'Can you trust him?'

Botkin did not reply, except to crank up the angle of his lopsided leer, as if to say that it did not matter to him one way or the other if Virginsky could be trusted or not.

'What do you mean by that?' demanded Kirill Kirillovich indignantly.

'Can I trust you? Can you trust me? Can he trust us? I mean to say, my dear Kirill Kirillovich, that trust is not an absolute. It is always relative, always provisional, never stable. Trust, whatever it is, is a highly volatile substance. I am not even sure it exists at all. And so, there is no meaningful answer to the question you asked. One must act as if there is trust between us, otherwise we could get nothing done. Still and all, at the same time, one must never lower one's guard. In essence, trust no one. Do not even trust yourself, Kirill Kirillovich.'

'That is absurd. More of your mysticism, Alyosha Afanasevich. You know that there is to be an important personage here tonight? I trust that nothing untoward will occur.'

'How do you know that there will be someone here tonight?'

'Why, you yourself told me!'

'Exactly. Therefore, I hardly think you need to issue such warnings to me.' Botkin scanned the room. 'Our people are all here, I see.'

'We are still awaiting Dolgoruky.'

Virginsky c.o.c.ked his head sharply at the name. 'Prince Dolgoruky is coming tonight?'

'We do not recognise such t.i.tles,' answered Kirill Kirillovich. 'But yes, Dolgoruky is expected. Do you know him?' His frown darkened as he considered Virginsky.

'I have . . . met him. His name came up in connection with a case I was investigating.'

'And are you here investigating a case?' asked Kirill Kirillovich.

Before Virginsky could answer, the woman handing out tea thrust a cup into his hand. 'Everyone must have tea! If this is to be a proper Russian name day. Any friend of my husband's is a friend of mine.'

Kirill Kirillovich's frown changed its tenor in the presence of his wife. It seemed to go from something fierce and disapproving to a look of helpless despair. 'Varvara Alexeevna, this is not necessary, as you know.'

'Oh but it is, Kirill Kirillovich,' insisted his wife. 'We must create the semblance of a true name day, in the event of a police raid. At any rate, it is your name day. And we have guests. Why should I not give them tea?'

'Let us get on with it,' said Botkin. 'Dolgoruky is late. We cannot wait for ever.'

Kirill Kirillovich gave a sharp nod of a.s.sent. 'I for one am anxious to begin.'

Just as this was decided, there was an exuberant rap on the door.

'Dolgoruky,' said Kirill Kirillovich sourly.

'He does not even use the entry code!' complained Botkin.

'That is how we may know it is Dolgoruky.'

'If he will not trouble to learn the code, then he must not be admitted,' declared Botkin. 'We must teach him the discipline that he is incapable of instilling in himself.'

'Not admit the Prince!' cried Varvara Alexeevna, bustling past them to the door. 'It will be a sorry party without the Prince.'

25.

The girl with the broken laugh.

An explosion of laughter accompanied Dolgoruky's entrance to the apartment. Virginsky waited tensely for his appearance in the drawing room. He was suddenly aware that he had sobered up completely. At that moment, it seemed unlikely to him that he would ever drink vodka again.

Prince Dolgoruky stepped into the room with a faintly mocking smile on his face, as if he was struggling to take the whole thing seriously. It was also apparently impossible for him to suppress entirely the aristocratic disdain with which he habitually greeted everything and everyone he encountered. There was no sign of the tormented side of his Byronic nature, the devil-haunted individual Virginsky had briefly glimpsed at their last encounter.

Dolgoruky was accompanied by a much younger woman. Whether they had arrived together by accident, or whether Dolgoruky had brought her with him, was not clear. An instinct for jealousy inclined Virginsky to prefer the former explanation. Virginsky felt that he had seen the woman's face before. Perhaps she simply conformed to a type that was becoming familiar to him. She was physically attractive, although not in an easy or approachable way. There was something guarded and even aloof about her gaze, which was accentuated by an unusually long neck. He was sure he had not seen her at the offices of Affair. It was some time before that, perhaps long ago. He had the sense that she had changed enormously since the last time he had seen her, and that she would not have appreciated being reminded of it. He sensed the wariness in her a.s.sessment of him, and the flicker of alarm when something like recognition showed on her face. She was someone he had encountered in his official duties, he felt sure of that.

