My work continued. I visited Kolya, but more frequently at his home (where Hippolyte still resided) than at our old haunts. He was becoming distressed with the progress of the War. He claimed we were as good as done for. I think the Petrograd winter had brought an earlier than usual melancholy. He said the Tsar was doomed. Feeling against Rasputin was high. The Tsar’s running of the War (he had taken personal command of the army) was as inept as his running of the country. Many officers, including some of the ‘old guard’, felt Nicholas should be replaced. ‘The Revolution,’ Kolya said, ‘will not come from an uprising in the streets this time. It will come from within.’
I said that newspapers were full of our triumphs against Germans and Turks alike. Brusilov was a great hero. We should soon occupy ‘both capitals of the Roman Empire’. Brusilov was a new Kutuzov.
Kolya smiled at me. As usual he wore black. His face seemed paler than ever, his hair all but invisible against the white light from the window. ‘What we really need,’ he said, ‘is a new Napoleon. French or Russian. We have no generals of genius. They can’t understand the terms. They have no precedents and that, Dimka my dear friend, is what destroys them. They are so used to relying on precedent.’
‘You mean tradition?’
‘I mean precedent. Precedent is a simple-minded way of imposing apparent order on the world. Yet it robs whoever employs it of his need to reach a personal moral decision. A decision which suits the situation.’
‘You’ve been reading too much Kropotkin, Kolya.’
‘Even Kropotkin calls on “history” as a model. History will destroy every one of us, Dimka. Soon there will be no more history at all! Analysis, that might have saved us. The basis of all modern science, eh? Analysis, Dimka, not projections. You’re prone to project, as you know, when you get excited - ‘
‘What! I’m a pure scientist.’ I realised he was probably joking.
‘Marx, Kropotkin, Engels, Proudhon, Tolstoi - all use precedent and so they are completely unscientific. Kropotkin might be the most scientific. He has the proper training. But the radical young already treat him as some sort of Old Testament prophet, quoting his words rather than applying his methods. Is that all we are to have? Substitutes for past orthodoxies? Is the language of science to replace the language of religion and become a meaningless litany in support of authority?’
‘There are already such narrow-minded scientists,’ I agreed. ‘But there are others, as there will always be, who oppose them, who are constantly, as am I, generating new theories, new analyses.’
‘And they are accepted?’
‘Eventually. I’m staking my life on it.’
‘Eventually? When their words have been incorporated into the litany.’
‘Science is less subject to decadence. It thrives upon change. But is it a better world in which nothing is considered worthwhile if it’s more than a day or two old?’
‘It could not be more boring.’
But I was to live to see such a world during the days of the swinging sixties in Portobello Road, when the very ideas of Science became mere fads discussed for a few days in rubbishy papers and then dropped. At least in Russia people still respect the past. Science itself cannot cure the world’s ills. Did Aristotle manage to stop Alexander the Great laying waste to Persia? Did Voltaire restrain Catherine the Great’s reign of terror? I have done many positive things in my life, but many of my actions have been perverted or misused or at best misinterpreted. This was to be the complaint of another great Russian thinker. Georgi Ivanovitch Gurdjieff. He was a celebrity when I met him in Petrograd in the company of his ‘clan’. He was a life-long opponent of Bolshevism. He spent all his years, all his fortune, in an effort to stem the tide of ‘democracy’, ‘republicanism’ and ‘socialism’ sweeping across the world. He argued that Rasputin, for all his faults, gave better advice than many of the Tsar’s ministers. Rasputin at least understood there were higher worlds than the world which was then bent on destroying so much of value. I visited a house in Triotskaya Street, near the Nevski, one evening. Kolya wanted me to meet Gurdjieff’s most devoted follower, the journalist Ouspenski, who was at that time in the army. Gurdjieff, of course, was more concerned with the world of the soul than the world of material reality, but for a while, with a number of other intellectuals, I was impressed by him. Eventually I returned to the Orthodox Faith, which offers much the same as he offered and, if I may say so, asks a rather lower cash price. The price for a series of lectures from Gurdjieff, even then, was about a thousand roubles.
In the years between the wars Gurdjieff’s philosophy would attract many brilliant people who rightly saw it as a substitute for the current political creeds and fads. For a time a number of important politicians, too, were attracted to it. The world might have been a very different place today if Gurdjieff’s teachings had taken deeper root in the minds, say, of Hitler and Goering. Gurdjieff should have stayed on in Petrograd instead of returning to Tiflis in 1917. He might have changed the whole course of Russian history. He was a noble opponent of anarchism and socialism. He recognised them as a poor substitute for true mystical experience. Yet I saw him argue fluently with committed Bolsheviks and seem to be agreeing with them. But this was his way of turning their own logic against them to win them round.
