The Stubborn Fellow
It all began when Monya Kvasov read in some book or other that a perpetuum mobile was impossible for various reasons, not the least of which was the existence of friction. By the way, the nickname Monya deserves an explanation as well. His real name was Dmitry, or Mitya for short. But his grandmother called him Mitry, and sometimes Motka or Motya when she was feeling particularly affectionate. It was his friends who dubbed him Monya, since this monicker seemed more suitable for the fidgety lad. It distinguished him from the others and emphasized his restless, obstinate character.
So Monya read the book which explained that a perpetuum mobile was impossible, and that many had failed in the attempt to invent such a machine. He carefully studied the drawings of perpetual motion machines which had been proposed over the centuries. Then he started reflecting upon this problem, not troubling his head over friction or the laws of mechanics. He had his heart set on inventing a perpetuum mobile of a kind which had never before been imagined. For some reason, he refused to believe that it was impossible. He had often pooh-poohed sober-minded thoughts and come up with something absolutely wild of his own, saying to himself: "What the heck do they think they're trying to prove?" And now he was thinking: "Just what does impossible mean anyway?"
Monya was twenty-five. He lived with his grandmother, although he had a mother and father somewhere. When he was just a baby, his grandmother had taken him away from them and brought him to live at her house, because his parents were forever splitting up and then getting back together. She had raised Monya herself. He finished the seven-year village school and continued his education at the agricultural vocational school. He spent a year and a half there but didn't like it, so he quit and went to work on the collective farm until he was drafted. He did his two-year hitch in the army, where he acquired the profession of truck-driver. So now he worked as a driver at the collective farm. Monya was tow-headed with high cheek-bones and tiny, deep-set eyes. His large jawbone jutted out, giving him an expression of perpetual stubbornness and arrogance. And that expression reflected his character pretty accurately: if he made up his mind to do something, whether it was learning to play the accordion or-like the year before- deciding to keep his grandmother's kitchen-garden the way it was, a bit larger than the size permissible under the current law, in which connection the village council had suggested that the wattle fence be moved a bit closer to the house-he devoted all his energy to the realization of that idea. He would become so obsessed by it, he couldn't think about anything else but playing the accordion or refusing to move the fence. And he always won out in the end. And that's how it was with the perpetuum mobile: Monya ceased to see or comprehend anything around him and devoted all his time and energy to the great task of invention which lay before him. No matter what he was doing-driving, eating supper, or watching TV-he was constantly mulling over the idea for his perpetuum mobile. He had already thought up about a dozen plans but had rejected each in turn. His mind was working frantically. Monya would jump out of bed at night and sketch out another in a series of wheels. Wheels had been at the root of his quest from the very beginning. He kept trying to find a way to keep a wheel spinning forever.
And finally, he did. This is how it worked: take any wheel, say, a bicycle wheel, and attach it to a vertical axle. To the rim of the wheel, firmly attach (at a forty-five degree angle to the hub) a trough in such a fashion that some sort of weight-a one kilogram dumb-bell, for example-can slide freely up and down it. Now, if to the vertical axle to which the bicycle wheel is attached, a metal rod is firmly fastened (welded) so that the free end of that rod passes above the trough where the dumb-bell is sliding... So when the dumb-bell slides down the trough, it will bump into the rod. Well, not bump exactly, but press against it. So the dumb-bell will press against the rod. And the rod is attached to the axle. So naturally, the axle would start to turn, and so would the wheel. That was the way to make a wheel spin on its own.