In the event, he was denied the opportunity of giving it any further thought. Dolgoruky approached him with a jabbing finger. 'I know this man. He is a magistrate. Did you know that, Kirill Kirillovich?'

'Yes. Botkin brought him here.'

'Botkin? Is this wise?'

'He is sympathetic to the cause. He wishes to help us. A magistrate could be very useful to us.'

'He was snooping around asking questions about Kozodavlev. Leastways his superior was. A most eccentric individual. He claimed I did not interest him!'

Virginsky sensed Botkin and Kirill Kirillovich regard him with a new and dangerous interest. 'It's true,' he confessed. 'We were investigating the death of Kozodavlev, in connection with a body found in the Winter Ca.n.a.l. The body of Pseldonimov. The secret information I gave to you, Alyosha Afanasevich, relates to that case. The fact of the matter is that we are no longer working on it. It has been taken from us. As I told you, Rakitin is in the hands of the Third Section. I have never hidden from you my position as a magistrate. On the contrary, I have shared with you useful information acquired through that position.'

'The information he gave me was, in fact, of limited usefulness.' There was a chilling finality to Botkin's utterance. It had the ring of a sentence being p.r.o.nounced.

'You see what you have done!' cried Kirill Kirillovich, in sudden panic. 'What kind of a man you have brought here! You have put us all in danger.'

Virginsky felt as if the room was closing in on him. Many of the guests had risen from their seats. They were pressing forward in response to their host's shrill cries. He noticed a vindicated smile on the face of the young man who had admitted them.

'What do you propose we do with him?' asked Botkin darkly.

'That is a question for you to answer,' bleated Kirill Kirillovich. 'You brought him here.'

Virginsky felt that his fate was being decided, and that the decision would not go his way.

'Wait!' It was the voice of the woman who had entered with Dolgoruky, clear and naturally authoritative. She seemed to turn the mood of the gathering with just one word. 'Let me ask you outright: What are you proposing? That we kill this man and dispose of his body?'

Now that she had expressed the matter with such chilling and almost gleeful directness, it seemed that the others began to back away from the idea. They were suddenly desperate for her to talk them out of it.

'Let me tell you, if that is what you're thinking, you are no worse than a gang of common criminals. We did not instigate the revolution in order to give men like you the licence to commit violent acts. Yes, we will be ruthless when the time comes. We will strike, and we will strike hard. If a head needs cutting off, I will be first in line with an axe. But we must choose our targets carefully. An ill-considered attack, prompted by panic, and executed without due diligence, can only serve to bring us to the attention of the authorities.'

She broke off to consider Virginsky. A wrinkle of distaste upset the balance of her face. 'This man may be a police agent, but I doubt it. Really, would even our police be so stupid as to send a serving magistrate to infiltrate a revolutionary grouping? I have had some experience of spies and informers, you know. In Paris, during the Commune. Invariably, it turns out to be the one you would least suspect. If you want to find the agent amongst us and yes, you may be sure that there is already an agent amongst us, and has been long before this young man's appearance there is no great mystery to it. You simply look for the man who most exemplifies the common stereotype of a revolutionist. Botkin is more likely to be a police spy than him. Or Totsky,' she added, as if to lessen the implicit accusation she had made against Botkin. The afterthought caused the young 'Bazarov' to blush, indicating to Virginsky that he was the Totsky she had referred to. 'The police or the Third Section, or whoever wishes to infiltrate us would naturally want their agent to fit in, not to stand out, as this fellow so pitiably does. Why, he did not even bother to get out of his service uniform!'

Her observation, facetiously made, provoked mocking laughter from the other guests. With it, the tension was released.

