Read The Cleansing Flames Online
Authors: R. N. Morris
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General
His gaze must have fallen on that image countless times in his life. Small wonder that when he had seen the statue in the park he had the sense that he had contemplated the figure before. And yet he was not aware of ever consciously considering it. It was simply the ground he walked on whenever he came to the Ministry.
He took the stairs to the second floor. His step was slow and plodding today, and fell with a heavy reverberation. The exertions of the previous day had taken it out of him. Naturally, it had not been the first time in his career that he had attended the forensic examination of a corpse, but for some reason this one seemed harder than usual to get beyond. The trip to the fair had not wholly succeeded in dispelling his gloom – or in taking the whiff of death from his nostrils, as he had put it to Virginsky. The disappointments of the afternoon, the non-appearance of his mysterious correspondent and the mistake over the poster, had set him back disproportionately. He was aware of a winter tightness lingering in his chest. He acknowledged that it was getting harder each year to shake it off. And yet the exercise, surely, must do him some good? Why then did he feel like a swimmer who has been carried too far out to sea and is in fear of not being able to regain the shore?
Porfiry looked down, as if he could no longer sustain the weight of his head. The black and white tiles of the corridor brought to mind Pulchinella, dressed in white, with his black half-mask. Porfiry smiled to himself at the memory of Virginsky’s bewilderment. It was simple really. Just the old antithesis: Death in life. Life from death. And why Petrushka as well as Pulchinella? Because life is abundant and excessive, and uncontrollably anarchic.
Porfiry lifted his head and quickened his step. He was picturing himself in Pulchinella’s costume.
It was not long before he reached the Ministry of Justice library. It took a moment for him to catch his breath, then he made his request of the librarian.
The silver-whiskered clerk observed him with a critical and unpromising eye. ‘You must fill in a chit.’
‘Of course, yes. The inevitable chit.’
The librarian handed him a small printed form and a pencil stub. ‘First, take a seat. Fill in your place number here. The date and title of the journal you require here.’
‘But I may require more than one issue, of more than one title.’
‘Then you will need more chits. Please help yourself to as many as you need.’
‘I would really like you to bring all of the newspapers that you have from that time.’
‘I will be happy to do so if you fill in the necessary chits.’
Porfiry placed a finger to the bridge of his nose and pressed, hard. ‘Sometimes I cannot help thinking that there must be . . .’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Never mind. I will fill in the chits. And if I do not find what I am looking for at first, I will fill in more chits.’
‘That’s the way,’ nodded the librarian.
Porfiry took a seat at the end of a long table, subdivided by low screens into separate places. Next to him, a young magistrate was snoring over an open law book. Porfiry coughed sharply. His neighbour woke with a start and applied himself with renewed vigour to the case he had been studying.
Although he would not have admitted it, Porfiry found the necessity of filling in the chits useful. It forced him to focus his mind. The letter writer had expressed the view that Porfiry would be ‘surprised’ to read a favourable account of himself in the journal in question. That suggested a radical publication, by instinct unlikely to acknowledge anything praiseworthy in the behaviour of a state prosecutor. Then again, what had impressed the writer was the humanity of Porfiry’s conduct, by which Porfiry took him to mean his compassion for the murderer. One would naturally be very surprised to find sentiments of that nature meeting with approval in any conservative paper. He had only to think of the fulminating leaders of
The Russian Soil
. On balance, he was inclined to start with the radical journals.
The leading radical titles at the time of the trial were
The Contemporary
and
The Russian Word
. The latter, with the emergence of the brilliant publicist Pisarev, was the more extreme of the two. Its stance was anti-state by default, leading to its enforced closure in the following year, in the aftermath of Karakozov’s attempt on the Tsar’s life. It would truly be surprising to find an article expressing approval of a government-employed magistrate in its pages.