Monya had thought this up one night. He just jumped out of bed and drew a sketch of the wheel, the trough, the rod, and the dumb-bell. He didn't experience any particular elation. He just wondered why so many people had been beating their heads against the wall for so long when the solution was so simple. He strode about the main room in his underwear, calm and proud as he could be, then he sat down on the window for a smoke. A hot wind was blowing in from outside, and the young birches were swaying and rustling by the fence; it smelted of dust. Suddenly, Monya imagined the vast expanses of his native Russia as an enormous plain. He saw himself on that plain, walking calmly down the road, his hands in his pockets, glancing around... There was nothing more to this walk. He was just going along, and that was it, but it conveyed to him a sense of his own greatness. A body strolled about on this earth-quietly, without any shouting-taking a look at what there was all around and then making his exit. Only after he was gone would anyone take notice that someone pretty special had been among them. A remarkable fellow, indeed. Monya strode about the room a while longer. If he had been wearing his trousers instead of his underwear,he would have shoved his hands in his pockets and strutted about like that-because that's what he felt like doing. But he was too lazy to put his trousers on just then. Not exactly too lazy, but ashamed to make so much fuss about it all. Peace filled Monya's soul-an overwhelming sense of peace. He got back in bed but couldn't get to sleep till morning. He didn't worry about the perpetual motion machine any more: he had solved that problem. So he lay on top of his blanket and gazed at the stars. The hot wind grew a bit cooler towards morning: now it was warm but not stuffy. The dark sky began to pale like faded blue gingham. And that particular stillness of dawn, fragile and short-lived, hovered beyond the window. Soon that stillness was frightened away by the creaking of a gate nearby. Then the chain creaked and whined as a bucket was being lowered into the well... People were starting to get up. But Monya was still lying in bed staring out the window. Nothing in particular had changed, but life had become somehow desirable and very dear to him. The devil take it all! How was it that a person could live here and not notice at all that everything around was wonderful, simple, and absolutely priceless. Monya lay there another half hour and then got up, too. He wasn't usually such an early riser, but he couldn't fall back to sleep anyway.
He sat down and had a look at his sketch... How strange that it didn't excite him or give him any joy. He was still filled with a profound inner calm. Monya lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and began to pick his teeth with a match-stick for no particular reason other than to emphasize via these insignificant actions the enormity of what had occurred that night and been recorded on the little scraps of paper lying there on the table. It gave Monya incalculable pleasure to see the blueprint for a perpetuum mobile on the table, so he picked his teeth, reflecting: "So what do you think of that, my friends?! You stumpy lot can do nothing better than to huff and puff with your wives in your hot featherbeds at sunrise. Then you'll go strutting around all day, looking pleased as punch, carrying out your insignificant tasks and knitting your brows as if you were actually capable of serious thought. Oo-la-la! You mean to tell me you can actually think! Well, would you have a look at that! After all, you thought up a wash-stand, didn't you? And that sure did take a lot of brain work. Ah, my fellow man..." And with that, Monya grinned and walked over to that most human of all inventions, the washstand, to wash up.
All morning, Monya was in that sardonic mood. His granny noticed that he was strangely blissful. She was a merry old soul and plenty strong, and she loved her grandson very much but was careful not to show it. She didn't think life was terribly complicated either: people were born, worked hard to earn their daily bread, and died when their time came. The main thing was not to give up when the going got tough, but to find a way out somehow. During the war, for example, this was how she had managed to get along: she noticed a crack in the floor of one of the collective-farm granaries, and through this crack the wheat trickled out bit by bit. The back wall of the granary faced the road, but that whole side was hidden from view by a thick growth of stinging nettle and weeds. So at night. Old Lady Kvasova made her way through the weeds with a little sack. She was scratched and covered with whelps from the nettles, but she got to the grain. The granary was a tall one, and the floor was high off the ground: high enough for a person to crawl under. So Kvasova picked up every grain of wheat and widened the crack with her knife... Then, for a week she would crawl under the granary with her sack at night, and in this fashion, she got a fair amount of wheat. During the hungriest time, she would grind the wheat in a mortar, mix a little pine bark into the flour, and bake bread. Thus, she escaped starvation. Motka was like a son to her, even dearer perhaps, because now she had no one else. There was her daughter, of course (her two sons had been killed in the war), Monya's mother, but she had gotten mixed up with that husband of hers and lived a different, hectic kind of life in the city. Nothing much had come of her, and she never showed her face in the village. So the old woman had a daughter, but it was the same as if she had none.
"What's the matter with you today?" his granny asked Monya while they were having breakfast.
"What do you mean?" Monya inquired with calm condescension.
