The Cleansing Flames pp-4

by R. N. Morris

  ‘But so much will be lost,’ he complained forlornly. ‘A precis will be meaningless.’

  ‘You must try,’ insisted Tatyana Ruslanovna. ‘And now, let me, if I may, summarise what I believe to be the theoretical basis upon which any revolutionary act is based. As many of you know, a few years ago I lived for a while in Zurich, where I was sent by my family following certain unfortunate incidents in my private life.’ She could not resist flashing an almost desperate look in Virginsky’s direction. Rightly or wrongly, he had the impression that she was addressing her remarks solely to him. ‘The man I loved was murdered. My father was even suspected of murdering him — in defence of my maidenly honour of course.’ The harsh irony that had once, at the time of the events she was referring to, characterised almost all her utterances broke through her otherwise measured discourse. ‘But in time I realised that I did not love that man after all. What I was in love with was the idea of escape, escape from my family, and in particular my father. I had looked upon the man I thought I loved as the means to achieve this escape. Indeed, that was why I persuaded myself that I loved him. But I might just as easily have fallen in love with a locomotive engine, or a horse. I was surprised when my family consented to my journey to Switzerland, granting me the escape that I had longed for. In truth, I think they saw me as a problem to be got out of the way. I was to enrol at the university there, which as you will all know not only allows female students to attend lectures but even allows them to take their degrees.’

  The room was by now thoroughly settled, and content to listen to Tatyana Ruslanovna’s narrative. The personal nature of her speech made it all the more compelling, especially coming as it did after the professor’s dry, abstract dissertation.

  ‘In Zurich, I received two educations, the first in medicine at the university, the second in political science, from the other Russian emigres I met there. I began to realise that the latter was far more important to me than the former. To qualify as a doctor would enable me to lead an independent life, free of my family and the necessity of shackling myself to a husband. It was the way to personal freedom. But to gain an understanding of political science, and to bring that understanding back to Russia — that would lead to a far greater freedom, the freedom of my country.’

  Her eyes seemed to flare with a visionary intensity. It was reflected in the eyes of all her listeners. Virginsky felt his own spirit ignited by it.

  ‘And so I cut short my medical studies — I had gained enough practical knowledge to serve the Russian people as a doctor, if ever I was called upon to do so — and travelled to Paris. I was anxious to meet certain individuals there who could complete my political education. My time in the French capital coincided with the establishment of the Commune. Yes, I fought on the barricades. My medical knowledge was put to the test, treating the wounded Communards. As was my revolutionary zeal. I learnt how to shoot. I took aim at the enemies of the Commune and fired. I was prepared to kill for the cause, and, in the heat of conflict, I did. There were traitors to deal with, and I was as merciless as the Devil.’

  Virginsky pictured her on the barricades, her face transformed by blood.

  ‘Why was I there? Why had I thrown myself into the struggles of another nation? I was there for the millions who toil in back-breaking labour under the yoke of oppression. For the millions held back by ignorance and poverty, enslaved by an iniquitous economic system. I was there because my conscience demanded it! I came from a privileged background. I was the spoilt and capricious daughter of wealthy parents. I was one of the exploiters! How it shamed me to realise that. The whole of my life up to that point had been based on the exploitation of others. It was pointed out to me by one of my emigre friends that my father and mother, being of the gentry class and therefore exempt from taxes, contributed nothing to the welfare of the state. Far from it — their lives of comfort and ease were paid for by the people! It shocked me to learn that the entire burden of taxation in this country is borne by the peasants. That simple fact alone is the entire intellectual basis of social revolution. I have gone beyond shame now. Indeed, I hope that by renouncing my privileges, I have put my shame behind me. It is a question of necessity now.’

  There were fervent cries of agreement from the young people in the room, and even some cheers.

  ‘You are an inspiration to us all, Tatyana Ruslanovna,’ said Botkin, but still with his usual sarcastic smile. ‘You speak of necessity. Do you mean that the time has now come to erect barricades in the streets of Petersburg?’

