Ballet
Square Harmony
X
SPRING. From behind the Green Wall， from some unknown plains the wind brings to us the yellow honeyed pollen of flowers. One"s lips are dry from this sweet dust. Every moment one passes one"s tongue over them. Probably all women whom I meet in the street （and certainly men also） have sweet lips today. This somewhat disturbs my logical thinking. But the sky！ The sky is blue. Its limpidness is not marred by a single cloud. （How primitive was the taste of the ancients， since their poets were always inspired by these senseless， formless， stupidly rushing accumulations of vapor！） I love， I am sure it will not be an error if I say we love， only such a sky—a sterile， faultless sky. On such days the whole universe seems to be moulded by the same eternal glass， like the Green Wall， and like all our buildings. On such days one sees their wonderful equations， hitherto unknown. One sees these equations in everything， even in the most ordinary， everyday things.
Here is an example： this morning I was on the dock where the Integral is being built， and I saw the lathes； blindly， with abandon， the balls of the regulators were rotating； the cranks were swinging from side to side with a glimmer； the working beam proudly swung its shoulder； and the mechanical chisels were dancing to the melody of unheard tarantellas. I suddenly perceived all the music， all the beauty， of this colossal， this mechanical ballet， illumined by light blue rays of sunshine. Then the thought came： why beautiful？ Why is the dance beautiful？ Answer： because it is an unfree movement. Because the deep meaning of the dance is contained in its absolute， ecstatic submission， in the ideal non-*******. If it is true that our ancestors would abandon themselves in dancing at the most inspired moments of their lives （religious mysteries， military parades）， then it means only one thing： the instinct of non-******* has been characteristic of human nature from ancient times， and we in our life of today， we are only consciously—
I was interrupted. The switchboard clicked. I raised my eyes—O-90， of course！ In half a minute she will be here to take me for the walk.
Dear O-！ She always seems to me to look like her name， O-. She is approximately ten centimeters shorter than the required Maternal Norm. Therefore she appears round all over； the rose-colored O of her lips is open to meet every word of mine. She has a round soft dimple on her wrist. Children have such dimples. As she came in， the logical flywheel was still buzzing in my head， and following its inertia， I began to tell her about my new formula which embraced the machines and the dancers and all of us.
"Wonderful， isn"t it？" I asked.
"Yes， wonderful...Spring！" she replied， with a rosy smile.
You see？ Spring！ She talks about Spring！ Females！... I became silent.
We were down in the street. The avenue was crowded. On days when the weather is so beautiful， the afternoon personal hour is usually the hour of the supplementary walk. As always， the big Musical Tower was playing the March of the United State with all its pipes. The Numbers， hundreds， thousands of Numbers in light blue unifs （probably a derivative of the ancient uniform） with golden badges on the chest—the State number of each one， male or female—the Numbers were walking slowly， four abreast， exaltedly keeping step. I， we four， were but one of the innumerable waves of a powerful torrent： to my left， O-90 （if one of my long—haired ancestors were writing this a thousand years ago he would probably call her by that funny word， mine）； to my right， two unknown Numbers， a she—Number and a he—Number.
Blue sky， tiny baby suns in each one of our badges； our faces are unclouded by the insanity of thoughts. Rays Do you picture it？ Everything seems to be made of a kind of smiling， a ray—like matter. And the brass measures： Tm—ta—ta—tam...Tra—ta—ta—tam...Stamping on the brassy steps that sparkle in the sun， with every step you rise higher and higher into the dizzy blue heights Then， as this morning on the dock， again I saw， as if for the first time in my life， the impeccably straight streets， the glistening glass of the pavement， the divine parallel—epipeds of the transparent dwellings， the square harmony of the grayish-blue rows of Numbers. And it seemed to me that not past generations， but I myself， had won a victory over the old god and the old life， that I myself had created all this. I felt like a tower： I was afraid to move my elbow， lest the walls， the cupola， and the machines should fall to pieces.