"Pleased with yourself. Like the cat that ate the canary. Did you have a good dream?"
Monya thought for a minute then replied insinuatingly.
"I dreamed I found a briefcase with ten thousand roubles in it."
"The devil with you and your dreams!" chuckled the old woman. Then she fell silent for a moment and asked:
"Well, what would you do with the money?"
"And what would you do?"
"I'm asking you."
"No, but what would you do with it? What do you need?"
"I don't need anything. Well, maybe I'd take this old house of ours apart, clean up the timber, replace the rotten logs, and put it back together again."
"You'd be better off building a new house. Why should you bother sorting through a bunch of rotten wood?"
The old woman sighed and was silent for a long time.
"Rotten wood or not, I'll spend the little time that's left me right here. I've already planned everything for how they'll carry me out of here feet first when I go to meet my maker. "
"Let's not start that again'" Monya said testily. He loved his grandmother, too, though he may not always have been aware of it. But there was one thing that bugged him no end: when she started talking about dying. These conversations were hardly prompted by ill health, frailty or a sense of doom. No, the old woman wanted to live and hated the very thought of dying. She only pretended to have reconciled herself to this inevitability. "I don't want to listen to all that."
The wily old woman smiled with feigned resignation.
"Well, what do you think? You don't expect me to live another century or two, do you? My time will come..."
"Well, when it comes, it'll come, but why waste time talking about it beforehand?"
However, that was exactly what the old woman wanted to talk about. It was just a shame Motka couldn't stand such conversations, because she loved to chat with him. She thought he was smart as a whip and couldn't imagine why the rest of the village didn't seem to share her opinion.
"So tell me about your dream..."
"It was nothing really... It's just that I feel good this morning."
"Well, the best time to feel good is when you're young. When you're old, you'll get the misery in your bones, and you won't feel like much of anything..."
"Don't worry," Monya announced loudly yet casually, finishing his repast. "We'll show them a thing or two before it's over."
With that, Monya headed for the garage. But on the way, he decided to drop in on the Tractor Repair Station engineer, Andrei Nikolayevich Golubyev, who was fresh out of college. Though Golubyev wasn't a local fellow, he pretty much knew the score. A bit on the gloomy side, true, but he knew how to keep his mouth shut. Monya had talked with the engineer a time or two and liked him fairly well.
Monya found him in a fenced-in yard working on a motorcycle.
"Hey there," said Monya.
"Hello," replied the engineer, but not right away. He gave Monya an unfriendly glance-he probably hadn't liked his visitor's familiarity.
"Never mind," thought Monya. "He's still wet behind the ears."
"I came to tell you a few things," continued Monya, entering the yard.
"Well, what things?" asked the engineer, looking at him once again.
"What do scientists think about the perpetual motion machine?" Monya blurted out at once. He perched himself on a log, pulled out his cigarettes, and peered up at the engineer.
"What do you mean, a perpetual motion machine?"
"You know. A perpetuum mobile. An ordinary perpetual motion machine of the kind they've never been able to come up with..."
"So what about it?.."
"What do they think about it now, for instance?"
"Who are 'they'?" snapped the engineer, who was beginning to get irritated.
"Scientists and such like. Have they just forgotten about it, or what?"
"They aren't concerned with it in the least. They have more important things to do."
"So does that mean they've forgotten about it entirely?"
The engineer bent over the motorcycle again.
"Yes."
"Don't you think it's a bit too soon?" persisted Monya.
"What do you mean, 'too soon'?" inquired the engineer, glancing up once more.
"Too soon to have forgotten about the problem."
The engineer peered attentively at Monya.
"So have you invented a perpetual motion machine yourself, or what?"
And Monya peered just as attentively at the engineer. He thrust his earth-shaking announcement at the man's diplomaed head like a little boy poking a stick into an ant hill to stir it up.
"Yes, I have."
Still squatting, the engineer stared even harder at Monya. He did not even attempt to conceal his grin as he handed the stick back to Monya, replying succinctly, but with an acid tongue:
"Congratulations."
