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.'
Once again Viktor was left alone. He reread the notes he had made yesterday; at the same time he pondered what had just happened.
Why did he feel more comfortable now that Yevgenia and Lyudmila had left the room? Somehow he had been behaving unnaturally. There had been something false in the way he'd asked Yevgenia for a game of chess, in the way he'd said he wanted to do some work. And Lyudmila must have sensed it; that was the reason for her remark about the Buddha. He himself had been conscious of something wooden in his voice as he made his speech about conscience. He had tried to talk about everyday matters so as not to be thought smug, but that had seemed equally forced and unnatural.
He felt a vague sense of anxiety; something was missing, but he didn't know what. He kept getting up and walking over to the door to eavesdrop on Lyudmila and Yevgenia.
He hadn't the slightest wish to know what had been said at the meeting, who had made the most vicious or intolerant speech, what resolution had finally been passed. He would just write a short note to Shishakov, saying that he was ill and wouldn't be able to come to the Institute for the next few days. After that, things would sort themselves out. He was always ready to be of service in any way that was required…
Why, recently, had he felt so afraid of being arrested? He hadn't done anything that awful. He had talked too much. But not so very much.
Viktor still felt anxious. He kept looking impatiently at the door. Was it that he wanted something to eat? Yes, he'd have to say goodbye to the special store. And to the famous canteen.
There was a quiet ring at the door. Viktor rushed out into the corridor, shouting in the direction of the kitchen, 'I'll go, Lyudmila.'
He flung open the door. Marya Ivanovna peered anxiously at him through the gloom.
'So you're still here,' she said quietly. 'I knew you wouldn't go.'
Viktor began helping her off with her coat. As his fingers touched the collar, as he felt the warmth from the back of her head and neck, he suddenly realized that he had been waiting for her. That was why he had been watching the door and listening so anxiously.
He knew this from the sense of joy and ease he had felt as soon as he saw her. It must have been her he wanted to meet all the times he had walked back gloomily from the Institute, staring anxiously at the passers-by, studying women's faces behind the windows of trams and trolley-buses. And when he had got back and asked Lyudmila, 'Has anyone been round?', what he had really wanted to know was whether she had been round. Yes, it had been like this for a long time. She had come round, they had talked and joked, she had gone away and he seemed to have forgotten her. She had only come to mind when he was talking to Sokolov or when Lyudmila had passed on her greetings. She seemed to have existed only when he was with her or when he was talking about how charming she was. Sometimes, when he was teasing Lyudmila, he had said that she hadn't even read Pushkin and Turgenev.