The young woman had possibly saved Virginsky's life. He sought out her eyes gratefully. It seemed at first that she was avoiding him, but when their eyes did meet, her expression was not what he had expected, or hoped for. There was the cast of something unmistakably unpleasant there, something indistinguishable from contempt. She looked away from him quickly. Her gaze had now acquired a constantly drifting restlessness that took Virginsky more concretely back into his memory. For now he was certain that they had met before, and he remembered under what circ.u.mstances too. Now that he was able to place her, he realised that his intuition had been correct: she was very much changed.

'I would also say,' she continued, addressing the room at large, 'that the way to ensure the loyalty of those we recruit to our cause is not through terror but through education. When people understand what we are fighting for, when they share not only our convictions but also the fervour with which we hold them, we need not fear that they will betray us.'

Virginsky could hardly believe this was the flippant, cynically knowing girl he had met once before, the spoilt daughter of a lecherous father, the girl with the broken laugh, whose dangerous appet.i.te for experience had brought her close to ruin. There was no note of cynicism in her voice at all now, and in her eyes no hungry glimmer, no desperate seeking after men's attention. 'Let us say,' she went on, speaking with a calm, unforced confidence, knowing that she could hold the room through her words alone, 'that there is here amongst us one who has come with the intention of spying on us. If, after an evening in our company, he has not converted wholeheartedly to our cause and volunteered to spy on his former masters on our behalf well, then, we are sorry revolutionists. You might even say we would deserve to be informed against! For every word we utter is a revolutionary act. Therefore, we must make our every word count and carry the fight with us wherever we go. Comrades, to kill one who has come amongst us is a sign of our failure, as much as his disloyalty. It must only ever be done as a last resort.'

'But you do not deny that force may be used when necessary?' It was Botkin who asked the question.

'There! You see!' cried the young woman exultantly. Only now did Virginsky detect a sign of the nervous excitement that had once dominated her behaviour. She laughed, and it was the same broken laugh he remembered. 'How he seeks to entrap me! How like a spy!'

'Not at all. I was merely seeking to . . .' Botkin shook his head angrily. 'Oh, never mind. You know that I have the greatest respect for you, Tatyana Ruslanovna. Your experience during the Commune counts for a lot. No one doubts that you are a tireless worker for social revolution. However . . . you do not know men like I do. Sometimes, a measure of healthy fear can accomplish a lot.'

'I understand that.'

'Tatyana Ruslanovna.' Virginsky murmured her name wonderingly.

The young woman, serious again, gave a minute, almost imperceptible shake of the head, as if she were denying any connection with the person he might have a.s.sociated with that name. Or possibly the gesture was a warning. Either way, it seemed that she remembered him.

'Enough of this,' said Kirill Kirillovich. 'We have kept our people waiting long enough.'

The meeting began chaotically. Kirill Kirillovich attempted to take the floor, on the grounds that it was his name day. However, he was shouted down, on the grounds that that was simply a pretext and had nothing to do with anything. Reluctantly, he gave way, although the look of sour disappointment remained on his face for the rest of the evening.

A grey-faced professorial type, older than most others there, stood up with a thick ream of papers in one hand. The groan of dismay was palpable rather than audible, an evident respect for his learning and revolutionary credentials acting as a restraint. He began to read from the papers. After a rather incoherent introduction, his thesis developed into a critique of Fourierism, tremendously pedantic and hard to follow. What made it worse was that his reading voice was a dreary monotone, pitched in an extraordinarily high register, making it uncomfortable to listen to.

He had not got far into his argument when Dolgoruky, who was perched on the arm of a sofa, interrupted: 'How much more of this is there?' His face wore an expression of disgust, and his tone was deliberately insolent.

The professor angled his head so that he was addressing Dolgoruky without looking at him. 'It is a complex subject. I have looked into every aspect of it.'

'How many pages do you have there, man?'

'One hundred.' The professor thumbed his pages and added, 'And seventeen.'

'You cannot seriously be proposing to read out all one hundred and seventeen pages!'

'If there proves to be insufficient time to read it all this evening, I will present the remainder at our next meeting.'

'But we will be here for all eternity. Trapped in this room, listening to you drone on and on about G.o.d knows what. And meanwhile the revolution will have taken place without us! This is what is wrong with you people! Don't you see? What we need is action. Acts! Not words. Especially not these words.'