This made Monya a little bit nervous. It wasn't exactly that he had any doubts about the validity of his invention, but he was astounded by the firmness of the universal conviction that a perpetual motion machine was impossible.
Even after it was invented, people would still go around swearing it was impossible. And arguing with them about it was a gloomy and thankless task. All Monya's obstinacy and stubbornness were in fact defense mechanisms to keep him from getting hurt-he was a naturally trusting and agreeable soul, after all.
"So what next?" asked Monya.
"What do you mean, 'What next'?"
"Well, I appreciate your congratulations, but what do I do next?"
"Well, now you have to go through all the formalities- to gain recognition for your invention. Have you already made a working model or have you just thought it up?"
"Thought it up."
"Well, in that case," began the engineer, grinning and shaking his head, "you'll have to get on the move, won't you... Write off somewhere about it-I really don't know."
Monya was silent for a moment, stung by the engineer's implied mockery.
"Well aren't you even interested in finding out about my machine? The principle, even? You're an engineer, so you of all people should be interested."
"No, I'm not," the engineer announced firmly. "I'm not the least bit interested."
"Why?"
The engineer finished fiddling with the motorcycle, wiped his hands on a rag, tossed the rag on to a log, fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and gazed down at Monya from above.
"Listen, fellow, you told me you studied at the votech for a while..."
"Yes, a year and a half."
"So why are you going around talking nonsense? You're a truck-driver, and you know something about technical matters. Therefore, I find it hard to believe that you actually take this perpetual motion machine nonsense seriously."
"You haven't even found out how it works, but you're labelling it nonsense!" objected Monya, feeling his hackles rise. He recognized the familiar twitching in his chest-an unpleasant chill and twitching. They were sure signs that a fit of stubbornness was coming on.
"I already told you, I have no desire to find out about your invention."
"Why?"
"Because it's nothing but a lot of balderdash. You should realize that yourself."
"But what if it's not balderdash after all?"
"Test it first, and then come talk to me about its operational principles. But if you want a piece of advice, don't waste your time."
"Thanks for the advice," said Monya, rising, "and for your kind attention."
"Listen here..." said the engineer intractably, but with seeming regret, "Don't be so touchy. In a minute you'll be telling me about all the money they wasted on me at college..."
"What does college have to do with anything? I didn't come here to ask for your credentials..."
"Well then what is this all about? Have you been bitten by the invention bug, or what?!" exclaimed the engineer. "You're not an ignoramus, after all. You've had some technical education, and then, like a bolt from the blue you come up with an eternal motion machine. Don't you think that if it were possible one would have been invented long before your time? You should realize that at least."
"That's the problem. Everyone thinks it's impossible, so they've all given up without even trying..."
"There's nothing to give up. It was proven long ago that a perpetual motion machine is impossible, and that's that. I could understand your attitude if you'd only had a couple of years of elementary school, but you've had quite a bit of education. So how could you possibly have gotten mixed up in all this silliness?!" exclaimed the engineer quite angrily. He was extremely irritated and didn't try to hide it. "What did you do the eight and a half years you spent in school, after all?" he demanded, glaring sternly at Monya.
"I smoked in the loo and fought a lot," Monya retorted just as angrily, peering straight into the engineer's eyes. "Why are you carrying on so? Who are you trying to impress? I'm not after your lousy job, if that's what you're worried about."
"You see there?!" sputtered the engineer, a bit taken aback by the onslaught of stubborn malice summoned forth in response to his own. "You can talk intelligently, and that means you're not the nitwit you're making yourself out to be. So why in the devil do you want to get mixed up in all this perpetual motion business and make a fool of yourself?!" With that, the engineer dropped his cigarette butt and ground it into the earth with his heel. Then he walked over to start up the motorcycle.
Monya moved away from the fence. He was in a turmoil. That engineer had gotten the best of him, and he was ashamed that he had taken the licking so calmly. Now Monya's rage at his interlocutor grew to serious proportions. Worst of all, he had begun to doubt the perpetuum mobile he had designed. So he headed straight for home to have a look at the design. He strode quickly, staring down at his feet. He had never been so ashamed in his life. And more than anything, he was ashamed of the cocky self-assurance, contentment, and peace he had felt that morning. He should have checked everything out first. What in the devil had sent him running off to the engineer half-cocked?!
