by R. N. Morris
As he took a seat on a rickety chair, he felt but could not see the layer of grime on the table. ‘To answer your question . . . no. I am not here as a magistrate.’
‘Then what?’
‘I was very interested in the poem you gave me.’
‘Yes. Go on.’
‘And what you said, about hunger . . . the hunger you saw in my eyes. I think it’s true. I do have that hunger.’
‘And what would you do with it?’
‘I wish to serve the cause.’
‘The cause?’ The man’s mocking laughter scythed the air. He became abruptly serious: ‘Do you even know what the cause is?’
‘Revolution.’
‘Just a word. Is it not?’
‘At the moment, perhaps. But it is my earnest desire to turn that word into an act.’
‘So? What do you want from me?’
‘You . . . are close to those directing this great . . . endeavour . . . are you not? I am not wrong in thinking that?’ There was a pleading note to Virginsky’s question.
The man did not immediately reply. Behind the circular lenses of his spectacles, his eyes narrowed in assessment. At last he said, ‘Have you changed your views?’
‘My views?’
‘The last time we met, you said that you could not condone the loss of life.’
‘There are other means of achieving destabilisation, are there not?’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘The circulation of manifestos, such as that you handed to me. Education, in other words.’
‘That is just the beginning. Words can only convey so much. There is a point at which it is necessary to translate them into deeds.’
‘But must they necessarily be violent deeds?’
‘Not all will be violent. There is a range of action in the revolutionist’s repertoire. Vandalism, sabotage, the desecration of churches. One method that we have used with some success is the introduction of counterfeit banknotes. It all falls under the rubric of propaganda. Even acts of violence. Everything carries a message – the message being that the Tsar is losing his grip on power. But we must use all means. You cannot pick and choose. If you are called upon to act for the cause, you are not at liberty to discriminate on the grounds of squeamishness.’
‘But surely it makes sense to use each according to his abilities, and opportunities.’
The hatchet-headed man considered this, and finally nodded in agreement.
‘I am a magistrate,’ went on Virginsky. ‘I work for the Ministry of Justice. I have access to official documents. Briefings, reports . . . orders.’
The man nodded thoughtfully. ‘Bring us something. Something useful. Then we will see.’
‘What?’
‘I will leave it to your discretion.’
‘How will I get in contact with you again?’
‘You found me now, didn’t you? You will find me again.’
‘But it’s . . . that’s . . .’ Virginsky wanted to give in to the vodka swoon that was making it hard for him to string his words together.
‘What?’
A great effort of concentration led to sudden clarity: ‘Surely we cannot afford to leave it to chance like that?’
‘Don’t worry your head, my magistrate friend. If you can’t find me, I know where to find you.’ Although the man was smiling, it was his usual one-sided leer of sarcasm, which only served to accentuate the hint of a threat in his words.
18
The Devil’s Professor
The following day, a large envelope arrived for Porfiry Petrovich from the office of Russian Soil and Russian Era. A number of folded rectangles of newsprint slumped out limply like so many dead butterflies, landing in a heap on his desk. Porfiry spread them out, sorting them first by size, then resorting them in chronological order. There were about thirty to forty snippets of paper, with articles going back approximately three years. A covering letter from Trudolyubov explained that these were all the articles that had appeared in his publications written by the journalist he knew as ‘K.’
The most recent piece was one that Porfiry remembered reading. It was the attack on Virginsky’s former professor of jurisprudence, Tatiscev. It seemed that over the years K. had waged something of a campaign against this man, and was, as far as Porfiry could tell, the originator of the soubriquet ‘The Devil’s Professor.’
Porfiry now rearranged the clippings thematically. There were seven articles attacking Tatiscev, as well as five other articles which mercilessly lampooned another individual, one Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov. This gentleman appeared to be a former professor of history, a liberal of a previous generation, whom K. deemed to be utterly without purpose or point. In short, he considered him to be a ‘superfluous man’ and called upon him to do the decent thing, which was – in K.’s opinion – simply to disappear.
