I inclined my head, agreeing. He was right. There was a sense of vibrancy and invention, of novelty: the submarines that popped up in the middle of Neva had been growing larger and sleeker lately; newspapers reported on new railways and the creeping expansion of St. Petersburg’s many newly constructed factories. There were rumors of increasingly successful airship flights. Maybe it was enough, I thought, enough to make up for the plain-clothed policemen and silent disappearances.
Jack looked at the crowd, as if searching for someone. I drank my Champagne and waited politely, half listening to the human musicians who resumed playing on the stage. A tall, regal woman caught my eye as she walked past our alcove, her hand resting in that of a slender man who seemed to be her senior by a few years.
The woman turned to regard Jack with a long and apparently disapproving look. “Mr. Bartram,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Jack stood and introduced me to the woman, a Dame Florence Nightingale. Her taciturn companion was Mr. Sidney Herbert — an Englishman, but he quickly informed me his mother was Russian, from the Vorontsov family. He even greeted me in Russian, and I responded in kind, noticing he was only slightly rustier with the language than I was after months spent in St. Petersburg.
While Mr. Herbert and I exchanged pleasantries, Jack and Dame Nightingale entered a fierce whispered argument. She leaned over the table, hovering above his chair like some sort of vengeful angel dressed in a gray two-piece silk dress.
I would’ve eavesdropped, but Mr. Herbert distracted me quite effectively, occupying my attention by asking me about the subtler points of declension of female nouns ending in “ch” and “sh,” and I got so flustered as to completely forget I was supposed to be listening for Jack’s secrets.
My linguistic embarrassment was thankfully cut short when Dame Nightingale pointed her very straight nose at me and smiled, her dark eyes boring into me as if I were some curious thing she happened to come across during a nature excursion — she looked like one of those overly healthy individuals who called their walks “constitutionals” and had an extreme interest in the out-of-doors, vegetarianism, and other ways of artificially extending one’s life, not really caring whether it was God’s intent or not.
“Hello,” I said, trying to keep the hostility I felt out of my voice. “Are you in St. Petersburg for the upcoming season?”
She laughed and shook her head slightly, offering no further response. Instead, she launched an offensive of her own. “Mr. Bartram tells me you are one of those curiosities, a woman they are attempting to educate.”
“Quite successfully,” I said.
She waved her hand, dismissing my words as if they were mere child’s babblings. “Of course. I myself once had interest an in medicine — nursing, to be honest. Thankfully, I had parents who cared about my wellbeing and friends who dissuaded me from such foolishness. It is not a woman’s place.”
“Your queen would beg to differ, I am sure,” I said.
Dame Nightingale snorted rather loudly. “What nonsense. Her Majesty is most concerned with the recent trend of women abandoning home and hearth, as well as their duty to their fathers and husbands. I’m sure she would not at all approve of your little… excursion into the male realm.”
I glared. “Surely a woman who is capably ruling two countries… ”
“… is especially sensitive to the demands a male sphere of activity puts on the female constitution.” Dame Nightingale smiled unpleasantly. “Besides, Her Majesty has a husband. And you…?”
“I do not,” I said, feeling as if it was Aunt Genia’s will that animated my lips. “And I would prefer to not have one. If I were audacious enough to dare compared myself to an English monarch, Queen Elizabeth would be my example.”
“A spinster.”
“No man’s chattel.”
Dame Nightingale grew bored with me, and turned to eye Jack. “Is that what you like then?” she inquired. “A complete lack of femininity?”
“I’ve never felt particularly attached to abstract attributes,” Jack said earnestly, and I managed not to laugh. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait for the season to start so Eugenia would be here and could meet Jack. I thought the two of them would enjoy one another’s company.
“I see,” Dame Nightingale said icily, and again leaned over the table, planting both hands firmly next to our nearly empty hors d’œuvre plate, in a pose that struck me as almost comically at odds with her expressed views about propriety and femininity. I had to stifle another giggle as Mr. Herbert kissed my hand and murmured he was charmed, truly, and was looking forward to meeting my aunt in December, for he had heard so much of her keen political mind. I responded in kind, assuring him she would most certainly be delighted to speak to one who served another great empire, all the while straining to hear Dame Nightingale’s whisper. I was especially curious because, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack draw away from her, his back against the wall. I only caught the end of her words, but that was enough to seal my dislike of her forever.
“Just remember, Mr. Bartram,” she hissed, “who your true friends are and where your loyalties lie, and any trouble could be avoided.”
I felt sick to my stomach when Jack whispered back, “Yes, madam. I always remember.”
The next day, the sky drizzled and grayed. The river, visible now through the bare branches, black — as if drawn by the same hand that had executed the Crane Club’s ink paintings — against the pale enamel of the weeping sky. I idled in bed until Anastasia exiled me from my bedroom because she needed to sweep, and cleaning waited for no one.
As much as I enjoyed the music the night before, the events had left an unpleasant deposit deep in my soul, like the dregs that settle in a glass of seemingly acceptable wine, spoiling forever one’s appetite for it. Dame Nightingale was surely the cause of the dirty murkiness that clouded my spirit that morning.
I peered out the window, and was somewhat consoled to see the rising cigar smoke and the wide-brimmed hat, the black umbrella and a black glove holding it aloft, a wide cloak flapping in the wind like wings. At least, Jack did not hate me; I found the thought comforting.
He looked up just then, and, well aware it was too late to conceal I wasn’t looking, I smiled and waved. He waved back, turned, and walked away abruptly. I wasn’t sure then whether to feel pleased or insulted. I settled on calling Anastasia and asking for tea and breakfast — thick slices of bread, loaves so rich and golden, their crust as fragile as March ice on the river, butter, slabs of cheese.
I drank my tea, sweet and strong and hot, and read the newspaper as a diversion — it had been weeks since I read anything other than a textbook, and soon enough the next quarter would start, plunging me into more human anatomy and Newtonian fancies. But by God, I was going to read the newspaper that Sunday.
I skipped over the news from abroad, unwilling to relive yesterday’s irritation with the English, and let my eyes travel over the black newsprint describing the construction of Trans-Siberian railroad. The article was accompanied by several daguerreotypes of smiling freedmen standing next to gigantic piles of dirt, with horses and mules dragging rails in the background.
It was only when I got to the last page that my tranquility was subsumed by indignation and anger: in a single paragraph, the newspaper reported a breakin and subsequent fire at the Crane Club. No one was hurt, however the cases containing all the engineering marvels of which Chiang Tse was so touchingly proud had disappeared. It was especially puzzling since the cases were heavy and made of glass and metal. Additionally, they had been bolted to the floor and the article mentioned that when the police examined the burned out ruins, they came to the conclusion the bolts had been ripped out, damaging the floor previous to the fire. There were no suspects, and no one — neither the newspaper nor the police — seemed especially concerned with this convergence of vandalism, arson, and theft.