Columbine suddenly felt quite unbearably afraid – afraid enough to make her want to go running after Petya and ask him to come back.
‘Oh, dear mother,’ whispered the femme fatale. ‘What Beast is this?’
III. From the ‘Agents’ Reports’ File
To His Honour Lieutenant-Colonel Besikov
(Private and confidential)
Dear Lieutenant-Colonel,
Ever since our latest exchange of opinions I have been reproaching myself for failing to display the firmness of character required to answer you in the appropriate manner. I am a weak man, and you possess the strange ability to stifle my will. The most disgusting thing of all is that I experience a strange pleasure in submitting to you, for which I hate myself afterwards. I swear that I shall drive this base, voluptuous servility out of myself !
Alone with a sheet of paper, it is easier for me to say what I think of your outrageous demand!
I think that you are abusing my goodwill and my readiness to assist the authorities voluntarily and render entirely disinterested assistance in eradicating this deadly cancer that is consuming society. For after all, it was I who informed you about my family tragedy, about my dearly beloved brother who became obsessed with the idea of suicide. I am a principled opponent of evil, and not some ‘collaborator’ as you call paid informers in your department. And if I have agreed to write you these letters (do not dare to call them ‘reports’), it is not at all out of fear of being exiled for my former political views (as you once threatened), but only because I have realised just how truly malign spiritual nihilism is and come to fear it. You are absolutely right – materialism and inflated concern for the rights of the individual are not the Russian way, I am in complete agreement with you on that, and I believe I have already demonstrated quite adequately the sincerity of my enlightenment. It would appear, however, that you have decided to make it impossible for me to remain a decent human being! That is going too far.
I hereby declare categorically and irrevocably that I will not tell you the real names of the members of the club (in fact, I do not even know most of them), indeed, I will not even tell you the absurd aliases that they use among themselves, for that would be dishonourable and it smacks of simple informing.
Be merciful. I yielded to your insistent requests and agreed to find the secret society of potential suicides and insinuate myself into it, because you saw a political background to this sinister movement, like the medieval Arab order of assassins, fanatical killers who placed no value at all on human life – neither other people’s nor their own. You must admit that I carried out your difficult assignment quite excellently, and now you receive reliable first-hand information about the ‘Lovers of Death’. And I have had enough of you. Do not ask me to do anything more.
It has become absolutely clear to me that the Doge and his followers have no connection whatever with terrorists, socialists or anarchists. And what is more, these people have no interest whatever in politics and they despise all social concerns. You may put your mind at rest there – none of them will throw themselves under the wheels of the governor-general’s carriage with a bomb. They are the perverted and world-weary children of our decadent era – affected and sickly, but in their own way very beautiful.
No, they are not bombers, but for society, and especially for young, immature minds, the ‘lovers’ are very, very dangerous indeed – precisely because of their pale, intoxicating beauty. The ideology and aestheticism of the lovers of death undeniably contain a poisonously attractive temptation. They promise their followers an escape into a magical world far removed from the humdrum greyness of everyday life – the very thing for which exalted and sensitive souls yearn.
And the main danger, of course, is represented by the Doge himself. I have already described this terrible character to you, but his truly satanic grandeur is revealed more clearly to me every day. He is a ghoul, a vampire, a basilisk! A genuine fisher of souls who is so artful in subordinating others to his will that I swear to God even you cannot compare with him.
Recently a new member appeared – a funny, touching young girl from somewhere in Siberia. Naive and rapturous, with her head full of all sorts of foolishness that is fashionable among today’s young people. If she had not found her way into our club, in time she would have grown out of all this and become like everyone else. The usual story! But the Doge instantly snared her in his web and turned her into a walking automaton. It happened before my very eyes, in a matter of minutes.
Undoubtedly, an end must be put to all of this, but ordinary arrest will not suit here. Arrest will only make the Doge into a tragic figure, and it is frightening to think what a public trial would be transformed into! This man is picturesque, imposing, eloquent. Why, after his address to the court, ‘lovers’ would appear in every one of our district towns!
No, this monster has to be unmasked, trampled underfoot, displayed in a pitiful and monstrous light, so that his poisonous sting can be drawn once and for all!
And for what offence could you actually arrest him? After all, it is not a crime to set up poetry clubs. There is only one way out: I must uncover some corpus delicti in the Doge’s activities and prove that this gentleman, with deliberate intent and malice aforethought, encourages frail souls to commit the terrible sin of suicide. Only when I manage to obtain reliable evidence will I give you the Doge’s name and address. But not before then, not before.
Fortunately, I am not suspected of playing a double game. I deliberately make myself out to be a jester, and even derive a certain morbid satisfaction from the frankly scornful looks that certain of our smart alecks, including the Master himself, give me. Never mind, let them think me a pitiful worm, that is more convenient for my purposes. Or am I really a worm? What do you think?
Very well, let us leave that aside. The convulsions of my wounded vanity are of no importance. I am tormented by something quite different: after Avaddon’s terrible death we have another ‘vacancy’, and I am waiting anxiously to see what new moth will come flying to singe its wings on this infernal flame . . .
Yours affronted, but with genuine respect,
ZZ
28 August 1900
CHAPTER 2
I. From the Newspapers
Lavr Zhemailo Meets the High Priest of the ‘Lovers of Death’
And so, it has come to pass! Your humble servant has succeeded in infiltrating the holy of holies of the highly conspiratorial suicide club which set everyone talking after the recent death of S., a 23-year-old student at Moscow University. The story of how I managed to overcome all the cunning barriers and insuperable obstacles in order to attain my goal would make the plot of a thrilling novel. However, bound by my word, I shall remain silent, and let me state immediately for the benefit of the gentlemen of the police that Lavr Zhemailo will never, under any circumstances, even under threat of imprisonment, betray his helpers and informants.
My meeting with the high priest of the sinister sect of worshippers of death commenced in a dark and gloomy cellar, the location of which has remained a mystery to me since my cicerone delivered me there with a blindfold over my eyes. I could smell damp earth, several times cobwebs dangling from the ceiling brushed across my face and once a bat flew past with a loathsome squeak. After this prelude, I felt sure I would see some appalling vault with slimy walls, but when the blindfold was removed, there was a rather pleasant disappointment in store for me. I was standing in a spacious, superbly furnished room that resembled the drawing room of a rich house: a crystal chandelier, bookcases, chairs with carved backs, a round table like those that are used for spiritualist seances. The person I spoke to told me to call him ‘Doge’. Naturally, he was wearing a mask, so that I could see only his long, snow-white hair, small grey beard and exceptionally keen, or rather, I should say, piercing eyes. The Doge’s voice proved to be resonant and beautiful, and at times quite spellbinding. There can be no doubt that he is a talented and exceptional individual.