His grandmother wasn't home, and it was a good thing, too, because she'd be plagueing him with questions and concern. Monya sat down at the table and spread the drawing out in front of him. So what did he have here? There was the dumb-bell, and it was pressing against the rod. Did it really press on the rod? Yes, it did. Sure it did! What else could it do? Then Monya remembered how the engineer had asked him what he had done for eight and a half years in school, and he fidgeted nervously in his chair then went back to the drawing. Well?.. The dumb-bell pressed against the rod, forcing it to move. It would move, wouldn't it? Sure! And it was welded to the axle at the other end, so what was the frigging problem? And just why was it impossible? Now Monya was really worked up. Worked up and mighty impatient. OK, he had spent eight and a half years in school. But this was a sure thing! He jumped out of the chair and paced about the parlor. He couldn't figure out what was wrong with them all. Let them prove that the dumb-bell wouldn't press against the rod and that this wouldn't make the rod move. Why wouldn't it move? It would, by all means. Anyone could see it would have to move, and then the axle... Why, heck! Monya didn't know what to do. He had to do something, or his heart would burst from the excitement, and his skin would crack from the strain. Monya picked up the drawing and left the house, headed he knew not where. He would have gone back to see the engineer again, but he had already left. Maybe he wasn't gone yet after all. So Monya strode swiftly off in the direction of his house. His shame had been replaced by an over- powering impatience which made him want to run. And run he did-a little way, at least-down a lane where there weren't any people.
The motorcycle wasn't in the yard any more, and suddenly, Monya felt his heart sink. More mechanically than with any set goal in mind, he entered the engineer's house.
Only his young wife was in. She had risen not long before and was still in her bathrobe. Her face was puffy with sleep, and she hadn't combed her hair yet.
"Hello," said Monya. "Has your husband left?"
"Yes."
Monya was about to leave, but something stopped him.
"You're a school teacher, aren't you?" he asked.
"Yes, but why do you ask?" the young woman queried in surprise.
"What subject do you teach?"
"Math."
Monya didn't notice the disorder which embarrassed the engineer's wife. Nor did he pay any attention to her dishevelled state. He walked straight over to the table.
"Take a look here, please. Your husband and I are having a disagreement about something. So come have a look."
The young woman stood indecisively for a moment looking at Monya. She was attractively plump.
"What's the matter?" asked Monya.
"What have you got here?" inquired the teacher as she walked up to the table.
"Look here," Monya began to explain his drawing. "This is a metal trough made out of steel or something. Do you see? It goes like this. And it's attached at an angle to the rim of this wheel. Then if we put a dumb-bell or some kind of weight here at the top... And if this rod is fastened to the axle, the dumb-bell will roll down and move the rod... It will move the rod, won't it?"
"It will press against it..."
"Sure it will! The rod will move away from the dumb-bell, won't it? And then what will the axle do? It will turn, won't it? And what about the wheel? It's fastened tight to the axle, remember?"
"What is this anyway, a perpetual motion machine?" asked the teacher in surprise.
Monya sat down on the chair and looked at the teacher, not saying a word.
"Well, what is it?"
"You just said what it is yourself!"
"A perpetuum mobile?"
"Yes."
The teacher's rosy lips curved in amazement as she stared and stared at the drawing. She drew up a chair and sat down, too.
"Well?" inquired Monya, lighting up a cigarette. There was a fluttering in his chest again, but this time, it was from joy and impatience.
"The wheel isn't going to turn," announced the teacher.
"Why?"
"I don't know just yet... I'll have to do some calculating. But it shouldn't turn, I can tell you that much."
Monya slapped his knee hard, rose, and began pacing about the room.
"Well, it seems to me," he began. "That book-learning has addled your brains. Why won't it turn?" insisted Monya, pausing to stare hard at the woman. "Why?"
The woman looked just as hard at him but with a certain amount of alarm. It seemed she was even a bit afraid.