The trial had lasted barely five days. Most of that time had been taken up in establishing the mental state of the perpetrator, and in arguments concerning sentence. His guilt had never been in question. Indeed, he had confessed to his crime. A disproportionate number of days had been consumed by the ultimately fruitless task of trying to understand why he had committed it. That was not to say that it was not a question worth asking. On the contrary, it was an essential question. It was just that Porfiry’s colleagues had not had the remotest idea of how to go about answering it. The defendant himself was little help. And so the debate had raged, an emotional whirlpool of ever-increasing exasperation and incomprehension. The more they discussed it, the less they understood it.
The Russian Word
had been a monthly journal, and so Porfiry filled in three chits, one for the month before the trial, one covering the trial itself, and one to cover its conclusion and aftermath. As a precaution, he completed chits for the corresponding issues of
The Contemporary
.
The elderly librarian’s substantial eyebrows shot up when he saw the titles Porfiry had requested. ‘You did not tell me that you wished to consult these particular papers.’ The habitual dourness of his expression sharpened into horror.
‘You did not ask me. Is there some problem?’
‘Wait there.’
The librarian moved with a sprightliness that belied his evident age, and which Porfiry could only envy, to disappear through a door at the rear of the library.
A moment later he re-emerged, followed by what could only be described as a younger version of himself. The side whiskers had not yet turned silver but the eyebrows were well on their way to achieving a beetling prominence. More importantly, the gaze was equally discouraging.
It must have been a disconcerting experience for both parties to work together: one man confronted daily by the image of his future, the other by that of his past.
‘You are aware,’ began the younger librarian, who was evidently more senior in rank, ‘that one of the titles you have requested is a restricted publication.’
‘I was not aware of that. I was not even aware that there is a list of restricted publications.’
‘That is hardly surprising. The list itself is restricted.’
‘Ah, I see. I take it you are talking about
The Russian Word
?’
‘Yes. There will be no difficulty with your seeing
The Contemporary
.’
‘However, it was
The Russian Word
that I was particularly desirous of seeing.’
‘That will not be possible.’
‘But you don’t understand, I am an investigating magistrate pursuing a murder enquiry. I believe there may be vital information in the issues of
The Russian Word
from that period.’
‘Timofei Ivanovich will be happy to retrieve the copies of
The Contemporary
that you have requested from the stacks, if you will return to your place.’
‘Yes, of course. That is indeed considerate of him, as I do not believe the journals in question will be able to walk to my place on their own.’ The barb failed to dent either librarian’s stony mask, and Porfiry immediately regretted it. Sarcasm was not the way to win these people over. ‘It is true that I do want to look at
The Contemporary
, but I also want to look at
The Russian Word
. In fact, I particularly want to. You do understand, don’t you? I want to consult both titles. There must be some way for me to see
The Russian Word
?’
‘There is only one way,’ said the younger librarian, but not in a way that encouraged hope.
‘Yes?’
‘But that would mean filling in a different chit.’ This was given as an insurmountable obstacle.
‘Of course! Whatever is necessary!’
‘Which you must then have signed by the head of the Third Section, Count Shuvalov himself.’
Porfiry was momentarily speechless. When he found his voice, all he could say was, ‘Count Shuvalov? Are you sure?’
The two heads of elder and younger librarian nodded in unison.
‘Must we trouble Count Shuvalov with a trivial request for a couple of old journals?’
‘The request is not trivial. It is a restricted publication. If it falls into the wrong hands, who knows what incendiarism it might provoke.’
‘I am a government employee! In fact, an employee of the Ministry of Justice. I require the copies in connection with work I am conducting on behalf of the Ministry.’ Porfiry held up his hands. ‘Surely these are not the wrong hands?’
‘We must believe that it has been restricted for good reason.’
‘Ah, but you see, at the time, back in 1866, it was not restricted. Anyone could read it! Indeed there must be many copies of this very issue in open circulation, thousands even, gathering dust on the shelves of respectable professional gentlemen.’
‘Shall I tell Timofei Ivanovich to fetch the copies of
The Contemporary
?’ There was something new to the younger librarian’s tone as he asked this. Porfiry was alert to the nuance and so he nodded assent.
