"True," Benedikt admitted.
"Of course it's true. Now, follow me. You read the story 'The Turnip'? Copied it?"
"The story? I read it: Grandpa planted a turnip. The turnip grew and grew and grew till it couldn't grow anymore."
"Right. Only it's not a story. It's a fable."
"What's a fable?"
"A fable is a directive rendered in a simplified form for popular consumption."
"And which direction do they cook the turnip in?" asked Benedikt in surprise.
"And you call yourself a careful reader, do you? Grandpa pulls and pulls on the turnip, but he can't pull it out. He calls Grandmother. They pull and pull and pull, but they can't pull it out. Then they call a lot of others. No go. Then they call in a mouse-and they pull the turnip out. How do we interpret this? I'll tell you how. It means we can't do without mice. Mice Are Our Mainstay."
And it was true! As soon as Father-in-law explained it that way, it was suddenly all clear, it all fit together. What a smart man.
"So, in general, and all in all," concluded Father-in-law, "this is the picture: the collective depends on the mouse, because the mouse, you see, it's the cornerstone of our happy existence. I'm explaining social science to you, don't turn your head away. This way, leaning against the cornerstone, people grab what they can and pull. If you get a turnip, fine. If there's no turnips, then horsetail, or rusht at worst."
"You're right there. It's true. Last year someone grabbed all the rusht in my pantry. I got home-the door was open, they'd pulled everything out!"
"Good. You've finally started to think. So then, how do you see your job?"
"Which one?"
"Which?! Weeding!"
Benedikt thought hard. "Weeding? Hmm… Do you have to weed? Aha! You mean catch thieves?"
"What thieves!… Figure it out! Who are the thieves?"
"Thieves? Thieves are the ones who steal."
"Well, and who steals?"
"Who steals… who steals… Well, everyone steals."
"That's the whole point," said Father-in-law with a laugh. "Everybody steals! So who are you gonna catch? Your own self? My, my, my, you're so funny."
Father-in-law opened his mouth and laughed hard. Benedikt turned his head: a really foul smell came from Father-in-law's mouth.
"So, then, what's your job? You give up? To treat them, of course. You have to treat people, my fine boy!"
Benedikt felt a chill pass through him.
"Who-me?"
"And who else? Of course you! We'll feed you up a bit-I'll give you a little hook, and when you're used to it, when you've got the hang of it-you'll get a big one."
"I can't, no, no, no I can't. What do you… I can't hook people, no, no, no… knock, knock, knock on wood, no no no-"
"There you go again! I explained it to you, and I thought you were listening up good, and then I hear this T can't, I can't.' You just forget that 'I can't.' Do you have a duty to society or not? Should the people move toward the bright, lofty future or not? Should we help our brothers? Yes, we should. Don't argue. Our job, dear boy, couldn't be more noble, but the people are backward, they don't get it. They've got all these silly fears, they spread gossip. Savages!"
Benedikt was dejected. He had only just understood everything and then Father-in-law sort of turned it all topsy-turvy- and once again everything was all mixed up and he was in the doldrums.
"So what does that mean: We can't read books?"
"What do you mean you can't read books?" said Father-in-law in surprise. "Why not? Read to your heart's content, I have a whole library of Oldenprint books, some of them have pictures. I'll get you a pass."
"Then why treat people?"
"Again all this why oh why! Because of Illness!"
"I don't get it…"
"Not all at once. You'll get it, you will."
"Well, but you said Mice Are Our Mainstay. Then why aren't there any mice in our house?"
"We don't have any mice because we lead a spiritual life. We don't need mice."
UK
Father-in-law had a whole storeroom full of Oldenprint books. When Benedikt got his pass to the books-ooooeeee!- his eyes popped out, his knees went weak, his hands shook and he nearly had a fainting fit. The room was huge, on the very top floor, with windows, and shelves, shelves, and more shelves, all along the walls, and on the shelves were books, books, and more books! Big ones, little ones, all kinds. Some fit in your palm but the letters were big. Others were big but the letters were tiny. There were books with pictures, not just plain ones, but color! Honest to God. Color pictures! There was a whole book of color pictures, with lots of naked women, all pink-sitting on the grass, and on stools, and squatting, and every which way. Some were thin as brooms, others not bad, nice and plump. One of them had climbed onto a bed and thrown off the blanket- pretty good, that one.
He turned the pages-some men were walking along with rakes-they must be going to plant turnips.
Then there was the sea, and on it a boat, and over the boat a sheet on sticks. They must have decided to do the washing and hung it out to dry. That's handy: look how much water there is in the sea.
He turned the pages back to where the woman climbed on the bed. A fine woman. Kind of like Olenka, only no sour cream on her face.
Then there were a lot of Golubchiks sitting on animals-animals that looked something like goats, but with no beards. Father-in-law said they're steeds. Steeds. Aha. So that's what a steed is. Scary looking. But these guys rode them and weren't afraid.
Then there were colored flowers. A pot, and flowers sticking out of it. Boring. Then everything was all slathered on and mushed around and you couldn't figure out what it was. That was boring too. He turned some more pages and there was this picture: nothing on it, just a white page, and in the middle, a square-shaped black hole. Nothing else. Kind of like the end of everything. He looked and looked at the hole-and suddenly got scared, like in a dream. He clapped the book shut and dropped it.
There were lots of pictures in other books too. Benedikt sat on the floor for three days turning the pages. There were drawings of everything you could imagine. Good Lord! Pretty girls with babies sat laughing, and off in the distance were white roads and green hills, and on the hills were mountain towns, bright blue, or pink like the dawn. There were serious men, all important, with pancake-shaped hats on their heads, yellow chains across their chests, and puffy sleeves like women wear. Or a huge crowd of Golubchiks, and a bunch of little kids, only the kids are naked, they've only got colored rags wrapped around them. They're flying up somewhere, and they're taking lots of flowers and wreathes with them. The whole family must have gone weeding together, and some tricksters robbed them, took off with their coats while they were in the fields.
Once something familiar caught his eye. It was none other than The Demon. For sure. The one Fyodor Kuzmich gave them. Benedikt sat for a long time looking at it and thinking, so long that his feet went to sleep. It's one thing to listen to others, and another thing altogether to see for yourself. So it was true, they weren't lying, it wasn't Fyodor Kuzmich who wrote books, but other Golubchiks. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, must have seen this Demon, painted by a Golubchik named Vrubel, and he just up and tore the picture out of the book. So that's what he's like: dinky but daring. It was sad, somehow: he had deceived Benedikt, set him up, taken him for a fool.