"Do you want the wheel to turn?"
Monya ignored her stupid question and continued to insist that she give him an answer:
"Why won't it turn?"
"How did my husband explain it to you?"
"Nohow. He just tried to shame me," said Monya, leaning over the drawing once more. "You tell me why the wheel won't turn. The dumb-bell presses here. Right?"
"Yes."
"And that makes the rod..."
"You know what," the teacher blurted out, interrupting Monya in the middle of his explanation. "Why are we just sitting here guessing? Why don't you let Alexander Ivanovich the physics teacher explain it to you? Do you know him?"
"Yes."
"He lives not far from here."
So Monya picked up his drawing and was about to leave. He knew where the physics teacher lived.
"But wait for me, OK?" requested the teacher. "I'll be ready in just a minute. I'm interested to hear what he has to say myself."
So Monya sat down to wait.
The teacher seemed a bit flustered, and finally she told him: "I have to get dressed."
"Oh, sorry," said Monya, catching on. "I'll wait on the porch." Monya walked over to the front door, but he looked back at her from the threshold and said with a grin:
"What a to-do, huh?"
"I'll be ready in a minute," came the reply.
The physics teacher, a kindly old Volga German named Heckmann, listened to the excited Monya with a smile. He examined the drawing and heard Monya out.
"Well, would you look at that!" he exclaimed to the young math teacher with genuine delight. "Look how he's thought everything out! There are some clever people around here..." He broke off and turned to Monya and launched into an explanation of his own. The more excited he grew. the thicker his German accent got: "Look here, I will change practically nothing in your original construction-just a couple of minor details. I'll take away your trough and your dumb-bell, and to the rim of the wheel, in place of a trough, I'll fasten another rod, but vertically. Like this..." Heckmann drew his wheel and "fastened" a rod to it. "We'll rig it up like this... Do you see?" Heckmann was terribly pleased. "And now, to this vertical rod, we'll fasten a spring. Like this..." He drew in the spring. "And at the other end..."
"I saw a motion machine like that in a book," Monya interrupted him. "The wheel won't turn if you hook it up like that."
"Aha!" exclaimed the physics teacher ecstatically. "And why not?"
"Because the spring exerts equal force at both ends."
"So you understand that, do you? Then let's take a look at your version with the dumb-bell. You have a dumb-bell lying in a trough pressing against a rod. But here, the dumb-bell plays the same role as the spring, and you understand why the spring doesn't work. The dumb-bell exerts equal force on the rod and the trough. Absolutely equal-not a little more or less on one or the other. So the wheel won't turn."
That seemed perfectly horrific to Monya.
"That's impossible!" he exclaimed. "How can that be? The dumb-bell just slides along the trough and you can make the trough even steeper, but it presses against the rod anyway. How can you say the force is identical?!" exclaimed Monya, glaring fiercely at the teacher, who was still filled with an inexplicable joy.
"Yes!" the older man insisted with a smile. He was probably overjoyed at the constancy of the laws of mechanics. "It's absolutely identical. The two forces only seem unequal. But I assure you that here, we have absolute equilibrium..."
"You and your equilibrium can go to the devil!" Monya spat out bitterly. He snatched up his drawing and left.
Once again he strode quickly towards his house, convinced that it was nothing but a plot-the devil only knew what! The engineer and those teachers were simply conspiring against his idea. It was clear that the wheel had to turn! It had to turn, yet they insisted that it would not. Now wasn't that a fine kettle of fish?!
So Monya hotfooted it on home, and when he got there, he wrote a note that he didn't feel well, found his grand- mother out in the garden, and told her to take it to the collective-farm office. Without any further explanation, he went to the shed and started work on the perpetuum mobile.
...And make it he did. He struggled with it till dark- ness fell and added the finishing touches by lamp-light. He took the wheel from his bicycle and used an old laminated bucket for the trough. He didn't weld the rod, though: he fastened it to the axle with bolts... In short, everything exactly according to plan.
