Somehow the reality of his situation, independent of his dream, forced itself on him. It was simply that he was once again bathed in sweat. He woke.
The darkness of the room seemed to squat upon him, pinning him to the bed. There were matches and a candle on the desk, but he couldn’t bring himself to grope for them. He felt that if he concentrated hard enough, the vague mood of the dream would form itself into a resolution that he could act upon. At the same time, he half-suspected that he knew already what the dream was trying to tell him. He knew too that he did not like its message, even though he had not consciously articulated it. And so the dream still held him; he was as incapable of movement now that it was over as he had been during it.
As he lay there, he felt his muscles and joints lock. There was a sense of surrendering to his immobility, of conspiring in it, even. This strange paralysis, he suddenly realised, was the product of his own will.
Life was so much simpler when you were incapable of taking part in it.
It occurred to him that in none of the manifestos he had read, and in none of the books on Socialism and Social Utilitarianism from which they were derived, had there ever been any allowance made for dreams.
*
The morning’s newspapers were spread out on Porfiry Petrovich’s desk. The magistrate’s face was hidden by a copy of the St Petersburg Gazette and so he could not have seen Virginsky enter his chambers. This did not prevent him from observing, ‘You look terrible, Pavel Pavlovich.’
‘But you — ’
‘That is to say, judging by your shuffling step, and the fact that you walked into the door frame as you entered, I imagine that you must look terrible.’ Porfiry at last laid down the paper and looked at his junior colleague. ‘I see I am not mistaken. A bad night?’
Virginsky ran a hand over his face, as if to wipe away whatever ravages were evident there. ‘I didn’t sleep well.’
‘No? Well, that is to be expected.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The fires, of course.’
‘I had nothing to do with the fires,’ protested Virginsky indignantly.
‘I’m not suggesting that you did. I am merely stating that it is not easy for any of us to sleep easy while such atrocities are perpetrated around us. They set fire to an apartment building last night, I see.’
‘An apartment building?’
‘Yes. Not far from you. Bolshaya Morskaya Street. So far the number of dead is estimated to be. .’ Porfiry consulted the newspaper. ‘Six. Five of whom were children. The sixth was an adult male. There are no further details of the victims given.’
‘No,’ said Virginsky quietly. The word was as much a protest as a denial.
‘I’m afraid so. In fact, it is a miracle that so many were able to escape unharmed. It seems someone raised the alarm before the fire had taken hold in earnest. The devastation was largely confined to one floor. The fifth. Those living below that were evacuated safely. A blessed miracle, I say.’
‘But do we know for certain that this was the act of arsonists?’
‘There will have to be an enquiry, of course. And you are right to ask the question. It is easy to assume, in a spate of arson attacks, that every fire is deliberately started. In any individual case, there may be another explanation.’
‘Indeed. And if you extend that logic, then it is possible to say that perhaps none of the fires have been started deliberately. The frequency of their occurrence may owe more to unsatisfactory building materials and dangerous living conditions.’
‘It is simply that we are living in an exceptionally combustible city, is that what you are saying?’ Porfiry smiled ironically.
‘We are living in a city where men habitually drink themselves into a stupor and then reach for their pipes. I should add that it is invariably by gorging on cheap vodka, brought about by the Tsar’s reform of alcohol taxation, that they attain this dangerous intoxication.’
‘So it is the Tsar’s fault? I thought it might be.’
‘It is only the conservative newspapers, so far, who are laying the blame at the door of the students and radicals. And yet the idea seems to have caught hold. Everyone accepts it as the truth. Even you, Porfiry Petrovich. But you have to ask yourself, what could the radicals hope to achieve by these tactics?’
‘There are some men who are, undoubtedly, motivated by a universal love of mankind.’ Porfiry leant back in his chair as he warmed to his theme. ‘But they find that the mankind they love does not correspond exactly to the sordid, ungrateful, greedy men and women they see around them. Those individuals, they do not love. In fact, they hate them, for they only get in the way. While continuing to nurture a deeply felt love of mankind in general, and pursuing aims that owe their origin to this love, they find themselves acting in a manner that is consistent with their hatred for men and women as they actually are.’
Virginsky exhaled loudly through his nose.
‘You don’t agree?’
‘I wonder from where you derive such sentiments. From the editorials of The Russian Soil?’ Virginsky picked up the newspaper in question from the desk and held it out accusingly. ‘Or from the lurid serials they publish?’
‘You forget, Pavel Pavlovich, I have observed such men at first hand.’ Porfiry fixed Virginsky with an especially provoking gaze.
‘You mean me?’
‘I was not thinking of you.’ Porfiry’s expression softened. He regarded Virginsky solicitously. ‘Please, sit down. You really do look dreadful. Would you like some tea?’
‘No! No tea. I already feel rather bilious from drinking too much tea last night.’
Porfiry picked up the newspaper that Virginsky had just dropped on his desk. ‘The Russian Soil has at least carried a piece about our body fished out of the Winter Canal. They have also published our announcement calling for witnesses to come forward.’
‘I trust that the information is satisfactory in both cases?’
‘Yes, thank you. I am grateful for your help with the requisite paperwork. Do you know when we might expect to take delivery of the posters?’
‘With luck, we should see something later today, or perhaps tomorrow morning. I emphasised the urgency of the material in my application to the Imperial State Printing Works.’
Porfiry turned the pages of the paper. His eye was caught by an article headed ‘The Devil’s Professor’. ‘Tatiscev, Professor Tatiscev. He must have taught you at the University, did he not?’
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘There is a piece about him. They call him “The Devil’s Professor”.’
‘There you are! That proves my point.’
‘It seems you are a rare exception, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Porfiry as he scanned the article. ‘By far the majority of his former students have gone on to be defence attorneys. And very successful ones, it seems, with extraordinarily high rates of acquittal for their clients. The Russian Soil links this to the demise of law and order, and the general decline of society.’
‘Preposterous.’
‘It makes the point that the state is being undermined in its own law courts.’
‘Please, Porfiry Petrovich. I can well imagine what those reactionaries have to say about him. I do not need to hear you recite it.’
‘In short, they lay all the evils of the present day at Professor Tatiscev’s door.’
‘It really does pain me to hear you parrot their venomous lies. It’s almost as if you believe them.’
‘I wonder what prompted them to write this article though.’
‘They are his enemies. They print lies about him in almost every issue.’