They both watched the older man on his way. When the door had closed behind him, Porfiry looked over his own shoulder before taking out his wallet. ‘How much?’
‘I shall have to give Timofei Ivanovich something.’
Porfiry peeled off a red ten-rouble bank note.
The librarian’s twitching fingers induced a second. Then he snatched the notes away with the alacrity of a hungry peasant.
This young man is himself the victim here, driven to a crime that he is at a loss to explain, by the twin evils of poverty and sickness. He deserves not our opprobrium, but rather our pity. Who is really responsible for the deaths of the rapacious pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna Kamenya and her unfortunate half-sister Lizaveta? It is not Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, though he wielded the implement that took away their lives. His sickness was to blame. We must allow that he did not choose to be sick. Even his prosecutors will not make that claim. His sickness without doubt derived from the dire exigencies of the life he was forced to lead through poverty. Expelled from the university, bankrupt of funds, delirious from starvation, it is little wonder that he found himself acting in a manner over which he had no control. And so, to answer the question, ‘Who is responsible for the deaths of Alyona Ivanovna and Lizaveta Ivanovna?’, we must ask, ‘Who is responsible for Rodion Romanovich’s poverty?’ Every man and woman of conscience will know in their hearts the answer to that question. For who is responsible for the poverty of many millions of Russians? Again, it does not need this writer to supply an answer.
As we are addressing men and women of conscience, it goes without saying that every one of them will be appalled by the horrific circumstances of Alyona Ivanovna and Lizaveta Ivanovna’s deaths. It is not our intention to diminish the true horror of these crimes. Merely to identify the true perpetrator. I say again, it is not Raskolnikov. It is the system that created Raskolnikov. It has been scientifically proven that in a system based on true socialist ideals, that is to say one in which the benefits of production are distributed equally throughout society, it will be impossible for crime to exist. One will simply do away with crime
at a stroke
by changing the socio-economic bases of the state. The sickness and poverty that caused Raskolnikov’s crime will be eradicated, and with them Raskolnikov’s crime. What need would Raskolnikov have to kill a bloodsucking moneylender when there are no bloodsucking moneylenders to kill, and when, in addition, all his material needs are met?
The logic is irrefutable and must lead, if pursued to its conclusion, to the acquittal of Raskolnikov and to the presence before the bench of other individuals. (I need not name them, when their names are known to all.)
Of course, encouraging as some of the recent verdicts of our juries have been, we must admit that the law courts do not always operate in accordance with the dictates of logic. Even if the counsel for the defence were to avail himself of the arguments that we have put forward, there is no guarantee that they will meet with a sympathetic hearing. The chief difficulty in this particular case is that the defendant has already confessed his guilt (would that he had read this article first!). There is, therefore, nothing for the jury to decide, no verdict to deliver. One must only await the sentence. It is too much to hope that a prosecuting judge will be swayed by an essay in
The Russian Word
. (We know for a fact that many prosecuting judges read
The Russian Word
; we will not speculate as to their reasons.) However, in the person of one investigating magistrate at least, we feel justified in placing faith. It may surprise the reader to know that we are talking of the very man who hounded Rodion Romanovich into confessing.
We have been struck throughout the preliminaries of the trial by the humanity and tact of this individual’s demeanour. We expected a wolf baying for blood. We found a human being sensitive to the plight of a less fortunate brother. The magistrate in question may not appreciate our approval, for we imagine that in official circles, to be praised by
The Russian Word
signals the end of a promising career. But the truth will out. The truth is that it was this magistrate’s official duty to construct the case against Rodion Romanovich. The truth is also that he went so far in the opposite direction as to make certain evidence favouring the defendant available to the defence. Even as we write, he is engaged in advising the defence on the construction of an argument likely to lead to mitigation in sentencing. Granted, all this falls some way short of the ideal. Let us repeat: we are entitled to demand from the judicial process nothing less than the unconditional acquittal of Raskolnikov; nevertheless, it is a significant step in the right direction, for which P.P. (let us discreetly call our investigating magistrate P.P.) deserves credit.