When he was done, Monya hung the lantern up high, sat down on a block of wood next to the wheel, and smoked a cigarette. Then, quite calmly, he gave the wheel a kick to start it spinning. For some reason, he had wanted to start the eternal motion precisely with his foot. He leaned against the wall and started condescendingly to watch the wheel turning, which it did for a while. Then it stopped. Then Monya started the wheel spinning with his hand. He made it spin and spin, then stood staring with amazement and malice at the gleaming spokes of the metal wheel. It had stopped again. Then Monya realized that the counter-balance wasn't sufficient. The trough and the dumb-bell had to be balanced! So he did just that. Again, he started the wheel turning with all his might, and again he sat down to wait. Shortly, the wheel stopped spinning. Monya wanted to destroy his creation, but then changed his mind... He sat for a little while longer, got up, and with a heavy heart walked blindly away.
He came to the river, sat down on the bank, felt around for pebbles, and tossed them into the dark water. But the river brought him no peace. It splashed against the rocks and sighed in the darkness by the far bank. All night, the river muttered anxiously to itself as if flowed ceaselessly on. In the center where the current was swiftest, the moving surface glittered, but by the bank, it flowed sluggishly, stirring tiny pebbles; it swirled and eddied around the bushes, hissing angrily on occasion, but more often, seeming to laugh very quietly-almost in a whisper.
Monya was not suffering. He even liked being alone there. Everyone was making fun of him, but it wasn't the first time, and it probably wouldn't be the last. True, people were apt to do foolish things, but no one in the village had ever tried to invent a perpetuum mobile. That would give them something to talk about for the next month or two, but he didn't care: people had to have something to make fun of, after all. They worked hard, but there weren't any amusements in the village to speak of. So let them have their laugh: he didn't mind. Monya even felt a certain affection for them. He did not resent his fellow-villagers and even thought with mild regret that he probably shouldn't argue with them so much. Why argue? They all had their crosses to bear, and they should do it without an angry word. At this point, he began to feel a bit sorry for himself.
Monya sat on the riverbanktill dawn. Cleansed completely of the distress caused by his failure, he washed up in the river, ascended the steep bank, and walked down the street that stretched out along the river without any particular goal in mind. He had no desire to sleep. "I should get married," he thought, "and raise some kids-three or so- and watch how they develop as they grow up." That would give him the peace he was seeking. He would stride about ponderously and slowly, looking at everything placidly, condescendingly, and with a touch of irony. Monya was quite taken by calm men.
It was already completely light. Without quite noticing how, Monya found himself at the engineer's house once more. He hadn't done it on purpose, of course. He was just walking by, and he happened to catch sight of the engineer by the fence. Again, he was working on his motor- cycle.
"Good morning," said Monya, stopping by the gate. He gazed calmly and cheerfully at the engineer.
"Hi!" replied the engineer.
"It's turning, you know!" announced Monya. "The wheel, I mean."
The engineer glanced up from his work and fixed his gaze on Monya for a while, wondering whether to believe him.
"The perpetual motion machine, you mean?"
"Yes. The wheel... It's still spinning. It turned and turned alt night long. I got tired of watching it, so I decided to take a little walk."
Now the engineer was utterly confused. Monya looked tired and honest as the day was long. He didn't look embarrassed in the least, but was filled with a placid inner light.
"Are you serious?"
"Come with me, and you can see for yourself."
The engineer came out of the yard and walked over to Monya.
"What is this? Some kind of a trick?" he insisted in disbelief. "What have you come up with?"
"It's no trick. It's out there in the shed propped up on the floor, turning and turning."
"Where did you get the wheel?"
"From a bicycle."
The engineer stopped dead in his tracks and announced:
"Well, sure it will turn: a bicycle wheel has a good bearing, that's why it's spinning."
"True enough. But even a fantastic bearing wouldn't keep it turning all night," insisted Monya.
They continued walking.
The engineer didn't ask any more questions, and Monya was silent as well. The blissful mood which had descended upon him at dawn did not desert him: it was such a good mood that he found it interesting himself.
