by R. N. Morris
The Russian Word had been a monthly journal, and so Porfiry filled in three chits, one for the month before the trial, one covering the trial itself, and one to cover its conclusion and aftermath. As a precaution, he completed chits for the corresponding issues of The Contemporary.
The elderly librarian’s substantial eyebrows shot up when he saw the titles Porfiry had requested. ‘You did not tell me that you wished to consult these particular papers.’ The habitual dourness of his expression sharpened into horror.
‘You did not ask me. Is there some problem?’
‘Wait there.’
The librarian moved with a sprightliness that belied his evident age, and which Porfiry could only envy, to disappear through a door at the rear of the library.
A moment later he re-emerged, followed by what could only be described as a younger version of himself. The side whiskers had not yet turned silver but the eyebrows were well on their way to achieving a beetling prominence. More importantly, the gaze was equally discouraging.
It must have been a disconcerting experience for both parties to work together: one man confronted daily by the image of his future, the other by that of his past.
‘You are aware,’ began the younger librarian, who was evidently more senior in rank, ‘that one of the titles you have requested is a restricted publication.’
‘I was not aware of that. I was not even aware that there is a list of restricted publications.’
‘That is hardly surprising. The list itself is restricted.’
‘Ah, I see. I take it you are talking about The Russian Word?’
‘Yes. There will be no difficulty with your seeing The Contemporary.’
‘However, it was The Russian Word that I was particularly desirous of seeing.’
‘That will not be possible.’
‘But you don’t understand, I am an investigating magistrate pursuing a murder enquiry. I believe there may be vital information in the issues of The Russian Word from that period.’
‘Timofei Ivanovich will be happy to retrieve the copies of The Contemporary that you have requested from the stacks, if you will return to your place.’
‘Yes, of course. That is indeed considerate of him, as I do not believe the journals in question will be able to walk to my place on their own.’ The barb failed to dent either librarian’s stony mask, and Porfiry immediately regretted it. Sarcasm was not the way to win these people over. ‘It is true that I do want to look at The Contemporary, but I also want to look at The Russian Word. In fact, I particularly want to. You do understand, don’t you? I want to consult both titles. There must be some way for me to see The Russian Word?’
‘There is only one way,’ said the younger librarian, but not in a way that encouraged hope.
‘Yes?’
‘But that would mean filling in a different chit.’ This was given as an insurmountable obstacle.
‘Of course! Whatever is necessary!’
‘Which you must then have signed by the head of the Third Section, Count Shuvalov himself.’
Porfiry was momentarily speechless. When he found his voice, all he could say was, ‘Count Shuvalov? Are you sure?’
The two heads of elder and younger librarian nodded in unison.
‘Must we trouble Count Shuvalov with a trivial request for a couple of old journals?’
‘The request is not trivial. It is a restricted publication. If it falls into the wrong hands, who knows what incendiarism it might provoke.’
‘I am a government employee! In fact, an employee of the Ministry of Justice. I require the copies in connection with work I am conducting on behalf of the Ministry.’ Porfiry held up his hands. ‘Surely these are not the wrong hands?’
‘We must believe that it has been restricted for good reason.’
‘Ah, but you see, at the time, back in 1866, it was not restricted. Anyone could read it! Indeed there must be many copies of this very issue in open circulation, thousands even, gathering dust on the shelves of respectable professional gentlemen.’
‘Shall I tell Timofei Ivanovich to fetch the copies of The Contemporary?’ There was something new to the younger librarian’s tone as he asked this. Porfiry was alert to the nuance and so he nodded assent.
They both watched the older man on his way. When the door had closed behind him, Porfiry looked over his own shoulder before taking out his wallet. ‘How much?’
‘I shall have to give Timofei Ivanovich something.’
Porfiry peeled off a red ten-rouble bank note.
The librarian’s twitching fingers induced a second. Then he snatched the notes away with the alacrity of a hungry peasant.
The Russian Word
This young man is himself the victim here, driven to a crime that he is at a loss to explain, by the twin evils of poverty and sickness. He deserves not our opprobrium, but rather our pity. Who is really responsible for the deaths of the rapacious pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna Kamenya and her unfortunate half-sister Lizaveta? It is not Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, though he wielded the implement that took away their lives. His sickness was to blame. We must allow that he did not choose to be sick. Even his prosecutors will not make that claim. His sickness without doubt derived from the dire exigencies of the life he was forced to lead through poverty. Expelled from the university, bankrupt of funds, delirious from starvation, it is little wonder that he found himself acting in a manner over which he had no control. And so, to answer the question, ‘Who is responsible for the deaths of Alyona Ivanovna and Lizaveta Ivanovna?’, we must ask, ‘Who is responsible for Rodion Romanovich’s poverty?’ Every man and woman of conscience will know in their hearts the answer to that question. For who is responsible for the poverty of many millions of Russians? Again, it does not need this writer to supply an answer.
