A Razor Wrapped in Silk

by R. N. Morris

  Some instinct drove Porfiry to stride into a shifting cloud. He enjoyed his brief concealment, although he had no reason to hide from them. It was a game without purpose.

  When the steam cleared, he found himself face to face with an officer of the gendarmes – a very senior officer, judging by the sprawl of braid over his uniform. Porfiry noticed the oval badge of the Alexandrovskaya Military Academy of Jurisprudence on the right breast of his tunic. His heavily waxed moustaches stood out impressively beneath unexpectedly pink cheeks. There was a good humoured curve to his mouth, a wry, almost complicit smile. And yet his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he stared into Porfiry’s.

  ‘I know you.’

  ‘Do you?’ said Porfiry. ‘It’s perfectly possible. I am an investigating magistrate.’

  ‘Porfiry Petrovich.’ The officer smiled with self-satisfaction. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t remember your family name.’

  ‘Most people simply know me as Porfiry Petrovich.’

  ‘But you must have a family name?’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it, too!’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I had. It is hardly ever referred to. Certainly not in polite circles.’

  ‘You are very droll. I remember now, you are known for that.’ The gendarme pretended to be suddenly alarmed. ‘But there must be other Porfiry Petroviches!’

  ‘I am unlikely to be confused with any other Porfiry Petrovich. I am Porfiry Petrovich, the Magistrate. It suffices.’

  ‘Porfiry Petrovich, the Magistrate. I will remember that, I’m sure.’

  ‘And your name?’ said Porfiry.

  The gendarme held out a recriminatory finger, immaculately white-gloved. ‘Oh, you don’t get my name, if I don’t get yours! You’re not the only one who can play games, Porfiry Petrovich.’

  The gendarme wagged his finger and moved away, still smiling. A moment later, his smile was gone and he nodded tersely to one of his junior officers.

  ‘No sign,’ reported the other man.

  The senior gendarme looked back at Porfiry, who had set down his valise and was flexing the fingers of the hand that had been carrying it.

  ‘We will wait for the platform to clear, then search the train.’ The gendarme kept his eyes on Porfiry as he gave instructions to his subordinate.

  Porfiry’s face lit up.

  ‘Pavel Pavlovich! I was looking for a porter and I found a friend! Have you come to meet me?’

  The young man, clean-shaven and wearing a bottle-green service overcoat, gave a nervous smile under the scrutiny of the gendarmes. He carried a loosely furled umbrella, from which he shook the drops. ‘Yes, I have, Porfiry Petrovich.’ Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky avoided Porfiry’s gaze, as if he feared its penetrating capacity. ‘Allow me,’ said Virginsky, picking up Porfiry’s valise with his free hand.

  ‘That’s very kind. It is not very heavy. Nevertheless, I am happy enough to relinquish it.’

  ‘You must be tired. A trip such as the one you have undertaken affords no opportunity for refreshment.’

  ‘On the contrary. After the funeral, I returned to Tver by steamboat. I sincerely believe that if I had endured another carriage ride I would have been jounced to pieces. At any rate, the river cruise restored me. The Volga is magnificent there. And there is something about the pace of water that soothes the soul. Even so, too much soothing and one gets bored. I am glad to be back in Petersburg.’ There was something akin to hunger in the glint of Porfiry’s eyes.

  Virginsky cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder. ‘What did he want?’ He spoke quietly.

  Porfiry smiled as if he had been asked a completely different question. ‘He wanted to know my family name.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘It was just a silly little game we were playing. He would have been disappointed if I’d made it too easy for him.’

  ‘Don’t you worry that you might make an enemy of him?’

  ‘He was quite charming.’

  ‘That is when the Third Section is most to be feared. You know that, Porfiry Petrovich.’

  ‘We are supposed to be on the same side, working together against the enemies of—’

  Porfiry Petrovich became distracted by the sight of the gendarme detachment boarding the length of the empty train. They stormed it with the haste and vigour of an invading army.

