The Once and Future King (71 page)

The syrup squad were standing motionless round the watch—glass, like a circle of worshippers. He joined the circle, announcing that 210021/
WD
was to return to the nest. Then he began filling himself with the sweet nectar like the others. At first it was delicious to him, so that he ate greedily, but in a few seconds it began to be unsatisfactory: he could not understand why. He ate hard, copying the rest of the squad, but it was like eating a banquet of nothing, or like a dinner—party on the stage. In a way it was like a nightmare, under which you might continue to consume huge masses of putty without being able to stop.

There was a coming and going round the watch—glass. Those ants who had filled their crops to the brim were walking back to the fortress, to be replaced by a procession of empty ants who were coming from the same direction. There were never
any new ants in the procession, but only this same dozen going backwards and forwards, as they would do during all their lives.

He realized suddenly that what he was eating was not going into his stomach. Only a tiny proportion of it had penetrated to his private self at the beginning, and now the main mass was being stored in a kind of upper stomach or crop, from which it could be removed. It dawned on him at the same time that when he joined the westward stream he would have to disgorge this store, into a larder or something of that sort.

The sugar squad conversed with each other while they worked. He thought this was a good sign at first, and listened, to pick up what he could.

‘Oh hark!’ one of them would say. ‘Here comes that Mammy – mammy – mammy – mammy song again. I do think that Mammy – mammy – mammy – mammy song is loverly (Done). It is so high—class (Done).’

Another would remark: ‘I do think our beloved Leader is wonderful, do not you? They say she was stung three hundred times in the last war, and was awarded the Ant Cross for Valour.’

‘How lucky we are to be born of the Sanguinea blood, don’t you think, and would it not be awful to be one of those filthy
Formicae fuscae
!’

‘Was it not awful about 310099/
WD
, who refused to disgorge his syrup when he was asked. Of course he was executed at once, by special order of our beloved Leader.’

‘Oh hark! Here comes that Mammy – mammy – mammy – mammy song again. I do think…’

He walked off to the nest with a full gorge, leaving them to do the round again. For they had no news, no scandal, nothing to talk about. Novelties did not happen to them. Even the remarks about the executions were in a formula, and only varied as to the registration number of the criminal. When they had finished with the Mammy – mammy – mammy – mammy, they had to go on to the beloved Leader and then to the filthy
fuscae
and to the latest execution. It went round in a circle. Even the
beloveds, wonderfuls, luckies and so on were all Dones, and the awfuls were Not—Dones.

He found himself in the vast hall of the fortress, where hundreds and hundreds of ants were licking or feeding in the nurseries, carrying grubs to various aisles in order to get an even temperature, and opening or closing the ventilation passages. In the middle, the giant Leader sat complacently, laying eggs, attending to the broadcasts, issuing directions or commanding executions, surrounded by a sea of adulation. (He learned later from Merlyn that the method of succession among these Leaders was variable according to the different species of ant. In
Bothri—omyrmex
, for instance, the ambitious founder of a New Order would invade a nest of
Tapinoma
and jump upon the back of the older tyrant: there, dissimulated by the smell of her host, she would slowly saw off her head, until she herself had achieved the right of leadership.)

There was no larder for his store of syrup after all. He found that he must walk about like a living dumb—waiter at the convenience of the indoor workers. When they wanted a meal, they stopped him, he opened his mouth, and they fed from it. They did not treat him as a person, and, indeed, they were impersonal themselves. He was a dumb—waiter from which dumb—diners fed. Even his stomach was not his own.

But do not let us go on about these ants in too much detail: they are not a pleasant topic. He lived among them patiently, conforming to their habits, watching them in order to understand as much as possible, but unable to ask them questions. It was not only that their language was destitute of the words in which he was interested, so that it was impossible to ask them whether they believed in Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness, but also that it was dangerous to ask them questions at all. A question was a sign of insanity to them, because their life was not questionable: it was dictated. He crawled from nest to syrup and back again, exclaimed that the Mammy song was loverly, opened his jaws to regurgitate, and tried to understand as well as he could.

He had reached the screaming stage when the enormous hand came down from the clouds, carrying a straw. It placed
the straw between the two nests, which had been separate before, so that now there was a bridge between them. Then it went away.

Later in the day a black ant came wandering over the new bridge: one of the wretched
fuscae
, a humble race who would only fight in self—defence. It was met by one of the scavengers and murdered.

The broadcasts changed after this news had been reported, as soon as it had been established by spies that the
fusca
nest had also its glass of syrup.

Mammy – mammy – mammy gave place to Antland, Antland Over All, while the stream of orders were discontinued in favour of lectures about war, patriotism and the economic situation. The fruity voice announced that their beloved country was being encircled by a horde of filthy
fuscae
– at which the wireless chorus sang

When
fusca
blood spurts from the knife,

Then everything is fine–

and it also explained that Ant the Father had ordained in his inscrutable wisdom that black pismires should always be the slaves of red ones. Their beloved country had no slaves at present, a disgraceful state of affairs which would have to be remedied if the master race were not to perish. A third statement was that the national property of Sanguinea was being threatened: their syrup was to be stolen, their domestic animals, the beetles, were to be kidnapped, and their communal stomach would he starved. The king listened to two of these talks carefully, so that he was able to remember them afterwards.

The first one was arranged as follows:

a. We are so numerous that we are starving.

b.
Therefore we must not cut down our numbers but encourage large families in order to become still more numerous and starving.

c. When we are so numerous and starving as all that, obviously we have a right to take other people’s syrup. Besides, we shall by then have a numerous and starving army.

It was only after this logical train of thought had been put into practice, and the output of the nurseries trebled – Merlyn meanwhile giving them ample syrup daily for all their needs: for it has to be admitted that starving nations never seem to be quite so poor that they cannot afford to have far more expensive armaments than anybody else – that the second type of lecture was commenced.

This is how the second kind went:

a. We are more numerous than they are, therefore we have a right to their syrup.

b. They are more numerous than we are, therefore they are wickedly trying to steal our syrup.

c. We are a mighty race and have a natural right to subjugate their puny one.

d. They are a mighty race and are unnaturally trying to subjugate our inoffensive one.

e. We must attack in self—defence.

f. They are attacking us by defending themselves.

g. If we do not attack them today, they will attack us tomorrow.

h. In any case we are not attacking them at all: we are offering them incalculable benefits.

After the second type of address, the religious services began. These dated, he discovered, from a fabulous past so ancient that he could scarcely find a date for it, in which the emmets had not
yet settled down to socialism. They came from a time when ants were still like men, and terribly impressive some of them were.

A psalm at one of these services, beginning, if we allow for the difference of language, with the well—known words, ‘the earth is the Sword’s and all that therein is, the compass of the bomber and they that bomb therefrom,’ ended with the terrific conclusion: ‘Blow up your heads, O ye Gates, and be ye blown up, ye Everlasting Doors, that the King of Tories may come in. Who is the King of Tories? Even the Lord of Ghosts, He is the King of Tories.’

A strange feature was that the common ants were neither exalted by the songs nor interested by the lectures. They accepted them as matters of course. They were rituals to them, like the Mammy songs or the conversations about their beloved Leader. They did not regard these things as good or bad, exciting, rational or terrible: they did not regard them at all, but accepted them as Done.

Well, the time came for the slave war. All the preparations were in order, all the soldiers were drilled to the last ounce, all the walls of the nest carried patriotic slogans such as
Stings or Syrup?
or
I Vow
to
Thee, my Smell
, and the king was past hoping. He thought he had never been among such horrible creatures, unless it were at the time when he had lived among men, and he was beginning to sicken with disgust. The repetitive voices in his head, which he could not shut off: the absence of all privacy, under which others ate from his stomach while others again sang in his brain: the dreary blank which replaced feeling: the dearth of all but two values: the monotony more even than the callous wickedness: these had killed the joy of life which had been Merlyn’s gift at the beginning of the evening. He was as miserable again as he had been when the magician found him weeping at his papers, and now, when the Red Army marched to war at last, he suddenly faced about in the middle of the straw like an insane creature, ready to oppose their passage with his life.

‘Dear God,’ said Merlyn, who was patting the beads of sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief, ‘you certainly have a flair for getting into trouble. That was a difficult minute.’

The animals looked at him anxiously, to see if any bones were broken.

‘Are you safe?’

‘Perfectly.’

They discovered that he was furiously angry. His hands were trembling with rage.

‘The brutes!’ he exclaimed. ‘The brutes!’

‘They are not attractive.’

‘I would not have minded,’ he burst out, ‘if they had been wicked – if they had wanted to be wicked. I would not have minded if they had chosen to be wicked for some reason, or for fun. But they did not know, they had not chosen. They – they – they did not exist!’

‘Sit down,’ said the badger, ‘and have some rest.’

‘The horrible creatures! It was like talking to minerals which could move, like talking to statues or to machines. If you said something which was suitable to the mechanism, then it worked: if not, it did not work, it stood still, it was blank, it had no expression. Oh, Merlyn, how hideous! They were the walking dead. When did they die? Did they ever have any feelings? They have none now. They were like that door in the fairy story, which opened when you said Sesame. I believe that they only knew about a dozen words, or collections of words. A man with those in his mind could have made them do all the things they could do, and then…Then you would have had to start again! Again and again and again! It was like being in Hell. Except that none of them knew they were there. None of them knew anything. Is there anything more terrible than perpetual motion, than doing and doing and doing, without a
reason, without a consciousness, without a change, without an end?’

‘Ants
are
Perpetual Motion,’ said Merlyn, ‘I suppose. I never thought of that.’

‘The most dreadful thing about them was that they were like human beings – not human, but like humans, a bad copy.’

‘There is nothing surprising in that. The ants adopted the line of politics which man is flirting with at present, in the infinite past. They perfected it thirty million years ago, so that no further development was possible, and, since then, they have been stationary. Evolution ended with the ants some 30,000,000 years before the birth of Christ. They are the perfect communist state.’

Here Merlyn raised his eyes devoutly to the ceiling, and remarked: ‘My old friend Marx may have been a first—rate economist; but, Holy Ghost, he was a by—our—lady rotten hand at natural history.’

Badger, who always took the kindly view of everybody, even of Karl Marx, whose arrangement of his materials was about as lucid as the badger’s, by the way, said: ‘Surely that is hardly fair to actual communism? I would have thought that ants were more like Mordred’s fascists than John Ball’s communists…’

‘The one is a stage of the other. In perfection they are the same.’

‘But in a proper communist world…’

‘Give the king some wine,’ said Merlyn. ‘Urchin, what on earth are you thinking about?’

The hedgehog scuttled off for the decanter, and brought it with a glass. He thrust a moist nose against the king’s ear, breathed heavily into it with a breath that smelt of onions, and whispered hoarsely: ‘Us wor a watchin of ’ee, us wor. Trust tiggy. Tha woulder beat ’em, tha ‘ood. Mollocky beästs.’ Here he nodded his head repeatedly, spilled the madeira, and made boxing movements against the air with the decanter in one hand and the glass in the other. ‘Free cheers for his Maggy’s tea, ez wot us says, that’s wot us says. Let un get at ’em, us says,
for to lay darn me life with the Shire. And us woulder done, that us ‘ood, bim—bam, only for they wouldernt let ’un.’

Badger did not wish to be cheated of his defence. He began again patiently as soon as the king was served.

‘The ants fight wars,’ he said, ‘so they cannot be communists. In a proper communist world there would be no war, because the whole world would be a union. You must not forget that communism has not been properly achieved until all the nations in the world are communistic, and fused together in a
Union
of socialist soviet republics. Now the ant—hills are not fused with one another into a union, so they are not fully communistic, and that is why they fight.’

‘They are not united,’ said Merlyn crossly, ‘only because the smallness of the ant—hills compared with the bigness of the world, and of the natural obstacles such as rivers and so forth, makes communication impossible for animals of their size and number of fingers. Still, if you like, I will agree that they are perfect Thrashers, prevented from developing into perfect Lollards by geographic and physical features.’

‘You must therefore withdraw your criticism of Karl Marx.’

‘Withdraw my criticism?’ exclaimed the philosopher.

‘Yes; for Marx did solve the king’s puzzle of war, by his
Union
of SSR.’

Merlyn became blue in the face, bit off a large piece of his beard, pulled out tufts of his hair and threw them in the air, prayed fervently for guidance, sat down beside the badger, and, taking him by the hand, looked beseechingly into his spectacles.

‘But do you not see,’ he asked pathetically, ‘that a union of
anything
will solve the problem of war? You cannot have war in a union, because there must be a division before you can begin one. There would be no war if the world consisted of a union of mutton chops. But this does not mean that we must all rush off and become a series of mutton chops.’

‘In fact,’ said the badger, after pondering for some time, ‘you are not defining the ants as fascists or communists because they fight wars, but because…’

‘I am lumping all three sects together on their basic assumption, which is, ultimately, to deny the rights of the individual.’

‘I see.’

‘Theirs is the totalitarian theory: that men or ants exist for the sake of the state or world, not vice versa.’

‘And why did you say that Marx was bad at natural history?’

‘The character of my old friend Karl,’ said the magician severely, ‘is outside the province of this committee. Kindly remember that we are not sitting on communism, but on the problem of organized murder. It is only in so far as communism is contingent with war, that we are concerned with him at all. With this proviso I reply to your question as follows: that Marx was a bad naturalist because he committed the gross blunder of over—looking the human skull in the first place, because he never considered the geese, and because he subscribed to the Égalité Fallacy, which is abhorrent to nature. Human beings are no more equal in their merits and abilities, than they are equal in face and stature. You might just as well insist that all the people in the world should wear the same size of boot. This ridiculous idea of equality was adopted by the ants more than 30,000,000 years ago, and, by believing it all that time, they have managed to make it true. Now look what a mess they are in.’

‘Liberty, Equality and Fraternity…’ began the badger.

‘Liberty, Brutality and Obscenity,’ rejoined the magician promptly. ‘You should try living in some of the revolutions which use that slogan. First they proclaim it: then they announce that the aristos must be liquidated, on high moral grounds, in order to purge the party or to prune the commune or to make the world safe for democracy; and then they rape and murder everybody they can lay their hands on, more in sorrow than in anger, or crucify them, or torture them in ways which I do not care to mention. You should have tried the Spanish Civil War. Yes, that is the equality of man. Slaughter anybody who is better than you are, and then we shall be equal soon enough. All equally dead.’