The Sentimental Agents in the Volyen Empire

by Doris Lessing

  ‘But I have made my point. Which is not the slaughter of millions upon millions, either by negligence or intention; not the imposition of the machinery of Terror; not the enslavement of populations. But that all of these developments were described in words for purposes of enslavement, or manipulation, or concealment, or arousal; that tyrants were described as benefactors, butchers as social surgeons, sadists as saints, campaigns to wipe out whole nations as acts beneficial to these nations, war as peace, and a slow social degeneration, a descent into barbarism, as progress. Words, words, words, words … And when local diagnosticians told them of their condition, they cried enthusiastically, “What wonderfully interesting words!” and went on as before.’

  ‘I am listening.’

  I did not go on, but contemplated my pupil, as I know you sometimes view me, Johor.

  ‘Klorathy, if you had prescribed for me Total Immersion in this history, what would have been my role?’

  ‘Can you ask? You would have been one of the instruments of the Terror. You would have murdered innumerable decent people by any means that you could devise, you would have been constantly developing ways to torture, to enslave through the skilled use of propaganda, and conditioning, and through the threat of death, torture, and prison. You would soon have been killed, according to the law that like attracts like, but I would have arranged for you at once to return and take a new place inside this machinery of brutality, where you would have continued to do all these things, while talking, about comradeship, social responsibility, peace, friendship, and so on and so forth.’

  Again, there was a long silence.

  And then he slowly sat up. ‘I have never been more fascinated,’ he announced at length, with that relish in examination of his own processes that seems very far from lessening. ‘I know perfectly well that if I had experienced TI in this history, I would be grovelling here, crying and screaming, trying only to forget it. I’m glad to say I’ve already forgotten that other awful TI! I would be begging for you to expunge every thought of it from my mind. I’d be crying out to the Cosmos against its cruelties. But, you know, I can listen as much as I like, but I can’t make it seem real. In fact, it all sounds rather – no, not attractive, not that – but interesting … The fact is, Klorathy, I don’t believe it. No, no, I don’t mean it didn’t happen, I don’t mean it isn’t still happening. I mean, I can’t make it seem real. It is like a tale, an old tale, an old story of distant fighting somewhere, a long time ago.’

  ‘I’m not complaining, Incent! Surely this is a sign you are improving. Tell me, you didn’t find any response in yourself to words like blood, Terror, and the rest?’

  ‘No, only a sort of “Oh, not again.”’

  ‘Very good. Well, how about this: The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.’

  Incent shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘We promise you we will purge from our midst every filthy traitor and all human scum and disgusting manifestations of outworn philosophy. We will fling all this outworn garbage onto the refuse tips of history.’

  At the word history Incent flinched, but smiled to himself.

  ‘The worms and maggots that have crept into our healthy new society will be squeezed out and exposed before the bar of history for what they are – the squalid leftovers from an outmoded past.’

  Incent shook his head. He was looking rather pleased with himself.

  ‘Do you think I am cured, Klorathy?’

  ‘You certainly wouldn’t have stood up to that even as recently as before your meeting with Grice.’

  ‘True enough. Grice has been a shock to me. I can tell you. I look at him and think, There but for the grace of …

  ‘You aren’t safe yet, Incent.’

  ‘I do so want to be of use again. I can’t bear to think how I’ve allowed myself to be used by Krolgul. Oh, Klorathy, how can I have done it?’ And he jumped up, smiled tragically, and rushed out.

  Have you guessed what I am going to say now? Yes, he succumbed, and almost at once, to Krolgol, who was lying in wait for him. Incent was running along the streets, elated and smiling. He saw coming towards him a crowd, and among them individuals he knew. They were not a shouting, screaming, destructive mob, they marched quietly, maintaining a decision made earlier at a public meeting place to proceed with discipline and responsibility. The leader’s called out comradely greetings.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he called back.

  ‘We are going to demand a general mobilization to defend Volyen against Sirius,’ was the reply. ‘Those traitors up there, they’ll let us be overrun before they’ll do anything. Sirian spies, all of them,’ was the reply.