As we are addressing men and women of conscience, it goes without saying that every one of them will be appalled by the horrific circumstances of Alyona Ivanovna and Lizaveta Ivanovna’s deaths. It is not our intention to diminish the true horror of these crimes. Merely to identify the true perpetrator. I say again, it is not Raskolnikov. It is the system that created Raskolnikov. It has been scientifically proven that in a system based on true socialist ideals, that is to say one in which the benefits of production are distributed equally throughout society, it will be impossible for crime to exist. One will simply do away with crime at a stroke by changing the socio-economic bases of the state. The sickness and poverty that caused Raskolnikov’s crime will be eradicated, and with them Raskolnikov’s crime. What need would Raskolnikov have to kill a bloodsucking moneylender when there are no bloodsucking moneylenders to kill, and when, in addition, all his material needs are met?
The logic is irrefutable and must lead, if pursued to its conclusion, to the acquittal of Raskolnikov and to the presence before the bench of other individuals. (I need not name them, when their names are known to all.)
Of course, encouraging as some of the recent verdicts of our juries have been, we must admit that the law courts do not always operate in accordance with the dictates of logic. Even if the counsel for the defence were to avail himself of the arguments that we have put forward, there is no guarantee that they will meet with a sympathetic hearing. The chief difficulty in this particular case is that the defendant has already confessed his guilt (would that he had read this article first!). There is, therefore, nothing for the jury to decide, no verdict to deliver. One must only await the sentence. It is too much to hope that a prosecuting judge will be swayed by an essay in The Russian Word. (We know for a fact that many prosecuting judges read The Russian Word; we will not speculate as to their reasons.) However, in the person of one investigating magistrate at least, we feel justified in placing faith. It may surprise the reader to know that we are talking of the very man who hounded Rodion Romanovich into confessing.
We have been struck throughout the preliminaries of the trial by the humanity and tact of this individual’s demeanour. We expected a w
olf baying for blood. We found a human being sensitive to the plight of a less fortunate brother. The magistrate in question may not appreciate our approval, for we imagine that in official circles, to be praised by The Russian Word signals the end of a promising career. But the truth will out. The truth is that it was this magistrate’s official duty to construct the case against Rodion Romanovich. The truth is also that he went so far in the opposite direction as to make certain evidence favouring the defendant available to the defence. Even as we write, he is engaged in advising the defence on the construction of an argument likely to lead to mitigation in sentencing. Granted, all this falls some way short of the ideal. Let us repeat: we are entitled to demand from the judicial process nothing less than the unconditional acquittal of Raskolnikov; nevertheless, it is a significant step in the right direction, for which P.P. (let us discreetly call our investigating magistrate P.P.) deserves credit.
Porfiry Petrovich allowed himself an inner chuckle. What would Pavel Pavlovich say! To see his old ideological adversary lauded in no less an organ than The Russian Word! For it was true that every time Virginsky had put forward similar views concerning the organisation of society, Porfiry had gently but thoroughly quashed them, counselling a more moderate, practical approach. He had even cautioned his young friend against initiating such debates in the bureau. Without doubt, Virginsky looked upon Porfiry with indulgent contempt, as a weak-livered, intellectually compromised, outmoded liberal. A man whose time had passed.
If only he had Virginsky there with him now, to show him the page!
Porfiry tried once more to visualise the journalists who had been present in the courtroom. He must have addressed them after the trial too. It was customary for them to identify themselves and their papers as they called out their questions. But he had no recollection of the occasion. A face floated into his mind, but he did not trust it. He felt that it was his imagination rather than his memory that supplied it.
But at least he had a name now. The article was credited to one D. A. Kozodavlev. Porfiry felt sure that this was one and the same as his anonymous letter writer, if only for a stylistic tic that both letter and article shared. Indeed, in such matters, it was closer to the truth to describe it as a psychological tic.
*
‘Yes, but what makes you so certain?’ There was a petulant tone to Virginsky’s question, possibly occasioned by the concluding remarks of the article that Porfiry had just shown him.
It had taken a further three red banknotes, as well as completion of a yellow chit, to secure the removal of the relevant edition of The Russian Word from the library. Strictly speaking, a restricted publication could not be removed from the library under any circumstances. However, the fact that Porfiry had been allowed to view the journal created an anomaly, which was most simply resolved by temporarily removing it from the restricted list. (This was achieved by referring to an earlier version of the restricted list, which did not contain The Russian Word, and which by a bureaucratic oversight had remained in force.) If The Russian Word was not restricted, it followed that he was free to take it out, on completion of a standard yellow chit. The younger librarian had shown remarkable ingenuity in devising these strategies, which together with his willingness to accept bribes, boded well for his future in the service. There was every possibility that he would escape the fate that his aged doppelganger seemed to represent. He would go far, in other words.
