R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

She repeated her unblinking chant, as if it were the response in an often-repeated liturgy: ‘I know of no one by that name.’

The young woman next to her threw herself from the sofa as if it had suddenly come to life and bitten her. Her embroidery hoop fell to the floor. As she rushed from the room, her skirt, which was almost as voluminous as the Princess’s, brushed the stand of one of the oriental vases and set it rocking. The attendant servants watched mesmerised, as did Porfiry and Virginsky, as the vase tottered and at last toppled. The smash was devastating and magnificent.

No one moved, though all eyes turned on the dowager princess.

Surely now she must blink! thought Porfiry.

But as far as he could discern, she did not.

*

They were shown to the door by an elderly butler by the name of Alexey Yegorovich.

‘You have been with the family for a long time?’ ventured Porfiry.

‘All my life. I was a house serf, freed in the Great Reforms.’

‘And do you know of anyone by the name of Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky?’

‘Of course.’

‘Am I right in thinking he is Princess Dolgorukaya’s son?’

‘Yes.’

‘But she no longer acknowledges him?’

‘Clearly.’

‘And the reason for this has something to do with the young lady who ran most precipitously from the room?’

The butler’s face masked whatever feelings he may have had on the subject. ‘Marfa Timofyevna? I cannot say.’

‘You are very discreet. I commend you for that.’

‘I cannot say because I do not know. I am not privy to the confidences of either Princess Dolgorukaya or Marfa Timofyevna.’

‘But servants talk.’

‘Is it your business to gather the tittle-tattle of parlour maids? I for one pay no heed to it. I advise you to do the same.’

Porfiry acknowledged the rebuke with a series of blinks. ‘What about Prince Dolgoruky? Are you privy to his confidences?’

‘I have known the Prince since he was a babe in arms. I dandled him on my knee. My wife, God rest her soul, was his wet nurse.’

‘He confided in you?’

‘The Prince does not confide in anyone, wholly. Is he in any trouble?’

‘Would it surprise you if he were?’

The old servant did not reply, but his face fell eloquently.

Porfiry smiled. ‘I merely wish to speak to him about a gentleman who is known to be one of his associates.’

‘It is his associates who are to blame!’ said Alexey Yegorovich, forcefully.

‘Yes, of course. He has fallen in with a bad crowd. It often happens. It is this bad crowd that I am interested in. What we must do is separate Prince Dolgoruky from the bad crowd, so that his goodness can be allowed to flourish. Is that not so?’

‘He was not a bad little boy. Very sweet-natured and loving. He doted on my wife. As she did on him.’

‘Then there is certainly hope for Prince Dolgoruky now. What can you tell me about these associates?’

‘He did not generally receive his friends here. They are not such that you would admit into a respectable home.’

‘I see. And he never mentioned any names to you?’

Alexey Yegorovich shook his head doubtfully. ‘He may have. But the names meant nothing to me.’

‘Do you at least know where he is now?’

‘He is not far from here. In fact, he has merely crossed two courtyards.’ The butler looked up and down the hallway conspiratorially. ‘I sometimes take him things. Food. Books. Whatever he asks for that will not be missed.’

Porfiry thought for a moment. ‘I would like to show you some photographs.’

Alexey Yegorovich shook his head blankly at the image of the man taken from the Winter Canal, and in fact looked at Porfiry as if he were mad for showing it to him. The photograph of the staff of Affair provoked a more promising reaction, at least when Porfiry pointed out Kozodavlev.

‘I have seen him once or twice with that man. He may have even brought him to the house. I rather think the Prince considered him to be one of his more respectable friends.’

‘Do you know who he is?’

‘I believe the Prince referred to him as Demyan Antonovich.’

‘Thank you. The man is indeed Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev.’

The click of a door handle turning drew their attention. The door in question creaked open a few inches, then closed again quickly. Porfiry thought that he had seen two moist, timid eyes peer out.

‘Marfa Timofyevna?’ he whispered to Alexey Yegorovich.

The butler nodded.

‘I would very much like to speak to her. It may help the Prince.’

The butler bowed and crossed to Marfa Timofyevna’s door, knocking gently. The door opened a crack, through which a whispered exchange was passed. At a nod from Alexey Yegorovich, Porfiry and Virginsky were admitted.

The room was tiny, the walls crowded with reproductions of mostly sentimental genre paintings.

Marfa Timofyevna indicated the bed for them to sit upon, but Porfiry declared that the interview need not take long. At that, the young lady swayed uncertainly on her feet.

‘But please,’ relented Porfiry. ‘By all means, you may sit down.’ He watched her solicitously for a few moments. ‘You are not well, Marfa Timofyevna? May we fetch you a glass of water?’

‘Thank you, no. That won’t be necessary. I am a little fatigued, that is all.’ She dabbed her eyes with a minuscule, lace-trimmed handkerchief.

Porfiry and Virginsky both felt awkward standing over the girl. Nodding simultaneously, they settled down on either side of her.

‘I could not help noticing,’ began Porfiry gently, ‘that when we were talking to Princess Dolgorukaya, you left the room in something of a hurry.’

‘Yes.’ Marfa Timofyevna gave a self-mocking smile that entirely won Porfiry over. He could not say which was more touching, its bravery or its fragility.

‘The reason, if I am not mistaken, has something to do with her rejection of her son, Prince Dolgoruky.’

‘I owe everything to Princess Dolgorukaya,’ said Marfa Timofyevna, hotly.

‘Yes, of course. I understand. That makes it very difficult for you to say anything against her.’

‘Is Konstantin Arsenevich in trouble?’

‘No. I merely wish to speak to him about a friend of his. Did he ever introduce you to any of his friends?’

Marfa Timofyevna shook her head quickly, almost violently. For the first time, she turned her eyes directly on Porfiry. ‘It is not what you think.’ She looked away sharply, as soon as she had confided this.

‘Ah, it is interesting that you should say so, as I am not sure what I think.’ Porfiry smiled.

Marfa Timofyevna’s tone darkened. ‘You think that Konstantin Arsenevich seduced me.’

‘And that is not what happened?’

‘I. .’ Marfa Timofyevna bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. She could not bring herself to say any more.

‘Yes, I think I understand,’ said Porfiry, softly. ‘And so, perhaps, you hold yourself responsible for the Prince’s exile from his family home?’

Marfa Timofyevna seemed shocked by the suggestion. ‘No, I. .! Why do you say that?’

‘Then, forgive me, I do not understand. Except that I understand how painful and delicate these affairs are. And that the truth of the matter is often very different to the way it is vulgarly represented. What is left out — quite often — are the feelings. How the heart is stirred. Noble, beautiful — and above all delicate — feelings. But if you take those away, what are you left with? For they are the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. Without allowing for those feelings, then you are only dealing with a travesty of the truth. A lie, in other words.’