The Oasis (5 page)

Utopia was too small a movement—it comprised only fifty persons—to serve the communist interest by obstructing the national war drive. It had hopes of
extending its influence by inspiring other persons to form oases of their own in the contemporary desert, but the flag of secession it raised was no Fort Sumter. It had been investigated by the Attorney General as a possible communist front group (one of its enemies having denounced it as “objectively” giving aid to communism), but the case against it had been dropped, since the worst that could be said against it was that most of its membership had been guilty of “premature” anti-Stalinism. Pacifism had not yet been made a crime, providing that the pacifist was above the age to bear arms or suffered from some physical disability. The Administration was doing its best to preserve some vestiges of civil liberties (it was badly in need of war aims), and it could point to its toleration of Utopia with patriotic complacency. Moreover, the Home Defense Authority had been urging decentralization as an anti-air raid measure; it was not against the law for a group of people to move together to the country; the Utopians could not even be said to be violating a zoning ordinance. The men and women of the colony had registered with their draft boards as agricultural workers; the children were too young to qualify for the service; there was not a doctor or a scientist among the colonists; all of them, in fact, were quite “unnecessary” people, even Will Taub, who had offered himself to the State Department as an expert on communist strategy, only to endure the scrutiny of a pair of plainclothes detectives, to have his wires tapped and his tax-returns opened to question, and to
be told in the end that his arsenal of ideas was rusty, since he had lost contact with the Party at the time of the Spanish Civil War.

Up to the last minute, the colonists found it impossible to believe that society was going to let them depart with so little molestation, as if to say, “Go in peace.” The realists suspected a trap, and the more intransigent members asked themselves what Monteverdi, the Founder, would have said if he could have seen that cavalcade of cars, well stocked with whisky, cans, and contraceptives, winding up the mountain of Nowhere with their papers in perfect order—doubtless, he would have smiled, but they could hardly smile for him, and the evocation of his fate cast, for those who had loved him, a shadow on the Utopian hillside, comparable to the shadow of Calvary upon the militant Church. Reviewing their actions, however, in the light of the ideas of the Founder, they could find no real cause for self-reproach. Throughout, in every decision, they had respected the idea of
limit
, which seemed to them in retrospect the very definition of his thought. Agreeing, in principle, that the machine was to be distrusted, they had nevertheless voted to use in their experiment the bicycle, the carpet-sweeper, and the sewing-machine, any machine, in fact, to which a man contributed his own proportionate share of exertion and which tired him like the plough or the hoe. The bath, the flush toilet, all forms of plumbing they tolerated, but they opposed, at least for the time being, the installation of an electric power-plant, proposing
to cook by wood and read in the evenings by oil, and to avail themselves of an old icehouse they had found on the property they were buying to solve the very stubborn problem of refrigeration. To their traveling by automobile, Monteverdi could have raised no objection (the trip had to be made somehow), and accused of inconsistency by their enemies, they could argue that they looked upon the family car as Lenin in 1917 looked upon the sealed car offered him by the German State to reach insurrectionary Petersburg—as a vehicle to the future appropriated from the past, the negation of a negation.

Everything could be explained—the whisky, the contraceptives, the collection of summer fashions being imported by a lady purist—for it was a by-law of this unique Utopia that every member be allowed to bring whatever was necessary to his happiness: he defined himself freely by his choices and could not allege social conformity as an excuse for his personal passions. And out of those loaded automobiles began to come a variety of definitions of happiness: happiness as ornament, happiness as utility, happiness as oblivion, happiness as squalor, happiness in a small suitcase, happiness in giving (Joe Lockman’s Cadillac carried presents for every family), in a French casserole or a sterilizer, a kiddie-coop or a gold evening dress, Spanish shawls, books, pictures, batik hangings, porch furniture, blue jeans, garden tools, carpentry sets, a single tennis racket forever to go unpartnered, a Greek dictionary, Homer and Plato, Elizabethan
songs; happiness even arrived, somewhat later, in a moving van carrying two grand pianos and a Chinese Chippendale sideboard.

