In our inflamed society, violent disputes periodically flare up about how a person engaged in a Good Cause can and cannot behave. Is it permissible for the sake of a Good Cause to prevaricate, lie, curry favor with the authorities, go to the council of the wicked, and so on. First they fought because of Chulpan Khamatova, now because of Elizabeth Glinka.
I will say right away: I have no firm position here. On the one hand, well, let’s reproach Schindler for being a member of the Fascist Party. On the other hand, maybe it’s not necessary to get up on your ears, unless, of course, we are talking about gas stoves? It all depends on the specific situation and sense of proportion.
And one more thing — not about Chulpan and not about Dr. Lisa, but in the development of the topic.
On a beautiful charitable field, one mine is buried, on which people are sometimes blown up who have rightfully earned universal respect and even fame. Some of these righteous people begin to think that serving a Good Cause allows them not to adhere to generally accepted ethical standards, because it’s not for the sake of self-interest — and in general: who are you all to condemn me when I have done and am doing so much good?
I want to tell you about a remarkable woman who went too far for a Good Cause. She is almost like a mother to me. Well, that is, Boris Akunin. It was with this lady, in fact, that the whole project once began.
In my novel “Azazel” there is such a lady Esther, a great benefactor who decided to save all of humanity by accelerating historical progress. The most interesting character for me was she, and not at all the young fool Fandorin.
My Baroness Esther has a very real prototype, now completely forgotten, but at one time found itself in the center of a terrible all-Russian scandal.
Abbess Mitrofania (a name that later came in handy for a series about the nun Pelagia) lived an amazing life. She belonged to the highest aristocracy, was the daughter of the commander of the Caucasian Corps, Baron Rosen (whom I later stole for the novel “A Hero of Another Time” — I have non-waste production). In her youth, she was the maid of honor of the Empress, and at the age of 26, after a series of family tragedies, she became a nun.
Baroness Praskovya von Rosen was the kind of person who hurries to do good. Probably, if she lived in our time, she would have headed the International Red Cross or Amnesty International — such a scale and temperament was a woman.
At a young age, she became the abbess of the Vvedensky Monastery in Serpukhov near Moscow — and led this poor monastery to prosperity. Having received a large inheritance, Mitrofania spent it all on the monastery and on charity.
Then the framework of one monastery became cramped for her. Mitrofania was one of the founders and leaders of the Russian movement of sisters of mercy — for this she certainly should have erected a monument. But even this extensive activity of the energetic abbess was not enough. She wanted to turn her monastery into a huge ideal farm, a kind of earthly paradise, where spirituality goes hand in hand with efficiency and economic success (dragged away by the author in the novel Pelagia and the Black Monk). Among her projects are obtaining a railway concession, building a soap factory, making hydraulic lime, and so on and so forth.
In general, it was a completely unique personality — selfless, absolutely disinterested, with an outstanding organizational talent and gigantic scope.
The gigantic scope, coupled with the mine mentioned above, killed her. Grandiose undertakings required equally grandiose investments. No private donations could give so much. And then mother decided that God would forgive her if she would build a great Good Deed at the expense of little bad people, besides, hardened sinners.
In 1873, Russia was shocked by the news that the most respected and revered of the church leaders, the famous abbess Mitrofania, was on trial in a case of forgery and counterfeit bills for a fantastic sum of two million cu (for comparison: collegiate registrar Fandorin received thirty-five rubles a month).
Mitrofania subjugated to her influence — and she had a powerful character — an alcoholic merchant’s wife, a millionaire eunuch, and several other equally unsympathetic moneybags, milking out of them everything that was possible. She did not act alone, but, as they would say now, as part of an organized criminal group — Mitrofania had several devoted assistants.
“She was a woman of a vast mind, a purely masculine and businesslike disposition, in many respects contrary to the traditional and routine views that prevailed in that environment, in the narrow framework of which she had to rotate,” writes Anatoly Fedorovich Koni, who led the prosecution — and yet experienced obvious sympathy for the defendant. “This breadth of views on their tasks, in connection with a bold flight of thought, amazing energy and perseverance, could not but influence those around them and create among them people who were obedient to Mitrofania and became, imperceptibly for themselves, blind instruments of her will.”
The famous Fyodor Plevako, who defended the interests of the victims of fraud at the trial, trampled on the abbess in his passionate speech, which later inspired Ostrovsky to write the play “Sheep and Wolves”, where Mitrofania was portrayed under the name of the predator and scoundrel Murzavetskaya: “Sheepskin on a wolf should not blind you. I do not believe that people seriously think about God and goodness, committing robberies and forgeries. (Hmm, but I believe).
For the defendant, everything ended sadly, but given the severity of the charges, not terribly: exile to remote monasteries, where Mitrofania peacefully engaged in icon painting until the end of her days — this diversely gifted woman had such a talent.
Of course, Mitrophania is not exactly Lady Hester. She did not make world conspiracies and did not kill anyone, only robbed. But the motivation is the same, the same type of personality, and most importantly, the same dilemma.
One of the key themes not only of the novel Azazel, but of the entire Fandorin series is the extensibility of the boundaries of the Good Cause, the elusive seam on the Möbius strip, where the front side turns into the wrong side.
Is it possible, for example, to kill a few bad people in order to save a lot of good ones? (Yes, not a question, most readers will answer). And is it possible for the sake of the good of all mankind to sacrifice literally one youth, handsome, but greatly interfering with a Good Cause? Who, in the end, is more pitiful — some boy or all of humanity? Baroness Esther will sigh heavily, and, of course, will rush to save humanity.
Thank God, in our current ethical battles it has not yet come to such a tough choice.