A Razor Wrapped in Silk pp-3

by R. N. Morris

  The incident seemed to take on a significance greater than the personal, to be about something more than simply a fiery-tempered woman redressing an insult. In that slap, something had been unleashed, something ugly that seemed to have a bearing on them all. Yelena’s dangerous glamour spread like a contagion.

  Words were exchanged between Prince Naryskin and his son. It seemed that Prince Sergei was being directed to take his fiancee in hand. An anticipatory thrill set the assembly abuzz, for it was clearly felt that to do so would provoke further, perhaps greater, scandal.

  All eyes were turned on Prince Sergei as he approached Yelena.

  His words to her were not heard. But Yelena’s laughter, the brittle laughter that was her last defence, crashed over them all like splinters from a fallen chandelier. For a second time, she had silenced the room. Those who had predicted a greater scandal were proven right. There was in this laughter, in its abandon, something far more shocking than a mere physical blow. What made it seem more callous still was that Prince Sergei was known to have a pronounced stammer.

  Maria’s impressions of what happened next were confused. She was certain that she saw the second blow, the one that fell with a dull knuckle-crack across Yelena’s cheekbone; certain too that she heard Yelena’s scream, and her terrible masochistic cry to Sergei: ‘Yes, beat me! Beat me like a dog!’

  But all this was engulfed in a greater commotion. Everything seemed to be happening in a dream, one pervaded by an atmosphere of violence and foreboding. Yelena, Prince Sergei and the officer Mizinchikov, vanished, to be replaced by other, even stranger figures. The entrance of the Tsarevich was announced. The next in line to the throne strode into the room with a premeditated swagger, but his over-bullish stare communicated an aggressive uncertainty, and although he was physically imposing, he possessed bulk rather than stature. He had the air of a man destined to be out of his depth. Maria recognised the sleek, watchful man accompanying him as Count Dmitri Andreevich Tolstoy, the Minister of National Enlightenment. His greater natural authority served only to diminish the Tsarevich further.

  The unseemly hysteria of the gathering was turned upon the new arrivals. They, of course, could not comprehend what they had walked into; their confusion quickly turned to rage. Prince Naryskin ran over to soothe their affronted dignity, which only seemed to be aggravated by his intervention. For some reason, Maria felt herself to be the object of the three men’s indignant gaze, as if she had been singled out for blame.

  All at once, the press of people eased around her, as if it had been universally agreed to keep her at a distance. Aglaia Filippovna was nowhere to be seen. Maria did, however, at last catch sight of Apollon Mikhailovich. He was standing to one side with a preoccupied air, dressed uncharacteristically in a swallow-tailed evening suit. As always, the sight of him was calming. He seemed untouched by what had happened, as he teased away at his great shovel beard. Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin had a marvellous ability to cut himself off from his surroundings and remain focused on his mental processes. Perhaps he was preparing himself for his role in the forthcoming entertainments: he had taken it upon himself to open the proceedings with an extemporised talk on educational theory, which she had every confidence would be far more entertaining than the subject promised.

  Prince Naryskin continued to keep her in his sight. Then, with a brisk nod in answer to something Count Tolstoy had said, he began to move towards her. All his earlier agitation seemed to have left him. His steps were precise and measured. She felt each sharp click of his heels resonate in the base of her skull.

  ‘Maria Petrovna, I suggest we begin the evening’s entertainment immediately.’

  She nodded her agreement with relief. Maria sensed a kind of panic take hold of some of those around her. Performers suddenly remembered themselves and dashed off backstage.This heightened the excitement of the others, prompting an unnecessary crush at the door leading to the theatre. Voices were raised.

  Maria watched with dismay.

  ‘Really!’ said Prince Naryskin, his voice squeezed with exasperation. ‘What is the matter with these people? They are behaving like children.’

  ‘My children do not behave so badly,’ said Maria.

  ‘You have children?’

  ‘The children at my school.’

  This reference to the cause they were supporting did nothing to improve the prince’s temper. ‘This is what happens when you begin to educate the labouring classes.’

