‘But surely it makes sense to use each according to his abilities, and opportunities.’
The hatchet-headed man considered this, and finally nodded in agreement.
‘I am a magistrate,’ went on Virginsky. ‘I work for the Ministry of Justice. I have access to official documents. Briefings, reports. . orders.’
The man nodded thoughtfully. ‘Bring us something. Something useful. Then we will see.’
‘What?’
‘I will leave it to your discretion.’
‘How will I get in contact with you again?’
‘You found me now, didn’t you? You will find me again.’
‘But it’s. . that’s. .’ Virginsky wanted to give in to the vodka swoon that was making it hard for him to string his words together.
‘What?’
A great effort of concentration led to sudden clarity: ‘Surely we cannot afford to leave it to chance like that?’
‘Don’t worry your head, my magistrate friend. If you can’t find me, I know where to find you.’ Although the man was smiling, it was his usual one-sided leer of sarcasm, which only served to accentuate the hint of a threat in his words.
The Devil’s Professor
The following day, a large envelope arrived for Porfiry Petrovich from the office of Russian Soil and Russian Era. A number of folded rectangles of newsprint slumped out limply like so many dead butterflies, landing in a heap on his desk. Porfiry spread them out, sorting them first by size, then resorting them in chronological order. There were about thirty to forty snippets of paper, with articles going back approximately three years. A covering letter from Trudolyubov explained that these were all the articles that had appeared in his publications written by the journalist he knew as ‘K.’
The most recent piece was one that Porfiry remembered reading. It was the attack on Virginsky’s former professor of jurisprudence, Tatiscev. It seemed that over the years K. had waged something of a campaign against this man, and was, as far as Porfiry could tell, the originator of the soubriquet ‘The Devil’s Professor.’
Porfiry now rearranged the clippings thematically. There were seven articles attacking Tatiscev, as well as five other articles which mercilessly lampooned another individual, one Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov. This gentleman appeared to be a former professor of history, a liberal of a previous generation, whom K. deemed to be utterly without purpose or point. In short, he considered him to be a ‘superfluous man’ and called upon him to do the decent thing, which was — in K.’s opinion — simply to disappear.
Other individuals also served as targets for K.’s barbs, but none to the same extent as Tatiscev and Lebezyatnikov.
‘He seems to have a singular antipathy towards academic gentlemen.’ It was only after Porfiry had given voice to this musing that he realised there was no one there to hear it. Virginsky had not yet presented himself at the department. Porfiry consulted his fob watch. It was close to eleven.
Porfiry rose from his desk and peered outside his chambers to confer with his clerk. ‘Alexander Grigorevich, have you seen Pavel Pavlovich this morning?’
Zamyotov gave a minimal shake of the head, putting far more effort into producing a disdainful snort.
‘While I think of it, I need you to make an enquiry at the Address Office. The name is Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov. A former professor of history. I require his address as soon as possible, if you please.’
Porfiry returned to his desk and read again the series of articles attacking Professor Tatiscev. The charges in each piece amounted to more or less the same complaint, continually restated: simply that the writer held the new law courts responsible for the decline in morality evident everywhere in society. Professor Tatiscev, as a noted supporter of the new courts, was held up as the human embodiment of all that was evil.
Of course, reasoned Porfiry, it would not do for the writer to attack the Tsar — at least not in these publications. The Tsar was above criticism. But the fact remained that it was the Tsar who had signed off the reform of the legal system. Tatiscev was outside the government, and, as far as Porfiry could tell, had never been in a position to influence the Tsar or his ministers. It was not even known if his opinion had been sought. The only charge that could be laid against him was that some of his former students had gone on to profit from the new system by becoming highly successful defence attorneys. What made him a natural target for these conservative papers was that he was a well-known radical, and also that he was an educator, with access to and influence over the younger generation. In other words, it was men like Tatiscev who were responsible for the gulf that had formed between fathers, who read publications like Russian Soil and Russian Era, and their sons, who preferred Affair.
Is that all there is to it? wondered Porfiry.
The political basis of the attacks was undoubtedly thin, perhaps deliberately so. If anything, Tatiscev came across as a straw man. Porfiry reminded himself that the writer of the articles was, under his real name, a radical journalist, who would undoubtedly have approved of Tatiscev’s political stance. If Kozodavlev wrote these pieces purely for money, as hackwork, he would be careful not to inflict serious damage on the cause in which he truly believed. And yet he might be willing to vilify a man he personally disliked, especially as he was doing so under the cloak of anonymity.
A cannonade of innuendo was fired off. Was it any wonder that our country was in crisis when a whole generation of jurists had sat at the feet of a man who had learnt his ethics from the serpent? The Devil’s Professor was not content to call for an end to the institution of marriage but had manfully taken it upon himself to bring it about, marriage by marriage. He was always ready with his own firm answer to the woman question. And just so that there should be no doubt what that answer was, it was asserted that Tatiscev had taken down the icon in his study and replaced it with a statue of Priapos.
To be frank, it was all rather juvenile, not to mention libellous. Beneath one of the articles, and seemingly linked to it, was a piece about the desecration of some icons in a church and the theft of relics and religious gems. In fact, there was no explicit connection made to Tatiscev, and indeed this piece appeared not to have been written by K.; nonetheless, the proximity of the articles associated the hapless professor with this crime too.
The four articles attacking Professor Lebezyatnikov were altogether different in tone, more light-hearted, entirely lacking in any scurrilous suggestions, but rather treating the former historian as a harmless buffoon. These lampoons could almost be said to be affectionate, celebrating rather than savaging their target. Porfiry was hard-pressed to see the point of the articles, as Professor Lebezyatnikov was now a retired gentleman, with practically no influence in society. If he might be described as ‘superfluous,’ what did that make the articles satirising him? Apparently, if K.’s satire was to be believed, he retained a high opinion of his importance, despite abundant evidence of his worthlessness. No doubt that made him ridiculous; it also made him somewhat pathetic. The attacks on him amounted to little more than a catalogue of the follies of a deluded old man.
It was past noon when Virginsky finally appeared. His face, drained of all colour, looked as though it had been slightly inflated, which had the effect of shrinking his eyes into narrow slits.
‘My God, Pavel Pavlovich, what has happened to you?’
‘I ran into someone.’
‘With your face?’