Farewell Waltz

again showed surprise, and Bertlef went on: “People who become attached to God with a particularly powerful love are rewarded by experiencing a sacred joy that flows through their entire being and radiates out from there. The light of this divine joy is soft and peaceful, and its color is the celestial azure.”
“Wait a moment,” Jakub interrupted. “Are you saying that halos are more than a symbol?”
“Certainly,” said Bertlef. “But you should not imagine that they emanate continuously from saints’ heads and that saints go around in the world like itinerant lanterns. Of course not. It is only at certain moments of intense inner joy that their brows give off a bluish light. In the first centuries after the death of Jesus, in an era when saints were numerous and there were many people who knew them well, no one had the slightest doubt about the color of halos, and on all the paintings and frescoes of that time you can see that the halos are blue. It was only in the fifth century that painters started little by little to depict them in other colors, such as orange or yellow. Much later, in Gothic painting, there are only golden halos. This was more decorative and better conveyed the terrestrial power and glory of the church. But that halo no more resembled the true halo than the church of the time resembled the early church.”
“That’s something I was unaware of,” said Jakub, and Bertlef went over to the liquor cabinet. He conferred with his two visitors for a few moments about what to drink. When he had poured cognac into the three glasses, he turned to the physician: “Please don’t forget about that unhappy expectant father. It is very important to me!”
Skreta assured Bertlef that it would all end well, and Jakub then asked what they were talking about. After they told him (let us appreciate the graceful discretion of the two men, who, even though it was only Jakub with them, mentioned no names), he expressed great pity for the unfortunate begetter: “Which of us hasn’t lived through this martyrdom! It’s one of life’s great trials. Those who give in and become fathers against their will are doomed forever by their defeat. They become spiteful, like all losers, and they wish the same fate on everyone else.”
“My friend!” Bertlef exclaimed. “You are speaking in the company of a happy father! If you stayed here for another day or two, you would see my son, a beautiful child, and you would take back what you have just said!”
“I wouldn’t take anything back,” said Jakub, “because you didn’t become a father against your will!”
“Certainly not. I became a father by my own free will and by the good will of Doctor Skreta.”
The doctor nodded with an air of satisfaction and declared that he too had a notion of fatherhood different from Jakub’s, as shown, by the way, by the blessed state of his dear Suzy. “The only thing,” he added, “that puzzles me a bit about procreation is how senselessly parents choose each other. It’s incredible what hideous-looking individuals decide to procreate. They probably imagine that the burden of ugliness will be lighter if they share it with their descendants.”
Bertlef called Dr. Skreta’s viewpoint aesthetic racism: “Don’t forget that not only was Socrates ugly but also that many famous women lovers did not distinguish themselves at all by their physical perfection. Aesthetic racism is almost always a sign of inexperience. Those who have not made their way far enough into the world of amorous delights judge women only by what can be seen. But those who really know women understand that the eye reveals only a minute fraction of what a woman can offer us. When God bade mankind be fruitful and multiply, Doctor, He was thinking of the ugly as well as of the beautiful. I am convinced, I might add, that the aesthetic criterion does not come from God but from the devil. In paradise no distinction was made between ugliness and beauty.”
Jakub reentered the conversation, asserting that aesthetic considerations played no part in the loathing he felt for procreation. “But I can cite ten other reasons for not being a father.”
“What are they? I am curious.”
“First of all, I don’t like motherhood,” said Jakub, and he broke off pensively. “Our century has already unmasked all myths. Childhood has long ceased to be an age of innocence. Freud discovered infant sexuality and told us all about Oedipus. Only Jocasta remains untouchable; no one dares tear off her veil. Motherhood is the last and greatest taboo, the one that harbors the most grievous curse. There is no stronger bond than the one that shackles mother to child. This bond cripples the child’s soul forever and prepares for the mother, when her son has grown up, the most cruel of all the griefs of love. I say that motherhood is a curse, and I refuse to contribute to it.”
“Next!” said Bertlef.
“Another reason I don’t want to add to the number of mothers,” said Jakub with some embarrassment, “is that I love the female body, and I am disgusted by the thought of my beloved’s breast becoming a milk-bag.”
“Next!” said Bertlef.
“The doctor here will certainly confirm that physicians and nurses treat women hospitalized after an aborted pregnancy more harshly than those who have given birth, and show some contempt toward them even though they themselves will, at least once in their lives, need a similar operation. But for them it’s a reflex stronger than any kind of thought, because the cult of procreation is an imperative of nature. That’s why it’s useless to look for the slightest rational argument in natalist propaganda. Do you perhaps think it’s the voice of Jesus you’re hearing in the natalist morality of the church? Do you think it’s the voice of Marx you’re hearing in the natalist propaganda of the Communist state? Impelled merely by the desire to perpetuate the species, mankind will end up smothering