  ‘With the greatest respect, Nikolai Sergeevich, I do not follow your argument. There are no members of the labouring classes here tonight.’

  ‘But there are the classless ones, aren’t there? The raznochintsy. The new intelligentsia. They do not know how to behave.’

  ‘I do not believe what you say is true. There may be some among the music students and literary gentlemen who conform to your description. But as for the audience, I would say that they are from good families, for the most part.’

  ‘There are Jews here. Financiers and industrialists. And their whores. New money.’ The prince had his eye on the man Aglaia Filippovna had identified as Bakhmutov.

  ‘Mr Bakhmutov is Jewish?’ Maria watched as Bakhmutov approached the Tsarevich and Count Tolstoy. He addressed them with ease, familiarity even. They seemed to regard him with polite suspicion.

  Maria glanced at the prince, his face touched by distaste. ‘He may have converted to Orthodoxy but that was purely pragmatic. You might even call it a business decision. Like all his decisions.’ The hint was edged with a precise bitterness. ‘Where has that woman gone now?’

  Maria remained neutrally silent.

  ‘Let us hope that she has taken herself out of our lives for good.’

  Her gaze spun instinctively towards where Apollon Mikhailovich had been standing but he was gone.

  *

  The theatre in the Naryskin Palace was decorated in a full-blown baroque style, giving it a comically stunted appearance. The tiny auditorium simply wasn’t up to bearing the rampant encrustations of gilt mouldings and marble reliefs. One man, presumably never having set foot in it before, was moved to ridicule, declaring loudly: ‘It’s like a dwarf in a cavalry officer’s uniform!’ Maria thought of Mizinchikov. The remark seemed intended to bring the earlier incident to mind. It provoked widespread and careless hilarity.

  Four boxes projected on either side, almost meeting in the middle. Maria couldn’t help thinking that the theatre seats ought to have been scaled down. This was a toy theatre. Surely it was meant for children to sit in? The plush, adult-sized seats seemed intrusive, an effect that was exacerbated when they were occupied. The theatre made giants of them all.

  The proscenium arch was oddly out of proportion. It was imposingly high, but severely narrow, as though squeezed in. The stage was concealed by layers of artfully hung crimson drapes, which on closer examination turned out to be a trompe l’oeil design painted onto a screen. Real drapes, of a similar colour, hung around the boxes, partially shielding the occupants from view. The impression made was of a multiple of stages, each capable of holding its own drama. Looking up, Maria saw a roundel painted into the white and gold ceiling, a depiction of putti looking down on the audience, as if they themselves were the spectacle.

  The musicians hurriedly took their places in the cramped pit, keeping their elbows in and their instruments high. The volubility of the audience increased at their arrival. There was a brutal edge to the anticipation, which was not so much for them as for what would come after. No one said as much, but they were all waiting for the next appearance of Yelena Filippovna. The sound of the instruments tuning, the wavering note becoming quickly firmer, failed to quell the chatter. A few among the audience, Maria included, hissed for silence. The band waited to begin, their faces incredulous. Accepting that absolute silence was an impossible ideal, they took the decision to impose their music on the audience, whether they would have it or no. They played loudly and wilfully, which was precisely what was needed. Som
ething in the music, something new and until now unheard, startled the audience into listening. As the band played, the painted screen covering the stage was raised upon an arrangement of real drapes identical to those depicted on the rising screen. Maria felt that perhaps the mood was turning and the evening might be salvaged. When the piece was over, the applause was slow in coming, as if the audience needed a moment to absorb what they had heard, but when it came it was enthusiastic, excessively so.

  They are like children, thought Maria. They go from one extreme to another.

  The house lights were extinguished. A flurry in the curtains culminated in the appearance of Apollon Mikhailovich. He was not a tall man, a little under average height in fact, but on that tiny stage he attained the stature of a giant. His eyes twinkled with a benign but compelling light. Maria began to relax, sensing the confidence and control in his presence.

