‘From whom did you commission the review?’
‘From one of our regular contributors.’
‘And the name of this regular contributor?’
‘He prefers to remain anonymous.’
‘But surely you know who he is?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then how do you communicate with him?’
‘Through an intermediary. An agent, if you like.’
‘And who is this agent?’
‘A gentleman by the name of Prince Dolgoruky.’
‘Prince Dolgoruky? A distinguished name,’ observed Porfiry.
‘The Dolgorukys are an ancient and noble family,’ said Trudolyubov complacently, as if this was somehow to his own credit.
‘The Tsar, I believe, is a friend of Prince Mikhail Dolgoruky.’ Porfiry paused to blink significantly before adding: ‘And his daughter, Yekaterina.’
‘This is a different branch of the family. I am talking about Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky. He is only distantly related to the Tsar’s. . friend.’
‘How interesting. Does Prince Dolgoruky act in this capacity — as an intermediary or agent — for any other writers whom you publish?’
The aged editor paused before answering, his face atremble. ‘Yes.’
‘And who would that be? Another anonymous writer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Allow me to hazard a guess. Are we talking about the anonymous author of Swine, the notorious D.?’
‘That is so.’
Porfiry gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Did it ever occur to you that the writer of the novel and the reviewer of the novel might be one and the same person?’
‘The writer of the novel is D. The writer I commissioned the review from is K.’
‘K. Of course. Yes. D. and K. Clearly two very distinct individuals.’
‘Besides, Prince Dolgoruky assured me — ’
‘Prince Dol-goruky?’ cut in Porfiry. ‘Perhaps he is himself D.? Though if that were the case, he would certainly have signed the pages “Prince D.,” wouldn’t he?’
Trudolyobov wrinkled his nose at Porfiry’s sarcasm.
‘I believe I have the review you commissioned on me.’ Porfiry fished out the article from inside his frockcoat. ‘Does that look like the work of your fellow K.?’
‘It is certainly more or less what I was expecting.’
‘Would it surprise you to learn that your regular contributor K. also contributes to the radical journal Affair under his full name of Kozodavlev?’
‘This is Kozodavlev? Impossible!’ Trudolyubov snapped the paper with the fingernails of one hand.
‘I assure you. I took it from Mr Kozodavlev’s drawer at the offices of Affair last week. The handwriting was identified as his by the editor of that journal.’
‘But Kozodavlev is against everything we stand for. He has attacked us in the most vicious terms on numerous occasions.’
‘And yet you wrote to Kozodavlev, soliciting a review of Swine. I found your letter in his drawer.’
‘I wrote to every journal I could think of. I knew Affair would hate it, of course. I wanted them to hate it. That would be the greatest endorsement of the work.’
‘You sought controversy?’
‘I suppose you could say that.’ Trudolyubov’s eyes seemed to twinkle. He looked down at the review again. ‘But Kozodavlev cannot be K.! K. even attacked Kozodavlev, singling him out for the bitterest vituperation.’
‘I believe it was a game he liked to play. Perhaps it was his way of working out the conflicts that buffeted his soul.’
‘But it makes a mockery of all the principles any of us hold, on whatever side.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Porfiry. ‘Have you always held the views you now propound with such force in your publications? Were you not once, in your younger days, in the sway of entirely opposite ideas?’
‘I learnt the error of my ways.’
‘Yes, but you will accept that it is possible for two contrary opinions to reside in the same man?’
‘At different times of his life, perhaps.’
‘But were not the seeds of your current views taking root in your mind at the very time that you were openly expressing sentiments of a decidedly radical tendency? Are not both viewpoints, though on the face of it polar opposites, more closely related than they first appear? Might we not say they are two sides of the same coin? The coin being a sincere and deeply held love of Russia. For it seems to me, if I may say so — I am not a political individual, so my comments may strike you as naive — nevertheless, it does seem to me that the radicals and the Slavophiles are both motivated by a genuine desire to do what is best for Russia. It is just that they disagree as to what that is.’
Trudolyubov thrust the article back at Porfiry. ‘No. I won’t accept that. This is just cynical sport.’
‘He was a professional writer,’ said Porfiry reasonably. ‘He had to place his work where he could.’
‘Was? You just said “was.” Is Kozodavlev the one you fished out of the Winter Canal?’
‘In the first place, I did not myself fish the body out. In the second, no — I do not believe so.’ Porfiry turned to Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, do you have the poster?’
Virginsky nodded and took out the folded poster, which he handed to Trudolyubov.
‘This is the body from the Winter Canal,’ explained Porfiry. ‘We have seen a photograph of Mr Kozodavlev — or K., if you prefer — and it is not the same person. However, Mr Kozodavlev is missing, and, I regret to say, presumed dead.’
Trudolyubov did not appear to have heard. His gaze was concentrated on the photograph in his hands. ‘What has happened to this poor fellow?’ He spoke in a barely vocalised whisper.
‘He would not have looked like that in life. A chemical reaction has occurred in certain places. It has transformed his flesh into a soapy substance. Please try to ignore that and concentrate on the areas that are not affected. You will notice the pockmarks and the small eyes. They are distinctive features, I think.’
Trudolyubov looked aghast at Virginsky. ‘They would take away God from us. But if you take away God, what are you left with, sir? This.’ He handed the poster back to Virginsky.
‘Do you recognise him?’ asked Porfiry.
Trudolyubov shook his head. ‘So, Kozodavlev is dead too, you say?’
‘It seems he perished in a fire that took hold of his apartment building on Monday night.’
‘How ironic.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You could say he has only himself to blame. His inflammatory articles without doubt contributed to the unrest and vandalism that has beset our city in recent days.’
‘And yet the articles he wrote for you might have served to counteract it.’
The elderly editor seemed unconvinced.
‘I would be interested in seeing cuttings of the work K. contributed to your publications,’ said Porfiry.
‘I can arrange that. If you provide me with an address, I will send them on for you.’
‘Thank you. Here is my card. Also, I would very much like to meet Prince Dolgoruky.’
‘The family home is not far from here. I seem to remember that it is also in Liteiny Prospect. If you don’t mind waiting, I will have someone look up the address for you.’
‘Most kind.’
Trudolyubov consulted with one of his colleagues, who lifted his head slowly, thrusting his beard in Porfiry and Virginsky’s direction. A moment later the address was handed over.
A timid creature
‘May I say something, Porfiry Petrovich?’ began Virginsky, as they walked back along Liteiny Prospect towards the Nevsky Prospect end. ‘And I hope you will not take it amiss.’
Porfiry blinked frantically as he gave consideration to Virginsky’s words. ‘If it is something that I may take amiss, then perhaps it is better not said.’
‘Very well. I will keep my thoughts to myself.’
Porfiry regarded Virginsky out of the corner of his eye, with an indulgent spasm of the lips. ‘Oh dear, Pavel Pavlovich, so easily discouraged? That’s not like you. I worry that you too often keep your counsel these days. It suggests either that you do not trust me, or that you do not trust yourself. I’m afraid to think which horrifies me more. To be honest, I don’t like either much.’