No, he wasn't going to recite these stereotyped formulae! He would tell the truth, he would say what came from his heart: 'My friends, my comrades, I have listened to you with pain; I have asked myself with pain how it is that at this joyful time, the time of this great and hard-won breakthrough at Stalingrad, I find myself alone, listening to the angry reproaches of my comrades, my brothers, my friends… I swear to you – with my blood, with my brain, with all my strength…' Yes, yes, now he knew what he would say… Quick, quick, there was still time… 'Comrades… Comrade Stalin, I have lived falsely, I have had to reach the edge of the abyss to see my mistakes in their full horror…' Yes, what he said would come from the depths of his soul. 'Comrades, my own son died at Stalingrad…'
He went to the door.
Everything had been resolved. All that remained was to get to the Institute as quickly as possible, leave his coat in the cloakroom, enter the hall, hear the excited whispering of dozens of people, look round the familiar faces and say: 'A word if you please. Comrades, I wish to share with you my thoughts and feelings of the last few days…'
But at the same moment, Viktor slowly took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. He took off his tie, folded it and placed it on the edge of the table. He then sat down and began unlacing his shoes.
He felt a sense of lightness and purity. He felt calm and thoughtful. He didn't believe in God, but somehow it was as though God were looking at him. Never in his life had he felt such happiness, such humility. Nothing on earth could take away his sense of rightness now.
He thought of his mother. Perhaps she had been standing beside him when he had so unaccountably changed his mind. Only a minute before he had sincerely wanted to make a hysterical confession. Neither God nor his mother had been in his mind when he had come to that last unshakeable decision. Nevertheless, they had been there beside him.
'How good, how happy I feel,' he thought.
Once again he imagined the meeting, the faces, the speakers' voices.
'How good, how light everything is,' he said to himself once again.
He seemed never to have thought so deeply about life, about his family, about himself and his fate.
Lyudmila and Yevgenia came into the room. Seeing him there without his shoes and his jacket, with an open collar, Lyudmila said: 'Good God! You're still here. What will become of us now?' She sounded like an old woman.
'I've no idea.'
'Maybe it's still not too late.' She looked at him again and added: 'I don't know – you're a grown man. But when it comes to matters like this, there are other things to think about than your principles.'
Viktor just sighed.
'Lyudmila!' said Yevgenia.
'All right, all right,' said Lyudmila. 'Whatever will be, will be.'
'Yes, Lyudochka,' said Viktor. 'One way or another, we'll get by.'
He put his hand to his neck and smiled. 'Forgive me, Zhenya. I haven't got a tie on.'
Viktor looked at Lyudmila and Yevgenia. It was as though he had only now, for the first time, fully understood the difficulty and seriousness of life on earth, the true importance of close relationships. At the same time he knew that life would go on in its usual way, that he would still get upset over trifles, that he would still be infuriated by his wife and daughter.
'That's enough about me,' he said. 'Let's have a game of chess, Zhenya. Remember how you checkmated me twice running?'
They set out the pieces. Viktor was white. He opened with the king's pawn. Yevgenia said:
'Nikolay always opened with the king's pawn when he was white. What do you think they'll say to me today at Kuznetsky Most?'
Lyudmila bent down and put Viktor's slippers beside his feet. He tried to slip his feet into them without looking; Lyudmila gave a querulous sigh, knelt down on the floor and put them on for him. Viktor kissed her on the head and said absent-mindedly:
'Thank you, Lyudochka. Thank you!'
Yevgenia still hadn't made her first move. She shook her head and said: 'No, I just don't understand. Trotskyism's old hat. Something must have happened – but what?'
Lyudmila straightened the white pawns. 'I hardly slept last night. Such a right-thinking, devoted Communist!'
'You slept very well last night,' said Yevgenia. 'I woke up several times and you were always snoring.'
'That's not true,' said Lyudmila angrily. 'I literally didn't close my eyes.'
Then, answering the question that was troubling her, she said to her husband: 'As long as they don't arrest you! I'm not afraid of anything else. We can sell our possessions, we can move to the dacha. I can teach chemistry in a school.'
'You won't be able to keep your dacha,' said Yevgenia.
'But don't you understand that Nikolay's quite innocent?' said Viktor. 'It's a different way of thinking, another generation.'
They sat there talking over the chess-board, glancing now and again at the pieces and the solitary pawn that had made one move.
'Zhenya, my dear,' said Viktor, 'you've acted according to your conscience. Believe me – that's the highest thing a man can do. I don't know what life has in store for you, but I'm sure of one thing: you listened to your conscience – and the greatest tragedy of our age is that we don't listen to our consciences. We don't say what we think. We feel one thing and do another. Remember Tolstoy's words about capital punishment? "I can't remain silent." But we remained silent in 1937 when thousands of innocent people were executed. Or rather some of us – the best of us – remained silent. Others applauded noisily. And we remained silent during the horrors of general collectivization… Yes, we spoke too soon about Socialism – it's not just a matter of heavy industry. Socialism, first of all, is the right to a conscience. To deprive a man of his conscience is a terrible crime. And if a man has the strength to listen to his conscience and then act on it, he feels a surge of happiness. I'm glad for you – you've acted according to your conscience.'
'That's enough sermonizing, Vitya,' said Lyudmila. 'Stop confusing the poor girl. You're not the Buddha… What's conscience got to do with it anyway? She's ruining her life, tormenting a good man – and what good will it do Krymov? He won't be happy even if they do set him free. And he was doing fine when they separated – she's got nothing to feel guilty about.'
Yevgenia picked up one of the kings, twirled it around, examined the felt on its base, then put it back again.
'Who's talking of happiness, Lyuda?' she asked. 'I'm not thinking of happiness.'
Viktor looked at the clock. The dial now looked peaceful, the hands calm and sleepy.
'The discussion must be in full swing now. They're abusing me for all they're worth – but I'm not in the least upset or angry.'
'I'd punch the whole lot of them in the snout,' said Lyudmila. 'They're quite shameless. First you're the bright hope of Soviet science, then they're spitting in your face… Zhenya, when are you going to Kuznetsky Most?'
'About four o'clock.'
'Well, you must have something to eat first.'
'What's for lunch today?' asked Viktor. He smiled. 'Ladies, you know what I'd like to ask you?'
'I know, I know. You want to go and work,' said Lyudmila as she got up.
'Anyone else would be banging his head against the wall on a day like this,' said Yevgenia.
'It's not a strength, but a weakness,' said Viktor. 'Yesterday I had a long talk about science with Chepyzhin. But I don't agree with him. Tolstoy was the same. He was tormented by doubts. He didn't know whether people needed literature. He didn't know whether people needed the books he wrote.'
'You know something?' said Lyudmila. 'Before talking like that, you should write the War and Peace of physics.'
Viktor felt horribly embarrassed.
'Yes, Lyuda, yes, you're quite right. I let my tongue run away with me,' he muttered. At the same time he gave his wife a look of reproach: 'Even at a time like this she has to pounce on every slip I make.'