  His bass voice boomed out, filling the auditorium effortlessly: ‘My friends — and I hope I will not be accused of presumption in addressing you all thus — ’ he cast a sly, mischievous glance up towards the imperial box. ‘But by your presence here tonight, you all — each and every one of you — declare yourselves friends of education. And may I say that any friend of education is a friend of mine!’ The quip was well judged. It found favour with the democratically-inclined members of the audience, without causing offence to the conservatives. Even the Tsarevich, known to be the most unthinking of reactionaries, could not fail to be disarmed by the crinkles of good humour in Apollon Mikhailovich’s face.

  Now that face became suffused with feeling. ‘My name is Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin. I stand before you as a humble teacher. No — more than that — as a humbled teacher. And what I have been humbled by is nothing other than …’ He broke off, with a natural storyteller’s sense of the dramatic. His glittering eyes cast their gaze this way and that over the audience, drinking in their expectation. ‘ … my pupils. Yes, that’s right — children! For what could be more humbling than a child … who, of his own volition, without enforcement or encouragement, overcomes every obstacle, risks even punishment and abuse, to come before a teacher and demand, “Teach me!” What could be more inspiring?’

  The audience responded to the rhetorical question with murmurs of approval.

  ‘I am proud and honoured to stand before you now as the teacher of such children. My friends, now it is your turn to be proud, your turn to be honoured. Yes! Be proud!’ His eyes widened as he encouraged them to open themselves up to that emotion. ‘Be honoured!’ he insisted. There was some embarrassed laughter now. Apollon Mikhailovich smiled and nodded, acknowledging it. Then the smile snapped from his face. A sudden intensity burned in his eyes. ‘By your presence here tonight …’ The words came in a forceful staccato. He stabbed the air on each syllable with two fingers of his right hand. He had transformed himself into a demagogue, holding the pause beyond the dramatic, stretching it into a breathtaking chasm. ‘ … You have shown yourselves to be the friend of these children. And I know you are not the men and women to turn your back on your friends. You are, after all — we all are — Russians!’

  The diverse political strands of the audience were united by this appeal to nationalism. They roared their enthusiasm and stamped their feet in approval. Apollon Mikhailovich bowed humbly, then turned to push his way through the barrier of velvet.

  The stage was clear for the first of the literary gentlemen.

  This was Karmazinov, an established and once celebrated author who had fallen out of favour with the younger generation for his negative portrayal of a ‘new man’. Tall and broad-shouldered, he cut an impressive figure, physically at least. The whiteness of his hair and beard glowed, giving him a distinguished if prematurely-aged appearance. But there was a diffidence to his expression, a timidity even, that diminished him. Blinking in the limelight, he was barely able to look directly at the audience, preferring either to stare loftily over their heads, or to keep his gaze fixed on the sheets of manuscript in his hands. His voice was soft, and failed to carry even in that auditorium. It was not long before cries of ‘Speak up!’ were replaced by others even less encouraging.

  Maria could bear it no longer. She sprang to her feet and turned on the audience. ‘Quiet! Show some respect!’ The shock of her intervention, and her undoubted school mistress’ manner, had the desired effect. She turned to Karmazinov, who looked as dumbfounded as the chastised audience members. ‘You sir, continue — but speak up, I beg you.’

  He did as he was directed — indeed, what else could he do?

  It was now possible at least to understand what he was reading, and perhaps it would have been better if his voice had remained inaudible. For the poems he had chosen were altogether too romantic, too painfully sensitive, for the modern taste. Suddenly people remembered why no one read Karmazinov any longer. It was not that the poems were badly done — Karmazinov had always been acknowledged to be a fine writer — it was just that they seemed superfluous. He was felt to be a man who had had his day and now they were impatient for him to clear the stage.

  Strangely, Karmazinov seemed to share this sentiment, and was as relieved as anyone when he came to the end of his reading.

  The applause, apart from Maria’s strenuous clapping, was perfunctory and brief. Karmazinov fought his way through the complicated drapes, which conspired to prolong his humiliation.

