Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog (24 page)

“Then how about this,” said Berdichevsky, catching hold of his own nose and twisting it one way and then the other. “We can try a different approach, using a Trojan horse.”

“How can we do that?” Anton Antonovich asked in surprise. “Who is going to be the horse?”

“Police Chief Lagrange. He has become Bubentsov’s right hand, and Bubentsov entrusts a lot of business to him. But in my capacity as public prosecutor I possess certain information concerning our charming friend Felix Stanislavovich.”

Berdichevsky spoke calmly and briskly now, with no trace of any trembling in his voice.

“Two days ago, Lagrange accepted a gift from the Old Believer merchant Pimenov. Seven thousand in bank notes. He extorted it himself by threatening to arrest Pimenov for speaking abusively about the rites of the Orthodox Church.”

“What are you saying?” the baron gasped. “Why, that’s unheard-of!”

(Anton Antonovich’s amazement is quite understandable since, as we have already mentioned, in our province blatant bribe-taking, especially by highly placed officials, had been entirely banished to the realm of legend.)

“Nonetheless, he took it—no doubt in anticipation of changing times. I even have a statement from Pimenov. So far I have not done anything about it. I can have a word with Felix Stanislavovich. He is not a very intelligent man, but he will take my point. He will appear to remain Bubentsov’s accomplice, but in secret he will report to me in detail about our dear friend’s plotting and scheming.”

Mitrofanii started groaning and sighing: “Oh, I don’t know…I shall pray and ask the Lord whether such trickery is permissible. He does sometimes permit evil to be destroyed by evil means, but, even so, it is not good.”

“It is even less good to sit here with our arms folded, doing nothing, but no matter what we suggest, Your Grace, you are not happy with anything,” the governor rebuked the bishop.

“You are right, my son. It is better to sin than to turn a blind eye and connive spinelessly with evil. Anton Antonovich, write to your brother, let him have a word with the emperor. At least then the wind will not be blowing into His Majesty’s ear from only one direction. And you, Matvei, act as you think best”—the bishop addressed Berdichevsky without ceremony because he had known him since he was a boy. “I do not need to tell you what to do. And, er, one more thing…” Mitrofanii cleared his throat. “Anton Antonovich, be sure not to tell your wife about what we are intending.”

An expression of profound suffering appeared on the baron’s long face.

“But what about you, father?” Berdichevsky put in hastily in order to leave this awkward moment behind. “What actions will you take?”

“I shall pray,” the bishop declared solemnly, “and ask the Lord to grant us deliverance. And I also have high hopes of help from a certain lady unknown to you….”

AND SO THE elders of the province spent the season of summer’s decline in a state of alarm and turmoil, for which they had the most serious of reasons, although it is also true that our Zavolzhsk society had never found life quite so fascinating as it did during those August and September days.

And it was not just a matter of the political and religious convulsions that had made our region famous throughout Russia in a mere few days. Such events are capable of agitating minds, but they do not provoke any exceptional tingling of the nerves, and it was precisely nervous excitement that could be observed in these parts—excitement of that special quality that can only be generated by women tormented and driven half-crazy by curiosity. It is well known, after all, that the defining mood of society is determined by the members of the weaker sex. When they are bored and depressed, everything in the world shrinks, shrivels, becomes gray and colorless. But when, in the grip of excitement, they shake off their drowsiness, the pulse of life immediately quickens and blossoms, becoming filled with sound and color. In our capital cities the ladies are almost always either in a state of palpitation and Ecstatic Complicity with a Great Event or of anticipation of this delightful condition, which accounts for the eternal female yearning to escape from the provinces to St. Petersburg or, if that cannot be managed, to Moscow, to the bustle and lights and the constant, shimmering glow of an endless holiday. But in the backwoods the dreary peace and quiet reduce the ladies to a state of hysterical melancholy, which only renders the outburst of congested feelings all the more violent when a miracle occurs and the yawningly familiar native hearths are suddenly illuminated by the sun of a Genuine Scandal. Here is drama and passion for you, and such incomparably delightful rumors—and it is all so near, so close at hand, you are almost up on the stage itself, not gazing through a lorgnette from a chair in the fourth circle, as you would be in the capital cities.

At the very center of this fascinating life, for which our quiet Zavolzhsk had some time earlier become the arena, there stood, of course, Vladimir Lvovich Bubentsov, a former sinner, but now a hero, in other words a figure not merely doubly dangerous for the female heart but quadruply so. The synodical emissary’s relations with the governor’s wife, Ludmila Platonovna, the postmaster’s wife, Olympiada Savelievna, and several other lionesses of our local society were the main subject of discussion in all our drawing rooms and salons. The most varied opinions were expressed concerning the nature of these relations, from the charitable to the extremely audacious, and it must be admitted that the latter clearly predominated.

