The Cleansing Flames pp-4

by R. N. Morris

  Nothing prepared him for what he heard.

  The explosive discharge of a gun threw him away from the door. A moment later, there was the clatter of something heavy and metallic falling to the floor and then Virginsky burst through, now flushed in the face. He stared into Zamyotov’s eyes, as though he were an acquaintance he had not seen for many years whose name he was struggling to remember. Gathering his wits, the junior magistrate bowed politely and began walking away from Porfiry Petrovich’s chambers. Looking back on the moment, it seemed strange to Zamyotov that Virginsky did not at any point break into a run, but merely walked calmly out of the bureau. But at the time, it was the junior magistrate’s calmness that went a long way to persuading Zamyotov that nothing untoward had happened at all, and that he must have been mistaken in thinking he had heard a gunshot.

  But as soon as Virginsky was out of sight, it was as if Zamyotov was released from a spell. He rushed into Porfiry Petrovich’s chambers, where he found the magistrate clutching a hand to his chest, high up, to the left, just below the shoulder. The clerk was horrified to see blood seeping through the magistrate’s fingers. He noticed that there was blood on the magistrate’s cheek too. It seemed strange to him that the blood coming from the chest appeared darker than the blood on his face.

  Porfiry Petrovich was breathing hard. ‘Get Dr Pervoyedov,’ he rasped into Zamyotov’s anxious face. ‘Only Dr Pervoyedov. No one else. Keep this. Quiet. No panic. Do you understand, Alexei? Go softly.’

  ‘What about Nikodim Fomich?’

  ‘Yes. Get him too. Quickly. But Pervoyedov is the only doctor I will allow to look at me.’ Porfiry Petrovich closed his eyes and slumped back in his seat. His face relaxed into something that for a moment resembled contentment, as if he welcomed the wound and held onto it jealously. But that impression was not long-lasting. The shift in his position seemed to take its toll on Porfiry, tightening his face into a wince of manifest pain.

  ‘Do not stir yourself, Porfiry Petrovich,’ said Zamyotov. ‘I shall return with a doctor forthwith.’

  ‘Pervoyedov,’ groaned Porfiry. ‘Only Pervoyedov.’

  Zamyotov shook his head as he ran out of the chambers. Clearly, the old man was delirious. God only knew why he had got it into his head to insist on that eccentric. Zamyotov hated to go against him but this was a matter of life or death. To send to the Obukhovsky Hospital for Dr Pervoyedov would waste valuable time. The crucial thing was to get a doctor to Porfiry Petrovich as quickly as possible. Any delay might prove fatal. And if there were an inquest, how could he justify sending for Pervoyedov when there were other doctors just as capable closer at hand?

  And yet Porfiry Petrovich had been strangely insistent. Perhaps, thought Zamyotov, I had better talk it over with Nikodim Fomich first.

  But, of course, there would be no time for that.

  It had been many years since Zamyotov had prayed in earnest, not since his boyhood, in fact. He and religion had gone their separate ways long ago. But now he closed his eyes tightly, fervently, and mustered all the sincerity of which his soul was capable. He opened himself up to an idea of God that, without his knowing, still resided within him. To that God he made all manner of rash promises, which perhaps he would not be able to keep. But at the time he made them, he was sincere and that is all that counts in these matters. Just save Porfiry Petrovich, was the burden of his prayers. Just save Porfiry Petrovich and I will live a different life.

  It is a frightening thing, to open your eyes from prayer and see the answer to your prayers before you. It is not something you can ever be prepared for. And when you have made the answering of those prayers conditional upon nothing less than a wholesale upheaval of your being, you do not necessarily welcome such a sight. Indeed, it may inspire in you as much dread as joy.

  Zamyotov opened his eyes to see the miracle of Dr Pervoyedov himself, walking towards Porfiry Petrovich’s chambers, as calmly as Virginsky had walked away from them.

  ‘Doctor! Thank God you’re here! Something terrible has happened.’ Zamyotov’s startling cry, equally laden with panic and relief, changed the tenor of the day for good: ‘He has been shot! Porfiry Petrovich has been shot!’