In those months before the Tsar’s abdication, the streets became even worse. The broad pavements were dirtier and more depressing. Peter was a city of death and desolation. The war reports suggested tremendous advances until in early December, just before I was due to undergo my examinations, came the news of the taking of Bucharest. Rumania had capitulated. We had lost an ally overnight. Even more wounded filled the city. France and England were rumoured to be preparing to ally themselves with Germany against Russia. Even I, obsessed with my dissertation, could not ignore the fact that we were in great danger.
Then it came to me that all my examiners would be sharing this mood. In the course of speaking, I could tell them of certain personal inventions which might help win the War. I would not go into details which would frighten those poor, unimaginative souls. I would merely mention my ideas in passing. Psychologically, it would be a perfect moment to display my knowledge and ensure myself the highest marks.
It was not a plan conceived with cynicism (though, of course, I had the motive of wishing to startle both Professor Merkuloff, the rest of the academicians and the other students) but I knew it might stand me in good stead with my attempts to achieve a government appointment.
I tested some of my speeches out on the two girls. They were impressed, though most of what I said went well over their heads. I tested other ideas on Kolya who said that I was ‘brilliant’ and laughed with joy to hear me expound my scientific theories. I wrote letters home explaining I should soon be sending good news. I wrote to Uncle Semya. He would have a nephew of whom to be more than proud. To my landlady and her daughters I became, as they put it, ‘unbearable’ because my confidence was so great. I think they had preferred the shyer Dimitri Mitrofanovitch of his first year in St Petersburg. As the day of the main examinations came closer I grew more excited. The windows in the horse-tram were by now more than half-an-inch thick with frost on the inside. It was so cold that long icicles extended from the roof over my head, but I hardly noticed. I saw pictures of myself addressing the professors and examining board. I saw my fellow students listening with stunned wonderment or leaning forward with sudden, ecstatic understanding of what I was really saying.
In the first days, one merely saw various professors and answered simple questions. I went through the examinations patiently, letting drop hints that my knowledge extended rather further than the questions demanded. In the middle days, I began to lard in more information, making casual reference to certain modern inventions, to specific kinds of materials and manufacturers, to current research findings and advanced theories. On the last day, when it was my turn to give my main dissertation before the class, in the great hall, I decided to pull out all t
he stops. I had learned, like many others in those times, to inject myself intravenously with cocaine. I gave myself a strong solution shortly before I boarded the tram. By the time I arrived at the Polytechnic neither the cold nor the anxious looks of my fellows could touch me in the slightest. I was ready for everything. I remember flinging open my coat as I crossed the misty quadrangle to the main hall, showing the same contempt for the weather as I felt for them.
I waited impatiently (even some of the examiners noticed this) while four others gave their pathetic, faltering speeches on this or that tiny aspect of technology. Then at last my name was called and I strode up to the dais on which, around a curved table, sat the entire staff and governors of the Polytechnic. Over their heads was a large portrait of a benevolent Tsar Nicholas; before me were the assembled students. I noticed some of them giggling or making comments about me. I was able, with stern glances, to quell these easily.
Professor Merkuloff’s sarcastic tones came from the table. ‘Well, Kryscheff, and what are you going to speak about - assuming you have absorbed any of your studies?’
I turned and laughed in his face. It was not an insolent laugh. It was the laughter of one who shared a joke with an equal (or an inferior, in actuality), ‘I am going to speak on the ontological approach to the problems of science and technology,’ I told the examiners, ‘with a particular emphasis on technological aids to the winning of the present struggle.’
‘A rather large subject,’ said Vorsin, one of the senior professors. He was a small old man with a yellow, wrinkled skin, ‘for someone in your year.’
‘It is a subject, your excellency, I feel quite at ease with. I have been doing certain studies in my spare time. The reason I was sent to your Institute was in one sense simply to complete a formality. I required academic information not generally available. I also wished to learn something of academic disciplines. I believe that this is what impressed Professor Matzneff and aroused the animosity of certain other professors. I am deeply grateful to your excellency and to your staff for the help you have given me, however.’
Vorsin seemed impressed. He smiled at his colleagues.
‘Now, your excellency, if I could begin ... ?’ I bowed with considerable dignity.
‘Begin,’ said the old man, and he moved his hand in a gesture which displayed magnanimity and kindness. He leaned over to murmur something to Merkuloff. I knew that he was asking about me and that he would receive a biased opinion of me from Merkuloff. But I was amused by my professor’s stupidity and presumption.
I began my discourse almost at once. I disdained notes. I addressed the assembled students, (turned occasionally to speak to the professors, who almost at once began to show astonishment. It was as if Jesus had sat down with the Elders in the Synagogue. Indeed, I felt somewhat godlike. This was partly due to the effects, I suppose, of the cocaine. If I was not a Messiah to the Age of Science, I felt at least I might be His Baptist!
