Andrew Williams - To Kill a Tsar

Hadfield stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, as the debate washed round him like the tide about a rock. He felt humiliated, and his cheeks were burning with self-conscious indignation. He watched his persecutor bend to speak to a well-dressed man with lazy eyes who was sitting on the sofa. They must have spoken of him because she looked up to catch his steady gaze upon her. She frowned and looked away again but not before he registered the startling lightness of her eyes, their profound sunshine blue, and he sensed great energy and purpose. Five feet four or five, he thought, petite, dark brown hair tied back without care, very white skin, a small round face with full pink lips and an elegant neck. She was wearing a worn, ill-fitting black dress that had clearly been made for a much larger woman.

‘Don’t take it to heart.’ Vera Figner followed his gaze. ‘Anna is very close to Alexander Soloviev. This is an unhappy and worrying time.’

‘Do you know her well?’

‘A little. She’s a friend of Lydia’s.’

Hadfield frowned: was that why she had exhibited contempt so publicly for a man she had never met? Her name was Anna Petrovna Kovalenko and she was from a village in the eastern Ukraine, Vera told him, the illegitimate daughter of a landowner and one of his serfs. ‘She has done wonderful things in Kharkov, organising workers into a union. They respect and like her. We all do.’

Well-to-do socialists were always dewy-eyed about comrades who were sons or daughters of the soil, in Hadfield’s experience, so he was inclined to take this endorsement with a pinch of salt. And yet more than resentment drew his gaze back to her; dark and restless, those remarkable eyes — she was intriguing, and, yes, he had to admit it, attractive in an unconventional way. Perhaps he was just as sentimental about peasants as Vera.

‘The time spent in the country educating the people achieved nothing…’ Goldenberg had taken command once more and was holding forth in a thin little voice. ‘…only by striking directly at the machinery of oppression — provincial governors, ministers, the Third Section, the tsar… the time has come for action — a new phase in the struggle…’

There were a few nods of approval but for the most part the room listened to his call to revolutionary arms in cool silence. Liberals or popular revolutionaries like me, Hadfield thought, passionate about democracy and the need for change but opposed to terror. He caught a glimpse between heads of their hostess slipping through the doors at the end of the drawing room. It was too bloody and uncompromising for Madame Volkonsky, not at all the sort of political salon she would have wished for. He wanted to escape from the smoky gloom and plotting too, and to feel the wind off the Neva on his face, hear the bells of the old Russia ringing out around the city.

He glanced across at Anna Petrovna again. She had bobbed down to exchange words with the man on the sofa who was gazing calmly at Hadfield, his plump hands clasped about his crossed leg.

‘Alexander Mikhailov is one of us,’ said Vera. ‘Very clear thinking…’

‘Why did you invite me here, Verochka?’ Hadfield asked, turning to look her in the eye.

‘You were with us in Switzerland.’ Then, after a pause, ‘We both want Russia, the world, to be different.’

‘But your views on how to go about it have changed.’

‘The people cannot wait any more. The whole nation will have gone to seed before the liberals get anything done. History needs a push.’

He did not reply. The gathering was breaking into conversational groups again. Their hostess returned with an anxious hand to her face. Anna Kovalenko had drawn Goldenberg aside and it was clear from her angry gestures they were engaged in an ill-tempered exchange. Hadfield began to make his excuses, but as he was reaching for Vera’s hand she said abruptly:

‘Lydia meant something to you, didn’t she?’ There was a steeliness in her manner, in the set of her jaw, and she held on firmly to his hand when propriety required him to withdraw it.

‘Yes, of course. Lydia was a very good friend to me,’ he said slowly. ‘Is she in St Petersburg?’

‘St Petersburg?’ Vera gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Lydia was arrested for distributing propaganda. Imprisoned. Exiled. She’s been sent to eastern Siberia.’

Hadfield turned his head away. Lydia with the soft brown eyes and teasing smile. He felt a lump the size of a fist in his throat. For a short time they had meant so much to each other. He had not seen or heard from her for three years but her last angry words troubled him still. He knew he had caused her great pain.

‘I’m sorry, Verochka.’

Vera Figner was gazing at him intently. She had not released his hand.

‘There is no freedom to protest peacefully here, Frederick. No alternative to terror. You’ll see.’

Old Penkin was a wily bird. He knew to keep his eyes open. He knew when there was a rouble or two to be earned for a little information. They had been coming and going all afternoon. He had watched them from the street and then from a chair at his gate. One of them had even asked him directions to Number 86. A young gentleman in a fine black fur-lined coat had stood gazing at the Volkonsky place only feet from him. Foreign-looking. Penkin had made a mental note of them all. He was the yard-keeper at the Kozlov house opposite, had been for fifteen years, and he knew all about Yuliya Sergeyovna Volkonsky and her friends. He had spoken to Constable Rostislov about them before.

‘Fairy tales,’ the policeman had said at first. ‘Fairy tales, old man. Bugger off. You’re not getting vodka money from me.’

That was before a madman tried to kill the tsar. Since then Constable Rostislov had been falling over himself to pay for the dvornik’s scraps. Of course, no one liked an informer. Penkin hated informers himself. But who would begrudge an old man a little extra money after fifteen years of fetching and carrying in all weathers for kopeks? On the quiet, that was the thing, just a word in the constable’s ear.

‘Hey, Tan’ka,’ he called through the kitchen door, ‘I must go out for a while.’

The maid rolled her eyes: ‘Don’t expect me to lie for you, old man. And don’t come back drunk.’

Penkin scowled at her: ‘Shut up, you trollop. I’ve got business. Important business.’

‘I know your sort of business,’ she replied with a harsh laugh.

‘Shut your mouth.’ He wanted to take his hand to her. He offered her money instead. ‘Two kopeks for you if you tell them I’m out on house business.’

‘Five.’

‘Done.’

The local police station was only a short walk away on Gorokhovaya Street. Penkin was careful to be sure no one saw him enter. As fortune would have it, Constable Vasili Rostislov was on duty and at the station. They sat in a large office full of empty desks and bookcases stacked high with police files. Penkin could not read but he could count. He knew it was important to count.

‘They began arriving at a little before three o’clock. Her footman told me she was inviting politicals, so I knew to be looking out for them.’

‘Names?’ the constable asked.

‘No. But I can tell you what they looked like. You can ask Yuliya Sergeyovna for the names, if you want them.’

Rostislov pulled open a drawer and took out a notebook and small leather folder of photographs. He opened it and began placing pictures on the desk in front of the dvornik. ‘All right. Only the truth now. If you lie I’ll find out and you’ll regret it.’

Penkin began to move the pictures round the desktop with a dirty finger, picking them up, peering at them, scratching his nose thoughtfully, shifting on his chair. Students — men and women — nicely dressed, expensive, some in uniform and some in frock coats and ties. What did they have to worry about? Nothing. There were two he was sure he recognised, and he handed them back to the policeman. Rostislov stared at him: ‘Have you been drinking?’