  *

  Virginsky rapped urgently on the door. As soon as he had done so, he regretted not using the coded sequence of knocks that he had witnessed the last time he had visited the apartment.

  Despite that oversight, the door was opened. The woman who had served tea to the guests, Varvara Alexeevna, appeared to be on her way out, with a shawl pulled up over her head and a large cloth bag in one hand. She clearly recognised Virginsky, but made no move to admit him. ‘Kirill Kirillovich is not here.’

  ‘I will wait for him.’

  ‘He will not return until this evening. And I must go out. I have been called away. I am a midwife, you know.’ Varvara Alexeevna volunteered this information with a self-important tilt of the head. ‘I was just about to leave when you knocked.’

  ‘You must let me in. I have nowhere else to go. And. .’

  Varvara Alexeevna cocked an eyebrow questioningly.

  Virginsky scanned the landing nervously. ‘I think I have just killed a man.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I did not stay to find out for certain.’

  ‘And you believe this will incline me to let you in?’

  ‘I did it for the cause. For them. I have put myself in a position of extreme. .’ Virginsky broke off, as if unable to define the position in which he had in fact put himself. ‘I have nowhere else to go,’ he said simply.

  Varvara Alexeevna nodded and stepped to one side.

  ‘Do you know how to contact Alyosha Afanasevich?’ asked Virginsky. ‘Or Tatyana Ruslanovna?’

  ‘There will be time for that later. Stay in the apartment and do not answer the door to anyone. Kirill Kirillovich will know what to do.’

  With that, she was gone. And if Virginsky had ever felt lonely in his life before, it was nothing compared to this.

  *

  When Kirill Kirillovich appeared at around four that afternoon, his face had already assumed the look of sour disappointment that seemed to come most naturally to it. ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘Where else was I to go? The police will be watching my apartment.’

  ‘You acted without authorisation.’

  ‘It was what we talked about at the meeting. Alyosha Afanasevich called for action. You agreed. You all agreed.’

  ‘We were talking about general principles. No order was given. How could it have been? We do not generate our own orders. We must wait for them to come from the central committee. It had not even been definitely decided that you were to be accepted into the group.’

  ‘I trust there will be no doubt about that now?’

  ‘I would not be so certain. You have revealed yourself to be a highly unreliable and dangerous individual. A volatile character. You place us all at risk.’

  ‘As soon as you become involved in political activity, you place yourself at risk. You must have the courage of your convictions. You cannot call for the overthrow of the Tsar and then baulk at the assassination of a magistrate.’

  ‘You took matters into your own hands. That is ill disciplined.’

  ‘To me, it was clear what was called for at the meeting on Friday. I was called upon to use my position within a government department to carry out an act of singular daring. Those were the very words Tatyana Ruslanovna used.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that was what was discussed. But it goes without saying that we would have to wait for confirmation from the central committee before any action was taken. That is the way things are done.’

  ‘I believe there was one there who was authorised to speak for the central committee. And yet no voice was raised calling for delay.’

  ‘Nonsense. No one speaks for the central committee.’ Kirill Kirillovich’s expression became even sourer as he assessed and somehow dismissed Virginsky. ‘At any rate, you cannot stay here.’

>   Virginsky looked around. The apartment seemed large without the presence of the name-day guests. He also saw that it was more comfortably furnished than he remembered, even luxuriously so, as if some objects of value had been removed for that last occasion. This was either as a precaution against damage, or because Kirill Kirillovich and his wife had not wanted their guests to see that they possessed such items. One article in particular caught Virginsky’s eye. ‘I see that you have an icon in the corner.’

  ‘Why not? It is for form’s sake. Our neighbours expect us to be devout Russians. It does no harm.’

  ‘It was not in place last Friday.’

  ‘Naturally. There was no one present who needed to be deceived as to our true convictions.’

  Virginsky frowned distractedly as he considered Kirill Kirillovich’s explanation. ‘You can’t kick me out. Not until the central committee have decided what to do with me.’

