The Cleansing Flames

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 redistribution 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.

Kirill Kirillovich went to see to the door. He returned a moment later with Tatyana Ruslanovna. The room became energised at her entrance.

‘You!’ cried Botkin. ‘You are the representative of the central committee?’

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘No. It pleases me immensely. It delights me.’

‘It is a good thing,’ agreed Varvara Alexeevna. ‘You are a woman,’ she added, to explain her position more clearly.

Tatyana Ruslanovna turned her attention to Virginsky. ‘And so, my friend, what have you done?’ Her smile was kindly.

‘I have struck at the heart of the administration.’

‘Hardly the heart. But you have struck one of its prominent limbs.’

‘Yes, but he should have made clear the political aspect of his act, should he not?’ insisted Kirill Kirillovich. ‘If he had been dragged off shouting “Long live the Revolution!” the crime would have had more of an impact. As it stands, it is possible for the authorities to represent it as the isolated action of a lone madman. He should have stayed to make clear his position as a revolutionist.’

‘The central committee is of the view that Pavel Pavlovich acted correctly in saving himself. In allowing Porfiry Petrovich’s attacker to remain at liberty, the authorities reveal their ineptitude. It increases public terror. The central committee is of the view that all our people must co-operate in keeping Virginsky out of the authorities’ reach. This is now a priority. For the time being, he will remain here.’

‘Here?’ Kirill Kirillovich screwed up his face distastefully. ‘Who is to pay for his food?’

‘You are. Sacrifices are required. This will be yours. You will also supply him with clothes, preferably a workman’s. You, Pavel Pavlovich, are advised to do whatever you can to change your appearance. Grow a beard. Adopt a different gait. You will be surprised what a difference a change in gait can effect. You will also be supplied with a false passport, of course. As soon as this is ready, we will move you out of Petersburg.’

‘I don’t want to move out of Petersburg.’ Virginsky’s voice was childishly petulant.

‘It doesn’t matter what you want.’

He tried to affect a more reasonable tone: ‘But I can be more use here.’

‘It is hard to see how you can be any use at all to us now, other than as an idea, a phantom. That is the only reason we are determined to keep you safe. There is also the consideration that we cannot be sure you will not betray us if you are arrested.’

‘I would hope that I have proven myself on that score,’ protested Virginsky.

Tatyana Ruslanovna did not reply. And the smile that flickered briefly over her lips was hard to interpret.