  By now Incent was walking beside the leaders in the opposite direction to the one he had been taking. ‘A very good idea,’ said Incent. ‘Though you’ll be overrun anyway,’ he added, as if to himself, and saw the leaders look at one another and then draw away from him. ‘But never mind,’ he said cheerfully, still imbued with the perspectives of our recent lesson. ‘Their invasion won’t last long. How can it? Sirius has so much overreached itself.’ He saw their angry, rejecting faces, and said: ‘Well, I don’t see how you can get angry with facts.’

  ‘Facts, is it?’ said one of the leaders. ‘Sounds more like treachery to me.’

  ‘Treachery?’ gasped Incent, now running along beside them. ‘All Empires have a term, and often before they end they expand suddenly, as if they are crazed and fevered –’

  ‘We are not interested in defeatist talk,’ shouted one of the leaders, and pushed Incent away. At this the crowd marching behind him let out an angry growl, then shouts of ‘Traitor!’

  A leader said, ‘It’s scum like you we are out to get – all that rotten lot up there. You are one of them, from the sound of it.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Incent, still running beside them, even holding out a hand to someone he knew. And then, at this moment, he recognized who it was.

  ‘Krolgul!’ he said.

  And it was in these circumstances that poor Incent underwent his test.

  ‘Political innocent!’ said Krolgul

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Revisionist,’ hissed Krolgul.

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ said Incent, but he was affected. ‘Can’t you see, it doesn’t mean anything?’

  Krolgul had pulled him into the middle of the little group of leaders at the head of the mass, so that he was surrounded by threatening faces.

  ‘So it doesn’t mean anything? You are insulting the thoughts of the Sacred Leader, are you?’

  ‘No, no, of course not, I’m not –’

  ‘Reactionary,’ was the next word-of-power, stronger than the first, and Incent was weakened seriously by it.

  But he was struggling still. ‘How can I be? What does it mean? What am I reacting to? from?’ he demanded, while the people around him were cursing and growling like so many animals. Their independence of demeanour, their self-discipline, their determination not to be a mob – all this had gone, and it was Incent who had caused it; Incent under the smiling manipulation of Krolgul, who was the very image of a worthy, responsible revolutionary, his eyes alive with the determination to destroy everything in the path of historical inevitability, or whatever the formulation was, his face full of the vitality of triumphant cruelty.

  ‘Bourgeois!’ hissed Krolgul, and Incent nearly gave in.

  But still Incent was himself. Just.

  ‘Fascist,’ said Krolgul suddenly. And that was that. Incent shuddered to his depths. In a moment he was one of them, shouting and screaming: Death to … Down with … Blood …

  And so on.

  But do not be too concerned. I can feel that Incent is far from being in the pitiable state he was before; there is no great empty gap there where the substance of Volyen is sucked into the needs of Shammat. No, he is whole and strong. And he is in fact exerting a moderating influence on the committee of fanatics around hi
m. When he says, ‘But surely that doesn’t mean anything,’ as his response to some rousing bit of word-making, they often are checked and, though admittedly only temporarily, show disposition to think.

  And Krolgul is beside himself with frustration. Our other agents stand firm. Incent is not his. Krolgul has used his strongest word-of-power, and there is nothing he can fall back on.

  The next public excitement is Grice’s Trial of Volyen, which I shall attend.

  GRICE VS. VOLYEN

  In his role of Defender of the Public, Spascock tried to get this trial held in a small out-of-the-way court; as a possible agent of Sirius (Am I or am I not one? he has been groaning through sleepless nights) he has, because of the pressure from his Peers (all of them groaning, Am I! Am I not?), insisted on the main court of Volyen.

