Viktor wasn’t aware that his intelligence was now merely the obedient servant of his emotions and that there was only one way of escaping from this circle of confusion – by using the knife, by sacrificing himself rather than others.
The more he thought about it all, the less he understood. How could he unravel this tangle? How could his love for Marya Ivanovna be the truth of his life and at the same time be its greatest lie? Only last summer he had had an affair with the beautiful Nina. And they had done more than just walk round the square like schoolchildren who had fallen in love. But it was only now that he felt a sense of guilt and betrayal, a sense of having done wrong to his family.
All this consumed an incalculable amount of emotional and intellectual energy, probably as much as Planck had expended in elaborating his quantum theory.
He had once thought that his love had been born only of sorrow and tragedy . . . But now he was on the crest of the wave – and he needed Marya Ivanovna as much as ever.
She was unlike everyone else; she wasn’t attracted in the least by power, riches and fame. She had wanted to share his grief, anxiety and deprivation . . . Would she turn away from him now?
He knew that Marya Ivanovna worshipped Pyotr Lavrentyevich. Sometimes this drove him almost insane.
Yevgenia was probably right. This second love, born after years of married life, must be the result of a vitamin deficiency of the soul. He was like a cow licking salt after searching for it for years in grass, hay and the leaves of trees. This hunger of the soul grew very slowly, but in the end it was irresistible. Yes, that’s what it was. A hunger of the soul . . . Marya Ivanovna was indeed startlingly different from Lyudmila.
Was all this really so? Viktor didn’t realize that these thoughts had nothing to do with his reason; that their truth or falsehood had nothing to do with how he acted. If he didn’t see Marya Ivanovna, he was unhappy; if he knew he was going to see her, he was happy. And when he imagined a future in which they were inseparably together, he felt still more happy.
Why didn’t he feel a twinge of guilt about Sokolov? Why did he feel no shame?
But what was there to be ashamed of? All they had done was walk through a park and sit down for a while on a bench.
No, it wasn’t just a matter of sitting on a bench. He was ready to break with Lyudmila. He was ready to tell Sokolov that he loved his wife and wanted to take her from him.
He remembered everything that had gone wrong between him and Lyudmila: how badly she had treated his mother; how she had refused to let his cousin stay the night after his release from camp; how rude and callous, how cruel and obstinate she had sometimes been.
All this made him feel callous himself. And that was what he needed to feel, if he was to be ruthless. But Lyudmila had spent her life with him; she had shared all his troubles and difficulties. Her hair was going grey; she had suffered. Was there really nothing good in her? He had been proud of her in the past; he had loved her strength and honesty. Yes, he was simply nerving himself to be ruthless.
As he was getting ready to go out in the morning, Viktor remembered Yevgenia’s visit and thought: ‘All the same, it’s a good thing she’s back in Kuibyshev.’
Just then, as Viktor was feeling ashamed at being so mean, Lyudmila said: ‘So now Nikolay’s been arrested as well. How many of our family does that make? At least Yevgenia’s not in Moscow any more.’
Viktor wanted to reproach her, but stopped himself in time – that would have been too dishonest.
‘Oh yes, Chepyzhin phoned,’ said Lyudmila.
Viktor looked at his watch.
‘I’ll be back early this evening. I’ll ring him then. By the way, I’m probably going to the Urals again.’
‘Will you be there long?’
‘No. Just two or three days.’
He was in a hurry. Today was an important day.
His work was important – even to the State – but his private thoughts were mean, petty and trivial. It was as though they were in inverse proportion.
As she was leaving, Yevgenia had asked Lyudmila to go to Kuznetsky Most and hand over two hundred roubles for Krymov.
‘Lyudmila,’ said Viktor. ‘Don’t forget the money Zhenya gave you. I think you’ve left it too late already.’
He didn’t say this because he was worried on behalf of Krymov or Yevgenia; he said it because he was afraid that Lyudmila’s negligence might bring Yevgenia back to Moscow again. Then she would start making telephone calls, sending off petitions and statements . . . In the end his flat would be nothing but a centre for agitation on behalf of political prisoners.