  ‘Doesn’t it ever strike you, Pavel Pavlovich, that for a secret police force, gendarmes of the Third Section have a rather conspicuous uniform? I cannot help thinking that it would handicap some of their more clandestine operations.’

  ‘We Russians do love our uniforms.’

  ‘Do you know what they are looking for?’

  ‘There is some intelligence about a known agitator – an exile to the mines in Petrozavodsk who has gone missing. It is feared that he is returned to St Petersburg.’

  ‘And why are they searching this station? There are no trains from Petrozavodsk into here.’

  ‘There are trains from Moscow, however. One in particular, the imperial train. It is the next one due on this very platform.’

  ‘And in the meantime Count Shuvalov is taking no chances,’ said Porfiry.

  The two men cleared the platform in silence.

  ‘It has come to something when the head of state is afraid to walk among his own people,’ remarked Virginsky.

  ‘The days are gone when all he had to fear was his immediate family.’ Porfiry halted to survey the crowded station concourse. A step or two ahead, Virginsky stopped to wait for him.

  The throng was fluid and restless. The families of the well-to-do jostled with those of tradesmen and middle-ranking civil servants, all returning from dachas of varying grandiosity. Despite the disparities of their summer residences, and regardless of whether they had travelled first or third class, their voices now mingled into an egalitarian hubbub. All moved in a single direction, animated by the same impatience, out towards Znamenskaya Square and the city that awaited them.

  ‘Now then, Pavel Pavlovich,’ continued Porfiry. ‘Won’t you tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You. Here. At the station. Carrying my bag.’

  Virginsky looked down sharply. ‘There is someone I want you to meet. This person is waiting for us now in a hired karet.’

  The information stimulated Porfiry into a spate of blinking. ‘Waiting in a karet? But surely the proper place for any such interview is back at the Department? Unless this is to do with something other than our official duties?’

  ‘Not at all. I was merely acting in the interests of efficiency, out of a desire to save time. My informant just now called at the Department. Having heard the details of the case, I felt sure that it would interest you. I knew that your train was due in. I proposed to my informant that … we should hasten together to meet you.’

  Porfiry narrowed his eyes at Virginsky. ‘I am very interested to meet this informant of yours. Where is your karet?’

  Virginsky put down the valise and opened the umbrella, before leading the way out of the station into the light September rain.

  3

  Mother Nourisher

  It did not surprise Porfiry to discover that Virginsky’s informant was a young woman, whose face, though serious, was not without a certain gentle allure. It was not the face of a great beauty, rather one of quick intelligence and quicker sympathy. She was dressed staidly, in a dark woollen overcoat of almost severe plainness, in contrast to which her bright silver-grey eyes startled: their gaze was steady, both trusting and inspiring of trust. Her fine, oaten hair was pinned up beneath a simple bonnet. She was not, Porfiry ventured to judge, Virginsky’s usual type.

  The two men took the seat opposite her in the four-seated karet as it lurched into movement.

  ‘Maria Petrovna,’ began Virginsky. ‘This is the gentleman I told you about, Porfiry Petrovich.’<
br />
  ‘Good day to you, sir.’ Her voice was firm and confident. She had some experience, Porfiry hazarded, of a life outside the drawing room. She thrust forward her hand almost manfully. She was of good family it seemed, and yet by some miracle, her upbringing had produced something more than an accomplished marionette.

  ‘Maria Petrovna, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Porfiry gave a small bow of the head as he took her hand.

  ‘Please tell Porfiry Petrovich everything that you told me,’ prompted Virginsky. ‘There is no need to be afraid.’

  ‘I’m not afraid, Pavel Pavlovich.’ She could not keep the impatience out of her voice.

  Porfiry Petrovich pursed his lips to suppress a smirk at Virginsky’s expense. Oh dear, Pavel Pavlovich – that was a false step!

  ‘My name is Maria Petrovna Verkhotseva. You may have heard of my father, Pyotr Afanasevich Verkhotsev.’ The disclosure was made factually, without boasting, her lack of constraint revealing the true privilege of her upbringing.

  ‘I know of him.’

  ‘I would be surprised if you did not.’