Porfiry Petrovich allowed himself an inner chuckle. What would Pavel Pavlovich say! To see his old ideological adversary lauded in no less an organ than
The Russian Word
! For it was true that every time Virginsky had put forward similar views concerning the organisation of society, Porfiry had gently but thoroughly quashed them, counselling a more moderate, practical approach. He had even cautioned his young friend against initiating such debates in the bureau. Without doubt, Virginsky looked upon Porfiry with indulgent contempt, as a weak-livered, intellectually compromised, outmoded liberal. A man whose time had passed.
If only he had Virginsky there with him now, to show him the page!
Porfiry tried once more to visualise the journalists who had been present in the courtroom. He must have addressed them after the trial too. It was customary for them to identify themselves and their papers as they called out their questions. But he had no recollection of the occasion. A face floated into his mind, but he did not trust it. He felt that it was his imagination rather than his memory that supplied it.
But at least he had a name now. The article was credited to one D. A. Kozodavlev. Porfiry felt sure that this was one and the same as his anonymous letter writer, if only for a stylistic tic that both letter and article shared. Indeed, in such matters, it was closer to the truth to describe it as a psychological tic.
*
‘Yes, but what makes you so certain?’ There was a petulant tone to Virginsky’s question, possibly occasioned by the concluding remarks of the article that Porfiry had just shown him.
It had taken a further three red banknotes, as well as completion of a yellow chit, to secure the removal of the relevant edition of
The Russian Word
from the library. Strictly speaking, a restricted publication could not be removed from the library under any circumstances. However, the fact that Porfiry had been allowed to view the journal created an anomaly, which was most simply resolved by temporarily removing it from the restricted list. (This was achieved by referring to an earlier version of the restricted list, which did not contain
The Russian Word
, and which by a bureaucratic oversight had remained in force.) If
The Russian Word
was not restricted, it followed that he was free to take it out, on completion of a standard yellow chit. The younger librarian had shown remarkable ingenuity in devising these strategies, which together with his willingness to accept bribes, boded well for his future in the service. There was every possibility that he would escape the fate that his aged doppelgänger seemed to represent. He would go far, in other words.
Porfiry did not answer Virginsky’s question. ‘You will notice this, from Kozodavlev’s article: “It may surprise the reader to know that we are talking of the very man who hounded Rodion Romanovich into confessing.” He is referring to me, of course. But note the phrase, “It may surprise the reader.” Now, if we go back to the anonymous letter I received, we will find the following: “It might have surprised you to have read such an account in such a journal.” What are we to make of this?’ Porfiry did not wait for an answer: ‘Here is a man who likes to surprise his readers! I feel sure it is the same writer. Now, all we have to do is track down Mr Kozodavlev. That shouldn’t be so hard to do.
The Russian Word
was suppressed by the government in 1866. If my knowledge of radical journals is correct, the editor Blagosvetlov founded a new journal,
Affair
, which I believe is still in circulation, is it not, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘I believe so.’
‘We need only to make enquiries at the Censorship Office to locate its address. Perhaps you would oblige me by drafting the necessary request, on the correct official chit, please.’ Porfiry smiled and batted his eyelids in an attempt to be winning. It was an attempt laden with irony. ‘I suggest we begin our enquiries there. Indeed, if we are fortunate, we may even find our Mr Kozodavlev in attendance. I imagine that all the contributors to
The Russian Word
transferred their allegiance to
Affair
.’
For some reason he could not explain, Porfiry felt his spirits revive. He felt the renewal of energy that he had hoped for at the onset of spring, and that the fairground had temporarily provided. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he had found himself favourably referred to in a defunct radical journal, though why he should take delight from this baffled him. Porfiry preferred to believe that it was simply the invigorating effect of a genuine lead in the case they were investigating. He was, he realised with pleasure, a hound with a fresh scent in his snout. His energy was the bound of exultation against the leash.