For her part, Tatyana Ruslanovna seemed determined to make it up to Virginsky. She repeatedly referred to him as a hero of the cause, saying that he, more than anyone, deserved to ride in such a carriage. She clung onto his arm as if she believed it was in danger of being snatched away by thieves. Virginsky tried half-heartedly to wrest himself from her, his body tense with the contortions of his misery. But she pulled him back to her, with confident ease, nestling her head on his shoulder.
The carriage drew up on the Admiralty Quay. The Bolshaya Neva was freely flowing now, a vein of glistening darkness glutted with boats of every size. Across the water, the narrow end of the long university building was visible. He knew from his days as a student that a ferry left from where they had pulled up, and crossed directly to the University Quay on the other side, before heading onwards downstream past the Strelka.
Virginsky looked questioningly into Tatyana Ruslanovna’s eyes. Her gaze offered no answer and so he made to get out. She pulled him back. ‘No. You are to stay here. I will get out. But before I leave you, there is something I am obliged to do.’ There was a mischievous, almost cruel quality to her smile now. Virginsky felt a sudden pounding dread. She produced from her reticule a strip of black cloth. ‘You are to meet Dyavol,’ she explained. ‘But you are not to see him.’ The mischief in her smile softened, and he was no longer afraid. The renewed tenderness of her smile was the last thing he saw before the blindfold went on.
He heard the creak of the door and felt the bounce in the carriage’s springs as she got out. A moment later, the bounce was repeated, though this time it was deeper and more prolonged. The presence in the carriage beside him settled back. The door clicked to as the carriage was sealed.
‘Good day, Pavel Pavlovich.’ The greeting was whispered, a breath away from inaudibility, rendering impossible any attempt to identify the speaker. Even so, Virginsky had the impression he had heard that voice before.
‘Dyavol?’
Virginsky felt the jolt of the carriage pulling away.
‘You are to be congratulated,’ continued the whisper. At least that was what Virginsky thought he heard; with the steady cascade of hooves in the background, it was even harder to make out what was being said.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Virginsky. ‘I can barely hear you! Why must I wear this blindfold?’ His hands went up to loosen the cloth, but were restrained.
‘We must still take precautions. For your benefit, as much as mine.’ The man spoke more clearly now, though it seemed he was disguising his natural voice. ‘If you are caught, the less you know, the less you can give away. Still and all, we must do all we can to ensure that you are not caught. We will get you out of the country. Switzerland. Our people there will look after you.’
‘Still and all? Is it you, Botkin?’
Dyavol laughed. His laughter was the ordinary laughter of an ordinary man, unexpectedly amused. ‘Please, don’t insult me!’
‘You said “still and all”. That is one of Botkin’s characteristic phrases.’
‘I believe it is a common enough phrase. Besides, all our people have come under my influence, sometimes unconsciously.’
‘Yes, I heard Varvara Alexeevna use it once.’
‘There! I hope you will not accuse me of being Varvara Alexeevna!’
‘No. You are not Varvara Alexeevna.’ Virginsky waited a moment before committing himself: ‘You are Alexander Glebovich Tatiscev.’
‘Ah, my friend. I do wish you hadn’t said that.’ There was a note of sadness in the voice, but it was undisguised now, and clearly recognisable as that of Virginsky’s old professor.
‘May I not remove the blindfold?’
‘No. There are others here whom it would be better you did not see.’
‘Others?’
‘One other, let us say. A witness to our conversation, who will remain silent and report back to the central committee. I do not act on my own, you know. I am accountable.’
‘I thought you were the central committee,’ said Virginsky. More wistfully, he added, ‘At least now we may talk to one another naturally.’
‘Yes.’
‘But are you really Dyavol?’
‘Would it be so terrible to you if I were?’
‘Terrible, no. It’s just that I don’t understand. Dolgoruky told me that it was Dyavol’s idea for Kozodavlev to write the articles against you. In which case, you yourself urged Kozodavlev to attack you! Why would you do that?’
‘Politically, Kozodavlev and I were close allies. And yet, in our personal lives, enemies. The enmity was not on my side, you understand. I had nothing against him. Indeed, I only ever wished him well, for so long as he was loyal to the cause. But Kozodavlev nurtured a deep and bitter resentment. It was all very well for him to declare himself a new man and to say that he would not stand in the way of his wife’s happiness. However, in reality, he could not get past the fact of his hatred for me. I knew that deep in his heart Kozodavlev wished to kill me, and certainly would have betrayed me at the first opportunity. No matter how much we talked things over as new men, and vowed allegiance to the cause, always rankling deep inside him was his hatred for me. I suggested that he write the articles as a way of exorcising his negative feelings, so that we could go on together in the work that really mattered. I urged him to make the attacks as vitriolic and personal as he could.’
‘But. . what did you have to gain by his attacking you?’
‘My reasons were psychological rather than political.’
‘What about Lebezyatnikov? Why did you have Kozodavlev lampoon him?’
‘Oh, that was not my idea. It was Dolgoruky who suggested that.’
‘Dolgoruky? He wanted his old tutor to be publicly ridiculed?’
‘That is the kind of man Dolgoruky was. The central committee were happy to go along with it as it drew attention away from our people. Lebezyatnikov really was a straw man. I was something a little more subtle. I was. . well, I was a leader of the revolution pretending to be a straw man!’
‘But did it not make life difficult for you?’
‘You forget. I am a respected professor of jurisprudence, with friends in the Ministry of Justice. Some of whom were my former students. Besides, there was nothing of substance in the attacks. The authorities were quick to see that. And I was very careful.’
‘Careful? What about Pseldonimov? Was that careful?’
‘That was necessary. Necessity always drives us harder than caution.’
‘According to Botkin, Pseldonimov was killed to bind the group together.’
‘That is correct. In particular, we wished to secure Kozodavlev’s loyalty. My earlier. . stratagem had not worked. He had poured out his vitriol — without inhibition — but still he hated me. I rather think it was the fact that I approved of what he was doing that undermined the exercise. He needed to hurt me — really hurt me. The problem was, if he hurt me, he hurt the cause. We could not allow that. And so, we needed to secure his loyalty another way. By binding him to the group in mutual guilt.’
‘But that didn’t work either, did it?’
‘Kozodavlev was not cut out for such deeds. When Pseldonimov’s body came to light, he panicked. He revealed to Dolgoruky that he was intending to inform. Of course, Dolgoruky passed on that information to me.’
‘Therefore Kozodavlev had to die?’
‘He had been warned. They had all been warned.’
‘Ah yes! You’re talking about Swine! Dolgoruky told me you wrote it as a warning. Most people took it as a warning to society. But in fact it was written for a very select group of men. A pity that Kozodavlev chose to ignore it.’
‘What you must understand is that up until that moment I had nothing but the highest esteem for Demyan Antonovich.’
‘That didn’t prevent you from seducing his wife, or ordering his death.’