Dolgoruky's outburst was greeted with stunned silence. Eventually, the professor gathered his wits enough to say, 'But there must be some theoretical basis for action.'

'Of course! And everyone here understands the theoretical basis well enough. The tsarist regime is corrupt, inefficient and unjust. It must be got rid of. So, let us get rid of it!'

'But there is the question of how that is to be achieved. Ways and means.'

'I am very happy to join in that discussion.'

'And then there is the question of with what you will replace it.'

'I thought that was settled. Don't all you people want democracy?'

'Ah, but it is not so simple as that,' objected the professor, allowing himself a small smile of intellectual superiority. 'How does one ensure social justice after the initial revolutionary goals have been achieved?'

Dolgoruky waved his hand airily. 'We will cross that bridge when we come to it.'

'I agree with Dolgoruky,' said Botkin. 'To the extent that I think we should concentrate our discussions on practical matters. However, I also agree that it is important that our people have a firm grasp of the theoretical and intellectual bases of our movement.' He turned to the professorial type. 'I propose that you write a precis of your paper, which may be circulated amongst our people, for them to read at a more convenient time.'

'But it is impossible to precis my arguments. They must be heard in full, otherwise the nuances will be missed.'

'We do not have time for nuances.'

'Botkin's proposal is a good one,' declared Tatyana Ruslanovna. Her tone was conciliatory as she addressed the professor. 'We are grateful to you for the work you have put into this. And anxious that the fruits of your labour should not be wasted. Do you not see that a precis is the best way to ensure the propagation of your important ideas among the widest number of people?'

'But so much will be lost,' he complained forlornly. 'A precis will be meaningless.'

'You must try,' insisted Tatyana Ruslanovna. 'And now, let me, if I may, summarise what I believe to be the theoretical basis upon which any revolutionary act is based. As many of you know, a few years ago I lived for a while in Zurich, where I was sent by my family following certain unfortunate incidents in my private life.' She could not resist flashing an almost desperate look in Virginsky's direction. Rightly or wrongly, he had the impression that she was addressing her remarks solely to him. 'The man I loved was murdered. My father was even suspected of murdering him in defence of my maidenly honour of course.' The harsh irony that had once, at the time of the events she was referring to, characterised almost all her utterances broke through her otherwise measured discourse. 'But in time I realised that I did not love that man after all. What I was in love with was the idea of escape, escape from my family, and in particular my father. I had looked upon the man I thought I loved as the means to achieve this escape. Indeed, that was why I persuaded myself that I loved him. But I might just as easily have fallen in love with a locomotive engine, or a horse. I was surprised when my family consented to my journey to Switzerland, granting me the escape that I had longed for. In truth, I think they saw me as a problem to be got out of the way. I was to enrol at the university there, which as you will all know not only allows female students to attend lectures but even allows them to take their degrees.'

The room was by now thoroughly settled, and content to listen to Tatyana Ruslanovna's narrative. The personal nature of her speech made it all the more compelling, especially coming as it did after the professor's dry, abstract dissertation.

'In Zurich, I received two educations, the first in medicine at the university, the second in political science, from the other Russian emigres I met there. I began to realise that the latter was far more important to me than the former. To qualify as a doctor would enable me to lead an independent life, free of my family and the necessity of shackling myself to a husband. It was the way to personal freedom. But to gain an understanding of political science, and to bring that understanding back to Russia that would lead to a far greater freedom, the freedom of my country.'

Her eyes seemed to flare with a visionary intensity. It was reflected in the eyes of all her listeners. Virginsky felt his own spirit ignited by it.

'And so I cut short my medical studies I had gained enough practical knowledge to serve the Russian people as a doctor, if ever I was called upon to do so and travelled to Paris. I was anxious to meet certain individuals there who could complete my political education. My time in the French capital coincided with the establishment of the Commune. Yes, I fought on the barricades. My medical knowledge was put to the test, treating the wounded Communards. As was my revolutionary zeal. I learnt how to shoot. I took aim at the enemies of the Commune and fired. I was prepared to kill for the cause, and, in the heat of conflict, I did. There were traitors to deal with, and I was as merciless as the Devil.'

