R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

‘If it were merely a prank, then of course I would have nothing to do with it. And, with any luck, it will not come to that. However, if we time our announcements well, Pavel Pavlovich’s progression within the inner cabal will have reached its conclusion before there is need to go through with any such display.’

‘And what will that conclusion be, I wonder? His death?’

‘You may not believe this, Dr Pervoyedov, but I tried to talk him out of it, to no avail. I could see that he was determined to get mixed up with these people, with or without my support. I felt it better to put in place a channel of communication, should he need to contact us in an emergency.’ Porfiry’s eyes were still closed as he spoke. His weariness was such that it seemed as if the conversation, rather than his injury, was taking its toll on him.

‘You could have forbidden him.’

‘In which case, I would have lost him entirely. I fear that I may have half-lost him as it is.’

‘Oh? And what do you mean by that?’ said Nikodim Fomich.

At last Porfiry opened his eyes to look at Nikodim Fomich. ‘I mean that Pavel Pavlovich’s loyalties are, at the best of times, difficult to pin down. The poor boy is deeply conflicted, and fluctuates dangerously in his convictions. If I had forbidden him from proceeding with his plan, I fear that he would have joined the revolutionists in earnest — out of petulance, as it were. He is quite often capable of acting in such an immature way. I sometimes think the only way to understand Pavel Pavlovich is in the light of the difficult relationship he has with his father. He is torn between the desire to assert his independence — in other words, to break free from authority — and his craving for authority’s approval. We may be sure that the same complex medley of emotions is present in the relationships he is forging with the revolutionists. That is to say, he will want to destroy them at the same time as wishing to be accepted by them. That is how he looks on everything — including the department, including me.’

‘If what you have said is true, then he is the least suitable individual imaginable to send on such a mission,’ said Dr Pervoyedov.

‘I think you will find that similarly contradictory feelings exist in the hearts of us all. Some of us may gravitate to one pole, rather than the other, but the attraction may be transposed at any time — as in a magnet — because the potential for the opposite continues to reside within us. It is good news that Pavel Pavlovich has chosen to communicate with us. Something, I think, must have prompted him to incline to our side in this struggle. I only hope that nothing else occurs to reverse the polarity of his loyalties.’ Porfiry grimaced, as if the idea was physically painful to him. He sank back on his pillows. His eyelids fluttered characteristically and then closed again.

Dr Pervoyedov saw the beads of sweat forming on Porfiry’s brow. It was clear that the pain the magistrate was feeling now was not intellectual.

‘I think we had better leave,’ he whispered to Nikodim Fomich.

The chief of police frowned. ‘I don’t understand. This is a ruse, is it not? He was not really shot by Virginsky.’

There was a grunt from the bed, which could have been of contradiction or agreement. However, Porfiry did not open his eyes.

Dr Pervoyedov placed a hand on Porfiry’s forehead, frowning at the heat that met his touch. Porfiry murmured incoherently in response.

Turning from the bed, the doctor ushered Nikodim Fomich out of the room with an urgent gesture.

As they came out, the polizyeisky at Porfiry’s door tensed his face into an expression of self-conscious alertness, snapping himself upright in his seat. Nikodim Fomich acknowledged his exemplary watchfulness with an appreciative nod. The policeman stared straight ahead, straining to see enemies of the state in the empty hospital corridor. At any rate, he seemed determined to make it clear that he had no interest in eavesdropping on the conversation of his superiors.

‘Nikodim Fomich, I am very concerned about Porfiry Petrovich’s wound.’

‘What wound?’ Remembering himself, Nikodim Fomich glanced at the police guard and dropped his voice: ‘There is no wound, doctor.’

‘Something extraneous was discharged by the gun. It appears to have grazed his face.’

‘Oh yes, that. But why on earth are you worrying about a tiny graze?’

‘Because I fear it may have become infected. If the infection spreads to his blood, the consequences may be very grave indeed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘His condition has deteriorated rapidly. The beads of perspiration. The exhaustion. He is becoming feverish.’

‘So, he will have a little fever. He will get over it.’

‘With all respect, Nikodim Fomich, as a physician, I find it impossible to speak with such absolute confidence.’

‘Surely you don’t think he will die?’

Dr Pervoyedov spoke in an urgent, angry whisper: ‘The next twenty-four hours will prove critical. His body may well succeed in fighting off the infection. I don’t wish to be unduly pessimistic. It was simply my intention to warn you that the situation is not perhaps as straightforward as you might think. Porfiry Petrovich is not as young as he once was, or as strong. His addiction to tobacco has weakened his constitution over the years. His chest is far from robust. To succeed in overcoming a general infection, an organism needs to be in the utmost good health.’ Dr Pervoyedov’s voice rose uncontrollably: ‘This reckless plan! What were you thinking?’

Nikodim Fomich avoided the doctor’s gaze, abashed. ‘I certainly did not think there was any danger to Porfiry Petrovich.’

The doctor’s eyes widened incredulously, but before he could answer, they heard Porfiry cry out. ‘Nikodim Fomich! Where is Nikodim Fomich?’

The two men exchanged glances complicated by anxiety and recrimination, before going back inside.

The following day, Virginsky noticed a new quality in Varvara Alexeevna’s reserve towards him. It no longer seemed that she was afraid of him. Now he believed he noticed something like contempt in her demeanour towards him. She regarded him, he felt, as one might a marked man. Her replies to his mostly innocent questions concerning household matters were tinged with a mocking tone that seemed to say: Just you wait, my lad. Just you wait.

Kirill Kirillovich lingered over breakfast, and indeed both of them today seemed reluctant to leave him alone in the apartment, so that all three of them were at home when the first visitor of the day called. What struck Virginsky was that whoever it was failed to use the coded knock. The urgent, formless hammering set their hearts racing: What could it mean? Who could it be?

They were somehow shocked to discover that it was Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin, in a state of supreme agitation. The reason for his excitement was quickly revealed: ‘Dolgoruky is dead.’

Varvara Alexeevna, who had revealed her fondness for the Prince — for all his faults — at her husband’s name day, let out a small yelp of horror.

‘Hanged himself,’ continued Botkin ruthlessly. ‘Here. He left this.’ Botkin thrust out a piece of paper which Virginsky recognised as Dolgoruky’s printed confession. There was a handwritten addendum scribbled at the bottom.

Varvara Alexeevna was the first to snatch the sheet. She read it with ferocious concentration. When she had finished, she glared at Virginsky. The contempt he had sensed before had now hardened to hatred. She thrust the confession in his hand. He read: My thanks to the Magistrate-Slayer, who told me what I must do. By the time you read this, I will be at peace. Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky.