MURTI-BING
553
Springtime of Nations; and Karl Marx; and the visions of the
brotherhood of mankind? After
all,
nothing can be accomplished
without the iron rule of a single Master. And what about this
Master? A great Polish poet, describing his journey to the East–
where he went
in
1824 as a political prisoner of the Tsar-com–
pared the soul of the Russian nation to a chrysalis. He wondered
anxiously what would emerge when the sun of freedom shone:
"Then will a shining butterfly take flight, or a moth, a somber
creature of the night?" So far, nothing prophesies a joyous butterfly.
The writer, in his fury and frustration, turns his thought to
Western Communists. What fools they are. He can forgive their
oratory if it is necessary as propaganda. But they believe most of
what they proclaim about the sacred Center; and that is unforgiv–
able. Nothing can compare to the contempt he feels for these senti–
mental fools.
Nevertheless, despite his resistance and despair, the crisis ap–
proaches. It can come
in
the middle of the night, at his breakfast
table, or on the street.
It
comes with a metallic click as of engaged
gears.
But there is no other way.
That much is clear. There is no
other salvation on the face of the earth.
This
revelation lasts a
second; but from that second on the patient begins to recover. For
the first time
in
a long while he eats with relish;
his
movements
take on vigor; his color returns. He sits down and writes a "positive"
article, marveling at the ease with which he writes it. In the last
analysis there was no reason for raising such a fuss. Everything is
in
order. He is past the "crisis."
He does not emerge unscathed, however. The after-effects mani–
fest themselves in a particular kind of extinguishment, that is often
perceptible in the twist of his lips. His face expresses the peaceful
sadness of one who has tasted the fruit from the tree of the knowl–
edge of good and evil; of one who knows he lies; of one who
feels compassion for those who have been spared full knowledge. He
has already gone through what still awaits so many others.
In 1945, an eminent Soviet journalist came to Poland. He was
an elderly gentleman, who looked like a middle-class lawyer. That
he was an extremely clever and completely unscrupulous person was
evidenced by the tenacity with which he had maintained his posi–
tion-and by
his
advanced years. Mter
his
return to Warsaw
frOm