Other individuals also served as targets for K.’s barbs, but none to the same extent as Tatiscev and Lebezyatnikov.
‘He seems to have a singular antipathy towards academic gentlemen.’ It was only after Porfiry had given voice to this musing that he realised there was no one there to hear it. Virginsky had not yet presented himself at the department. Porfiry consulted his fob watch. It was close to eleven.
Porfiry rose from his desk and peered outside his chambers to confer with his clerk. ‘Alexander Grigorevich, have you seen Pavel Pavlovich this morning?’
Zamyotov gave a minimal shake of the head, putting far more effort into producing a disdainful snort.
‘While I think of it, I need you to make an enquiry at the Address Office. The name is Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov. A former professor of history. I require his address as soon as possible, if you please.’
Porfiry returned to his desk and read again the series of articles attacking Professor Tatiscev. The charges in each piece amounted to more or less the same complaint, continually restated: simply that the writer held the new law courts responsible for the decline in morality evident everywhere in society. Professor Tatiscev, as a noted supporter of the new courts, was held up as the human embodiment of all that was evil.
Of course, reasoned Porfiry, it would not do for the writer to attack the Tsar – at least not in these publications. The Tsar was above criticism. But the fact remained that it was the Tsar who had signed off the reform of the legal system. Tatiscev was outside the government, and, as far as Porfiry could tell, had never been in a position to influence the Tsar or his ministers. It was not even known if his opinion had been sought. The only charge that could be laid against him was that some of his former students had gone on to profit from the new system by becoming highly successful defence attorneys. What made him a natural target for these conservative papers was that he was a well-known radical, and also that he was an educator, with access to and influence over the younger generation. In other words, it was men like Tatiscev who were responsible for the gulf that had formed between fathers, who read publications like Russian Soil and Russian Era, and their sons, who preferred Affair.
Is that all there is to it? wondered Porfiry.
The political basis of the attacks was undoubtedly thin, perhaps deliberately so. If anything, Tatiscev came across as a straw man. Porfiry reminded himself that the writer of the articles was, under his real name, a radical journalist, who would undoubtedly have approved of Tatiscev’s political stance. If Kozodavlev wrote these pieces purely for money, as hackwork, he would be careful not to inflict serious damage on the cause in which he truly believed. And yet he might be willing to vilify a man he personally disliked, especially as he was doing so under the cloak of anonymity.
A cannonade of innuendo was fired off. Was it any wonder that our country was in crisis when a whole generation of jurists had sat at the feet of a man who had learnt his ethics from the serpent? The Devil’s Professor was not content to call for an end to the institution of marriage but had manfully taken it upon himself to bring it about, marriage by marriage. He wa
s always ready with his own firm answer to the woman question. And just so that there should be no doubt what that answer was, it was asserted that Tatiscev had taken down the icon in his study and replaced it with a statue of Priapos.
To be frank, it was all rather juvenile, not to mention libellous. Beneath one of the articles, and seemingly linked to it, was a piece about the desecration of some icons in a church and the theft of relics and religious gems. In fact, there was no explicit connection made to Tatiscev, and indeed this piece appeared not to have been written by K.; nonetheless, the proximity of the articles associated the hapless professor with this crime too.
The four articles attacking Professor Lebezyatnikov were altogether different in tone, more light-hearted, entirely lacking in any scurrilous suggestions, but rather treating the former historian as a harmless buffoon. These lampoons could almost be said to be affectionate, celebrating rather than savaging their target. Porfiry was hard-pressed to see the point of the articles, as Professor Lebezyatnikov was now a retired gentleman, with practically no influence in society. If he might be described as ‘superfluous,’ what did that make the articles satirising him? Apparently, if K.’s satire was to be believed, he retained a high opinion of his importance, despite abundant evidence of his worthlessness. No doubt that made him ridiculous; it also made him somewhat pathetic. The attacks on him amounted to little more than a catalogue of the follies of a deluded old man.