Virginsky pictured her on the barricades, her face transformed by blood.

'Why was I there? Why had I thrown myself into the struggles of another nation? I was there for the millions who toil in back-breaking labour under the yoke of oppression. For the millions held back by ignorance and poverty, enslaved by an iniquitous economic system. I was there because my conscience demanded it! I came from a privileged background. I was the spoilt and capricious daughter of wealthy parents. I was one of the exploiters! How it shamed me to realise that. The whole of my life up to that point had been based on the exploitation of others. It was pointed out to me by one of my emigre friends that my father and mother, being of the gentry cla.s.s and therefore exempt from taxes, contributed nothing to the welfare of the state. Far from it their lives of comfort and ease were paid for by the people! It shocked me to learn that the entire burden of taxation in this country is borne by the peasants. That simple fact alone is the entire intellectual basis of social revolution. I have gone beyond shame now. Indeed, I hope that by renouncing my privileges, I have put my shame behind me. It is a question of necessity now.'

There were fervent cries of agreement from the young people in the room, and even some cheers.

'You are an inspiration to us all, Tatyana Ruslanovna,' said Botkin, but still with his usual sarcastic smile. 'You speak of necessity. Do you mean that the time has now come to erect barricades in the streets of Petersburg?'

'We must bring the struggle here to Russia. It is a struggle for the hearts and minds of the Russian people. Yes, if called upon, we will build barricades. But we must ensure that we have fighters to man them. That is why we must take our message to the people. We must go amongst the people. We will patiently explain to them how they are oppressed and that the time has come for them to throw off their yoke. The revolution must come from the ground up. It cannot be imposed from above.'

'You do not know the Russian peasant like I do. They are ignorant and lazy, not to mention superst.i.tious. It is unlikely that such an initiative will be successful. What is more, they are stupidly loyal to the Tsar, their little father.'

'You must have faith in the people, Alyosha Afanasevich.' Tatyana Ruslanovna's tone was imperious, as if she believed in the power of command to change men's hearts.

'If you will forgive me, Tatyana Ruslanovna, that remark reveals your privileged background as much as your educated voice and aloof demeanour.' He smiled and added quickly, 'I hope that as comrades we may be honest with one another, without causing offence where none is intended. However, it is a tendency of the privileged intellectual to idealise the peasant, without any thoroughgoing experience of the peasant's true character. I speak from a position of expertise because, unlike you, I have lived amongst this cla.s.s. My father was a village priest. He carried his scythe into the field on his back, and ploughed the land, and spread the muck, and brought in the harvest alongside the peasants. I have seen their superst.i.tion and ignorance at first hand. I know the uselessness of even attempting to educate these people, apart from a few rare exceptions. No, the education you talk about must take place after the revolution. First must come education through deeds. Education through fire, if I may put it like that. Political action is political education.'

'I agree with Botkin,' said Prince Dolgoruky. His voice had a sinuous, seductive quality. 'First we must open their eyes through terror. Then, when we have their attention, we will educate them.'

'It is not a question of political education versus terrorism,' conceded Tatyana Ruslanovna. 'We must engage in both. We must continue to propagandise, while destabilising the government through acts of violence and sabotage.'

'Quite,' agreed Botkin. 'I am suggesting nothing else. We must strike at the heart of the regime. We must lay bare the Tsar's weakness. When the people see that he is not even able to protect his own, that he is more concerned with the imminent birth of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child than he is with their well-being, that he loves his mistress more than he loves them . . .' Botkin broke off to leer sarcastically at Dolgoruky.

Dolgoruky returned the compliment with a burst of cynical laughter. 'Yes, it is ironic to think that my dear cousin Katya is doing more to undermine the Tsar's position by bearing him a b.a.s.t.a.r.d than we ever could by blowing him up!'

'At any rate,' concluded Botkin, 'they will lose faith in him as their protector.'

Tatyana Ruslanovna smiled approvingly. 'An exemplary a.s.sa.s.sination? Is that what you are proposing?'