Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel Read Online Free PDF
Author: Boris Akunin
Synod. She was prepared to defend every one of her innovations and had armed herself for this defense with numerous highly convincing arguments, but on hearing mention of Vidoque and some unknown Sherlock (he must be a detective too, like the famous Frenchman), she was completely taken aback.
Meanwhile, Konstantin Petrovich was already drawing a sheet of paper out of a calico-bound file. He searched for something on it and jabbed a dry white finger at one of the lines of writing. “Tell me, Sister, have you ever heard of a certain Polina Andreevna Lisitsyna? A highly intelligent individual, so they say. And extremely brave. A month ago she rendered the police invaluable assistance in the investigation into the heinous murder of the archpriest Nektarii Zachatievsky” And he fixed Pelagia with his owlish stare.
She blushed as she babbled: “She’s my sister …”
The Chief Procurator shook his head reproachfully. “Sister? That’s not the information I have.”
He knows everything , the nun realized. How shameful! And the most shameful thing of all was that she had lied.
“You even lie about it. A fine Bride of Christ,” said Pobedin pricking her on her most painful spot. “A detective in a nun’s habit. Well, what can I make of that?” However, the powerful man’s gaze was curious rather than wrathful. How could this be—a nun investigating criminal cases?
Pelagia no longer attempted to deny anything. She lowered her head and tried to explain.
“You see, sir, when I see evildoing triumph, and especially when someone innocent is accused, as happened in the case you mentioned … or if someone is threatened by mortal danger …” She broke off and her voice began to tremble. “It feels here”—the nun pressed one hand to her heart—“as if a little ember catches fire. And it burns, it will not let me be until truth and justice are restored. In keeping with my vocation, I ought to pray, but I cannot. Surely what God requires from us is not inaction and futile lamenting, but help—such as each of us is capable of. And he only intervenes in earthly matters when human powers are exhausted in the struggle with Evil.”
“It burns, here?” Konstantin Petrovich echoed. “And you cannot pray? Ai-ai-ai. Why, that’s a devil sitting in you, Sister. All the signs are there. You have no business being a nun.”
At these words Pelagia went numb and Mitrofanii dashed to her aid. “Your Excellency, she is not to blame. I ordered her to do it. With my blessing.”
That was apparently just what the leader of the Synod was waiting for. Or rather, his response seemed to indicate that this was the last thing he had been expecting, and he threw his hands up in the air in great astonishment as if to say: I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it! You? You? The provincial archpastor?
He seemed to have been struck dumb. His face darkened and he knitted his brows together in a frown. After a pause, he said wearily: “Go now, bishop. I shall pray to God for enlightenment as to what to do with you.”
SUCH WAS THE conversation that had taken place in St. Petersburg. And it was still uncertain what it would lead to, what intuition concerning the Zavolzhsk “faction” would be vouchsafed to the Chief Procurator by the Almighty.
“The right thing would be to apologize to Konstantin Petrovich,” Userdov said, ending a pause. “With a man like that, there’s no shame in yielding to humility.”
That was probably right. Konstantin Petrovich was a special kind of man. As a character in one of Ostrovsky’s plays remarked, for him there was “little that is impossible” in the entire Russian Empire. The Zavolzhians had been presented with evidence of that at the very beginning of the audience in St. Petersburg, when one of the telephones on His Excellency’s desk had rung—the most beautiful one: mahogany with gleaming mouth-and earpieces. Pobedin had broken off in midword and raised a finger to his lips while
Meanwhile, Konstantin Petrovich was already drawing a sheet of paper out of a calico-bound file. He searched for something on it and jabbed a dry white finger at one of the lines of writing. “Tell me, Sister, have you ever heard of a certain Polina Andreevna Lisitsyna? A highly intelligent individual, so they say. And extremely brave. A month ago she rendered the police invaluable assistance in the investigation into the heinous murder of the archpriest Nektarii Zachatievsky” And he fixed Pelagia with his owlish stare.
She blushed as she babbled: “She’s my sister …”
The Chief Procurator shook his head reproachfully. “Sister? That’s not the information I have.”
He knows everything , the nun realized. How shameful! And the most shameful thing of all was that she had lied.
“You even lie about it. A fine Bride of Christ,” said Pobedin pricking her on her most painful spot. “A detective in a nun’s habit. Well, what can I make of that?” However, the powerful man’s gaze was curious rather than wrathful. How could this be—a nun investigating criminal cases?
Pelagia no longer attempted to deny anything. She lowered her head and tried to explain.
“You see, sir, when I see evildoing triumph, and especially when someone innocent is accused, as happened in the case you mentioned … or if someone is threatened by mortal danger …” She broke off and her voice began to tremble. “It feels here”—the nun pressed one hand to her heart—“as if a little ember catches fire. And it burns, it will not let me be until truth and justice are restored. In keeping with my vocation, I ought to pray, but I cannot. Surely what God requires from us is not inaction and futile lamenting, but help—such as each of us is capable of. And he only intervenes in earthly matters when human powers are exhausted in the struggle with Evil.”
“It burns, here?” Konstantin Petrovich echoed. “And you cannot pray? Ai-ai-ai. Why, that’s a devil sitting in you, Sister. All the signs are there. You have no business being a nun.”
At these words Pelagia went numb and Mitrofanii dashed to her aid. “Your Excellency, she is not to blame. I ordered her to do it. With my blessing.”
That was apparently just what the leader of the Synod was waiting for. Or rather, his response seemed to indicate that this was the last thing he had been expecting, and he threw his hands up in the air in great astonishment as if to say: I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it! You? You? The provincial archpastor?
He seemed to have been struck dumb. His face darkened and he knitted his brows together in a frown. After a pause, he said wearily: “Go now, bishop. I shall pray to God for enlightenment as to what to do with you.”
SUCH WAS THE conversation that had taken place in St. Petersburg. And it was still uncertain what it would lead to, what intuition concerning the Zavolzhsk “faction” would be vouchsafed to the Chief Procurator by the Almighty.
“The right thing would be to apologize to Konstantin Petrovich,” Userdov said, ending a pause. “With a man like that, there’s no shame in yielding to humility.”
That was probably right. Konstantin Petrovich was a special kind of man. As a character in one of Ostrovsky’s plays remarked, for him there was “little that is impossible” in the entire Russian Empire. The Zavolzhians had been presented with evidence of that at the very beginning of the audience in St. Petersburg, when one of the telephones on His Excellency’s desk had rung—the most beautiful one: mahogany with gleaming mouth-and earpieces. Pobedin had broken off in midword and raised a finger to his lips while