Porfiry did not answer Virginsky’s question. ‘You will notice this, from Kozodavlev’s article: “It may surprise the reader to know that we are talking of the very man who hounded Rodion Romanovich into confessing.” He is referring to me, of course. But note the phrase, “It may surprise the reader.” Now, if we go back to the anonymous letter I received, we will find the following: “It might have surprised you to have read such an account in such a journal.” What are we to make of this?’ Porfiry did not wait for an answer: ‘Here is a man who likes to surprise his readers! I feel sure it is the same writer. Now, all we have to do is track down Mr Kozodavlev. That shouldn’t be so hard to do. The Russian Word was suppressed by the government in 1866. If my knowledge of radical journals is correct, the editor Blagosvetlov founded a new journal, Affair, which I believe is still in circulation, is it not, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘I believe so.’
‘We need only to make enquiries at the Censorship Office to locate its address. Perhaps you would oblige me by drafting the necessary request, on the correct official chit, please.’ Porfiry smiled and batted his eyelids in an attempt to be winning. It was an attempt laden with irony. ‘I suggest we begin our enquiries there. Indeed, if we are fortunate, we may even find our Mr Kozodavlev in attendance. I imagine that all the contributors to The Russian Word transferred their allegiance to Affair.’
For some reason he could not explain, Porfiry felt his spirits revive. He felt the renewal of energy that he had hoped for at the onset of spring, and that the fairground had temporarily provided. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he had found himself favourably referred to in a defunct radical journal, though why he should take delight from this baffled him. Porfiry preferred to believe that it was simply the invigorating effect of a genuine lead in the case they were investigating. He was, he realised with pleasure, a hound with a fresh scent in his snout. His energy was the bound of exultation against the leash.
‘Stenka Razin’
The following day, Thursday, 20 April, they received a reply to their enquiries made to the Censorship Office. The editorial offices of Affair were registered at an apartment in 16, Dmitrovsky Lane, under the name of the editor, G. E. Blagosvetlov.
The fine spring weather was strengthening its brief hold on the city and Porfiry was minded to make the most of it while it lasted. He invited Virginsky to accompany him. ‘I expect you would like to pay your respects to these radical gentlemen. And besides, with you in tow, they may disclose more than they might otherwise.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Simply that they will recognise you as one of their own. They will trust you.’
‘I shall come with you, of course. It’s my duty to do whatever you say.’
‘And your pleasure also, no doubt?’
Virginsky hesitated. ‘I do not like the duplicitous role in which you seek to cast me.’
‘There’s nothing duplicitous about it, Pavel Pavlovich. It’s simply. . good psychology.’
‘And entirely unnecessary, in my opinion. If Kozodavlev is indeed the writer of the anonymous letter, as seems likely, then naturally he will tell you everything he knows. He approached you in the first place.’
‘Ah, but you are forgetting. He is a gentleman who likes to surprise!’
They picked up a drozhki on Sadovaya Street. Along the way, Porfiry sang ‘Stenka Razin’ into the onrushing air. The sheep-skinned driver was delighted with his fare’s performance and joined in enthusiastically. Porfiry slapped Virginsky’s thighs to encourage him to sing out too, particularly during the stanza in which Stenka Razin addresses the Volga river. Virginsky maintained a stubborn silence throughout.
‘I would have thought that song would be to your taste, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Porfiry, as soon as the drozhki had deposited them. ‘The stirring tale of a rebel leader who murders his new bride to prove his devotion to the cause.’
‘I do not object to the song. It is the small matter of singing it in an open drozhki that I think indecorous. Particularly as we are magistrates engaged in a murder enquiry.’
‘Indecorous? Good Heavens! I didn’t realise that you radicals placed such store by decorum.’
‘Porfiry Petrovich, kindly refrain from referring to me in that way.’
‘In what way?’
‘You make light of my political convictions. You use the word “radical” as if it were some great joke. The joke is at my expense. That’s why you chose to sing that song, I suppose. You think that this is all very funny. Yet I will remind you, a man is dead. An
d we have come here in order to discover his identity. Furthermore, the political future of our great country is no laughing matter. If I have sincere convictions, it ill behoves you to mock them.’
Porfiry blinked out a face of bewildered innocence. ‘You are right, Pavel Pavlovich,’ he conceded, after a moment. ‘Please forgive me. I cannot explain why my mood is so strangely elated this morning. I will endeavour to conduct myself more. . decorously from now on.’
‘You are still mocking me.’
‘I think I am not. Certainly, it is not my intention to mock you. Forgive me for saying so, Pavel Pavlovich, but perhaps the offence is all inside your head.’
‘That is another example of your psychology?’
‘As I am strangely elated, you are inexplicably prickly.’ Porfiry held a hooked finger to his lips thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if our contrasting moods might have a common cause. You have been put out since I showed you the article in The Russian Word yesterday, have you not? I believe my unseemly joviality dates from the same time.’
‘It has nothing to do with that.’
‘No?’
‘I am merely influenced by the gravity of the task in hand.’
‘And you are right to be. And I am entirely in the wrong. Once again, I crave your forgiveness.’
Dmitrovsky Lane was a residential back street between Kolokolnaya Street and Stremyannaya Street, tucked away behind Nevsky Prospect. The narrowness of the lane conspired with the height of the apartment blocks to exclude the seasonal light, which seemed tenuous and easily discouraged.