Cutting Them Down to Size
Old Agafya Zhuravlyova's son, Konstantin Ivanovich, had come to visit her. With his wife and daughter. To take a look around and have a rest. Novaya was a small village, and Konstantin Ivanovich rolled up in a taxi, and the entire family took ages lugging the suitcases out of the boot... The whole village immediately knew that Agafya's middle son, Kostya, the rich one with the education, had arrived with his family.
By evening they knew the details: he was a candidate of science, and so was his wife, his daughter was still going to school. They had brought Agafya an electric samovar, a bright flowery house-coat and some wooden spoons.
That evening the village men gathered on Gleb Kapustin's porch. They were waiting for Gleb.
We have to say a word or two about Gleb Kapustin, if you are to understand why the men had gathered on his porch and what they were waiting for.
Gleb Kapustin was a thick-lipped, tow-haired forty-year-old, well-read and spiteful by nature. It just happened that, although Novaya was a small village, a lot of distinguished people came from there: one colonel, two pilots, a doctor, a newspaper correspondent. And now Zhuravlyov, a Candidate of science. And it had somehow become the custom that when these distinguished individuals came to stay in the village the folk packed their distinguished fellow-villager's hut in the evening to listen to amazing stories or even talk about themselves if the visitor was interested. And then Gleb Kapustin would come and cut the distinguished guest down to size. A lot of them did not like this, but a lot of them, especially the men, just sat there waiting for Gleb Kapustin to deal with the distinguished visitor. They didn't even wait-they went to Gleb's place beforehand, and then afterwards they went to see the visitor together. Just as if they were going to a show in a theatre. Last year it was a colonel Gleb had cut down to size-brilliantly, elegantly. The talk had turned to the war of 1812... It turned out that the colonel didn't know who had given the order to burn Moscow. That is, he knew it was some Count or other, but he got the name mixed up and called him Rasputin instead of Rastopchin. Gleb Kapustin soared up above the colonel like a hawk-and finished him off. The crowd grew excited, the colonel swore... They ran off to the teacher's house to ask her the name of the arsonist count. Gleb Kapustin sat there redfaced as he waited for the decisive moment, repeating: "Calm down, calm down, comrade colonel, we're not in Fili, are we now?" Gleb was declared victorious and the colonel beat himself over the head with his fist in bewilderment. He was extremely annoyed. For a long time afterwards the talk in the village was about how Gleb had just kept repeating: "Calm down, comrade colonel, we're not in Fili." They were amazed at him. The old men asked him why he'd said that. Gleb laughed and screwed up his stubborn eyes vengefully. All the mothers in the village who had distinguished children disliked Gleb. They were worried about what might happen.
And now this candidate of science, Zhuravlyov, had arrived...
Gleb came home from work (he worked on a power-saw), got washed and changed his clothes... He didn't bother to eat. He went out to join the men on the porch.
They lit up their cigarettes... They spoke a little about this and that, deliberately avoiding mentioning Zhuravlyov. Then Gleb glanced a couple of times in the direction of grandmother Agafya's hut and asked:
"Has Old Agafya got guests?"
"Candidates of science!"
"Candidates of science?" Gleb was surprised, "0-oh!.. They're not such easy pickings!"
The men laughed: for some they might not be easy, but for others they might. And they kept glancing at Gleb impatiently.
"Right, let's go and take a look at these candidates of science," said Gleb modestly.
And off they went.
Gleb walked a little ahead of the others. He walked calmly, his hands in his pockets, squinting at Old Agafya's hut, which now contained two candidates of science. The men were more or less escorting Gleb, the way they escort an experienced fist-fighter when the word goes out that a hostile street has found a dashing new champion.
"They didn't speak much on the way.
"What's their area of science?" Gleb asked.
"What's their area? Eh, God knows... The old woman just told me that they're candidates of science. Him and his wife..."
"There's candidates of technical science; there's candidates of humanities-they mostly deal in hot air."
"Kostya used to be hot at maths," recalled someone who used to go to school with him. "Always got top marks."
Gleb Kapustin came from the next village, and he didn't know the local celebrities very well.
"We'll see, we'll see," Gleb promised indefinitely. "Candidates of science are common as muck around here."
"They came in a taxi..."
"Well, they have to keep up the image!.." laughed Gleb.
Candidate of Science Konstantin Ivanovich greeted his visitors happily and set about getting the table laid... The guests waited modestly while old Agafya laid the table,talking with the candidate of science, remembering their childhood togethter...
"Ah, childhood, childhood!" exclaimed the candidate of science. "Please sit down, my friends."
They all sat at the table. And Gleb Kapustin sat with them. For the time being he was quiet. But they could see that he was gathering himself to pounce. He smiled, and agreed with the talk about childhood, and kept glancing at the candidate of science, sizing him up.
At table the conversaton became more friendly, and everyone seemed to have forgotten about Gleb Kapustin... Then suddenly he launched out at the visitor.