There was no denying the immediate effect of my words. I discussed the problems of Newtonian science in relation to modern knowledge. I discussed the most recent developments in the field of extra-strong materials, which would enable us to build entirely new types of machines: gigantic aeroplanes and airships. I drew their attention to the possibilities of rocket propulsion, as opposed to the limitations of the conventional internal combustion engine. I spoke of gas-operated aeroplanes. This would involve a system of super-heating by which certain gases could be brought to an appropriately intense temperature. I spoke of a kind of Gatling gun which could be operated by means of compressed air, which would shoot thousands of needles into the enemy’s ranks. Each needle could contain a hollow tip in which was concealed deadly poison. No matter where he was hit, the soldier would die almost at once. Failing that, a narcotic drug could be used and we should have wars without death. This would be far more efficient than gas canisters which anyway could be counteracted by means of gas-masks. I also described monster machines, a thousand times bigger than the largest tank. These could simply crush their way through the enemy lines, physically burying all who stood against them. I brought into question our whole understanding of current technological developments. I was about to go into more abstract matters, concerning electrical atoms, when Merkuloff - that jealous mental dwarf! - sprang up and cried:
‘I think we have heard all we need, Kryscheff!’
‘I have hardly begun,’ I said calmly. ‘There is much more.’
‘Sit down.’
I explained that they had not realised these were merely my opening remarks.
‘We realise all we want to realise.’ Evidently overwhelmed by his own conscience, knowing to what extent he had misjudged me, he was speaking gently. Perhaps he wished to spare my energies? At the time, however, I felt he was trying to thwart me.
‘If you are to award the appropriate marks,’ I said, ‘it is only fair I should give you a fuller picture. These are times when information itself is a weapon.’
The old man, Professor Vorsin, cut me off. ‘Possibly your ideas are of interest to an enemy? Any spy ...’ He gestured out into the hall.
I followed his meaning, but I had anticipated him. ‘That is the reason, your excellency, that I have made no specifications in this dissertation. If the government wished to see my plans, I should be happy to meet with the appropriate person at the proper time. I have only skimmed the surface here.’
‘We are much impressed,’ said Vorsin.
Merkuloff spoke. ‘You are dismissed from the hall, Kryscheff.’ Could the man still be envious? Was he determined to crush me. It was unbelievable. But I misjudged him, I think. I was not sympathetic to his own confusion. His senior forced him to resume his seat. Vorsin was plainly upset by Merkuloff’s attitude. He addressed me respectfully. ‘My dear Dimitri Mitrofanovitch, I am sure you have been doing a great deal of demanding work. But you have brought up so many fresh ideas that it is hard for us to digest everything at once.’
I nodded as I tried to hear what he said above the uproar from the hall. The students were acknowledging my genius. It was a great moment. I could see that the other professors, too, were stunned by my dissertation. I decided to ensure myself, there and then, of my future. ‘Can I therefore be certain of a diploma this year?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Vorsin. ‘We will make a Special Diploma for you.’
This was beyond anything I had hoped for. ‘A Special Diploma is not necessary, your excellency.’ I showed, I think, proper modesty and self-discipline.
‘It will have to be a special one,’ said Merkuloff, capitulating at last. Never have I experienced such wonderful elation. I had not really expected quite this success. It was very sweet.
‘Very well, your excellencies. I accept.’ I bowed to them. I bowed to the shouting, stamping crowd below. I raised a hand to silence them. ‘But I shall continue here at the Polytechnic, at least until I am offered a government post.’ I saw no point in crowing. They had had the grace to accept defeat. I would show grace in my victory.
‘Of course,’ said Merkuloff in a strained voice. ‘Next term, we shall sort all that out.’
‘And the Diploma? Is it to be presented before Christmas?’
I could guess there would be the usual red tape involved. I was not surprised when Professor Vorsin shook his head, ‘It will take time to prepare. We shall have it ready when you return.’
I was satisfied. And Merkuloff, judging by the way he sat with his head in his hands, was at long last thoroughly bested. Professor Matzneff was vindicated. How pleased my mentor would be when he, in his exile, learned the news.
Triumph was to be added to triumph. Vorsin personally led me from the stage. Students pressed around me, clapping, whistling, cheering, even laughing with delight. The senior professor raised his palm to silence them. But the noise continued. Behind me, like a conquered tyrant, crept Merkuloff. With his own hands Professor Vorsin put my cap upon my head. He ordered Merkuloff to ‘fetch the troika’. I asked if there
was anything I could amplify for him. ‘All that will come later,’ said the generous old man, ‘when we both have more time and when you are rested.’ I assured him I had no need of rest. I had not felt so well for many a month. I suppose that it was impossible for him to believe that such mental expenditure was not automatically accompanied by physical exhaustion. Needless to say, I was sustained by the injection of cocaine and would eventually need to sleep, but not at that moment.
Byzantium Endures - [Pyat Quartet 01] Page 27