  Porifiry allowed his head to fall forward with the bouncing rhythm of the karet.

  ‘This has nothing to do with my father, except insofar as it has to do with me. Some people fear him. Some people hate him. To me, he is simply Papochka. I love him as a daughter. He has always been a good father to me, and my mother a good mother. I have wanted for nothing. Indeed, they gave me the most precious gift any parent can give a child: an education. They allowed me, encouraged me would be more the truth, to cultivate an independent mind. My father, you may be surprised to learn, has decidedly liberal views.’

  ‘Why should it surprise me?’ said Porfiry. He seemed distracted, more interested in the unfolding narrative of the city outside the karet.

  ‘Some might hold that liberal views are inconsistent with his position as deputy head of the Tsar’s secret police.’

  ‘Isn’t the Tsar a liberal?’ Porfiry scrutinised each house and tenement building of the Moskvaya District for signs of change. It was as if he was looking into the face of an old friend re-encountered after years apart. ‘I thought he was.’

  ‘He was, perhaps. Once,’ commented Virginsky, dryly.

  ‘Like you,’ continued Maria Petrovna, directing her discourse at Porfiry, ‘I looked around me. Did I not have eyes in my head? I was not satisfied for their gaze to settle only on the surface of things.’

  Porfiry turned a face of mild surprise towards her.

  ‘I went inside the tenements.’ It seemed almost as if she were rebuking him. ‘I did not like what I saw.’

  Porfiry nodded for her to go on.

  ‘I decided to do something about it. But what could I, a mere woman, accomplish, even if I was the daughter of a powerful man?’

  ‘Much, I would imagine,’ said Porfiry, smiling.

  ‘I trained to be a teacher. Using my father’s influence, I gained admittance to the drawing rooms of the wealthy. I had connections of my own too. In addition to private tutors engaged by my father, my education had included a period at the Smolny Institute. Many of my friends from there had married appropriately. I will not say advantageously, for the advantages were mutually conferred. It was not a course I had chosen for myself, but I was happy enough to congratulate them on their good fortune. Especially if they were able to persuade their husbands to support my cause.’

  ‘Your cause?’

  ‘My plan, vision – dream. Call it what you will.’

  ‘And it was?’

  ‘To found a school. I wanted to share the gift of education that I had enjoyed with those less fortunate than myself. Many of the evils of society have their origin in the ignorance of the poorer classes. Eradicate that ignorance and you will eradicate the evils.’

  ‘A noble aspiration,’ said Porfiry, ‘as befits an old girl of the Smolny Institute for Noble Young Ladies.’

  ‘You’re mocking me.’

  ‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to. It is simply that one forms an idea of the type of young lady that the Smolny Institute turns out and, I am pleased to say, you do not conform to it. I did not realise that they had extended their curriculum to include either practical or political studies.’

  ‘It is a mistake to indulge one’s prejudices. The pupils of any institute are not a homogenous mass, but a congregation of individual souls, with varying interests and characters. As are the teachers. While I was there I was fortunate to come under the influence of a remarkable educationalist, one Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin. The seed of my aspiration took root in his classes.’

  ‘What was his subject, may I ask?’

  ‘Conversation.’

  ‘Conversation?’

  ‘Yes. He taught us how to converse.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It is not as simple a subject as you imagine. Not for girls who may find themselves moving in the highest circles of society, and who may be called upon to converse with all manner of individuals, from foreign heads of state to’ – Maria Petrovna hesitated as she cast around for an appropriately contrasting exemplum – ‘poets. It begins in etiquette and ends in … well, who can say where any conversation may end?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘After I qualified as a teacher, I sought out Apollon Mikhailovich. He encouraged me in my scheme and advised me on educational matters. I was overjoyed when he con sented to become a partner in my enterprise.’

  ‘He left the Smolny Institute to work with you?’

  ‘Not quite. His professorship at the Smolny had by then terminated.’

  ‘Please continue.’

  ‘Thanks to the generosity of our patrons, among whom we were proud to count the Grand Duchess Yelena Pavlovna—’

  ‘The Tsar’s aunt?’ blurted Virginsky.