Viktor knew he was being both petty and cowardly. Feeling ashamed of himself, he said hurriedly: ‘You must write to Zhenya. Invite her to stay in my name. Maybe she needs to come to Moscow but feels awkward about asking. Yes, Lyuda. Write to her straight away.’
He felt better after that, but then he knew it was only for his own peace of mind that he’d said it . . . How strange everything was . . . When he’d just sat in his room all day, a pariah afraid even of the house-manager and the girl at the rations desk, his head had been full of thoughts about life, truth and freedom, thoughts about God . . . That was when no one had wanted him, when the telephone had been silent for weeks on end and people had ignored him if they passed him on the street. But now, when dozens of people waited on him, phoning him up and writing to him, when a Zis-101 came to pick him up and hooted discreetly beneath the window, now he found it impossible to shed himself of petty anxieties, trivial irritations and thoughts that were emptier than the husks of sunflower seeds. He’d said the wrong thing then, he’d laughed at the wrong moment there – yes, he was obsessed by trivia.
For a while after Stalin’s telephone call, he had thought that he need never know fear again. But it was still there; only its outer trappings had changed. Now it was simply a more aristocratic fear, a fear that travelled by car and was allowed to use the Kremlin telephone switchboard.
And what had once been unimaginable – an attitude of envious rivalry towards the achievements and theories of other scientists – had begun to seem quite normal. He was like an athlete – afraid of being overtaken, afraid that someone might beat his record.
He didn’t really want to talk to Chepyzhin now; he didn’t have the strength for what would be a long and difficult conversation. He and Chepyzhin had oversimplified when they talked about the dependence of science on the State. He himself was quite free; no one any longer thought of his theories as absurdities straight out of the Talmud. No one dared attack them now. The State needed theoretical physics; Badin and Shishakov understood that now. For Markov to show his true talent for setting up experiments, for Kochkurov to show his talent for seeing their practical applications, you needed a theoretician. Now, after Stalin’s telephone call, that was generally understood. But how could he explain to Dmitry Petrovich that this telephone call had brought him freedom? Why had he suddenly become so intolerant of Lyudmila’s failings? And why was he now so well-disposed towards Shishakov?
He had grown particularly fond of Markov – perhaps because he had now become genuinely interested in the personal lives of his bosses, in everything secret or half-secret, in every act of harmless cunning or outright treachery, in all the various humiliations arising from invitations or absence of invitations to the Presidium, in who figured on a special list or who merely heard the fateful words: ‘You’re not on the list.’ Yes, he would much sooner spend a free evening chatting with Markov than be arguing with Madyarov at one of their Kazan gatherings.
Markov had an extraordinarily sharp eye for people’s absurdities; he could make fun of their weaknesses lethally but without malice. His mind was very elegant and he was a first-class scientist. He was possibly the most talented experimental physicist in the country.
Viktor already had his coat on when Lyudmila said: ‘Marya Ivanovna phoned yesterday.’
‘Yes?’ said Viktor immediately.
His face must have
changed.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Lyudmila.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ he said, coming back into the room.
‘I didn’t quite understand. Some unpleasantness at the Institute. I think Kovchenko phoned them. Anyway it’s the usual story. She’s worried about you. She’s afraid you’re going to put your foot in it again.’
‘How?’ asked Viktor impatiently. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t understand myself. I’ve already told you. She evidently didn’t want to go into it at length on the phone.’
‘Tell me all that again,’ said Viktor. He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on a chair by the door.
Lyudmila looked at him, shaking her head from side to side. He thought her eyes seemed sad and reproachful. As though to confirm this, Lyudmila said: ‘Vitya, Vitya . . . You didn’t have time to phone Chepyzhin, but you’re always ready to hear about dear Masha, aren’t you? I thought you were late.’
Viktor gave her an odd, sideways look and said: ‘Yes, I am late.’
He went up to her, took her hand and kissed it. She patted him on the head and ruffled his hair.
