On the other hand, someone of greater tenacity and tougher moral fibre may decide to return to the charge. I won’t be fobbed off like this, he says to himself: and before his next visit he carefully thinks out and memorizes a series of leading questions. But no matter how cool-headed he is or how well he has studied and framed his questions, the result is precisely the same as before. This time, to be sure, the technique will be somewhat different. Instead of the misleading simplicity of the previous occasion, the interrogator now encounters a complexity of specious rhetoric which is woven before him like those unbelievably fine Chinese embroideries which seem to be without beginning or end. The visitor doesn’t forget a single question; he puts forward every point in due order. And to every question and point he receives not only an answer but an elaborate homily, a whole lengthy peroration full of learned allusions which a layman would hardly be likely to follow.
But the questioner is a man of superior intelligence, and determination as well. He sticks to his guns, he forces his brain to keep pace with all that is being said.
And now a curious and disheartening phenomenon makes its appearance; a phenomenon of which there appears to be no explanation. It seems to him that each separate sentence is comprehensible. He is convinced that he understands everything. And, in fact, the various themes, taken one by one, do give an effect of being quite lucid and reasonable, and he hurries home to get the whole thing down on paper while it is fresh in his mind.
Yet no sooner does he begin to concentrate on the subject as a whole than he is overcome by a paralysing mental confusion. The explanations, the allusions, the arguments which individually seemed clear enough, inexplicably lose their significance when viewed as component parts of a pattern, and dissolve into empty verbosity. Hour after hour the unfortunate inquirer sits motionless with his brain in a turmoil, his pen in his hand, unable to write down a single word. Disregarding the voices of his family or his friends, not noticing when it is time to eat or to go to bed, he ponders endlessly over what he has heard, forcing concentration to its nth power in a desperate endeavour to track and pin down the meaning which he once thought was within his grasp, but which has now tantalizingly and mysteriously concealed itself in an intricate maze of incomprehensible phraseology. So it goes on, his thoughts racing fruitlessly and interminably, until sheer mental exhaustion compels him to give in.
Ah, how well one knows the whole horrid cycle, from confidence to uncertainty, to bewilderment, and finally to utter chaos and despair. What is the key to it all? What attitude should one take up? The fact is, and I suppose we must accept it, that for the great majority it is impossible to find out anything about the authorities. But to resign oneself to ignorance is indeed hard. Everyone knows that the authorities exercise supreme control over each one of us, even down to the most trivial details of our lives: and this is even specifically stated in the writings of our ancient teachers. Human beings can hardly be expected to refrain from trying to throw a little light on such vital mysteries: particularly as some unconscious impulse deep in our natures seems to be continually turning our thoughts in that direction.
Who has not, when walking in an unfamiliar part of the town, felt one of those sudden queer psychological shocks which dart like arrows, like premonitions, out of the blue? One may be hurrying along thinking about some personal matter or about an important appointment ahead. All at once, quite without rhyme or reason, the thread of thought snaps, one looks up and sees a big dingy building on the other side of the street, a warehouse possibly, or an old-fashioned office block, which seems to be empty because the shutters are all closed and scraps of paper and leaves have blown on to the dusty doorstep. It’s the sort of unattractive unremarkable place you might pass a hundred times without noticing; but today it catches your eye just as an importunate beggar might catch hold of your sleeve. After all it isn’t deserted, because between the slats of the shutters dim lights are gleaming. And suddenly the idea comes into your head that perhaps now, at this very moment while you are passing by, in one of the rooms behind those drab shutters, at a worm-eaten desk, among bundles of papers tied up with red or green tape, with scratchy old-fashioned pen-strokes, your fate is being inscribed.
Or something like this may happen while you are out for a walk in the country: you feel yourself quite alone, for an hour you haven’t seen one living creature, not even a dog or a horse in a field, you seem to be miles from anywhere. And then in this solitude, out of the bushes at the side of the road, a sly face looks out at you, the face of an old man with a beard and a big hat such as is seldom worn these days. Just for a second he looks out at you. It’s really surprising to meet anyone in such a lonely place; but instead of saying Good day, he draws back, disappears into the wood, and you don’t see him again. What is it makes you feel that this old man has been watching you, perhaps following you for some time, hidden among the trees: that he has perhaps been sent to that out-of-the-way spot on purpose to see and report afterwards which track you are following, whether you turn to the right or the left at the crossroads at the foot of the hill?
Nobody knows the exact significance of these feelings which all of us have experienced: but that they bear some relation to our close surveillance by the authorities appears certain. If only it were possible to find out something definite. One feels under constant observation. One has the conviction that every trifling act is noted and set down either against one or in one’s favour. And at the same time one hasn’t the faintest clue to the standards by which one is being judged. How is it possible to avoid anxiety and indecision when a move of any kind involves the whole of one’s future status?
Well, it’s no good trying to take matters into our own hands; nor is it much good consulting anyone else. All we can do is walk circumspectly and hope for the best; always remembering that whole trains of unimaginable events may follow some incident which seems quite trivial to us, such as, for example, the act of telephoning instead of writing a letter to someone we know.
When everything’s said and done, unfortunately, we find ourselves in the position of children whose parents have gone to the theatre, leaving them alone in the dark house. Yes, we are forced, if we are honest, to make the saddest of all admissions when it comes to the last resort: Alas, we do not understand these things.
What ages it took us to get to the end of our journey. At times it seemed as if we never should arrive anywhere, but spend our whole lives travelling. The natives of the countries we passed through must have thought us a funny lot, all of us wearing the same face (though our sizes were different, and our clothes too, of course). Some of us would have liked to settle down in one of these countries, some in another. And I think we all occasionally wished in our secret hearts that we’d never embarked on the expedition. But we couldn’t go back once we had started. There was nothing for it but to keep moving on, even if we didn’t know where we were going. It wasn’t a pleasure trip at any stage; but sometimes the going was terribly hard and slow and exhausting; those were the times when we tried to keep up our spirits by singing. We don’t know where we’re going, we sang then, but we’re on our way. We got discouraged though, all the same, however loudly we sang.
Besides the hardships of the journey itself, there was the isolation and the uncertainty about what we should find at the end of it, supposing we ever did get to our destination. It was impossible not to feel anxious from time to time, and homesick, as well. How could we help remembering the place where we’d lived long ago, where people were kind and smiling? How could we help reflecting that the smiles and the kindness would have been still there for us to enjoy if we hadn’t been so independent? We used to think of that place always flooded with summer sunshine, while we were travelling far away in stony forgotten regions under a winter sky.