  And so the evening progressed. The musical interludes were on the whole more enthusiastically received than the readings. One young writer bucked the trend, winning favour by reading a series of crude lampoons of well-known literary figures including, in an outrageous exhibition of bad form, Karmazinov. However, the audience still appeared cowed by Maria’s earlier rebuke. Occasional warning glances from her were enough to keep a lid on any further unpleasantness. There was no doubt, though, that the prevailing mood of impatience only increased as the entertainments wore on.

  At last the curtains parted on a scene from Prince Bykov’s play, and the audience readied itself for the imminent reappearance of Yelena Filippovna. Indeed there was some disappointment that she wasn’t present from the outset.

  The narrow stage appeared crowded by the disposition of props and actors upon it. A young man in a Bukhara dressing gown lay sprawled across a chaise longue. Another young man, more formally dressed, was seated at a writing desk, pen in hand. A third man, evidently a servant of some kind, stood to one side. In a gesture of great irony, this part was taken by the epicene Prince Bykov himself. A more unlikely manservant it was impossible to imagine. He performed his part with relish, even though all he had to do was take a letter from the young man at the desk and quit the stage.

  The two actors left on stage delivered their stagnant lines without conviction. It took some time to understand that they were discussing the disappearance of a young lady with whom the young man on the chaise longue was in love. The audience became more enlivened and engaged at this, sensing that this would be the part taken by Yelena Filippovna. But still the interminable exchange of platitudes ground on.

  Then suddenly the dramatic genius of Prince Bykov seemed to show itself at last. A piercing off-stage scream cut short the stodgy dialogue. The actors’ performances were transformed. They became, in a word, authentic. The two men were hanging on what would happen next as much as any member of the audience. And when Aglaia Filippovna burst out from the wings, one arm extended back as she pointed at an unseen something, they gave the most truthful portrayals of shock ever seen on a St Petersburg stage.

  The coup de theatre came when Aglaia cried out: ‘She’s dead. My sister’s dead. He’s killed her!’ Her eyes spun upwards, filling with white. A kind of wave went through her as she fell. Her arms and head rose, as if resisting. But the ultramarine dress that had sat so uneasily on her pulled her down, as though it were made from some impossibly heavy material.

  The two actors stood frozen to the spot. No one knew what to do next or how to interpret what had happened.

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nbsp; Maria could not get out of her mind the image of Aglaia’s eyes at the moment before her collapse. There was something so raw, so intimate, something almost obscene in that exposure, that she knew it could not be an act.

  ‘Help her! Somebody help her!’ She was on her feet again. Her words released the two actors from their suspended state. They rushed to Aglaia Filippovna. Unable to rouse her, one called for a doctor while the other communicated urgently with stagehands. The curtains came together and the painted screen descended.

  The audience broke into uproar.

  6 White camellias, a red thread, and seven rings

  Porfiry Petrovich looked down at the body of the young woman. She was frozen in an angular pose. Her arms retained the tension with which they had been lashing out at the last moment, acutely bent at the elbows and wrists, fingers splayed to grasp life as it leeched from her. Her head was sharply skewed to one side, as if in the throes of angry denial. She lay half on her side, her body cork-screwed. It seemed she had died writhing to lift herself out of the swamp of blood that encircled her.

  As always in these circumstances, Porfiry’s gaze was drawn to the wound. Of course, his interest was professional, but it occurred to him that his choice of profession might have been influenced by a need to confront such sights. Or perhaps it was a profoundly human compulsion, little more than the vulgar urge to gawp at the scene of an overturned carriage. He had merely elevated morbid curiosity into a calling. The morose cast of his musings could be excused by the fact that he had been wrenched from uneasy dreams of his father by the frantic hammering of police officers sent to rouse him. Usually when he dreamt of his parents, the mood of the dream was joyful. These were dreams of reunion that he did not want to end. The simpler familial relationships of childhood were restored and there was only love between them. Whatever complications there had been in life were blissfully forgotten. But this night’s dreams were shot through with an obscure sense of guilt that he couldn’t shake off, but was reluctant to probe.