To Susan Hapgood, a young novelist, walking on the central lawn with Will Taub, her literary adviser, the scene of the unpacking had all the charms of fiction. Loving only books and conversation, she had already disposed of her small effects in the quarter-cottage allotted to her, and was taking her second pleasure in the expansive company of Taub, who strolled up and down, hands behind his back, surveying the effects of his colleagues with undisguised wonder. A transparent air of proprietorship emanated from his whole person; to his fellow-colonists he suggested a summer hotel manager, with his large city feet clad in new white shoes which creaked even on the grass and betrayed his every movement, a hotel manager, however, in whom curiosity had mastered discretion and who, like an ingenuous bell-boy, could not refrain from comment on the objects, so foreign to his experience, so peculiar in shape and mysterious in utility, on which other persons had obviously placed value. Susan, running along beside him, was experiencing emotions of a different order. Her blue eyes widened and her small mouth emitted sharp cries of literary admiration as each article, when unpacked, added an inspired touch to the characterization of its owner, as though all these domestic details had been endowed with the faculty of surprising convincingly by an Author supremely clever. Who would have thought that
the Latinist possessed a pair of boxing gloves? Or that Macdermott was inseparable from a snoreball? (Susan was a generous critic.)

“Why, it’s just like going to a fire,” she exclaimed in her plain, small-town voice, whose commonplace timbre delighted the ears of her Eastern friends and made them treat her with protective tenderness, like a fresh farm egg delivered to their kitchens. “You sit across the street and watch the family’s belongings carried out to the lawn by the fire department,” she added, perceiving Taub’s doubtful expression. “That must be marvelous,” he cried, as he rolled the possibilities of this appreciatively over the tongue of his fancy. Facts of any kind, oddities, lore, local history intoxicated the mind of this realist, whose own experience had been strangely narrow—a half-forgotten childhood in the Carpathian mountains, immigration, city streets, the Movement, Bohemian women, the anti-Movement, downtown bars, argument, discussion, subways, newsstands, the office. This was all he knew of the world; the rest was hearsay, upon which his materialist imagination was continually at play, building on straws of report vast structures of conjecture and speculation. He was a theorist
faute de mieux
, for what really interested him was information and the magical properties it contained for the armchair subjugation of experience. People’s ideas bored him, once he had placed them in his atlas; he was a politician even with thought, keeping an eye on the various developments in literature and the arts in the manner of a chief of
State who has some subordinate read aloud to him the editorials in the opposition newspapers and cuts him off impatiently, after a few sentences, when the tendency of the article is clear to him.

Susan, now, would have been glad to turn away; her conscience was already punishing her for the sin of inordinate curiosity; she felt she had seen too much. But Taub found himself utterly captivated by the spectacle of his fellow-colonists’ worldly goods spread out on the grass for his inspection. He would have liked to finger them candidly, like some child with a naturalistic bent who sees no harm in the impulse, which his elders are always correcting. “Come away,” Susan kept repeating. “Let’s go help Cynthia unpack.” She began to tug at his arm, and Taub reluctantly yielded, as the others started glancing their way. Wariness returned to him; he buttoned his face hastily as if correcting a negligence in his dress. Concealment was second nature to him (though he had nothing to hide): he liked confidences, closed rooms, low voices; his eyelids were normally drooped and his gaze darted out between them, following events narrowly, like a watcher behind shutters. He felt annoyed now with Susan for the demonstrativeness of her manners, but this did not really darken the mood of almost sententious satisfaction he felt in the afternoon’s doings. He had found out many things he had not known before; further possibilities still opened; there was much to be learned. A part of his antipathy toward the colony had sprung simply from the fear of boredom—Macdermott and a
pack of schoolteachers and religious types, what had they got to say to him that he had not heard before? He could read it all in Macdermott’s magazines, in a series called New Roads, without paying rent on a cottage and being put to work on the land. He had forgotten the perennial fascination exercised over him by behavior. The tree of life, he said to himself, quoting Hegel, is greener than the tree of thought. (His eye caught the girl student sitting cross-legged in front of her cottage and ingested her long legs; Susan watched them move bulgingly down the tract of his appreciation, like a snake’s dinner, to join the Jacksons’ English bicycles and the breasts of the minister’s wife.)

