‘You took matters into your own hands. That is ill disciplined.’
‘To me, it was clear what was called for at the meeting on Friday. I was called upon to use my position within a government department to carry out an act of singular daring. Those were the very words Tatyana Ruslanovna used.’
‘Yes, yes, that was what was discussed. But it goes without saying that we would have to wait for confirmation from the central committee before any action was taken. That is the way things are done.’
‘I believe there was one there who was authorised to speak for the central committee. And yet no voice was raised calling for delay.’
‘Nonsense. No one speaks for the central committee.’ Kirill Kirillovich’s expression became even sourer as he assessed and somehow dismissed Virginsky. ‘At any rate, you cannot stay here.’
Virginsky looked around. The apartment seemed large without the presence of the name-day guests. He also saw that it was more comfortably furnished than he remembered, even luxuriously so, as if some objects of value had been removed for that last occasion. This was either as a precaution against damage, or because Kirill Kirillovich and his wife had not wanted their guests to see that they possessed such items. One article in particular caught Virginsky’s eye. ‘I see that you have an icon in the corner.’
‘Why not? It is for form’s sake. Our neighbours expect us to be devout Russians. It does no harm.’
‘It was not in place last Friday.’
‘Naturally. There was no one present who needed to be deceived as to our true convictions.’
Virginsky frowned distractedly as he considered Kirill Kirillovich’s explanation. ‘You can’t kick me out. Not until the central committee have decided what to do with me.’
There was a knock at the door, the coded knock that signalled one of ‘our people.’ It was Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin, his face illuminated by a wild excitement. He held a newspaper in front of him. ‘You fiend! You are a veritable fiend! That’s what we will have to call you from now on!’
‘Just as they call you Hunger?’ remarked Virginsky, raising one sardonic eyebrow. ‘May I see that?’
It was a late edition of the Police Gazette. Virginsky read on the front page:
Magistrate in Critical Condition after Shooting
A senior investigating magistrate employed by the Department for the Investigation of Criminal Causes, a subdivision of the Ministry of Justice based at the Haymarket District Police Bureau in Stolyarny Lane, has been taken to the Obukhovsky Hospital following an apparent assassination attempt. He is said to be suffering from a gunshot wound to the chest. Dr Pervoyedov of the Obukhovsky, who attended the victim, described the wound as ‘grave’. The victim’s name has been given only as Porfiry Petrovich; he is thought to be the magistrate who achieved prominence through his prosecution of the former student R. R. Raskolnikov some years ago. The authorities are anxious to speak to one Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky, also a magistrate, in connection with the incident. Witnesses saw Mr Virginsky flee the victim’s chambers shortly after a gun was fired there. No motive for the dreadful crime has been given.
Kirill Kirillovich snatched the paper and shook his head over the account. ‘A wasted opportunity,’ he declared.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Virginsky.
‘No motive for the dreadful crime has been given,’ read Kirill Kirillovich. ‘What is the point of committing such an act if you do not make it clear that it is political? The least you could have done was to shout some slogans.’
‘I. .’
‘And why did you run away? You should have waited there for them to arrest you.’
‘That’s insane!’ objected Virginsky.
‘No,’ said Botkin. ‘He’s right. It is better for the cause when the assassin is arrested. For one thing, it shows that we are not ashamed of our acts. For another, it allows the possibility of a trial. A trial is essential; indeed, it is the main point of a political crime. It affords us, in defending our actions, to speak directly to the Russian people. By avoiding arrest, you have held back the cause of the revolution.’
‘But am I not of more use to the cause free? Can I not be used to lead and inspire further unrest? Besides, the timing of my attack was everything. The timing proves its political aspect. I struck the very day after the Tsar’s mistress gave birth! While he was busy fawning over his illegitimate son — abandoning not only his own family, but the whole of Russia. When people see that his decadence allows us to strike at the heart of the administration with impunity, they will cease to believe in the regime’s ability to protect them. You must at least admit that my action will be successful in destabilising the government?’
‘But we must let it be known beyond doubt that it is a political act. We must put out a manifesto to that effect, claiming responsibility. It is a pity that. .’ Botkin broke off.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I have notified the central committee of these developments. We may expect a visit from one of their number, imminently.’
‘A member of the central committee is to come here? Openly? A member of the central committee is to reveal himself to us?’ Kirill Kirillovich was beside himself at the prospect.
‘Such an extraordinary development calls for extraordinary measures,’ said Botkin.
Virginsky gave a tense grimace.
They heard the apartment door. Varvara Alexeevna came into the room, stooped and worn out, her eyes ringed with exhaustion.
‘In the meantime, let us have some tea.’ Kirill Kirillovich gave his wife a commanding nod.
Varvara Alexeevna turned on her heel with a sudden burst of alacrity.
‘Of course, tea! I shall bring in the samovar. What an excellent suggestion, Alyosha Afanasevich. It is no wonder you are held in such esteem by your friends.’
Botkin frowned at her back as he tried to unravel the nuances of her sarcasm.
*
They drank tea steadily for the next five hours, while they waited for the visit from the representative of the central committee. At one point, Varvara Alexeevna provided buterbrody of ham and cheese, with a selection of pickles.
Little was said. They morosely watched the stilted, ponderous progression of the filigree hands of an ormolu and enamel clock, decorated elaborately with dancing nymphs. Each time the hands approached the hour, and the antique clock wound itself up to chime, the watchers’ air of tense expectancy increased. It seemed they believed, irrationally, that the visitation would occur precisely on the hour, although which hour did not seem to matter. At midnight, this feeling was greatest of all, but it was also mixed with a sense of dread that the longed-for visit would not after all occur, and the day would end without them knowing what to do.
As the prolonged midnight chimes came to a close, Botkin gave vent to his frustration by roundly abusing the clock that had announced the time. ‘What are you doing in possession of that filthy object? You call yourself a revolutionist? You’re worse than the most decadent aristocrat! I have a good mind to throw it from the window and watch it smash upon the courtyard.’ He even stood up and took a step towards the mantelpiece.
‘If you do, you will have me to answer to, Alyosha Afanasevich!’ warned Varvara Alexeevna.
‘My wife is fond of it,’ explained Kirill Kirillovich, despondently.
‘I am surprised at you, Varvara Alexeevna,’ said Botkin, turning away from the offending clock. ‘I know you share our convictions. Indeed, I always took you to be a more rigorous political theoretician than your husband.’
‘And so I am. If you wish to discuss this sensibly, then I will ask you this. Is the purpose of social revolution to bring all down to the level of the meanest pauper, or to raise all up to the level of the privileged few?’