  ‘We must bring the struggle here to Russia. It is a struggle for the hearts and minds of the Russian people. Yes, if called upon, we will build barricades. But we must ensure that we have fighters to man them. That is why we must take our message to the people. We must go amongst the people. We will patiently explain to them how they are oppressed and that the time has come for them to throw off their yoke. The revolution must come from the ground up. It cannot be imposed from above.’

  ‘You do not know the Russian peasant like I do. They are ignorant and lazy, not to mention superstitious. It is unlikely that such an initiative will be successful. What is more, they are stupidly loyal to the Tsar, their little father.’

  ‘You must have faith in the people, Alyosha Afanasevich.’ Tatyana Ruslanovna’s tone was imperious, as if she believed in the power of command to change men’s hearts.

  ‘If you will forgive me, Tatyana Ruslanovna, that remark reveals your privileged background as much as your educated voice and aloof demeanour.’ He smiled and added quickly, ‘I hope that as comrades we may be honest with one another, without causing offence where none is intended. However, it is a tendency of the privileged intellectual to idealise the peasant, without any thoroughgoing experience of the peasant’s true character. I speak from a position of expertise because, unlike you, I have lived amongst this class. My father was a village priest. He carried his scythe into the field on his back, and ploughed the land, and spread the muck, and brought in the harvest alongside the peasants. I have seen their superstition and ignorance at first hand. I know the uselessness of even attempting to educate these people, apart from a few rare exceptions. No, the education you talk about must take place after the revolution. First must come education through deeds. Education through fire, if I may put it like that. Political action is political education.’

  ‘I agree with Botkin,’ said Prince Dolgoruky. His voice had a sinuous, seductive quality. ‘First we must open their eyes through terror. Then, when we have their attention, we will educate them.’

  ‘It is not a question of political education versus terrorism,’ conceded Tatyana Ruslanovna. ‘We must engage in both. We must continue to propagandise, while destabilising the government through acts of violence and sabotage.’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Botkin. ‘I am suggesting nothing else. We must strike at the heart of the regime. We must lay bare the Tsar’s weakness. When the people see that he is not even able to protect his own, that he is more concerned with the imminent birth of a bastard child than he is with their well-being, that he loves his mistress more than he loves them. .’ Botkin broke off to leer sarcastically at Dolgoruky.

  Dolgoruky returned the compliment with a burst of cynical laughter. ‘Yes, it is ironic to think that my dear cousin Katya is doing more to undermine the Tsar’s position by bearing him a bastard than we ever could by blowing him up!’

  ‘At any rate,’ concluded Botkin, ‘they will lose faith in him as their protector.’

  Tatyana Ruslanovna smiled approvingly. ‘An exemplary assassination? Is that what you are proposing?’

  Botkin nodded, his smile reflecting her own. ‘A government minister perhaps. Or a magistrate. What is more, we now have in place the individual who can undertake such a commission.’

  Every pair of eyes in the room followed Botkin’s gaze and settled on Virginsky. The eyes he was most interested in were those of Tatyana Ruslanovna. He saw in their gleam a challenge and an appetite to which
he could not fail to respond. ‘It would be an act of singular daring,’ she said.

  The print shop in the Spasskaya District

  To the clerk Zamyotov’s critical eye, Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky appeared extremely pale and distracted when he presented himself at Porfiry’s chambers the following morning. No doubt Virginsky had been carousing into the early hours, in all likelihood ending his night of debauchery with a visit to one of the city’s brothels. (Zamyotov had read all about such places in the lubok literature.) Virginsky was not even wearing his civil service uniform, but was dressed instead in a pale grey suit. The clerk shook his head woefully.

  He had not been expecting either magistrate to make an appearance today. It was Saturday, after all, and, as far as he knew, there were no urgent cases in progress. Indeed, the case they had been working on had been taken from them. He himself had handed over the files.