  This is a large chamber, made sombre to impose respect, if not awe. Each wall is devoted to a different theme. ‘The limbs of our sacred body’ – namely Volyenadna and Volyendesta, and Planets PE 70 (Maken) and PE 71 (Slovin) – each have their wall. Volyenadna, for instance, is represented by snowstorms and ice, as well as by happy miners led by Calder. Over all arches a ceiling painted to show benevolent scenes of Volyen personified as Donor, Provider, Adviser, with its ‘limbs’ in grateful postures. But Maken and Slovin, having just thrown off the ‘yoke’ of Volyen, sent delegations to paint over their respective walls, which was done hastily, leaving an unfinished, ugly effect. They also sprayed paint over the smiling faces of ‘Volyen’ on the ceiling.

  In this disturbing setting did the Trial start today.

  Grice’s Peers were raised up on a high box platform on one side. Taken together, they seemed even more in the ribald, reckless mood that often characterizes citizenry in periods just before a crisis, and were dressed fancifully and made an impression of jovial cynicism. When they were examined one by one, it was evident that not all were affected. Notably, a sensible and likeable young woman was making attempts to take it all responsibly. Near them hovered Incent, trying to impress upon them with urgent looks and smiles that the occasion was serious. He was there officially as Grice’s Aide. Near him lurked Krolgul, who, when his presence was objected to by the unfortunate Spascock, simply donned the robes of a court official, in a manner that insisted on Spascock’s ridiculousness, while he directed towards the unfortunate man the single, almost tender query, ‘Spy?’

  Grice, with Stil, was on the Prosecutor’s dais.

  A hundred or so citizens were in the public seats.

  In the position of Judge was Spascock, who declared the Trial open in a perfunctory way, after a heavy-lidded, sarcastic inspection of the sullied ceiling and the two roughly painted-out walls of Volyen’s former ‘limbs.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ demanded Grice, ‘but where is the Defendant?’ For on the Defending side of the court was an empty platform and some empty chairs.

  ‘Since it has proved impossible to decide who or what Volyen is …’ drawled Spascock, and allowed himself a smile as Krolgul pointed up at the ceiling, where Volyen’s faces had all been splodged out with white paint.

  ‘Volyen is what has made promises to its citizens, in its Constitution,’ said Grice.

  ‘That’s it’ – ‘That’s right,’ came from the public benches, and the energy of this caused an increase of attention in everybody. As for the Peers, they surveyed their audience sombrely; they had come ‘for a laugh.’ One or two were heard to mutter, ‘Well, if it’s going to be serious, what a drag. I’m off.’ And so on.

  But they stayed, seemingly because of the influence of the young woman, whose position among them was then and there formalized by their electing her Chief Peer.

  ‘Well, then, get on with it, Grice,’ said Spascock. ‘What is your first Indictment?’

  ‘I accuse Volyen of not providing me – representing for the purpose of this Trial all Volyen’s citizens – with real information as to our basic nature, thus enabling us to avoid certain traps into which we are likely to fall and …

  But I am enclosing herewith a copy of the Indictment.

  Grice read this out – a not inconsiderable document, as you will agree – in a firm, strong voice, raising his eyes at key words to look at his Peers, who were silent, stilled by the prospect of a serious instead of a hilarious occasion.

  The Chief Peer, Arithamea by name, had assumed a maternal look on her election, and now sat with a look of just-controlled exasperation.

  Spascock inquired at last: ‘And that is your first Accusation, is it? Very well, where are your witnesses?’

  At this Grice made a signal to Incent, who made another towards offstage, as it were, and an attendant wheeled in a trolley laden with about a hundred and fifty books.

  ‘These are my witnesses.’

  A long gloomy silence. From his throne Spascock looked down at the heap of books, the Peers seemed incredulous, and the public benches let out a deep sigh.

  ‘You are proposing that we should read all these books?’ inquired Spascock, with the feeble sarcasm obligatory at such moments in Volyen’s legal life.

  ‘Not at all; I shall summarize.’

  Groans from one end of the court to the other.

  ‘Order, order,’ admonished Spascock.

