At the very moment Porfiry formulated that question, Virginsky came into his chambers. He was holding a large sheet of paper, the blank side of which was directed towards Porfiry.
‘Ah, it has come in already, has it? The revised poster. And I see that everything is in order, this time.’
‘But I haven’t shown it to you yet,’ said Virginsky, somewhat crestfallen.
‘You don’t need to. I can tell by the eagerness of your step, and by your smile, which though slight manages to transmit both relief and satisfaction. In addition, the fact that you are withholding the printed side of the poster, making ready to reveal it to me with a grand flourish, as if you were unveiling a masterpiece — all this leads me to suspect that the Imperial State Printing Works has not let us down this time.’
‘Yes, well, here it is.’ Virginsky turned the poster over. ‘Do you approve it for release?’
Porfiry barely glanced at it. ‘Is the wording correct?’
‘It is.’
‘Very well. Release it. Have it posted in all the city’s police bureaux, and in the usual public places.’
‘Do you not wish to check it?’
‘I trust you, Pavel Pavlovich.’
The casually issued statement seemed to take Virginsky aback.
‘Before you go,’ continued Porfiry. ‘This book.’ He held up the copy of What Is to Be Done? ‘You have read it, of course.’
‘Of course. We have talked of it before, I believe. You have mocked me for admiring it too much.’
‘You do admire it, don’t you?’ Porfiry’s surprise at this fact was renewed in his voice. ‘And bound up in your admiration of the novel is your admiration of the characters? These new men and women.’
‘Yes.’
‘You see it as a. . how can I put it? As a programme. . a manual. . or even a manifesto? It is not a novel, it is a guide to how one may live one’s life?’
‘Certainly, I believe that it may point the way to a better basis for relationships between the sexes.’
‘But this character, Lopukhov, the one who fakes his own suicide. .’ Porfiry flicked through the pages. ‘Let me find it. The note he left. Ah, yes. Here it is. “I was disturbing your peace and quiet. I am quitting the scene. Don’t pity me; I love you both so much that I am very pleased with this decisive act. Farewell.” I ask you, Pavel Pavlovich! How would you describe the man who wrote that? A doormat, perhaps? I mean to say. . the way he just takes himself off like that! Can we really believe it? Would you do that?’
‘If I believed that my disappearance was the only way to bring about the happiness of the woman I loved, and if I truly loved her, then, yes. . I would like to think that I would be capable of such an act. It is not so strange. It is logical. He loves Vera Pavlovna. She loves another. He makes way for the man she loves.’
‘But a real man would not act like that. You would not act like that. Not in that situation. Love is not logical, Pavel Pavlovich.’
‘There are men — and women — who are living their lives in accordance with the precepts of that book. Marriage is the only way for many women to escape the control of their families. But traditional marriage only replaces one form of control with another. It is not true freedom for the woman. Therefore, many young people are entering into a new kind of marriage, a marriage of friendship and equality, in which the woman is not expected to bow down before the man. Such a marriage truly does bring about the liberation of the woman, because she is free to live her life as she wishes, not as her husband wishes. And if she wishes to take a lover, she is free to do so.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s all very well. But is it really possible to imagine a husband so devoid of jealousy that he negates his own life, faking his suicide and assuming a new identity, solely to allow his wife’s future happiness?’
There was a pause before Virginsky answered: ‘Yes.’
‘Well, he is a fool.’
‘I shall see to the distribution of the poster.’
‘And really, does the author take us for fools? The police and the judicial authorities, I mean? That we would not see through the manifest fraud of that supposed suicide! A bullet in a cap! The cap was fished out of the water near Liteiny Bridge! The cap belonged to Lopukhov! Therefore, Lopukhov must have killed himself on Liteiny Bridge and fallen in the river!’
‘Unfortunately, Chernyshevsky did not think to make you a character in his novel, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘Well, I would have seen right through it if he had.’
‘I have no doubt.’
‘I see that I must read this tiresome book again,’ grumbled Porfiry. ‘We cannot overlook the possibility that it may have some bearing on the case. But, good God, I do not find the company of these new men and women at all congenial!’ He flashed a sour glance to Virginsky, as if he counted him one of their number.
*
Porfiry finished reading What Is to Be Done? on Sunday morning. He put the book down and left his apartment.
He headed straight for Haymarket Square, where he joined the traffic of worshippers flowing to and from the Church of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary. The cathedral stood like a bastion over the square, its minaret-like towers asserting the essential orientalism of the Orthodox religion. It both drew and repelled: it drew the faithful, the true believers, the true Russians, eastern- and inward-looking; and it repelled all those who would look to the west, outside Russia, for their ideas and influences.
Porfiry was drawn. He felt the simple need to be in an Orthodox church. Perhaps it was a reaction against the book he had just finished reading. He had never considered himself as a Slavophile; on the contrary, he had prided himself on being receptive to new ideas, from wherever they came. He knew that if Russia was to progress, as she must, she could not afford to isolate herself from the rest of Europe. It was simply that, increasingly as he grew older, he found himself comforted by the overwhelming scent of incense and the warm dazzle of the candle-lit icons. And the only God he could believe in was the Russian God.
Porfiry crossed himself as he entered.
The throng inside the church was lively, almost excitable. As always, there was a loose informality to the congregation. People came and went all the time, while the priests and monks continued to chant and drone. There was a soft murmur of chatter which echoed and overlapped, giving the impression that the multitude of saints and celestial beings depicted on the tiers of icons all around were joining in the conversations. The priests took a dim view of all this talking in church, but there was little they could do to stop it. The Church invited its flock to be as children in their Father’s house. It could hardly be surprised if some of them behaved like naughty children.
The three doors of the iconostasis stood open, as they had done since Midnight Mass on Good Friday. This towering screen, a full six tiers of icons in height, shielded the altar sanctuary from the congregation in the nave. Encrusted with a grid of thick gilt frames, populated with holy personages, it symbolised the division between Heaven and Earth. For most of the year the doors were kept closed, with only the clergy being allowed to pass through them. The doors would close again later that day, at the None, or Ninth Hour of prayer, that is to say, at about three o’clock that afternoon. Porfiry felt a surge of emotion as he considered the symbolism of the doors’ opening. He felt a corresponding opening of his heart. It seemed to be a gesture of transcendent generosity on the part of the Church. Heaven stood open to him, and to all the miscreant congregation. He was possessed by hope. And yet, at the same time, he was aware of the imminent closure. And so, he seemed to feel, and regret, the loss of that hope at the same time as he experienced the hope itself.