  And so, Zamyotov was more than a little intrigued when the two magistrates shut themselves in, Virginsky’s tense, almost luminously pale face the last thing he saw in the closing of the door. At a suitable moment, that is to say when no one was looking, he placed his ear to the door, but it was hard for him to distinguish anything that was said within.

  *

  ‘Are you quite well, Pavel Pavlovich? You seem a little pale. I trust you have not been indulging in excessive alcoholic consumption again. Though, of course, what you do in your own time is no business of mine — provided you do not break the law, or bring the department into disrepute.’

  ‘I fear that I may be about to do precisely that, Porfiry Petrovich.’

  A strange, trembling tone in Virginsky’s voice startled Porfiry into affording him the closest scrutiny. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

  Virginsky looked at his superior for a long time as he considered his answer.

  *

  Zamyotov’s frustration deepened. It was quiet in the bureau today, but not entirely without traffic. And so his vigil on the other side of the door was regularly interrupted.

  To compound it, even when he was able to press his ear to the door, it was practically impossible to hear anything, except for the groan of the wood against his flesh. Their voices barely rose above a mumble; they could have been discussing anything from Virginsky’s dissolute nightlife to the price of straw. He was aware that the risk he was taking far outweighed any reward he received. And yet he could not completely tear himself away from the door.

  He didn’t have much warning: a sudden increase in volubility; footsteps within, hurriedly approaching the door. They were coming out. He darted back towards his desk, turning round with a look of feigned surprise just as the door opened.

  ‘Ah, Alexander Grigorevich, there you are. Pavel Pavlovich and I have decided to do something about our printing difficulties,’ announced Porfiry Petrovich, pulling on his frock coat as he came through the door.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Zamyotov, in some amazement.

  ‘You remember the mix-up over the poster? We have found out about another possible supplier and will look into it this morning.’ Porfiry quickly locked his chamber door. He was evidently in a hurry to visit this particular print shop.

  There was something suspect about this, Zamyotov felt sure. He looked from Porfiry Petrovich to Virginsky. Certainly the younger magistrate looked as relaxed as he might when about to set out on such an innocuous mission. The colour had returned to his face, which showed no sign of its earlier ravaged tension.

  ‘But Porfiry Petrovich,’ objected Zamyotov, ‘you need not concern yourself with such administrative matters. Give me the details of the supplier and I will look into it myself.’ After a beat, he added, ‘At the soonest opportunity.’

  ‘Well, you see. There you have it. The soonest opportunity. Pavel Pavlovich and I find that we have just such an opportunity available to us now. Our most time-consuming case was taken from us, so why should we not occupy ourselves productively in this way? If we are satisfied with what we find, we will naturally pass the details on to you to arrange the purchasing contract.’

  ‘This is highly irregular.’

  ‘Not at all. Think nothing of it. Good day.’ Porfiry gave a small bow on the hoof, treating Zamyotov to a brief and excluding smile.

  *

  The sky above Sadovaya Street was clouded over, the endless strip of grey a memory of the winter gone. There was moisture in the air, which began to form into a light drizzle. The pale grey of Virginsky’s suit was soon spotted with small dark circles, the size of five-kopek pieces. It seemed as though the seeping sky had singled him out, prompted by a misguided spirit of affinity, its grey communing with his.

  The two men said nothing as they walked. Indeed, it seemed that there was nothing left for them to say, at least not until they had discovered whatever else the morning had to reveal to them.

  The fourth Spasskaya ward neighboured on the Moskovskaya District, which Virginsky had visited the night before. Both had a significant Jewish population. As they approached the junction with Voznesensky Prospect, Virginsky noted an increase in the number of Jewish shops and business premises. The characters of the Hebrew signs were to him tantalisingly alien. Each one seemed to hold the secret to its own great mystery, and the promise of revealing it, if only he would step inside. But this was impossible, today being Saturday.

