A grey-faced professorial type, older than most others there, stood up with a thick ream of papers in one hand. The groan of dismay was palpable rather than audible, an evident respect for his learning and revolutionary credentials acting as a restraint. He began to read from the papers. After a rather incoherent introduction, his thesis developed into a critique of Fourierism, tremendously pedantic and hard to follow. What made it worse was that his reading voice was a dreary monotone, pitched in an extraordinarily high register, making it uncomfortable to listen to.
He had not got far into his argument when Dolgoruky, who was perched on the arm of a sofa, interrupted: ‘How much more of this is there?’ His face wore an expression of disgust, and his tone was deliberately insolent.
The professor angled his head so that he was addressing Dolgoruky without looking at him. ‘It is a complex subject. I have looked into every aspect of it.’
‘How many pages do you have there, man?’
‘One hundred.’ The professor thumbed his pages and added, ‘And seventeen.’
‘You cannot seriously be proposing to read out all one hundred and seventeen pages!’
‘If there proves to be insufficient time to read it all this evening, I will present the remainder at our next meeting.’
‘But we will be here for all eternity. Trapped in this room, listening to you drone on and on about God knows what. And meanwhile the revolution will have taken place without us! This is what is wrong with you people! Don’t you see? What we need is action. Acts! Not words. Especially not these words.’
Dolgoruky’s outburst was greeted with stunned silence. Eventually, the professor gathered his wits enough to say, ‘But there must be some theoretical basis for action.’
‘Of course! And everyone here understands the theoretical basis well enough. The tsarist regime is corrupt, inefficient and unjust. It must be got rid of. So, let us get rid of it!’
‘But there is the question of how that is to be achieved. Ways and means.’
‘I am very happy to join in that discussion.’
‘And then there is the question of with what you will replace it.’
‘I thought that was settled. Don’t all you people want democracy?’
‘Ah, but it is not so simple as that,’ objected the professor, allowing himself a small smile of intellectual superiority. ‘How does one ensure social justice after the initial revolutionary goals have been achieved?’
Dolgoruky waved his hand airily. ‘We will cross that bridge when we come to it.’
‘I agree with Dolgoruky,’ said Botkin. ‘To the extent that I think we should concentrate our discussions on practical matters. However, I also agree that it is important that our people have a firm grasp of the theoretical and intellectual bases of our movement.’ He turned to the professorial type. ‘I propose that you write a precis of your paper, which may be circulated amongst our people, for them to read at a more convenient time.’
‘But it is impossible to precis my arguments. They must be heard in full, otherwise the nuances will be missed.’
‘We do not have time for nuances.’
‘Botkin’s proposal is a good one,’ declared Tatyana Ruslanovna. Her tone was conciliatory as she addressed the professor. ‘We are grateful to you for the work you have put into this. And anxious that the fruits of your labour should not be wasted. Do you not see that a precis is the best way to ensure the propagation of your important ideas among the widest number of people?’
‘But so much will be lost,’ he complained forlornly. ‘A precis will be meaningless.’
‘You must try,’ insisted Tatyana Ruslanovna. ‘And now, let me, if I may, summarise what I believe to be the theoretical basis upon which any revolutionary act is based. As many of you know, a few years ago I lived for a while in Zurich, where I was sent by my family following certain unfortunate incidents in my private life.’ She could not resist flashing an almost desperate look in Virginsky’s direction. Rightly or wrongly, he had the impression that she was addressing her remarks solely to him. ‘The man I loved was murdered. My father was even suspected of murdering him — in defence of my maidenly honour of course.’ The harsh irony that had once, at the time of the events she was referring to, characterised almost all her utterances broke through her otherwise measured discourse. ‘But in time I realised that I did not love that man after all. What I was in love with was the idea of escape, escape from my family, and in particular my father. I had looked upon the man I thought I loved as the means to achieve this escape. Indeed, that was why I persuaded myself that I loved him. But I might just as easily have fallen in love with a locomotive engine, or a horse. I was surprised when my family consented to my journey to Switzerland, granting me the escape that I had longed for. In truth, I think they saw me as a problem to be got out of the way. I was to enrol at the university there, which as you will all know not only allows female students to attend lectures but even allows them to take their degrees.’
The room was by now thoroughly settled, and content to listen to Tatyana Ruslanovna’s narrative. The personal nature of her speech made it all the more compelling, especially coming as it did after the professor’s dry, abstract dissertation.
‘In Zurich, I received two educations, the first in medicine at the university, the second in political science, from the other Russian emigres I met there. I began to realise that the latter was far more important to me than the former. To qualify as a doctor would enable me to lead an independent life, free of my family and the necessity of shackling myself to a husband. It was the way to personal freedom. But to gain an understanding of political science, and to bring that understanding back to Russia — that would lead to a far greater freedom, the freedom of my country.’
Her eyes seemed to flare with a visionary intensity. It was reflected in the eyes of all her listeners. Virginsky felt his own spirit ignited by it.
‘And so I cut short my medical studies — I had gained enough practical knowledge to serve the Russian people as a doctor, if ever I was called upon to do so — and travelled to Paris. I was anxious to meet certain individuals there who could complete my political education. My time in the French capital coincided with the establishment of the Commune. Yes, I fought on the barricades. My medical knowledge was put to the test, treating the wounded Communards. As was my revolutionary zeal. I learnt how to shoot. I took aim at the enemies of the Commune and fired. I was prepared to kill for the cause, and, in the heat of conflict, I did. There were traitors to deal with, and I was as merciless as the Devil.’
Virginsky pictured her on the barricades, her face transformed by blood.
‘Why was I there? Why had I thrown myself into the struggles of another nation? I was there for the millions who toil in back-breaking labour under the yoke of oppression. For the millions held back by ignorance and poverty, enslaved by an iniquitous economic system. I was there because my conscience demanded it! I came from a privileged background. I was the spoilt and capricious daughter of wealthy parents. I was one of the exploiters! How it shamed me to realise that. The whole of my life up to that point had been based on the exploitation of others. It was pointed out to me by one of my emigre friends that my father and mother, being of the gentry class and therefore exempt from taxes, contributed nothing to the welfare of the state. Far from it — their lives of comfort and ease were paid for by the people! It shocked me to learn that the entire burden of taxation in this country is borne by the peasants. That simple fact alone is the entire intellectual basis of social revolution. I have gone beyond shame now. Indeed, I hope that by renouncing my privileges, I have put my shame behind me. It is a question of necessity now.’
There were fervent cries of agreement from the young people in the room, and even some cheers.