R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

‘Will you deign to answer it?’

‘That is my name. That is to say, it is the name by which I am known. To go further, the name by which I have always been known. It is not too much to speculate that it will be the name by which I will continue to be known in the future, for the rest of my life we might say, and perhaps beyond, if I am remembered at all after I have gone. Perhaps I will be remembered fondly by some of those I have touched, in one way or another, on this journey through life. By some of my former students perhaps. Of course, it is my fervent hope that my name will, from time to time, form itself upon the lips of my lifelong friend and benefactor, Yevgenia Alexeevna. However, she is an old woman, not in the best of health. One must face the possibility that I may outlive her, though how I will survive when she is gone, I tremble to think. I can only trust to her generosity and consideration. Oh, she scolds me horribly — every day! But she has a heart of gold. She will not abandon me, even in death.’

Porfiry and Virginsky watched spellbound as Lebezyatnikov dabbed non-existent tears from his eyes and then took a moment to recover his composure.

‘As for any wider remembrance of my name by the general public,’ he resumed at last, ‘that is too much to hope for. Except that there were some verses of mine published in my youth. I flatter myself to think that they may have left the imprint of my soul on the receptive ears of unknown readers. Oh dear — can a soul leave an imprint on an ear? I’m not sure. It seemed that it could, but now, I think perhaps it can’t. I shall have to think about that one. To return to the name of Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov, yes, it is mine, but it was given to me by my parents. Not so much given to me as thrust upon me. I had no choice in the matter. And I will say this to you, there are times, even now, when I wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with the question “Who am I?” ringing in my ears. The answer comes, “You are Vissarion Stepanovich Lebezyatnikov!” In response to which, the further question, “Yes, but who is he?” ’

‘For our purposes, it is enough that you are willing to acknowledge the name as yours.’

‘If you gentlemen are satisfied with that, then so am I.’

‘I can see that we are going to have to proceed carefully,’ said Porfiry. ‘I do not wish to unsettle you with unnecessary. . questions. However, there are certain matters we wish to talk to you about. Indeed, we are utterly compelled to talk to you about them.’

Lebezyatnikov gasped.

‘There is nothing to be alarmed about. I wish to talk to you about the articles that appeared in certain newspapers concerning you.’

‘What is this? I have been defamed in the press?’

‘Some lampoons appeared. The author was given as “K.” ’

‘I have always had my enemies.’ Horror dawned on Lebezyatnikov’s face. ‘And so you have come to arrest me! On the basis of these slanderous lies.’ Lebezyatnikov clumped the handkerchief into a ball, which he as good as stuffed into his mouth. He took two tottering steps backwards and fell onto a sofa. He tried to speak, but his voice was muffled by the handkerchief. Removing it, he cried, ‘I recant! I recant! Whatever I stand accused of, I recant! Let me write a letter to the Tsar. I will throw myself at his mercy! I will confess to everything. I will go back to the Church. I have never stopped believing, in my secret heart.’

‘My dear sir,’ soothed Porfiry. ‘Please do not distress yourself. You do not stand accused of anything. The articles were clearly malicious — and really there is no substance in them. It is simply that we believe that the man who wrote them is now dead. We are talking to a number of people whom we can connect to him. In a general way, you understand.’

‘And you have connected me with this man?’

‘There must have been some reason why he chose to attack you in print.’

‘The poems, I told you about the poems. That is where I can trace all this enmity back to. They may be interpreted metaphorically, you see. And there are those who do not like such an interpretation. Powerful individuals. I should never have allowed their publication. If I could take one thing back in my life, it would be that. But I was vain. I allowed myself to be flattered. The vanity of youth! It should have been enough for me that they were circulated in private, that certain influential figures read and approved of them. But I was prevailed upon. They said I had a duty to publish.’

‘When. . was this?’ asked Porfiry nervously. It seemed a simple question, but so too had asking the man’s name.

‘When? But what is the passage of time, when we are concerned with eternal absolutes? There exists, beyond the time-sullied world we know, a pure, perfect, ideal realm. I may be a creature of the former world, enslaved by appetite, shackled to the runaway locomotive engine of time, but my ideas belong to the latter realm, that of eternal absolutes. I trust my images are not too subtle for you?’

‘Please, rest assured, they are not. But I believe you said the poems were published in your youth.’ Porfiry consciously removed any interrogative intonation from the statement. ‘The articles attacking you appeared quite recently. We must consider the possibility that something other than your metaphors provoked them.’

‘I can think of no other reason why anyone would attack me.’

‘The writer, we believe, was a journalist called Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev.’

‘Kozodavlev? Kozodavlev attacked me?’

‘It would seem so.’

‘But Kozodavlev is my friend.’

‘So you do know Kozodavlev. .’

‘He is my friend, I tell you. He came on my name day. We drank champagne together.’

‘He was a friend of Prince Dolgoruky too,’ suggested Porfiry.

‘Will you show me these articles?’

‘I don’t have them with me. I assumed you would have already seen them.’

‘I never read the papers. Sometimes, I look back at old almanacs. It seems to me that that is the only way to understand events, with hindsight. I find what is happening now to be altogether too tumultuous. It overwhelms me. What is a man to do in the face of all these happenings?’

‘I sympathise. I spend my life contending with the tumult of happenings. Tell me about Prince Dolgoruky. He has become estranged from his mother.’

‘Yevgenia Alexeevna has a heart of gold, as I think I have told you. Un veritable coeur d’or . Mais, en effet, it is a peculiarly brittle kind of gold. Like gold that has been left out in the ice and snow. The frost has permeated it and it has become. . brittle. For Heaven’s sake, do not tell her that I said this! She does not understand the subtlety of my images. She would not understand a heart of gold permeated with frost. Assuming such a thing is possible, of course. My subject is history, not the natural sciences. I do not know if gold becomes more brittle when subjected to the action of frost. I suppose it may be possible to conduct an experiment.’

‘You mentioned history. You taught at the university, I believe.’

‘The happiest days of my life. . until my enemies caught up with me.’

‘I am surprised to hear you say that you have enemies.’

‘Do you think I am too ridiculous to have enemies?’

‘Forgive me, no. That is not what I meant to suggest. Too benign, too innocent.’

‘It amounts to the same thing. It was Yevgenia Alexeevna who told me that I am too ridiculous to have enemies. Who would waste their time in becoming my enemy? That is her question to me. But I do have enemies. Perhaps it is my innocence that they hate.’

‘You were talking about Prince Dolgoruky.’