Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog (41 page)

Spasyonny:
[
jumping to his feet and hissing from his place
] You witch! You witch!

CHAPTER 12

The Black Monk

AFTER SISTER PELAGIA’S performance the court remained in session for a while longer, but the outcome of the case was already clear, and the public’s attention was already wandering. Tikhon Ieremeevich was taken away and examined, and—true enough—there on his right leg four pink spots were discovered. No debate ensued between the sides, because so many sudden twists and turns had reduced the prosecutor to a state of stupefaction, while the counsel for the defense appeared perfectly satisfied. His client’s affairs were shaping up quite nicely, and the famous advocate did not regard Spasyonny’s fate as his responsibility.

Strangely enough, Tikhon Ieremeevich did not start weeping and moaning. When asked if he admitted his guilt for the murders, he only shook his head. He sat with an expressionless face and his eyes half-closed, and did not even seem to be listening to the judge’s directions to the jury, or the jury’s reply, or even to the pronouncement of sentence. His crumpled little face had become smooth and even acquired a certain air of significance previously quite alien to his features. Bubentsov, by contrast, behaved in an extremely nervous manner: He kept fidgeting in his seat, sometimes glancing at his secretary, sometimes twisting his neck around to look at Sister Pelagia, and at such moments he had a perplexed and even slightly stupid air. The nun, by the way, remained seated until the very end of the trial, without once raising her eyes, so that she probably never noticed Vladimir Lvovich’s indecorous behavior.

The sentence was no surprise to anyone. Tikhon Ieremeevich Spasyonny, who had still not confessed or returned the stolen money, was given hard labor for life. Vladimir Lvovich was released from arrest there and then in the courthouse, and an hour later he had left our provincial capital, disgraced in the eyes of the majority, but also secretly lamented by certain ladies.

And after that, everything in Zavolzhsk gradually became calmer and settled back down. As if a stone had fallen into a pond and at first the water had been roiled, and the waves had radiated out in circles, but soon they slowed and died away, and the surface became smooth and flat and the peaceful backwater was still again, although for a time bubbles continued to rise and pop at the surface.

Ludmila Platonovna von Haggenau went to confession with the bishop again following a long absence. She emerged with a face that was red and tear-stained, but her eyes were clear. Later Mitrofanii also had a lengthy conversation with the governor, whom he reassured completely, giving Anton Antonovich to understand that there was nothing for him to feel alarmed about. His Grace did not reveal the secrets of the confessional and he expressed himself largely in hints, but even so he imposed a strict penance upon himself afterward.

Matvei Bentsionovich petitioned the bishop on behalf of the chief of police, Lagrange, but was rebuffed. He could have regarded his debt of gratitude as fully discharged at that, but Berdichevsky went back to the bishop again—without the slightest hope, purely in order to make sure that his own conscience was clear. However, Mitrofanii unexpectedly took a sympathetic attitude to his intercession and said: “Lagrange does not have to be tried. And there is no need to dismiss him from his post. I do not regard him as a totally hopeless case. After all, he could quite easily have arranged things so that Murad killed you and no one would have been any the wiser. Tell Felix Stanislavovich that I will have a word with the governor.” The chief of police remained in office, and now he also goes to confession with His Grace.

BUT EVEN BEFORE all these events—in fact, on the very day of the trial itself—a certain event took place that is worthy of special mention.

When the members of the jury withdrew to deliberate and everyone in the hall began talking at once, sharing their impressions of the trial and their expectations concerning the imminent verdict, the bishop, feeling it unbecoming to his rank to linger among the idly chattering crowd, withdrew at the chairman’s invitation to the room reserved for honored guests. With his finger he beckoned for Sister Pelagia to follow him. He walked down the corridor with a gloomy air, looking down at his feet and tapping his bishop’s crook angrily on the floor.

When they were alone, the nun kissed His Grace’s ring with a guilty expression and began speaking incoherently.

“You are right, father, Bubentsov is an evildoer and the devil incarnate. Now he will go free and, although his synodical career is over, in his lifetime he will still work a great deal of all manner of evil. He has great strength. He will lick his wounds and rise again and once again begin sowing hatred and grief. But falsehood cannot be eradicated by means of falsehood! I only truly realized at the very last moment how things happened, or I would certainly have asked your blessing before speaking out. Or rather, I would have asked you to testify. But there was no time at all for explanations; the judge was already preparing to adjourn the trial. That is why I butted in with my arguments. And it turned out that I exposed you to the public eye in an unfavorable light. Can you forgive me?”

She looked at the bishop fearfully, almost despairingly. Mitrofanii sighed heavily and patted his spiritual daughter on the head.

“As for your exposing me as an arrogant fool, that is no more than I deserved. A lesson to me not to be so swollen-headed. And not to steal others’ laurels. I know that I have that sinful weakness, and I have been punished for it. But that is only half the problem. You have made me feel ashamed, Pelagia, greatly ashamed. And afraid. How neatly everything works out when one views the world through colored glass. And one chooses the color to suit one’s own preferences. Then your personal enemy appears as not merely someone who wishes you ill, but a criminal, the enemy of all mankind. Or else suddenly, no matter how many his transgressions, as a shining angel. Let the politicians look at the world through pieces of colored glass, but a pastor must not. The glass must be clear; it is even better if there is no glass at all.” The bishop shook his head ruefully. “And you are also right when you say that evil cannot be eradicated with evil. In the place of one evil you simply establish another, even stronger. But Bubentsov’s evil is special. It does not attack the laws so much as people’s very souls. It is the church’s duty to be watchful for evil and to denounce it.”

The sister roused herself and started speaking quickly.

“But it seems to me, father, that God’s church has a quite different purpose. We should not be watchful for evil, or denounce it, either. Because that produces fear. We should not deal with evil, but with good. With meekness and love. Nothing good will ever come of fear.”

“And is that how you would limn the fear of God?” the bishop asked menacingly. “Think well, Pelagia.”

“Yes, about that, too. God should not be feared, He should be loved. And the church should not be feared, but loved. In general it is a sin for the church to mingle with earthly power.”

“How is it a sin?” asked Mitrofanii, more in surprise than anger. “How is Zavolzhsk any the worse because Anton Antonovich listens to me?”

Unfortunately the conversation was never concluded, because an agitated Berdichevsky put his face in at the door and declared: “Your Grace, it is all over! The jurors came back out almost immediately. Spasyonny is guilty—by unanimous decision. Bubentsov is innocent—also by unanimous decision. The reporters did not even bother to wait for the sentence. They are all here, jostling in the corridor. Waiting for you.”

“Me?” the bishop asked with a trembling voice. “Well, then, let me drain the bitter cup. I deserve it.” He rose resolutely to his feet and pulled Pelagia up by the hand. “You go first. This is your hour. Only try not to be too proud. Remember that you are a bride of Christ.”

The moment she stepped out into the corridor, Pelagia was blinded by magnesium flashes, and after taking only two short steps she halted in confusion. She had only caught a brief glimpse of a large number of excited male faces, most of them beardless and with curled mustaches.

Strong shoulders shoved the nun aside. Frock coats and jackets surrounded the figure of the bishop, stooping in penitence.

An unattractive-looking man with high cheekbones—Tsarenko himself, the famous feature writer from St. Petersburg—said in a respectful voice: “Your Grace, your majestic wisdom has produced a most profound impression. You delivered an outstanding speech, denouncing evil in the person of Inspector Bubentsov, who may not be guilty before the court of man, but is guilty a hundred times over before the court of God. You left the petty murderer, an ordinary criminal, to be exposed by your assistant, which she did competently, undoubtedly following your instructions.”

“No, no, she did it herself!” Mitrofanii exclaimed in fright. “Pelagia did it all!”

This truly touching expression of modesty was greeted with understanding smiles, and many of the reporters immediately took down the bishop’s words in their notebooks, seeing in them an admirable humility and rejection of vanity.

“Of course,” said Tsarenko, also smiling shrewdly. “You had nothing at all to do with it. And the credit for all the previous cases solved with your involvement also belongs to your Sister Polixena.”

“Pelagia,” the bishop corrected him, looking around in confusion for his assistant.

Pelagia was standing by the open window, with her back turned to the journalists. Offended? Insulted?

Let us hasten to reassure the reader. The sister was not offended in the least. She was simply standing and looking out of the window because, outside, an event that we have mentioned previously was about to take place—in fact it had already begun happening.

The square onto which the windows of the district court looked out was already almost completely empty by this hour of the early evening. Two mongrels were yelping lazily at each other beside a streetlamp and a boy in a cloth jacket and blacked boots was hopping over a puddle on one leg. But from the far end of the square, where it runs into Malaya Kupecheskaya Street, there came the resounding clop of hooves over cobblestones, the rumbling of wheels, and the jingling of harness. These combined noises approached at a brisk pace, and soon it was possible to make out a lathered pair of piebald grays pulling along a sprung carriage. Standing on the box, waving a whip, was a dusty monk in a black cassock that fluttered behind him in the wind, and his head was uncovered, so that his long locks were tousled and tangled. Then it became clear that the forehead of this terrible coachman was covered in blood and his eyes were bulging out of his head. The small number of people in the street who saw this sight all froze on the spot.

Approaching the court building, the monk pulled back on the reins, halting the dashing horses, jumped to the ground, and shouted to Pelagia.

But then, we shall not relate here exactly what the messenger shouted, because that will be the beginning of an entirely different story, one even stranger than the story of the white bulldog.

Pelagia turned back quickly toward the bishop. Mitrofanii had not seen the strange monk or heard his shout, but he immediately sensed that something was wrong. He pushed the correspondent aside gently but firmly and…

TO BE CONTINUED IN
Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk

The following article and interview were published in the Italian newspaper
Il Messaggero
on May 30, 2003, the day of Boris Akunin’s appearance at the Massenzio Literature Festival in Rome, where he was promoting the Italian edition of
Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog.

Akunin: “My Russia Is at a Crossroads”

FRANCESCO FANTASIA

A veritable phenomenon has emerged from the round belly of the nesting doll set of Russian literature: He is a writer who goes by the pen name of Boris Akunin but whose given name is the unpronounce able Grigory Chkhartishvili. Born in 1956, a Georgian transplant in Moscow, Akunin would have settled for his dual career as an editor and literary translator. But when he realized that Russian literature needed an equivalent of [Andrea] Camilleri, that there was a niche for a “literary project that would unite first-rate storytelling with popular narrative,” he took up his pen and began writing mystery novels full of verve and with extremely intelligent plots. All the novels are set in nineteenth-century Russia, and up to now they have all had as their protagonist the eccentric Fandorin, a detective working for the czar who, depending on the circumstance, can become a spy or simply a snoop.