For most of the evening he and Marya behaved toward each other with impeccable discretion; they were formal, courteous, grave; perhaps too grave—Marya generally questioned some of Fein’s remarks during the course of an evening, it was her habit to draw him out in her odd shyly aggressive way. But tonight she was quiet, rather contemplative. She was watching him, hearing My dear brazen Marya, my dear brazen Marya, I know you, I seem to have recognized you from the first, I know you, know you . . . and so it was difficult for her to attend to what he and the others were pursuing so energetically.

(Warring and mutually exclusive theories of human behavior: Might belief in free will be said to be the product of an evolved consciousness, or was it a symptom of arrested development—of simply knowing too little, from the cosmic to the microscopic; might there be an unexpected freedom in determinism, after all? It was Fein’s playful position that if one’s fate was decided beforehand, one was then free to do whatever one wished: for how was a “mistake” possible? How could “sin” exist?)

The seminar usually ended by eleven o’clock but tonight everyone stayed longer, tonight was clearly a festive occasion, perhaps Fein was welcoming himself home; celebrating a secret success. They were treated to brandy and bitter chocolates given to Fein in Munich by a Russian delegate to the conference: which is to say (so Fein corrected himself) a Soviet delegate. For some reason the Soviets were courting him—inviting him to spend a year at Moscow University, or in Leningrad—as if he, Maximilian Fein, would wish to spend even a few weeks in that unspeakable country. All that he believed in they really branded “decadent”; they had not the crudest notion of academic or scholarly freedom; they wanted to use his name and reputation—as they used those of all foreign visitors—to give an imprimatur to their totalitarian madness.

He spoke with unusual passion. Marya found herself quite moved. It was false to charge Maximilian Fein with being indifferent to politics, as certain of his colleagues did, when it was clearly his work—his unique work—that might be designated as indifferent, disinterested, impersonal.

For he was primarily a scholar, as he said, and his allegiance was to the objectivity of Truth; he was a scholar before he was a citizen of any political state.

Marya was staring at him, no longer caring if he noticed. She did love him—she was greedy and exultant with love of him—it was absurd to pretend otherwise; as he himself had said, it was futile.

Do not be frightened . . . if I shortly make my claim. . . .

THE HIGHLY POTENT brandy went to Marya’s head. She knew herself beautiful—indeed, she was beautiful—she believed herself absolutely free for the first time in her life, and absolutely in control of her future. It might be rigorous but she would be equal to it.