  ‘Of course.’

  Virginsky knitted his brows as he took this in. ‘She is an interesting woman. A freethinker, it is said.’

  ‘The Grand Duchess was greatly moved by the plight of foundling children, who not only grow up without the love of their mothers, but also are forced from an early age to work long shifts in factories. The law does not require our factory owners to make any educational provision for these children. Indeed, they expend only as much of their profits as is necessary to keep them housed and alive, which outgoings you may be sure are deducted from the foundlings’ paltry wages.’

  ‘Do you not need the owners’ consent for the children to attend your school?’ asked Porfiry.

  ‘They are the owners of the factories, not of the children, though I concede you would not think so. However, the children find a way to get to us. Some of them travel far, on foot, to do so.’

  ‘Where is your school?’

  ‘We were able to secure suitable premises in the Rozhdestvenskaya District. It is only two rooms over an artisan’s workshop, but it serves our purposes.’

  ‘And how many pupils do you have?’

  The swimming grey of her eyes settled on him; tears welled, adding to their brightness. Her face was flushed with feeling. A number of emotions seemed to be in contention: outrage, sorrow, disappointment, fear. But her gaze remained steadily fixed on Porfiry.

  ‘That’s just it,’ she said, her voice if anything firmer than before. ‘When we opened our doors, we had fifty-seven children and four adults. Far more than we had planned for, or could accommodate. However, we turned none away. Over the first weeks and months attendance grew, reaching a peak of over seventy children and about a dozen adults. That was last summer. In the winter, naturally, attendance declined. It was harder for the children to get to us. On top of that, the length of their shifts, which lasted from before daybreak till after nightfall, meant that what leisure hours they had were spent in perpetual darkness, which is inevitably debilitating and hardly conducive to study. However, in spring we enjoyed a resurgence in our numbers, which held, more or less, over the summer. Until several weeks ago, when I began to notice a gradual decline. I th
ought nothing of it. Attendance is not obligatory. That the children are able to come at all, even if just once, is a miracle. Who knows what effect even the briefest exposure to the schoolroom will have on their young minds? To see the wonder, the lively curiosity, awaken on their faces! Once that door is opened, the door to learning, you cannot imagine that it will ever be closed.’

  Maria Petrovna broke off, distracted by the enamelled cigarette case which Porfiry was holding up expectantly. ‘Forgive me for interrupting you, Maria Petrovna, but I fear we are reaching the point at which it is necessary for me to smoke.’

  Virginsky and Maria Petrovna watched the lighting of the cigarette, which had a ritualistic formality to it. There was a practised crispness to Porfiry’s movements, culminating in his eyelids quivering closed with an aesthete’s sensuality at the precise moment of inhalation. ‘I beg you to continue. You were talking about the decline in attendance.’

  ‘Yes,’ continued Maria Petrovna, somewhat nonplussed. ‘As I said, I thought nothing of it. And then Mitka stopped coming.’

  ‘Mitka?’

  ‘Dmitri Krasotkin, an employee of the Nevsky Cotton-pinning Factory. A foundling, ten years of age. All the children love to learn – really, they do! – but with Mitka it was more than that. It was something fiercer. A desperate need. He hung on my every word, picked things up so quickly. He showed a remarkable aptitude and I believe he realised that our little school offered him some hope of escaping his terrible life at the factory. It is back-breaking work they put them to, you know, and it’s a tragedy to see a boy like Mitka, who is capable of so much, worn down by it. When he repeatedly failed to attend the school, I made enquiries at the factory. He had gone missing from there too. They assumed he had run away. Truth to tell, they cared little what had become of him and were only exercised insofar as his disappearance inconvenienced them and depressed their productivity. The foreman, an Englishman called Beck, whose Russian I could barely understand, pretended to believe that I had something to do with Mitka’s disappearance. I also had an unpleasant interview with the old woman who supervised the apprentice house, who made such disgusting insinuations that I question her suitability to hold any position of responsibility over children.