  There was a knock at the door, the coded knock that signalled one of ‘our people.’ It was Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin, his face illuminated by a wild excitement. He held a newspaper in front of him. ‘You fiend! You are a veritable fiend! That’s what we will have to call you from now on!’

  ‘Just as they call you Hunger?’ remarked Virginsky, raising one sardonic eyebrow. ‘May I see that?’

  It was a late edition of the Police Gazette. Virginsky read on the front page:

  Magistrate in Critical Condition after Shooting

  A senior investigating magistrate employed by the Department for the Investigation of Criminal Causes, a subdivision of the Ministry of Justice based at the Haymarket District Police Bureau in Stolyarny Lane, has been taken to the Obukhovsky Hospital following an apparent assassination attempt. He is said to be suffering from a gunshot wound to the chest. Dr Pervoyedov of the Obukhovsky, who attended the victim, described the wound as ‘grave’. The victim’s name has been given only as Porfiry Petrovich; he is thought to be the magistrate who achieved prominence through his prosecution of the former student R. R. Raskolnikov some years ago. The authorities are anxious to speak to one Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky, also a magistrate, in connection with the incident. Witnesses saw Mr Virginsky flee the victim’s chambers shortly after a gun was fired there. No motive for the dreadful crime has been given.

  Kirill Kirillovich snatched the paper and shook his head over the account. ‘A wasted opportunity,’ he declared.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Virginsky.

  ‘No motive for the dreadful crime has been given,’ read Kirill Kirillovich. ‘What is the point of committing such an act if you do not make it clear that it is political? The least you could have done was to shout some slogans.’

  ‘I. .’

  ‘And why did you run away? You should have waited there for them to arrest you.’

  ‘That’s insane!’ objected Virginsky.

  ‘No,’ said Botkin. ‘He’s right. It is better for the cause when the assassin is arrested. For one thing, it shows that we are not ashamed of our acts. For another, it allows the possibility of a trial. A trial is essential; indeed, it is the main point of a political crime. It affords us, in defending our actions, to speak directly to the Russian people. By avoiding arrest, you have held back the cause of the revolution.’

  ‘But am I not of more use to the cause free? Can I not be used to lead and inspire further unrest? Besides, the timing of my attack was everything. The timing proves its political aspect. I struck the very day after the Tsar’s mistress gave birth! While he was busy fawning over his illegitimate son — abandoning not only his own family, but the whole of Russia. When people see that his decadence allows us to strike at the heart of the administration with impunity, they will cease to believe in the regime’s ability to protect them. You must at least admit that my action will be successful in destabilising the government?’

  ‘But we must let it be known beyond doubt that it is a political act. We must put out a manifesto to that effect, claiming responsibility. It is a pity that. .’ Botkin broke off.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I have notified the central committee of these developments. We may expect a visit from one of their number, imminently.’

  ‘A member of the central committee is to come here? Openly? A member of the central committee is to reveal himself to us?’ Kirill Kirillovich was beside himself at the prospect.

  ‘Such an extraordinary development calls for extraordinary measures,’ said Botkin.

  Virginsky gave a tense grimace.

  They heard the apartment door. Varvara Alexeevna came into the room, stooped and worn out, her eyes ringed with exhaustion.

  ‘In the meantime, let us have some tea.’ Kirill Kirillovich gave his wife a commanding nod.

  Varvara Alexeevna turned on her heel with a sudden burst of alacrity.

  ‘Of course, tea! I shall bring in the samovar. What an excellent suggestion, Alyosha Afanasevich. It is no wonder you are held in such esteem by your friends.’

  Botkin frowned at her back as he tried to unravel the nuances of her sarcasm.

  *

  They drank tea steadily for the next five hours, while they waited for the visit from the representative of the central committee. At one point, Varvara Alexeevna provided buterbrody of ham and cheese, with a selection of pickles.

