Life And Fate

Still trembling with excitement, Viktor thought: 'For God's sake! This isn't a matter of elegance. This is bread for the soul.'

'Do you see now, Viktor Pavlovich,' Sokolov continued, 'how wrong you were to lose heart and try to put everything off till our return to Moscow?' Then, just like someone giving a sermon: 'You lack faith, you lack patience. This often hinders you.'

'I know, I know,' Viktor interrupted impatiently. 'But I got very depressed by the way we were so stuck. It made me feel quite ill.'

Then Sokolov began to hold forth. Though he understood the importance of Viktor's work and praised it in superlative terms, Viktor hated every word he said. To him any evaluation seemed trivial and stereotyped.

'Your work promises remarkable results.' What a stupid word! He didn't need Pyotr Lavrentyevich to know what his work promised. And anyway why 'promises results'? It was a result in itself. 'You've employed a most original method.' No, it wasn't a spatter of originality… This was bread, bread, black bread.

Viktor decided to change the subject. He began to talk about the running of the laboratory.

'By the way, Pyotr Lavrentyevich, I received a letter from the Urals. Our order's going to be delayed.'

'Well,' said Sokolov, 'that means we'll already be in Moscow when the apparatus arrives. That's not such a bad thing. We'd never have been able to set it up in Kazan anyway: we'd have been accused of failing to keep up with our schedule.'

He started to talk very pompously about matters connected with their work schedule. Although Viktor had himself initiated this change of topic, he was upset that Sokolov had gone along with it so readily.

It made Viktor feel very isolated. Surely Sokolov understood that his work was more important than the everyday affairs of the Institute? It was probably the most important of all his contributions to science; it would affect the theoretical outlook of physicists everywhere.

Sokolov realized from Victor's expression that he had done the wrong thing. 'It's interesting,' he said. 'You've produced another confirmation of that business with neutrons and a heavy nucleus. We really shall need that new apparatus now.'

'I suppose so,' said Viktor. 'But that's only a detail.'

'No,' said Sokolov. 'It's very important. You know what enormous energy is involved.'

'To hell with all that!' said Viktor. 'What interests me is that it's a new way of seeing the microforces within the atom. That may bring joy to a few hearts and save one or two people from groping around in the dark.'

'Oh yes,' said Sokolov. 'They'll be as glad as sportsmen are when someone else sets a new record.'

Viktor didn't answer. Sokolov was alluding to a recent argument in the laboratory. Savostyanov had compared scientists with athletes; he had claimed that a scientist had to undergo the same daily training as an athlete and that the tension surrounding his attempt to solve a scientific problem was no different from that surrounding an athlete's attempt to break a record. In both cases it was a matter of records.

Viktor had got quite angry with Savostyanov, Sokolov even more so. He had made a long speech and called Savostyanov a young cynic. He had spoken of science as though it were a religion, an expression of man's aspiration towards the divine.

Viktor knew that if he had lost his temper with Savostyanov, it wasn't simply because he was wrong. He too had sometimes felt that same joy, excitement and envy. He also knew, however, that envy, competitiveness and the desire to set records were not in any way fundamental to his attitude towards science.

He had never told anyone, even Lyudmila, of his true feelings about science – feelings that had been born in him when he was still young. And so he had liked the way Sokolov had argued so justly, and so exaltedly, against Savostyanov.

Why then should Pyotr Lavrentyevich himself suddenly compare scientists with sportsmen? What had made him say that? And at a moment of such special importance for Viktor?

Feeling hurt and bewildered, he burst out: 'So, Pyotr Lavrentyevich, someone else has set the record. Has my discovery upset you, then?'

At that moment Sokolov was saying to himself that Viktor's solution was so simple as to be almost self-evident; that it was already there, on the verge of expression, in his own head.

'Yes,' he admitted. 'I'm as pleased as Lawrence must have been when the equations he had established were reworked and transformed by Einstein.'

Sokolov admitted this so frankly that Viktor regretted his animosity. Then, however, Sokolov added:

'I'm joking, of course. Lawrence is neither here nor there. I don't feel anything of the sort. But all the same, I am right – even though I don't feel anything of the sort.'

'Yes,' said Viktor, 'of course, of course.'

His irritation returned. He was sure now that Sokolov did feel envy. 'How devious he is today,' he thought. 'He's as transparent as a child. You can see his insincerity straight away.'

'Pyotr Lavrentyevich,' he said. 'Are you having people round this Saturday?'

Sokolov's thick, fierce-looking nostrils flared. He seemed about to say something, but kept silent. Viktor looked at him questioningly.

'Viktor Pavlovich,' Sokolov said at last. 'Between you and me, I no longer enjoy these evenings of ours.'

Now it was his turn to look questioningly at Viktor. Viktor remained silent. In the end Sokolov went on:

'You know very well why I say that. It's no joke. Some people really let themselves go.'

'You didn't,' said Viktor. 'You kept very quiet.'

'Yes,' said Sokolov. 'And that's why I'm worried.'

'Fine! Let me be the host! I'd be only too delighted,' said Viktor.

It was quite incomprehensible. Now it was he who was being hypocritical. Why was he lying like this? Why should he argue with Sokolov when he knew he agreed with him? He too was afraid of these meetings and would prefer not to continue with them.

'What difference would that make?' asked Sokolov. 'That's not the problem. Let me be quite frank with you. I've quarrelled with Madyarov, our chief orator, my own brother-in-law.'

Viktor wanted very much to ask: 'Pyotr Lavrentyevich, are you quite sure we can trust Madyarov? Can you vouch for him?' Instead he said: 'What is all this nonsense? You've got it into your head that a few bold words somehow endanger the State. I'm sorry you've quarrelled with Madyarov. I like him. Very much.'

'It isn't right,' said Sokolov, 'for us Russians, at such a difficult time, to criticize our own country.'

Again Viktor wanted to ask: 'Pyotr Lavrentyevich, this is something very serious. Are you sure Madyarov's not an informer?' Instead he said: 'Excuse me, but things have just taken a turn for the better. Stalingrad is the beginning of spring. We've already drawn up lists of personnel to return to Moscow. Do you remember what we were thinking two months ago? The Urals, Kazakhstan, the taiga?'

'In that case,' said Sokolov, 'there's even less reason for you to carp and croak.'

'Croak?'

'That's what I said.'

'For heaven's sake, Pyotr Lavrentyevich!'

When he said goodbye to Sokolov, Viktor was feeling depressed and bewildered. Above all, he felt an unbearable loneliness. All day he had been longing to talk to Sokolov. He had thought this meeting would be very special. But almost every word of Sokolov's had seemed trivial and insincere.

And he had been equally insincere himself. That made it even worse.

He went out onto the street. By the outer door a woman's voice quietly called out his name. Viktor knew who it was.

Marya Ivanovna's face was lit up by the street-lamp; her cheeks and forehead were shining with rain. In her old coat, with a woollen scarf round her neck, the professor's wife seemed to embody the poverty of the wartime evacuee.