perfume of her cosmetics and her vigorous, rounded young body seemed enormously strong, as if the vitality of her youth were too much for the starched white uniform.
When he was finally on his feet he was glad that she was there and he gratefully held on to her, certain that he would not be able to walk without her help. “I’d better lie down,” he finally admitted, knowing that he would fall without her.
“Nonsense. You won’t do any such thing. Lying down is bad for people. You’re not an invalid. I know what we’ll do—we’ll go over to that couch by the window and you can sit there. All right?”
He measured the distance to the couch and it seemed miles away. He smiled weakly but he could feel her young body forcing him forward. “Come on,” she chivied him playfully, “lift the other foot. That’s a good boy. Move it forward and now lift the other. Come on, you can do it.” He clung to her, no longer holding on to her arm but clutching her by the shoulders, negotiating a perilous passage to the couch. She finally released him at the couch and he sank down on it, completely losing control of his legs. For a long moment he listened to his own labored breathing and felt his arms and legs twitch and tremble uncontrollably. She stood over him, beaming and pleased.
“Now, was it as hard as you thought it would be?” she asked, and he noticed that she too was breathing deeply from the effort of helping him. He smiled back with the implicit information that it was not at all difficult. But in his heart he felt that it had been impossible and that both had been lucky he had not died on the way. “Well, now that you know you can do it you can get back into bed whenever you like.”
“No,” he said with alarm as she started to go.
“Don’t be a big baby,” she said, wagging her finger, “you have to try for yourself. Stay there, because I understand you have some visitors. I’ll bring you a clean robe first.” With that she was gone and he could not move or say anything to stop her.
He rested against the couch, grateful at least to be out of bed. She was probably right. He shouldn’t pamper himself. He was weak, true, but that was to be expected after an illness. His mouth puckered. That was strange, he thought. He was going to say after a “long” illness. But he wasn’t sure how long he had been ill. Had it been a long illness? He looked about the room. It was both familiar and strange at the same time. Certainly he knew it from the many times he had been awake and looked at it. But he could not remember those times except vaguely, as intervals between fevers, headaches, and moments of faintness.
Visitors. She had said that word, hadn’t she? Who would come to see him here in the hospital? He had no family, no close relatives. He knew that much. Friends? He didn’t recall any.
“How do you know I’ll have visitors?” he asked her when she returned to help him into a faded blue bathrobe.
“The supervising nurse told me for one thing, and for another—I saw the appointments chart.” She started to change the bed linen and as he watched her he wanted to speak, to ask questions, but her briskness, her concentration precluded any questions and he didn’t feel strong enough to insist.
“Now, that’s nice and fresh,” she said, the old bed linen balled up under her arm. “Don’t you go and spoil it before your visitors come.”
He nodded to her as she left.
His first visitor arrived within a few moments after the nurse left. There was a timid, uncertain knock at the door and before he could say anything the door opened slightly and then a bit wider, as if the person knocking had to be certain that someone occupied the room. He caught a glimpse of his visitor and the name Cumbers came to his mind. The man was short, middle-aged, with graying hair and faded blue eyes with an uncertain, timid look that suggested a lifetime of routine, minor pleasures and disappointments.
“Hughes, I’m so pleased,” the man said, advancing with his hand out.
“Cumbers?” he asked, and the man nodded as they shook hands.
“I’m pleased you recognized me at once,” Cumbers said, looking about for a place to sit.
“Take the chair,” he said. Cumbers nodded genially and crossed the room, picked up the chair, and brought it up to the table.
“I’ve been trying to see you for some time. But my appointments were always being disallowed. They
said you were far too sick to see anyone.”
“Then you know how long I’ve been here?” he asked.
“Why, yes, of course,” Cumbers said with some surprise, “I helped you home from the office. Don’t you remember?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. But I don’t.”
“Well, you were in a bad state. I can’t blame you for not remembering.”
“When was it I took ill?”
Cumbers hesitated and his fingers moved slightly as if he were counting on them. “Oh, at least a month now.”
“A month?” It had been a long illness then. “You didn’t happen to know what was wrong with me, did you?”
Cumbers turned unmistakably dark with embarrassment. “My dear fellow, if you’re worried that I told anyone—believe me, I haven’t said a word.”
He looked at Cumbers, puzzled and uncertain. Whatever he had been ill from was apparently something shameful, for Cumbers looked genuinely upset. “Please don’t misunderstand me,” he said to his visitor, “I’m not worried about your telling anyone. In fact, it may seem rather foolish to you—but I still don’t know what brought me here. I mean—what was my illness?”
“Haven’t they told you?” Cumbers asked with surprise. He shook his head and waited. Cumbers looked at him narrowly and then began to fidget with the hat in his lap. “I don’t know what to say. If they haven’t told you perhaps there is some good and sufficient reason for it. I certainly wouldn’t want to upset things by telling you something that rightfully they should tell you.”
A suspicion arose in his mind at the manner in which Cumbers phrased his sentences. “Tell me,” he asked slowly, “was it a mental thing?”
Cumbers looked at him without answering and he knew what Cumbers’ tacit silence implied.
“Oh,” he said softly, “I understand now.”
“But you’re much, much better now,” Cumbers hastily reassured him. “I mean, there would have been no chance for me to see you if they did not feel your condition was much improved. Now, that makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” he said carefully, “at least the nurse acts as if I’m on my way to recovery.”