It is not only, Taub reflected as they passed on and his mood grew more and more serene, that life is more fertile than the brain: we applaud Nature when she repeats herself, while we do not forgive this in a speaker. The capacity of personality to run true to form, of a plant to reproduce its characteristics, is a source of joy to the intelligence. If Macdermott tells me that violence is wrong, I wait for him to say something new, but if every carton in his second-hand car repeats the label, Economy Size, I am obviously delighted. Here Taub frowned and abandoned the line of thought, for the Scotch joke had reminded him of the fact that he was Jewish, a painful subject with him, the source of much unhappiness, unguessed at by his friends, who did not know that they wounded his pride every time they mentioned the word Jew, or described some instance of anti-Semitism, which cut him to the heart. A kind
of helplessness came over him when he became conscious of his Jewishness, a thing about himself which he was powerless to alter and which seemed to reduce him therefore to a curious dependency on the given. He was not a defiant Jew or even a rebellious one. At such moments, he felt himself to be a mere mass of protoplasmic jelly, deposited by the genes of his parents, which could only quiver feebly in response to a stimulus that society sent through him like an electric current. He began suddenly, as he always did on these occasions, to long for his wife, a Gentile woman who alone understood what he suffered on this score, and who had never, during all their years together, alluded to it unsolicited. For this tact he felt a gratitude toward her that was mingled with surprise and reverence. She held a unique place in his heart, though he consulted her convenience seldom, was brusque and out-of-sorts with her when she tried to think about social problems. A reserved girl who designed clothes, she spoke very little at parties, and many rivals had been encouraged to hope by her silence and apparent coldness. What they did not perceive was that Taub trusted her without reserve; he had put his Jewishness into her Gentile hands and she had never used it against him. This trust meant more to him, a political man, than all the allurements of her competitors. He could rely on her absolutely, in the manner of those antique sovereigns who kept at their right hand a Gaul, a Greek, or an Egyptian, some scion of the traditional enemy, a slave, often, or a hostage, whose allegiance they felt
the more sure of because it transcended the bounds of custom and thereby partook of the improbable—generally, in their histories, the stranger has let pass an opportunity to kill the tyrant, and the tyrant has been stirred, in the very depths of his self-love, by the
gratuitousness
of this fealty. The romance of Cyrus and Xenophon, of Caesar and Diviciacus the Haeduan, of the Doge of Venice and Othello, were recapitulated in the Taub marriage, which naturally was childless. All Taub’s paternal feelings (and he was at bottom a fatherly man) spent themselves on the
fact
of his foyer, which was sanctified for him, like a child. He marveled clumsily over table-settings and sofas, as a father does over the feats of a baby, and felt toward his furnishings even that doubt and apprehension experienced by the head of the household toward the nursery routines of the infant (did his wife really know what she was doing?—it had not been that way in his childhood).

Something of this watchful benevolence, now, he transferred to the whole colony. Standing alone on the peak (he had dropped Susan at her cottage several minutes before) listening to the evening sounds, the cries of the children being fed, the wood being chopped for the stoves, he laughed aloud to himself in sheer victorious contentment. His mind explored sensuously the realm of possibility that lay outstretched at his feet: across the valley, a herd was grazing on a knoll; smoke came from the chimney of a farmhouse; fences, the barking of a dog, a ploughed field cut neatly into sections gave a sense of the human scale,
reduced by distance to miniature, like a toy agricultural set; while far off, through the cleft of the valley, ranges and ranges of mountains, bare, grand, and purple, topped one another just distinguishably and disappeared finally into the horizon, carrying the vision outward into apocalyptic space. All this Taub’s eye appropriated; his soul enlarged to its measure, as he stood outlined against the sky, Balboa claiming for his orthodoxy the whole mode of the pacific—he felt like Utopia’s discoverer and an impresario to Nature.