"What area are you active in?" he asked.
"Where do I work, you mean?" asked the candidate of science, bewildered.
"Yes."
"In the faculty of philology."
"Philosophy?"
"Not exactly... But you could say that."
"Very necessary thing." Gleb needed it to be philosophy. He became more lively. "What do you make of primacy?"
"What primacy?" The candidate of science was bewildered again. And he looked at Gleb closely. Everybody looked at Gleb.
"The primacy of spirit and matter." Gleb threw down the gauntlet. He assumed an apparently casual pose and waited for the gauntlet to be picked up. The candidate of science picked up the gauntlet.
"As always," he said with a smile, "matter is primary..,"
"And spirit?"
"Spirit comes later. Why?"
"Is that in the entrance examination?" Gleb smiled too. "I'm sorry, we're a long way from the big centres here, and we don't get much chance for a good talk, there's no one to talk to. What does philosophy make of the concept of weightlessness these days?"
"The same as it always has. What do you mean, these days?"
"Well, the phenomenon was only discovered recently."
Gleb smiled, looking the scholar straight in the face. "Natural philosophy, let's say, defines it one way and strategic philosophy defines it quite differently..."
"There's no such thing as strategic philosophy!" said the candidate of science, getting excited. "What are you talking about here?"
"Yes, but there is such a thing as the dialectics of nature," said Gleb calmly, everyone's attention focused on him. "And nature is defined by philosophy. Weightless- ness was recently discovered to be one of the elements of nature. That's why I'm asking whether the philosophers are showing any signs of confusion."
The candidate of science laughed sincerely. But he was the only one who laughed... And he felt uncomfortable.
He called his wife:
"Valya, come here. This is a very odd conversation we're having!"
Valya came up to the table, but Konstantin Ivanovich still felt uncomfortable, because the men were still watching him and waiting for his answer to the question.
"Let's determine what we're talking about," he said in a serious voice.
"Right. Second question. What's your personal attitude to the question of tribal magic in the far north?"
The candidates of science laughed. Gleb Kapustin smiled too. And waited patiently for the candidates of science to finish laughing.
"Of course, it's possible to pretend there's no such problem. I'd be glad to join in and laugh with you..." Gleb smiled magnanimously again. Especially at the wife, the candidatess of science, so to speak. "But that won't make the problem go away. Right?"
"Are you being serious?" asked Valya.
"By your leave." Gleb Kapustin half stood, and bowed discreetly to the candidates. And he blushed. "Of course, it's not a universal question, but I think it would be interesting to find out."
"What question?" exclaimed the candidate of science.
"Your attitude to the problem of tribal magic." Valya began to laugh again. But she checked herself in time and said to Gleb, "I beg your pardon."
"It's alright," said Gleb. "I understand that maybe it's not a fair question..."
"There is no such problem!" blurted out the candidate of science, straight from the shoulder. He shouldn't have done that. That wasn't the way to do it.
And now Gleb laughed.
"Well if there isn't, there's no point in talking about it."
The men all looked at the candidate.
"Get the woman off the wagon and spare the horse," Gleb added. "So there's no problem but all these..." Gleb did something complicated with his hands. "All of them dancing and ringing their bells... Well? But if we don't want it..." Gleb repeated the words-"If we don't want it, it's as if it doesn't exist. Right? Because if... Alright! One more question: what do you think of the idea that the moon was created artificially?"
The candidate of science stared, dumbstruck, at Gleb.
Gleb continued:
"Scientists have suggested that the moon follows an artificial orbit and that intelligent beings might live inside it..."
"Well?" asked the candidate of science. "What of it?"
"Have you calculated the natural trajectories? How can cosmic science be applied in general?"
The men were listening carefully to Gleb.
"If we allow that human beings will visit our neighbour in space more and more often, then we can expect that some fine day curiosity will get the better of the intelligent life-forms, and they'll come out to meet us. Are we prepared for understanding each other?"
"Who are you asking?'
"You, the thinkers..."
"Are you prepared?"
"We're not thinkers, that's not what we're paid for. But if you're interested, I can tell you the way we provincials think. Let's suppose some intelligent being has come out on to the surface of the moon... What would you say we should do? Bark like a dog? Sing like a cock?"
The men laughed and stirred in their seats, then fixed their gaze on Gleb again.
"But we have to understand each other somehow... Right? How?" Gleb let the guestion hang in silence. He looked round at everyone. "I suggest drawing a plan of our solar system in the sand and pointing out that I'm from earth. And showing him that although I'm wearing a space- suit, I have a head too and I'm an intelligent being. To confirm that, I can show him on the plan where he's from, by pointing at the moon, then at him. Is that logical? That way we can work out that we're neighbours. But that's all. Next we have to explain the laws according to which I have developed in order to become what I am at the present stage..."
"Yes." The candidate stirred in his seat and gave his wife a significant glance. "This is very interesting. What laws?"