‘You see how interesting and important Masha’s become,’ said Lyudmila quietly. She gave a wry smile and added: ‘The same Masha who couldn’t tell the difference between Balzac and Flaubert.’
Viktor looked at her: her eyes were moist, her lips almost trembling.
He shrugged his shoulders helplessly and walked out. In the doorway he turned round again.
He felt quite shaken by the look on Lyudmila’s face. It was a look of utter exhaustion, touching helplessness, and shame – both on his behalf and on her own. On his way down the stairs, he thought that, if he were to break with Lyudmila and never see her again, he would remember that look until his dying day. He realized that something very important had just happened: his wife had informed him that she knew of his love for Marya Ivanovna and he had confirmed it.
All he knew for sure was that, if he saw Masha, he felt happy, and if he promised himself never to see her again, he felt he could hardly breathe.
As Viktor’s car arrived at the Institute, Shishakov’s drew up alongside it. The two cars stopped by the door almost simultaneously.
Viktor and Shishakov then walked side by side down the corridor. Shishakov took Viktor by the arm. ‘Are you going to the Urals then?’
‘I think so.’
‘Soon we’ll be saying goodbye for good. You’ll become an independent sovereign,’ said Shishakov with a smile.
‘What if I ask if he’s ever been in love with someone else’s wife?’ thought Viktor suddenly.
‘Viktor Pavlovich,’ said Shishakov, ‘can you come round to my office about two o’clock?’
‘Certainly. I’ll be free by then.’
Viktor found it hard to concentrate on his work that morning.
In the laboratory Markov came up to him in his shirt-sleeves and said excitedly: ‘If you’ll allow me, Viktor Pavlovich, I’ll come and see you a bit later. I’ve got something interesting to tell you.’
‘I’m seeing Shishakov at two,’ said Viktor. ‘Come round after that. I’ve got something to tell you myself.’
‘You’re seeing Aleksey Alekseyevich,’ said Markov thoughtfully. ‘I think I know what about.’
54
Seeing Viktor come in, Shishakov said: ‘I was just going to phone and remind you of our meeting.’
Viktor looked at his watch. ‘I’m not late, am I?’
Shishakov looked quite enormous as he stood there in his grey suit, his huge head covered in silvery hair. But his eyes no longer seemed cold and arrogant; they were more like the eyes of a little boy brought up on Dumas and Mayne Reid.
‘My dear Viktor Pavlovich, I’ve got something important to discuss with you,’ said Shishakov with a smile. He took Viktor by the arm and led him towards an easy chair.
‘It’s something very serious and rather unpleasant.’
‘Well,’ said Viktor, looking mournfully round the office, ‘let’s get down to it then.’
‘What’s happened,’ Shishakov began, ‘is that a disgusting campaign’s been started up abroad, mainly in England. In spite of the fact that we’re bearing nearly the whole weight of the war on our own shoulders, certain English scientists – instead of demanding the immediate opening of a Second Front – have begun an extraordinary campaign with the aim of arousing hostility towards the Soviet Union.’
He looked Viktor straight in the eye. Viktor knew this open, frank look; it was characteristic of people who were doing something dishonest.
‘I see, I see,’ he said. ‘But what exactly is this campaign?’
‘A campaign of slanders,’ said Shishakov. ‘They’ve published a list of Soviet writers and scientists they allege to have been shot. They’re making out that some quite fantastic number of people have been imprisoned for political reasons. With extraordinary – and really very suspicious – vehemence, they contest the verdict – established by due process of law – on Doctors Pletnyov and Levin, the assassins of Aleksey Maximovich Gorky. All this has been published in a newspaper close to government circles.’
‘I see, I see,’ said Viktor. ‘And is that it?’
‘More or less. There’s also something about the geneticist Chetverikov. A committee’s been established for his defence.’
‘But my dear Aleksey Alekseyevich, Chetverikov has been arrested.’
Shishakov shrugged his shoulders.
‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Viktor Pavlovich, I know nothing about the workings of the security organs. But if, as you say, he has been arrested, then it must be with good reason. You and I haven’t been arrested, have we?’
Just then Badin and Kovchenko came in. Shishakov was evidently expecting them; Viktor realized they must have arranged this beforehand. Without stopping to put them in the picture, Shishakov just said: ‘Sit down comrades, sit down!’ and turned back to Viktor.
‘So, Viktor Pavlovich, these slanders have now reached America and been published in the pages of the New York Times. This, naturally, has aroused indignation among the Soviet intelligentsia.’
‘Of course,’ said Kovchenko. ‘What else could one expect?’
He looked directly at Viktor. His own brown eyes seemed so warm and friendly that Viktor was unable to come out with the thought that had immediately occurred to him: ‘How can the Soviet intelligentsia be so indignant if they’ve never once set eyes on the New York Times?’
He grunted and shrugged his shoulders. This, he was aware, could be taken as a sign of agreement.
‘Naturally,’ Shishakov went on, ‘a desire has arisen to refute these calumnies. And so we have drawn up a document.’
‘You haven’t done anything of the sort,’ thought Viktor. ‘You weren’t even present when it was drawn up.’
‘This document is in the form of a letter.’
‘I’ve read it myself,’ added Badin in a quiet voice. ‘It’s just what’s needed. We want to have it signed by a small number of our most important scientists, people who are known in Europe and America.’
Viktor had known right from the beginning what all this was leading up to. What he hadn’t known was the precise form Shishakov’s request would take; whether he’d be asked to write an article, to make a speech at the Scientific Council, to vote . . . Now it was clear: they wanted his signature at the foot of a letter.
He began to feel sick. It was just like when they’d wanted him to make a public confession; he suddenly felt miserable, base, pathetic.
Once again, millions of tons of granite were about to come down on his shoulders . . . Professor Pletnyov! Viktor remembered an article in Pravda, written by some hysterical woman, full of wild accusations against the old doctor. To begin with, as so often, he had believed it all. Gogol, Tolstoy, Chekhov and Korolenko appeared to have instilled in Russians an almost religious reverence for the printed word. Finally, however, Viktor had realized that it was a calumny.<
br />
Pletnyov had then been arrested, together with Levin – another famous doctor from the Kremlin hospital. The two of them confessed to having murdered Aleksey Maximovich Gorky.
The three men were all looking at Viktor. Their eyes were warm, friendly and trusting. They accepted him as one of them. Shishakov looked on him as a brother; he understood the immense significance of Viktor’s work. Kovchenko looked up to him. Badin’s eyes said: ‘Yes, everything you did and said seemed alien to me. But I was wrong. I didn’t understand. The Party corrected me.’
Kovchenko opened a red file and handed Viktor a typewritten letter.
‘Let me say one thing, Viktor Pavlovich. This Anglo-American campaign plays straight into the hands of the Fascists. It’s probably the work of those swine in the Fifth Column.’
‘There’s no need to go on at Viktor Pavlovich,’ Badin interrupted. ‘He’s as much a patriot as any of us. He’s a Russian. A true Soviet citizen!’
‘Precisely,’ said Shishakov.
‘No one’s ever doubted it,’ said Kovchenko.
‘I see, I see,’ said Viktor.
Only a little while ago these people had treated him with suspicion and contempt, but now these professions of trust and friendship came quite naturally to them. And Viktor, though he had not forgotten the past, accepted their friendship with the same ease and naturalness.
He felt paralysed by their trust and their kindness. He had no strength. If only they had shouted at him, kicked him, beaten him . . . Then he would have got angry and recovered his strength.
Stalin had spoken to him. They all knew this.
But the letter they wanted him to sign was terrible.
Nothing could make him believe that Doctor Levin and Professor Pletnyov had killed the great writer. His mother had seen Doctor Levin during one of her visits to Moscow. Lyudmila had been treated by him. He was a kind man, gentle and sensitive. Only a monster could slander these two doctors so appallingly.
Life and Fate Page 99