Chapter 13 Chapter 6 Maximov (4)

Maximov shot a sharp glance from behind his white lashes, and went on. "Therefore, I doubt whether the Nechayev phenomenon is the kind of spiritual aberration you are referring to. Perhaps it is just an old problem between father and son, only more destructive and less serious in our generation. Tolerance. If that is the case, the wisest course may be the easiest: to stand firm, to hold on to one's teeth -- wait for them to grow up. After all, we have had Decembrists in our history, and then another 849. The Decembrists who are still alive today are old men; I daresay whatever demons had run away from them years ago. As for Petrashevsky and his friends What do you think, guys?"

Petrashevsky!Why mention Petrashevsky? "I disagree. The Nechayev phenomenon you speak of has its own color. Nechayev is a man of blood. Those whom you have the honor of mentioning are idealists. They fail because they They are not good at intrigue (which is their glory), and they are certainly not bloody men. Petrashevsky - since you mentioned him, we might as well talk about it - Petrashevs From the very beginning, Kei was opposed to the Jesuitism that only cares about the ends and uses the means. Nechayev is a Jesuit, a Jesuit layman, and he quite openly admits that he believes in the kind that does not hesitate to abuse the energy of his followers to achieve his own goals. doctrine."

"I missed one more point. Please explain to me again: Why is a dreamer, a poet, a talented young man like your stepson attracted to a gangster like Nechaev? In your opinion, is it because of Nechayev? Gangsters like Chaev with a little education?" "I don't know. Maybe it's because there's something in young people that hasn't died out that's called by the spirit of Nechayev. Maybe there's something in all of us that we thought were extinct for centuries, but are really just sleeping I repeat: I don't know. I can't explain the relationship between my son and Nechayev. I myself am surprised. I came here only to get Pavel's papers, which are very precious to me, you I will not understand. All I want are the documents and nothing else. I ask again: you will not return them? They are of no use to you. Even if you read them, you will not understand why intelligent young people are turning to The gangster side. Especially if you don't get it, because you obviously can't read. I might as well tell you that when you read my son's story, I noticed that you stayed away and put up a barrier of ridicule. , seems to be afraid that the words on the page will jump out and strangle you."

As he spoke, something inside him started to catch fire, and he couldn't have wished for it.He grabbed the arm of the chair and leaned forward. "What are you afraid of, Inspector Maximov? When you read about Karamzin, or Karamtsov, or whatever his name is, when Karamzin's skull is smashed like an egg, your What is the real feeling? Do you feel the pain with him, or do you steal the joy behind the arm that swings the axe? You don't answer? Let me tell you: the feeling when reading should be both the arm and the axe, and at the same time Heads, instead of sneering from a distance. If I asked you, you would say that you are after Nechayev, to bring him to justice, to bring him to trial, and there will be a due process, with both the plaintiff and the defendant defending Lawyers, etc., and put him in a clean, well-lit cell for life. But look at yourself: don't you really want that? Don't you want to chop off his head and trample his blood with your feet ?"

He sat back, his face flushed. "You are a very clever man, Fyodor Mikhailovich. But you speak of reading as if possessed by a demon. I'm afraid I'm a poor reader by that standard, dull. Not imaginative. But I wonder if you're running a fever at the moment. If you look in the mirror, you'll see what I mean. We had a long talk, which was interesting but long, and I had a lot of business to attend to. " "Listen, those documents you're clinging to are probably in Aramaic. They're of no use to you. Give them back!" Maximov chuckled. "Fyodor Mikhailovich, you have given me the strongest and most benevolent reason for my inability to comply with your request, which is that in your present state Nechayev's spirit can Jump out of it and control you completely. But seriously: you said you could read it. Can you read me all these documents, the Nechayev papers, some other day? This file is only one of them."

"Read to you?" "Good. Read it for me." "why?" "Because you say I can't read. Show me how to read. Teach me. Explain to me thoughts that are not thoughts." For the first time since the telegram was sent to Dresden, he smiled: he could feel the stiff lines of his face loosen.The laughter was harsh, and there was no joy in it. "I've always been told," he said, "that the police are the eyes and ears of society, and now you're asking me to help! No, I won't read for you." Maximov nodded, folded his hands in his arms, closed his eyes, and looked more like a Bodhisattva than ever, with no age or gender. "Thank you," he murmured. "Now you must go."

He came into the crowded reception room outside.How long had he been in the little room with Maximov?One hour?longer?The benches were full of people, some leaning against the walls, others in the corridors that smelled of fresh paint.When he came out, all the conversation outside stopped; cold eyes turned to him.How many people demand justice, and everyone has a stomach full of bitterness to vomit! It's almost noon.He had no intention of going back to his room at all.He walked west along Sadovaya Street.The sky was gloomy and the wind was blowing; some places on the ground were frozen and slippery to walk on.He lowered his head and dragged his heavy steps, the sky looked even more gloomy.But he couldn't stop, he kept looking at everyone passing by, looking for his son's brisk steps and shoulder posture when he walked.He could recognize his son by the way he walked: first the steps, then the shape.

He tried to remember Pavel's face.But the particularly lively face that floated in front of his eyes was that of the young man with bushy eyebrows, thin beard, and tightly pursed thin lips, who was sitting on the rostrum at the peace conference in Baku two years ago. The young man behind Ning.The pitted scars on his skin were blue from the cold. "Go away!" He wanted to drive away that image, but he couldn't. "Pavel!" he whispered in vain to his son.