It was past noon when Virginsky finally appeared. His face, drained of all colour, looked as though it had been slightly inflated, which had the effect of shrinking his eyes into narrow slits.
‘My God, Pavel Pavlovich, what has happened to you?’
‘I ran into someone.’
‘With your face?’
Virginsky squinted. ‘The sunlight is particularly bright today, do you not find?’
‘I do not find it especially so. Perhaps you would like to move your chair, so that you are not looking directly into the window. Would you care for some tea?’
Virginsky shook his head. ‘Are you not going to reprimand me?’ He winced, as if he felt Porfiry’s solicitude to be an intolerable cruelty.
‘I prefer not to. I imagine that your own conscience, the inevitable pangs of . . . uh, remorse that you are suffering, will serve as both reprimand and warning. I will, however, express my concern, Pavel Pavlovich. Permit me to say that this is not like you. In all the years I have known you, I have observed you to be an admirably sober young man. To call you abstemious would not be overstating it. Therefore I consider this evident lapse to be out of character. I trust it does not presage the onset of a new habit and is rather the temporary influence of Yarilo, coupled with the accident of meeting an old friend.’
‘He was not an old friend.’
‘A new friend then?’
‘Why are you so interested in him? Am I not permitted to have a life outside the department, of which you are not a part?’
‘My dear, of course you are permitted! What an extraordinary thought! Let us put this behind us. In point of fact, I am secretly rather pleased that you have allowed yourself to relax to this extent. So long as it does not become a regular occurrence, I can only think that it will do you good to go on a binge once in a while.’
‘It was not a binge. I do not go on binges, Porfiry Petrovich. I . . .’ But Virginsky broke off. A confessional flicker in his eyes was as close as he got to confiding in Porfiry.
‘I understand completely. It is because you are not used to indulging in alcoholic consumption at all that a small amount had such a deleterious effect on you. There are some taverns in Haymarket Square where one only has to breathe in the atmosphere and the room begins to spin.’
‘How did you know I was in Haymarket Square?’
‘I did not. I only mentioned Haymarket Square because it is notorious for the density of its drinking dives. I rather imagined that you and your friend entertained yourselves in a far more respectable establishment. Somewhere like the Crystal Palace, no doubt?’
‘Why Crystal Palace? What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean nothing by it, Pavel Pavlovich! Good Heavens, what has got into you? You are so very sensitive this morning.’
‘It is a satirical reference to my political aspirations, is it not?’
‘In all honesty, no. I merely mentioned it because I know it to be a lively place where young people are wont to meet.’ Porfiry blinked his face into an expression of severity. ‘Enough, Pavel Pavlovich. I must ask you, are you here to work or to pick a fight with me? If it is the latter, then I have no use for you, not today, not any day.’
‘I . . . I apologise, Porfiry Petrovich. I will endeavour to fulfil my duties as well as I am able. I trust that you will not be disappointed.’
‘If you are up to it, I would have you look at these. Kozodavlev’s cuttings from Russian Soil and Russian Era. When you have finished reading them, I suggest we pay a visit to the university, where I hope you will introduce me to your old professor.’
*
Virginsky surveyed the narrow infinity of parquet flooring ahead of him. He was standing at one end of the great, elongated hallway of the Twelve Collegiums building on Vasilevsky Island. The hallway ran the entire length of that determinedly linear structure, connecting all the faculties and disciplines – linking History and Philology to Philosophy and Law, Physics and Mathematics to Oriental Studies – in one long sequence of learning. The unifying principle of the architecture had been inherited from Peter the Great, who had originally commissioned the building to bring together the disparate departments, or colleges, of his bureaucracy.
It was two weeks since Good Friday. Lectures were over for the year. The place was almost deserted.