  Virginsky thought back to the closed doors that he had seen as he had climbed the stairs of the apartment building, following Botkin to that fateful meeting. He thought of the lives of the families that he imagined living behind them; Jewish families observing the Sabbath. He felt an overwhelming surge of envy for what he took to be the simplicity and certainty of their lives, their innocence. As they lit the ceremonial candles, and enjoyed their Sabbath Eve meal, they knew nothing of the plots being hatched in the apartment on the second floor. He realised that he envied them their religion, as he envied Porfiry Petrovich his Christian faith. Perhaps he was not cut out to be an atheist, after all.

  But religion was a lie; atheism an unblinking confrontation with the truth. The former offered deluded consolation; the latter left him bereft, an aching weight of loneliness pulling at his heart. Atheism required men to model their own certainties, which crumbled to dust as soon as they clutched them.

  In a godless universe, every door of that apartment building would have been closed on an identical meeting to the one he attended, the same plans discussed, and the same momentous decisions made. Even he, as an atheist, found that a chilling thought.

  He stole a quick glance at Porfiry Petrovich. His face was calm, a mask of imperturbability. Was that the effect of his faith? wondered Virginsky. Was he really incapable of being shaken to his core? Could nothing, ultimately, surprise this plump little gnome of a man? For Virginsky knew that all his displays of astonishment, the endless flurries of blinking and grimacing, were nothing more than play-acting. This blank impassive screen of flesh that his face had for the present become, his face in repose, was the true Porfiry. He was in control of every tic that passed across it. And behind the face, what was there of Porfiry Petrovich that could be known? What of his soul?

  Virginsky could not speculate about that. All he could say for certain was that the old man looked a little tired. Other than that, he showed no sign of unease.

  They were walking south along Voznesensky Prospect, past the great Novo-Alexandrovsky Market. Recently constructed, it was the largest market in St Petersburg. It amazed Virginsky how it had so quickly taken root as part of the city’s commercial establishment. At the time of its construction, the vast market, thrown up almost overnight, struck many as a reckless venture. Did they not have enough markets already? Where would the people come from to shop in it? And yet now, barely five years later, it was hard to imagine how they had managed without it.

  This morning, the place was bustling with life. Again, Virginsky experienced a pang of envy, this time for the shoppers who streamed through it, troubled by nothing other than the need to acquire the day�
��s provisions, or the desire to squander their week’s wages on a small luxury. It was another kind of faith, another kind of certainty that drove them. And Virginsky almost wished it was enough for him. What would they make of the plots that had been hatched in their name? A part of him longed to follow the shoppers into the market, to lose himself in its avenues of stalls, to wander there aimlessly until the catastrophe of his life had passed him by.

  But his feet were locked onto another course, from which he was unable to extricate himself. All he could do was count his steps, and as soon as he started to do so he felt strangely comforted.

  They reached the Fontanka. And Virginsky suddenly felt that something more immediate than faith or certainty was lost to him, something acutely personal. Not even the counting of his steps could reconcile him to it.

  *

  The address that Rakitin had confided to Virginsky was for a building on the opposite side of the road, just where Voznesensky Prospect met the Fontanka embankment. The print shop was in the basement, entered directly from the street by a small flight of steps.

  They walked into a din of black iron and lead, a rhythmic, rolling clatter as ink was hammered onto paper and literature coughed out with a mechanical retch. Oil and ink tingled in their nostrils. The workshop contained three presses, all in operation, driven by belts from a rotating axle fixed to the ceiling. Each machine was tended by its own inky-fingered man in a long apron, like a worker bee fussing around its queen. The man at the first press looked around vaguely at Virginsky and Porfiry’s entrance, but did not break off from what he was doing. Off to one side, a row of stoop-shouldered compositors stood at high angled workbenches, placing the metal type into formes with the absorption of surgeons.

  At length, another man, also wearing an apron over a merchant’s kaftan, emerged from a side door. He cast a foreman’s eye over the work of the others, cursory but critical, and then approached the magistrates. ‘Can I help you?’