That was a mistake too, because his significant glance was intercepted. Gleb soared up into the air... And came down on the candidate from a great height. This moment came in all his conversations with the village's celebrities, the moment when Gleb soared up on high. He probably waited eagerly for the moment to come, because after that everything happened automatically.
"Are you inviting your wife to laugh?" asked Gleb.
He asked calmly, but inside he was probably quivering.
"That's nice... Only perhaps first we should learn how to read the newspapers? What do you think? They say it's useful even for candidates of science..."
"Now, listen!"
"We've already listened! We've heard enough. Allow us to observe, Mr. Candidate of Science, that an academic title is not a suit of clothes that you buy and it's yours, once and for all. Even a suit has to be cleaned now and again. And learning needs to be brisked up even more often." Gleb spoke quietly but emphatically, without any pauses for breath, he was carried away. It was painful just to look at the candidate: he was obviously totally confused, and kept looking at his wife, and at Gleb, and at the men... The men tried not to look at him.
"Of course, it's easy enough to impress us here: drive up to the house in a taxi, drag five suitcases out of the boot... But you forget that the flow of information is spread evenly everywhere. I mean we might just happen to impress you. That happens too. You might think we'd never seen any candidates of science round here, but we have-candidates of science and professors, and colonels. And we have very pleasant memories of them, because for the most part they are very simple people. So my advice to you, comrade candidate of science, is to come back down to earth. It's a sound principle, and it's less risky. You won't hurt yourself so much if you fall."
"Now you've really pulled the rug out from under me," said the candidate. "Just what, exactly, are you raving about?"
"Well, well," Gleb interrupted him, hurriedly. "What d'you mean 'raving'? I've never been in the madhouse. Why'd you say that?" Gleb looked round the men. "Nobody else here has ever been locked away either, they don't understand what you mean. And now your wife's making big eyes... What if your daughter hears. Then she might go pulling the rug out from under someone in Moscow, ah? All this loose language might have a bad effect. Not all means are good, I tell you, not by any means. When you were taking the basic candidate's examination, you didn't pull the rug out from under the professor, did you?" Gleb rose to his feet. "And you didn't try 'to put one over on him' and you didn't talk smart lingo? Because professors have to be respected-they can fix things, but nothing depends on us-you can use the smart lingo with us. Right? No, wrong! We're not entirely clueless round here either. We read the newspapers, and sometimes even books...
And we even watch television. And, you know, we're not absolutely delighted by the programmes they put on. Why not? Because they're all full of the same conceit. Never mind them, they'll swallow anything. And they do, of course, there's nothing you can do about it. Only there's no point pretending everyone in the big city is a genius. Some of us understand a few things. They should be a bit more modest."
"A typical scheming demagogue," said the candidate, turning to his wife. "All the standard features..."
"You're wide of the mark. In all my life I've never written a single anonymous letter or denounced anyone." Gleb looked at the men: the men knew it was the truth. "That's not it, comrade candidate of science. Would you like me to explain what I really am?"
"Yes, I would."
"I'm someone who likes tweaking noses, so people don't get above themselves! More modesty, dear comrades..."
"And what makes you think we lack modesty?" asked Valya, unable to restrain herself any longer. "What have we done to make you think that?"
"When you're on your own, you just think about it, and you'll understand." There was even a hint of pity in the way Gleb looked at the candidates of science. "You can say 'honey' as often as you like, but it won't taste sweet in the mouth. You don't have to pass the basic candidate's examination to understand that. Right? You can write 'the people' in all your articles hundreds of times if you like, but you won't contribute anything to knowledge. So when you drive out to see the people, you should be a bit more careful in what you say. A bit better prepared, maybe. Or else you can easily end up being made a fool of. Goodbye. I hope you have a pleasant holiday... among the people."
Gleb chuckled and took his time going out of the hut. He always left on his own after a meeting with distinguished visitors.
He didn't hear the men talking afterwards as they left the candidates:
"He walked all over him!.. The cunning dog. How did he know all that about the moon?"
"He cut him down to size alright."
"Would you reckon it?"
And the men shook their heads, dumbfounded.
"A cunning dog. He fixed poor old Konstantin Ivanich... Ah? Fixed him good! And that wife of his, Valya, she never even opened her mouth."
"What was there to say? Nothing. Kostya wanted to say something, but Gleb said five words to his one."
"He's a cunning dog, right enough."
There seemed to be a note of pity or sympathy for the candidates in the men's voices. But their astonishment at Gleb Kapustin was as great as ever. They were astounded. Even delighted. Even though they might not really like him. No, they didn't like him. Gleb was cruel, and no one anywhere has ever liked cruelty.
The next day Gleb Kapustin would go to work and ask the men in passing, as if he wasn't really interested:
"Well how's the candidate getting on?"
And he would grin.
"You cut him right down to size," they would say.
"Never mind," Gleb would say magnanimously. "It's good for him. Let him do a bit of thinking during his holiday. These people get above themselves..."
|