"You're sure it's been spinning all night?" the engineer couldn't resist asking as they reached Monya's house. He stared hard at the young man, but Monya met his gaze and replied with feigned amazement:
"The whole night, I tell you! I gave it a kick to start it at about ten in the evening, and-what time is it now?"
But the engineer didn't stop to took at his watch. He strode beside Monya in extreme puzzlement, which he tried hard to disguise for the sake of his title and reputation in the village. Monya wanted to laugh, but he managed to conceal his mirth.
"Are you ready?!.." he said solemnly, as they stopped in front of the door to the shed. He looked at the engineer, kicked the door open with a flourish, and stepped aside to let him pass and catch sight of the wheel. Then Monya hurried in after him, because he wanted to see how the engineer would react when he saw that the wheel wasn't spinning.
"Well," said the engineer. "I thought you had some trick up your sleeve at least. This isn't very funny, young man."
"Gee, I'm sorry," said Monya, pleased with himself. "Let's go inside. I've got some cognac tucked away, and we could have a little snort."
The engineer eyed Monya with curiosity then broke into a grin.
"Very well."
So they went inside, trying not to make any noise, and they got almost to the end of the front hall before his grandmother heard them.
"Motka, where were you all night?" she asked.
"Go back to sleep. Everything's OK," Monya told her.
They went into the parlor.
"Have a seat," Monya said. "I'll get everything ready..."
"Don't make a fuss!" whispered the engineer. "There's no sense in getting anything ready so early in the morning."
"Well, OK," agreed Monya. "I wanted to get us some meat pies from the kitchen at least, but if you don't..."
When they had downed a glass of cognac apiece and lit up their cigarettes, the engineer looked at Monya with curiosity once more.
"Well, you didn't believe me, did you?" he asked, grinning. "You had to try it for yourself. I bet you worked on that contraption all night, didn't you?"
Monya, however, was pensive and calm, as if he already had three kids and was watching them grow up.
"I wasted the whole day on it yesterday... But that's not the point," Monya said without the slightest bit of regret or bitterness, but rather, with genuine, profound curiosity. "The problem is, I really don't understand why the wheel won't spin. It ought to spin, after all."
"No, it shouldn't," said the engineer. "And that's the truth."
They gazed at each other... The engineer smiled, and Monya realized he wasn't a bad fellow after all. His smile was simple and trusting. The collective farm had probably taken advantage of his youth and keen sense of responsibility and dumped so much work on him that he'd forgotten how to smile and didn't have the time to be sociable.
"You should get a bit more schooling, you knuckle-head," the engineer advised him. "Then you'll see why the wheel doesn't keep on spinning."
"What does schooling have to do with it?" Monya objected with displeasure. "Everybody's stuck on getting an education. That's all they talk about. But I bet there are a lot of educated fools running around."
The engineer chuckled and rose from his seat.
"That's true enough. However, there are even more fools without an education. But that's not the point. I'd better be going."
"Will you have another shot?"
"No thanks. And I wouldn't advise you to have any more either."
The engineer left the parlor and tried to creep quietly down the front hall, but Monya's grandmother was already awake. She peered down at him from her warm stove-bed and said:
"You don't have to tip-toe. I'm not asleep."
"Hello, grandmother," the engineer said in greeting.
"Hello there, my boy. Why aren't you asleep? A fine young fellow slinking around like an old man with insomnia. A young fellow needs his rest, after all."
"What will we do when we get old, then?" the engineer inquired cheerfully.
"I can tell you now, you won't get any sleep then, either," the old woman replied.
"Well, I guess we'll catch up on our sleep sometime or other, somewhere or other."
"Maybe in the next world..."
Monya sat in the parlor and looked out the window. The upper panes were tinged pink with the sunrise. The village was waking up. Gates were creaking, and cows were mooing as they were sent out to pasture. People were talking and shouting back and forth somewhere. Everything was as it should be. Thank goodness at least that much was clear to Monya. The sun rose and set day after day, unreachable, inexhaustible, and eternal. And everyone down below was busy doing something or other-shouting, rushing about, working, or watering the cabbage patch. Counting their blessings. Top of the morning, folks!
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