  Little was said. They morosely watched the stilted, ponderous progression of the filigree hands of an ormolu and enamel clock, decorated elaborately with dancing nymphs. Each time the hands approached the hour, and the antique clock wound itself up to chime, the watchers’ air of tense expectancy increased. It seemed they believed, irrationally, that the visitation would occur precisely on the hour, although which hour did not seem to matter. At midnight, this feeling was greatest of all, but it was also mixed with a sense of dread that the longed-for visit would not after all occur, and the day would end without them knowing what to do.

  As the prolonged midnight chimes came to a close, Botkin gave vent to his frustration by roundly abusing the clock that had announced the time. ‘What are you doing in possession of that filthy object? You call yourself a revolutionist? You’re worse than the most decadent aristocrat! I have a good mind to throw it from the window and watch it smash upon the courtyard.’ He even stood up and took a step towards the mantelpiece.

  ‘If you do, you will have me to answer to, Alyosha Afanasevich!’ warned Varvara Alexeevna.

  ‘My wife is fond of it,’ explained Kirill Kirillovich, despondently.

  ‘I am surprised at you, Varvara Alexeevna,’ said Botkin, turning away from the offending clock. ‘I know you share our convictions. Indeed, I always took you to be a more rigorous political theoretician than your husband.’

  ‘And so I am. If you wish to discuss this sensibly, then I will ask you this. Is the purpose of social revolution to bring all down to the level of the meanest pauper, or to raise all up to the level of the privileged few?’

  ‘The latter is impossible, Varvara Alexeevna,’ said Botkin dismissively. ‘We cannot all live as wealthy aristocrats. That is the way to perpetuate the disparities of the current system, merely transferring the privileges of the few to a different elite. And so, inevitably, the production of equality necessitates a process of levelling off. We will all meet in the middle somewhere, I imagine.’

  ‘And there will be no more fine things?’

  ‘Everything that is necessary will be provided. There will be no more want. Still and all, this. .’ Botkin turned and pointed at the clock. ‘This is not a question of necessity. It is luxury. For sure, there will be no more luxury.’

  ‘And what will become of all the fine things that already exist?’

  ‘They will be destroyed.’

  ‘What purpose does that serve?’

  ‘It clears the way. It educates. It punishes.’

  ‘And I will be punished for owning this clock? You know I was given it as a fee by a countess who had fallen on hard times and got herself into trouble. You could say it was re
distribution in action. At any rate, I worked long hours to earn that clock, and all the other nice things you see here.’

  ‘You will fall into the category of education, rather than punishment. You are essentially suffering from a misguided aspiration. You aspire to the decadent practice of connoisseurship which you have appropriated from another class. It would be better that you did not.’

  ‘But is it not a form of social revolution when people such as I can own such objects?’

  ‘And in the meantime there are millions who cannot afford to feed their families. Are you aware, Varvara Alexeevna, that men died to produce luxuries like this?’

  ‘You go too far, Alyosha Afanasevich!’

  ‘Not at all. The process of laying on the ormolu involves the evaporation of mercury, which causes first the insanity and then the premature death of the artisans involved. In France, a more enlightened country than ours I think, the process was long ago declared illegal.’

  ‘The clock is over a hundred years old. The man who made it is certainly dead, whether prematurely or not. His oppression will not be lightened one iota by smashing it.’

  ‘Surely you are familiar with the Catechism? The revolutionist knows only one science: the science of destruction. Before we can establish a new order, we must destroy everything associated with the old. Your precious clock falls into that category. It must be swept away.’ Botkin appeared carried along by his own words. Although he had so far restrained himself, he now reached out and lifted the clock from the mantelpiece.

  Varvara Alexeevna shrieked.

  Botkin’s eyes were gleeful. ‘I see now it is my duty to destroy it. As it is your duty to rejoice in its destruction.’

  It was at that moment that the long-awaited knock at the door was finally heard. The clock between Botkin’s hands indicated the time to be twenty-one minutes past twelve. For some reason, Botkin was distracted by the time, perhaps by its numerical symmetry. The moment for destroying it passed. He returned it to the mantelpiece.