Viktor shook his head.
'Dmitry Petrovich,' he said, 'when you began, I was thinking that I might be arrested any day and that I wasn't in the mood for philosophy. Suddenly I quite forgot about Kovchenko, Shishakov and comrade Beria; I forgot that I might be thrown out of my laboratory tomorrow and into prison on the following day. But what I felt as I listened to you was not joy, but utter despair. We think we're so wise -to us Hercules seems like a child with rickets. And yet on this very day the Germans are slaughtering Jewish children and old women as though they were mad dogs. And we ourselves have endured 1937 and the horrors of collectivization – famine, cannibalism and the deportation of millions of unfortunate peasants… Once, everything seemed simple and clear. But these terrible losses and tragedies have confused everything. You say man will be able to look down on God – but what if he also becomes able to look down on the Devil? What if he eventually surpasses him? You say life is freedom. Is that what people in the camps think? What if the life expanding through the universe should use its power to create a slavery still more terrible than your slavery of inanimate matter? Do you think this man of the future will surpass Christ in his goodness? That's the real question. How will the power of this omnipresent and omniscient being benefit the world if he is still endowed with our own fatuous self-assurance and animal egotism? Our class egotism, our race egotism, our State egotism and our personal egotism? What if he transforms the whole world into a galactic concentration cam? What I want to know is – do you believe in the evolution of kindness, morality, mercy? Is man capable of evolving in that way?'
He gave Chepyzhin a rueful look.
'Forgive me for throwing a question like that at you. It seems even more abstract than the equations we were just talking about.'
'No,' said Chepyzhin. 'It's not so very abstract. It's a question that's had a very real effect on my life. I took a decision not to take part in any research relating to nuclear fission. You said yourself that man isn't yet kind enough or wise enough to lead a rational life. Just think what would happen now if he was presented with the power within the atom! Man's spiritual energy is still at a lamentable level. But I do believe in the future. I believe that it is not only man's power that will evolve, but also his soul, his capacity for love.'
Chepyzhin fell silent, troubled by the expression on Viktor's face.
'I have thought about all this,' said Viktor. 'And I ended up feeling quite appalled. You and I are concerned about the imperfection of
man. But take my laboratory – who else there has ever thought about these questions? Sokolov? He's very clever – but very timid. He prostrates himself before the State and believes that there is no power except that of God. Markov? Markov hasn't the slightest inkling of questions of good and evil, of love and morality. His is a strictly practical talent. His attitude to scientific problems is that of a chessplayer. Savostyanov – the man I was just talking about? He's charming and witty and a splendid physicist. But at the same time he's just a gay young fellow without a thought in his head. When we were evacuated, he took with him a whole pile of photos of young women in bathing costumes. He likes playing the dandy, he likes dancing and getting drunk. He sees science as another kind of sport – understanding some particular phenomenon, solving a particular problem is the same as setting a new athletic record. All he cares about is getting there first. And I'm no better. I've never thought seriously about these matters myself. Science today should be entrusted to men of spiritual understanding, to prophets and saints. But instead it's been left to chessplayers and scientists. They don't know what they're doing. You do. But there's only one of you. If there's a Chepyzhin in Berlin, he won't refuse to do research on neutrons. What then? And what about me? What's going to happen to me? Once everything seemed quite simple, but now, now… You know that Tolstoy considered his works of genius to be just a trivial game. Well, we physicists are no geniuses but we aren't half pleased with ourselves.'
Viktor's eyelids had started to twitch.
'Where can I find faith, strength, determination?'
He was speaking very quickly and with a strong Jewish accent.
'What can I say? You know what's happened – and now I'm being persecuted just because…'
He jumped up without finishing the sentence; his teaspoon fell to the floor. His hands were trembling; his whole body was trembling.
'Calm down, Viktor Pavlovich! Please calm down!' said Chepyzhin. 'Let's talk about something else.'
'No, no, I must go now. I'm sorry. Something's the matter with my head. Forgive me.'
He thanked Chepyzhin and took his leave. Afraid he could no longer control himself, he avoided looking him in the face. There were tears on his cheeks as he went down the stairs.
25
The others were already asleep when Viktor got back. He had the feeling he'd be sitting at his desk until morning, rewriting his letter of repentance and reading it over yet again, trying for the hundredth time to decide whether or not to go into the Institute.
He hadn't been able to think during the long walk home – not even about his tears on the staircase or his abruptly terminated conversation with Chepyzhin; not even about what might happen on the following day or about the letter from his mother in the side-pocket of his jacket. He was under the spell of the silent darkness of the streets; his mind was as vacant and windswept as the deserted alleys of Moscow at night. He felt no emotion: neither shame at his tears nor dread of what was to come, nor even hope that everything would come right in the end.
In the morning, when he wanted to go to the bathroom, he found the door locked from the inside.
'Is that you, Lyudmila?' he called.
He was astonished to hear Yevgenia's voice.
'Heavens! Zhenechka! What's brought you here?' He was so taken aback that he asked stupidly: 'Does Lyuda know that you're here?'
Yevgenia came out. They kissed each other.
'You don't look well,' said Viktor. 'That's what's called a Jewish compliment.'
There and then she told him about Krymov's arrest and the reason for her visit. Viktor was shocked. But after news like that, her visit seemed all the more precious. A bright happy Yevgenia, full of thoughts of her new life, would have seemed less close to him, less dear.
Viktor talked away, asking lots of questions, but continually looking at his watch.
'How senseless and absurd it all is,' he said. 'Just think of all the times I've argued with Nikolay, all the times he's tried to put me right. Now he's in prison – and I'm still at large.'
'Viktor,' interrupted Lyudmila, 'don't forget – the clock in the dining-room's ten minutes slow.'
Viktor muttered something and went off to his room. He looked at his watch twice as he walked down the corridor.
The meeting of the Scientific Council was due to begin at eleven o'clock. Surrounded by his books and other belongings, Viktor had an intensified, almost hallucinatory awareness of the bustle and tension there must be in the Institute. It was half-past ten. Sokolov was taking off his jacket. Savostyanov was whispering to Markov: 'Well, it seems our madman's decided not to show up.' Gurevich was scratching his stout behind and looking out of the window. A limousine was drawing up outside; Shishakov, wearing a hat and a long fur coat, was just getting out. Another car drew up and Badin got out. Kovchenko was going down the corridor. There were already about fifteen people in the hall, all of them looking through newspapers. They'd known it would be crowded and had come early to get a good place. Svechin and Ramskov, the secretary of the Institute Party Committee 'with the stamp of secrecy on his brow', were standing by the door of the Committee office. Old Academician Prasolov was gazing into the air as he floated down the corridor; he always made unbelievably vile speeches at meetings like this. The junior research assistants had formed a large noisy group of their own.