The Cleansing Flames

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 wolf 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.