Virginsky felt again the same sickening mixture of apprehension and anger that he had known as a student walking the hallway. Perhaps that was where his habit of counting his steps had originated, for he knew that it was three hundred and sixty-four paces from one end to the other. He remembered the awe that the seemingly endless corridor had inspired in him the first time he had confronted it. It came to represent an uncertain and bewildering future. His hope had once been that, as he walked its length, he would acquire the knowledge and skills he needed to make his way in the world. Of course, it had not quite worked out like that. He had acquired something, been prepared for something, but in the process his ideas about what constituted ‘making his way in the world’ had been subject to constant revision. It was ironic to think that such a long, straight corridor could lead in so many directions.
Along one side of the hallway were the arched windows that looked out onto University Line, with benches projecting from the wall beneath them; along the other, glass-fronted bookcases and the doors to lecture rooms and faculty offices. The vast length of the corridor was punctuated by statues and portraits of benefactors and men of learning, put there, perhaps, as much to inspire the students as to honour the dead. To the student Virginsky, they had been distant and intimidating presences. Indeed, he could now look upon his whole time at the university as an attempt to overcome the sense of inadequacy that those figures provoked, to reach a point where he could consider himself, if not their equal, at least entitled to be their critic.
One man had encouraged him in this aspiration, the man they were now coming to see, Professor Alexander Glebovich Tatiscev.
As he passed the figures now, Virginsky barely gave them a second thought.
‘Significant, is it not, that the university rolls together the disciplines of law and philosophy into one faculty?’ mused Porfiry. ‘It inevitably makes philosophers of our lawyers. I wonder if this singular circumstance is not responsible for all the recent developments in our society, those which publications like Russian Soil inevitably perceive as ills.’
‘There is nothing surprising about it,’ answered Virginsky. ‘How a state administers justice – or fails to – makes that state what it is. It is necessarily a philosophical, as well as a
political, consideration. Similarly, when one begins to think deeply about the concept of justice, one is inevitably led to question the administrative arrangements within which justice is expected to function. If those arrangements are flawed, one naturally calls for change. The teaching of jurisprudence is inherently inimical to the status quo.’
‘Inherently? Only if the status quo is itself unjust, surely?’
‘Well, yes. That goes without saying. As it goes without saying that the status quo here in Russia is unjust.’
‘Good gracious, Pavel Pavlovich! How emboldened you are by this return to your alma mater!’
‘The very fact that you consider what I have said to be bold, when it is simply a statement of fact, proves my point, Porfiry Petrovich.’ And yet there was some truth in what Porfiry had said, although Virginsky would not acknowledge it. A nervous excitement had been mounting with each step he took along the hallway. It was overlaid by a complicated nostalgia, not wholly, or even predominantly good. He had been so often hungry and unhappy as a student that it could hardly be a simple pleasure to feel himself walking back into that past.
His feelings about meeting his former professor were equally complex. He ought not to feel such trepidation. But he could not shake off the anxiety that he would be a disappointment to his erstwhile mentor. Had he not, after all, chosen a career path that appeared to put him on the side of the enemy? He was barely able to admit to an even worse fear: that Tatiscev would be a disappointment to him.
Virginsky slowed and stopped. Had he subconsciously been counting his steps all the time? Somehow, without looking, he knew that they had reached Professor Tatiscev’s door, two hundred and three paces from the southern end of the hallway. A glance at the brass nameplate confirmed his instinct.
Porfiry smiled and made a gesture of encouragement. He was allowing Virginsky the privilege of knocking.
‘Enter!’ As the invitation rang out, Virginsky was taken deeper into his emotional memory. He was once again the student who had not quite put enough work into his essay; whose hand as he reached for the door trembled with dread at the prospect of the imminent tutorial; who was nagged by a perpetual sense that he was squandering the valuable opportunities cast his way. And then something that had not occurred to him until now suddenly deflated his confidence even more: He will not remember me!