  ‘In a few words,’ said Grice. ‘It is perfectly possible to do so. This is not a recondite or abstruse subject … Shall I continue? Very well. The human animal, so recently evolved from a condition of living in groups, groups within herds, packs, flocks, troops, and clans, cannot exist now without them, and can be observed seeking out and joining groups of every conceivable kind because he –’

  ‘And she,’ enjoined the Chief Peer.

  ‘ – and she have to be in a group. When the young animal – sorry, person – leaves the family group, he, she, has to seek another. But has not been told that this is what he, she, will do. She has not been informed, “You will thrash about looking for a group, because without one you will be uncomfortable, because you are denying millions of V-years of evolution. You will do this blindly, and you will not have been informed that once in the group, you can no more refuse the ideas that the group will spin to make a whole than a fish can refuse to obey the movements of its shoal or a bird the patterns made by the flock it is part of.” This person is completely unarmoured, without protection against being swallowed whole by some set of ideas that need have no relevance to any real information that moves or drives the society. This person –’

  Arithamea inquired, making it clear that she was only in search of exactness: ‘Just a minute, dear, but are you saying that young people like company of their own age?’

  ‘Yes, if you want to put it like that,’ said Grice, for his part showing he thought that she was falling below an expected level.

  ‘But everyone knows that, don’t they, love?’ said she, and started to knit.

  ‘If everyone knows it, then everyone does not take it the necessary step further,’ said Grice firmly to her, raising his eyebrows at the flashing needles and directing urgent glances to the Judge. Spascock leaned forward, in turn raised his eyebrows, and remarked:

  ‘Leader of the Peers, you really must not knit in this court; I am sorry.’

  ‘If you say so, Judge,’ said she equably, packing away vast quantities of wool, needles, and so forth in a hold-all, a process that engaged the eyes and attention of everyone in the court. ‘But it helps to keep my mind comfortable.’

  ‘But not ours,’ said Spascock. ‘Do you mind my remarking that this is a serious occasion?’

  ‘Since you’re Judge, you can say what you like, I suppose,’ she said. ‘But what I want to know is this – I mean, to put it in your kind of language, what I need is some clarification. And I am sure I speak for all of us –’ Here she looked around and found that at least four of her Peers had dropped off, and others looked somnolent. ‘Wake up,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, wake up,’ said Spascock, and the Peers roused themselves.

  Incent came close to them to say, �
��Do you realize how important this is? This particular point? Do you understand how vital?’

  Said the Chief Peer, ‘When I left home my mother said to me, “Now, take care, and don’t get into bad company.” Is that what all those tomes of yours are saying? Excuse me asking like that, I don’t want to upset you at all,’ said she to Grice.

  ‘Well, it’s the gist of it, but the point is, were you told that you were a group animal and would have to absorb, whether you liked it or not, all the ideas of your group?’

  ‘In so many words?’ she inquired. ‘As it happened, I did meet up with some boys and girls, particularly boys of course’ – here she offered and accepted tolerant smiles from everyone on the Peers’ dais – ‘but I didn’t go along with their ideas for long. They weren’t up to much.’

  ‘Madam, how fortunate you are,’ remarked Spascock sombrely, and his tones made everyone in the court look up at him, where he sat isolated on his throne.

  There was a long silence, into which was hissed, or breathed, the syllable spies … But when we all looked towards Krolgul, the ventriloquist, he was standing there leaning sardonically against a wall, the folds of his black court dress hanging like limp wings. Spies … everyone was murmuring or thinking, and the hiss of it was in the air.

  Spies are the subject of every other article, broadcast, broadsheet, popular song. Suddenly, the populations (not only of Volyen, but of the two ‘limbs’ still remaining) look at Volyen’s administrators and wonder what can have been the nature of that psychological epidemic that suborned, so it sometimes seems, a whole ruling class.

  Arithamea, tactfully not looking at the Judge, remarked: ‘I am sure a lot of people in this country are wondering how they came to do the things they did …

  ‘Precisely,’ said Grice sharply, causing everyone to look at him. ‘Exactly. Why? But if we, and others like us, had been told when we were at school, as part of our education, that our need to find acceptance within a group would make us helpless against its ideas – ’