‘You are an inspiration to us all, Tatyana Ruslanovna,’ said Botkin, but still with his usual sarcastic smile. ‘You speak of necessity. Do you mean that the time has now come to erect barricades in the streets of Petersburg?’
‘We must bring the struggle here to Russia. It is a struggle for the hearts and minds of the Russian people. Yes, if called upon, we will build barricades. But we must ensure that we have fighters to man them. That is why we must take our message to the people. We must go amongst the people. We will patiently explain to them how they are oppressed and that the time has come for them to throw off their yoke. The revolution must come from the ground up. It cannot be imposed from above.’
‘You do not know the Russian peasant like I do. They are ignorant and lazy, not to mention superstitious. It is unlikely that such an initiative will be successful. What is more, they are stupidly loyal to the Tsar, their little father.’
‘You must have faith in the people, Alyosha Afanasevich.’ Tatyana Ruslanovna’s tone was imperious, as if she believed in the power of command to change men’s hearts.
‘If you will forgive me, Tatyana Ruslanovna, that remark reveals your privileged background as much as your educated voice and aloof demeanour.’ He smiled and added quickly, ‘I hope that as comrades we may be honest with one another, without causing offence where none is intended. However, it is a tendency of the privileged intellectual to idealise the peasant, without any thoroughgoing experience of the peasant’s true character. I speak from a position of expertise because, unlike you, I have lived amongst this class. My father was a village priest. He carried his scythe into the field on his back, and ploughed the land, and spread the muck, and brought in the harvest alongside the peasants. I have seen their superstition and ignorance at first hand. I know the uselessness of even attempting to educate these people, apart from a few rare exceptions. No, the education you talk about must take place after the revolution. First must come education through deeds. Education through fire, if I may put it like that. Political action is political education.’
‘I agree with Botkin,’ said Prince Dolgoruky. His voice had a sinuous, seductive quality. ‘First we must open their eyes through terror. Then, when we have their attention, we will educate them.’
‘It is not a question of political education versus terrorism,’ conceded Tatyana Ruslanovna. ‘We must engage in both. We must continue to propagandise, while destabilising the government through acts of violence and sabotage.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Botkin. ‘I am suggesting nothing else. We must strike at the heart of the regime. We must lay bare the Tsar’s weakness. When the people see that he is not even able to protect his own, that he is more concerned with the imminent birth of a bastard child than he is with their well-being, that he loves his mistress more than he loves them. .’ Botkin broke off to leer sarcastically at Dolgoruky.
Dolgoruky returned the compliment with a burst of cynical laughter. ‘Yes, it is ironic to think that my dear cousin Katya is doing more to undermine the Tsar’s position by bearing him a bastard than we ever could by blowing him up!’
‘At any rate,’ concluded Botkin, ‘they will lose faith in him as their protector.’
Tatyana Ruslanovna smiled approvingly. ‘An exemplary assassination? Is that what you are proposing?’
Botkin nodded, his smile reflecting her own. ‘A government minister perhaps. Or a magistrate. What is more, we now have in place the individual who can undertake such a commission.’
Every pair of eyes in the room followed Botkin’s gaze and settled on Virginsky. The eyes he was most interested in were those of Tatyana Ruslanovna. He saw in their gleam a challenge and an appetite to which he could not fail to respond. ‘It would be an act of singular daring,’ she said.
The print shop in the Spasskaya District
To the clerk Zamyotov’s critical eye, Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky appeared extremely pale and distracted when he presented himself at Porfiry’s chambers the following morning. No doubt Virginsky had been carousing into the early hours, in all likelihood ending his night of debauchery with a visit to one of the city’s brothels. (Zamyotov had read all about such places in the lubok literature.) Virginsky was not even wearing his civil service uniform, but was dressed instead in a pale grey suit. The clerk shook his head woefully.
He had not been expecting either magistrate to make an appearance today. It was Saturday, after all, and, as far as he knew, there were no urgent cases in progress. Indeed, the case they had been working on had been taken from them. He himself had handed over the files.
And so, Zamyotov was more than a little intrigued when the two magistrates shut themselves in, Virginsky’s tense, almost luminously pale face the last thing he saw in the closing of the door. At a suitable moment, that is to say when no one was looking, he placed his ear to the door, but it was hard for him to distinguish anything that was said within.
*
‘Are you quite well, Pavel Pavlovich? You seem a little pale. I trust you have not been indulging in excessive alcoholic consumption again. Though, of course, what you do in your own time is no business of mine — provided you do not break the law, or bring the department into disrepute.’
‘I fear that I may be about to do precisely that, Porfiry Petrovich.’
A strange, trembling tone in Virginsky’s voice startled Porfiry into affording him the closest scrutiny. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
Virginsky looked at his superior for a long time as he considered his answer.
*
Zamyotov’s frustration deepened. It was quiet in the bureau today, but not entirely without traffic. And so his vigil on the other side of the door was regularly interrupted.
To compound it, even when he was able to press his ear to the door, it was practically impossible to hear anything, except for the groan of the wood against his flesh. Their voices barely rose above a mumble; they could have been discussing anything from Virginsky’s dissolute nightlife to the price of straw. He was aware that the risk he was taking far outweighed any reward he received. And yet he could not completely tear himself away from the door.
He didn’t have much warning: a sudden increase in volubility; footsteps within, hurriedly approaching the door. They were coming out. He darted back towards his desk, turning round with a look of feigned surprise just as the door opened.
‘Ah, Alexander Grigorevich, there you are. Pavel Pavlovich and I have decided to do something about our printing difficulties,’ announced Porfiry Petrovich, pulling on his frock coat as he came through the door.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Zamyotov, in some amazement.
‘You remember the mix-up over the poster? We have found out about another possible supplier and will look into it this morning.’ Porfiry quickly locked his chamber door. He was evidently in a hurry to visit this particular print shop.
There was something suspect about this, Zamyotov felt sure. He looked from Porfiry Petrovich to Virginsky. Certainly the younger magistrate looked as relaxed as he might when about to set out on such an innocuous mission. The colour had returned to his face, which showed no sign of its earlier ravaged tension.
‘But Porfiry Petrovich,’ objected Zamyotov, ‘you need not concern yourself with such administrative matters. Give me the details of the supplier and I will look into it myself.’ After a beat, he added, ‘At the soonest opportunity.’
‘Well, you see. There you have it. The soonest opportunity. Pavel Pavlovich and I find that we have just such an opportunity available to us now. Our most time-consuming case was taken from us, so why should we not occupy ourselves productively in this way? If we are satisfied with what we find, we will naturally pass the details on to you to arrange the purchasing contract.’