The Master of Petersburg

'This is foolhardy,' he says. 'You should have left Petersburg while you could. You will certainly be caught.'

With one hand gripping his upper arm and the other his wrist, Nechaev turns him. Side by side, like a reluctant dog and its master, they walk down Svechnoi Street.

'But perhaps what you secredy want is to be caught.'

Nechaev wears a black cap whose flaps shake as he shakes his head. He speaks in a patient, sing-song tone. 'You are always attributing perverse motives to people, Fyodor Mikhailovich. People are not like that. Think about it: why should I want to be caught and locked away? Besides, who is going to look twice at a couple like us, father and son out for a walk?' And he turns upon him a distinctly good-humoured smile.

They have reached the end of Svechnoi; with a light pressure Nechaev guides him to the right.

'Have you any idea what your friend is going through?'

'My friend? You mean the Finnish girl? She will not break, I have confidence in her.'

'You would not say so if you had seen her.'

'You have seen her?'

'The police brought her to the apartment to point me out.'

'Never mind, I have no fear for her, she is brave, she will do her duty. Did she have a chance to speak to your landlady's little girl?'

'To Matryona? Why should she?'

'No reason, no reason. She likes children. She is a child herself: very simple, very straight.'

'I was questioned by the police. I will be questioned again. I concealed nothing. I will conceal nothing. I am warning you, you cannot use Pavel against me.'

'I don't need to use Pavel against you. I can use you against yourself.'

They are in Sadovaya Street, in the heart of the Haymarket. He digs in his heels and stops. 'You gave Pavel a list of people you wanted killed,' he says.

'We have talked about the list already – don't you remember? It was one of many lists. Many copies of many lists.'

'That is not my question. I want to know – '

Nechaev throws back his head and laughs. A gust of vapour leaves his mouth. 'You want to know whether you are included!'

'I want to know whether that was why Pavel fell out with you – because he saw I was marked down, and refused.'

'What a preposterous idea, Fyodor Mikhailovich! Of course you are not on any list! You are much too valuable a person. Anyhow, between ourselves, it makes no difference what names go on the lists. What matters is that they should know reprisals are on their way, and quake in their boots. The people understand something like that, and approve. The people aren't interested in individual cases. From time immemorial the people have suffered; now the people demand that they should have a turn to suffer. So don't worry. Your time hasn't come. In fact, we would be happy to have the collaboration of persons like yourself.'

'Persons like me? What persons are like me? Do you expect me to write pamphlets for you?'

'Of course not. Your talent is not for pamphlets, you are too sincere for that. Come, let us walk. I want to take you somewhere. I want to sink a seed in your soul.'

Nechaev takes his arm, and they resume their walk down Sadovaya Street. Two officers in the olive-green greatcoats of the Dragoons approach. Nechaev yields the way, cheerfully raising a hand in salute. The officers nod.

'I have read your book Crime and Punishment,' he resumes. 'It was that that gave me the idea. It is an excellent book. I have never read anything like it. There were times when it frightened me. Raskolnikov's illness and so forth. You must have heard it praised by many people. Still, I am telling you – ' He claps a hand to his breast, then, as though tearing out his heart, flings the hand forward. The oddity of his own gesture seems to strike him, for he blushes.

It is the first uncalculated act he has seen from Nechaev, and it surprises him. A virgin heart, he thinks, bewildering itself in its stirrings. Like that creature of Doctor Frankenstein's, coming to life. He feels a first touch of pity for this stiff, unprepossessing young man.

They are deep in the Haymarket now. Through narrow streets jammed with hucksters' tables and barrows, through a throng of smelly humanity, Nechaev conducts him.

In a doorway they halt. From his pocket Nechaev draws a blue woollen scarf. 'I must ask you to submit to being blindfolded,' he says.

'Where are you taking me?'

'There is something I want to show you.'

'But where are you taking me?'

'To where I at present live, among the people. It will be easier for both of us. You will be able to report in good conscience that you do not know where to find me.'

With the blindfold on, he is able to fall back into the luxury of dizziness. Nechaev leads him; he is knocked and jostled by passers-by; once he loses his footing and has to be helped up.

They turn off the street into a courtyard. From a tavern comes singing, the tinkling of a guitar, shouts of merriment. There is a smell of drains and fish-offal.

His hand is guided to a rail. 'Mind your step,' says Nechaev's voice. 'It's so dark here, it wouldn't help to take the blindfold off anyway.'

He shuffles down the steps like an old man. The air is dank and still. From somewhere comes the slow drip of water. It is like going into a cave.

'Here,' says Nechaev. 'Mind your head.'

They halt. He removes the blindfold. They are at the foot of an unlit wooden staircase. Before them is a closed door. Nechaev raps four times, then three. They wait. There is no sound but the dripping of water. Nechaev repeats the code. No response. 'We'll have to wait,' he says. 'Come.'

He taps on the door at the other side of the staircase, pushes it open, and stands aside.

They are in a cellar room so low that he has to stoop, lit only by a small papered window at head-height. The floor is of bare stone; even as he stands he can feel the cold creeping through his boots. Pipes run along the angle of the floor. There is a smell of damp plaster, damp brick. Though it cannot be so, sheets of water seem to be descending the walls.

Across the far end of the cellar a rope has been spanned, over which hangs washing as damp and grey as the room itself. Under the clothesline is a bed, on which sit three children in identical postures, their backs to the wall, their knees drawn up to their chins, their arms clasped around their knees. Their feet are bare; they wear linen smocks. The eldest is a girl. Her hair is greasy and unkempt; mucus covers her upper lip, which she licks at languidly. Of the others, one is a mere toddler. There is no movement, no sound from any of them. Through rheumy, incurious eyes they gaze back at the intruders.

Nechaev lights a candle and sets it in a niche in the wall.

'This is where you live?'

'No. But that is not important.' He begins to pace back and forth. Again he has the impression of caged energy. He imagines Pavel side by side with him. Pavel was not driven like this. It is no longer so hard to see why Pavel accepted him as his leader.

'Let me tell you why I have brought you here, Fyodor Mikhailovich,' Nechaev begins. 'In the room next door we have a printing press – a hand press. Illegal, of course. The idiot who has the key is unfortunately out, though he promised to be here. I am offering you the use of this press before you leave Petersburg. Whatever you choose to say we can distribute in a matter of hours, in thousands of copies. At a time like this, when we are on the brink of great things, a contribution from you can have an enormous effect. Yours is a respected name, particularly among the students. If you are prepared to write, under your own name, the story of how your stepson lost his life, the students will be bound to come out in the streets in just outrage.' He ceases his pacing and faces him squarely. 'I am sorry Pavel Isaev is dead. He was a good comrade. But we cannot look only to the past. We must use his death to light a flame. He would agree with me. He would urge you to put your anger to good use.'