Every technology which is of benefit to the human race must be used appropriately and with respect. In no instance is this more true than in the case of the tractor.
He is reading easily, in Ukrainian, pausing from time to time for dramatic effect, his left hand poised in the air like a conductor’s baton.
For the tractor, despite its early promise to free mankind from grinding toil, has also brought us to the brink of ruin, through carelessness and over-use. This has happened throughout its history, but the most striking example is in America in the 1920s.
I have said that it was the tractor which opened up the great prairies of the West. But those who followed the early pioneers were not satisfied with this. They believed that if use of tractors made the land productive, greater use of tractors would make the land more productive. Tragically it was not so.
The tractor must always be used as an aid to nature, not as a driver of nature. The tractor must work in harmony with the climate, and the fertility of the land, and the humble spirit of the farmers. Otherwise it will bring disaster, and this is what happened in the Midwest.
The new farmers of the West, they did not study the climate. True, they complained of the lack of rain, and the strong winds, but they did not heed the warning. They ploughed and they ploughed, for more ploughing, they believed, would bring more profit. Then winds came and blew away all the earth that had been ploughed.
The Dust Bowl of the 1920s, and the extreme hardship which stemmed from it, led ultimately to the economic chaos which culminated in the collapse of the American Stock Exchange in 1929.
But it could be added, further, thatthe instability and impoverishment which spread throughout the world were also factors behind the rise of Fascism in Germany and Communism in Russia, the clash of which two ideologies almost brought the human race to its doom.
And so I leave you with this thought, dear reader. Use the technology which the engineer has developed, but use it with a humble and questioning spirit. Never allow technology to be your master, and never use it to gain mastery over others.
He stops with a flourish, and looks to his audience for approval.
“Bravo, Nikolai Alexeevich!” cries Dubov clapping his hands. “Bravo, Pappa!” I cry. “Guh guh!” cries baby Margaritka.
Then Father gathers together all the sheets of his manuscript, which are scattered over the floor, and wraps them together in a piece of brown paper which he secures with string. He hands the parcel to Dubov.
“Please, Volodya Simeonovich. Take it with you to Ukraina. Maybe someone will publish it there.”
“No, no,” says Dubov. “I cannot take it, Nikolai Alexeevich. It is your life’s work.”
“Pah!” says Father with a modest shrug. “It is finished now. Take it please. I have another book to write.”
Thirty. Two journeys
I wake up early, with a stiff neck. The choice last night was between sharing the bunk-bed with Stanislav, or sleeping on the two-seater settee, and I chose the latter. It is still not fully light outside, the sky slate-coloured and overcast.
But the house is already full of sound and movement. Father is singing in the bathroom. Valentina, Stanislav and Dubov are rushing around loading up the car. Imake a cup of tea, and stand at the window to watch.
The capacity of the Rolls-Royce is amazing.
In go two enormous bin bags of indeterminate contents, which Valentina stows in the boot with a shove. In go Stanislav’s CD collection in two cardboard boxes, and his CD player, wedged in place between two huge bales of disposable nappies beneath the back seat. In go two suitcases, and Dubov’s small green rucksack. In go a television (where did that come from?) and a deep-fat-fryer (ditto). In go a cardboard box of assorted boil-in-bags, and another of tinned mackerel. In goes the small portable photocopier. In goes the blue civilised-person’s Hoover (which, Pappa later tells me, he and Dubov have adapted to take ordinary bags), and my mother’s pressure cooker. (How dare she!)
Now the boot is full (slam!) and they start loading up the roof-rack. Out comes the baby’s painted wooden cot, which has been disassembled and tied together with string. One, two, three-up!-goes an enormous fibreglass suitcase, as big as a small wardrobe. Out comes-surely not-Stanislav and Dubov struggle under its weight as they lug it across the garden-bend your knees, Stanislav! bend your knees!-the brown not-peasant-cooking not-electric cooker. But how will they lift it on to the roof-rack?
Dubov has constructed a sort of hoist out of thick rope and some stout canvas sheeting. He has slung the rope over a strong branch of the ash tree by the road in front of the house, and pulled it so that it rests securely in a fork. He and Stanislav lower the cooker, on its side, on to the canvas cradle. Then Valentina jumps into the Lada, and Dubov directs her into position in front of the cooker, and the other end of the rope is attached to the bumper. As she inches forward-“Slowly, Valenka, slowly!”-the cooker rises into the air, swings, and hangs suspended, steadied by Dubov until he motions to her to stop. The Lada is smoking a bit, the engine running rough, but the handbrake holds. Now the Rolls-Royce is brought round-Stanislav is at the wheel!-and positioned directly underneath the cooker swinging in its cradle. Father has come out into the front garden, and is helping Dubov to give directions, waving his arms wildly-forward a bit-back a bit-stop! Dubov motions to Valentina. “Back now, Valenka. Gently! Gently! STOP!” Valentina’s clutch control is not brilliant, and the cooker lands with a bit of a bump, but the Rolls-Royce, and Dubov’s roof-rack, can take it.
Everybody cheers, including the neighbours who have come out into the street to watch. Valentina gets out of the Lada, minces over to Dubov in her high-heeled slippers (no wonder her dutch control is wanting) and gives him a peck on the cheek-“Holubchik!” Stanislav beeps the horn of the Rolls-Royce-it makes a deep sophisticated sound-and everybody cheers again.
Then the canvas is wrapped around everything on the roof-rack and secured with the rope, and that’s it. They are ready to go. Valentina’s fur coat is spread across the back seat, and on it, wrapped in layers of blankets, is placed baby Margaritka. Everybody exchanges hugs and kisses, apart from Father and Valentina, who manage to avoid each other without causing a scene. Dubov takes the driver’s seat. Stanislav sits in front, next to him. Valentina sits in the back beside the baby. The engine of the Rolls-Royce purrs as contentedly as a big cat. Dubov engages gear. And they’re off. Father and I come out on to the road to wave to them, as they disappear round the corner and out of view.
Can this really be the end?
There are still some loose ends to be tied up. Fortunately Valentina left the keys to the Lada in the car, so I bring it in and put it in the garage. In the glove-compartment are the papers, and also-surprise-the papers and key for Crap car. They will not be much use to Father as his licence expired years ago, and Doctor Figges refused to sign a form authorising its renewal.