The other, almost equally piquant, source of gossip was Naina Georgievna Telianova. After leaving her grandmother’s estate, she had moved to Zavolzhsk and had not demonstrated the slightest desire to take refuge in flight to other parts—that is, things had happened precisely as the perspicacious Sister Pelagia had predicted. Naturally, everyone knew about the unseemly part that Naina Georgievna had played in the story of the unfortunate dogs, and there were few who were willing to associate with the crazy princess now, and yet the young woman was not embarrassed in the least by the general condemnation. The apprehension once expressed by Sister Pelagia concerning the desperate situation in which Naina Georgievna might find herself should she be left without any inheritance from her grandmother had proved to be completely unfounded. In addition to the very fine little town house that Telianova had inherited from a recently deceased female relative, the princess proved also to possess her own capital—yet another inheritance, this time from some great-uncle or second cousin. God only knows how much it was worth, but it was at least quite sufficient for her to keep a maid and dress in the latest fashion. Naina appeared quite openly everywhere she wished, and in general her manner of behavior was such that at times her exploits even eclipsed the missionary and amatory conquests of Vladimir Lvovich.

How intriguing, for instance, were the young lady’s daily rides in the early evening to St. Petersburg Boulevard, our very own Zavolzhsk Champs Élysées!

Decked out in a positively breathtaking dress (a new one every time), under an immensely wide hat with feathers, sheltering under a lace parasol, Naina Georgievna would ride unhurriedly along the esplanade in her carriage, boldly scrutinizing all the ladies walking toward her, and on Cathedral Square she would order her driver to halt in front of the Grand Duke hotel and gaze fixedly for a long time, sometimes even for as long as half an hour, at the windows of the wing in which Vladimir Lvovich had his lodgings. Aware of this custom of hers, at the appointed hour a small crowd would already be gathered in anticipation by the railings, ready to gape at the remarkable young woman. It is true that no one ever saw the door of the wing open and the inspector invite the princess to enter, but this standoffish response merely accentuated the scandalous nature of the entire situation.

On the eve of the Beheading of John the Baptist, the town was fragrant with the scent of a new scandal, the precise content of which was not yet clear. But the scent was the same as ever, spicy and unmistakable. And the same rumors, ripe with promise, were hovering in the air.

There was the prospect of a rare, indeed almost unprecedented event for Zavolzhsk—a public art exhibition. Not an exhibition of drawings by grammar-school pupils or of watercolors painted by members of the “Officials’ Wives for Public Morality” association, but a display of photographic pictures by the Petersburg celebrity Arkadii Sergeevich Poggio.

The
vernissage
for invited guests—with champagne and hors d’oeuvres—was set for the same date as this doleful holy day, for which, as everyone knows, the observance of a strict fast is prescribed. In this alone a certain defiance of the proprieties could already be discerned. But even more remarkable was the suggestive air of mystery with which the patroness of the exhibition, Olympiada Savelievna Shestago, distributed the invitations to a narrow circle of friends and acquaintances. There were those who said that this small number of fortunates would be shown something quite exceptional, and tremulous apprehensions were even expressed that afterward the most interesting things would not be shown to the public or even that no public showing would take place at all.

The postmaster’s wife luxuriated in the bright glow of this universal excitation. Never before had she received so many invitations at the same time for all manner of gatherings, name-day parties and open-house days. She did not go to all of them, but was very selective, affecting an air of intrigue and replying to direct requests for an invitation by saying that the hall was too small and the artist himself objected to a crowd, for that would make it difficult to view his works. But as of the day after the
vernissage,
everyone would be most welcome.

THE EXHIBITION WAS located in a separate wing of the postmaster’s house, with a door that opened straight onto the street. Arkadii Sergeevich had been living in this comfortable apartment for an entire month, ever since he moved out of Drozdovka. The reason for his move was not entirely clear, because no one had observed that Poggio had quarreled about anything with the inhabitants of the estate, though certain of the more perspicacious female commentators did remark that the timing of the move had coincided with Naina Georgievna’s emigration. On the first floor of the apartment there was a spacious salon, where the exhibition in question was sited, and before the salon there was also a drawing room. The second floor consisted of two rooms: one served Arkadii Sergeevich as his bedroom, and he had set up his photographic laboratory in the other, blacking out the windows completely with curtains.

The invited guests assembled only gradually, and therefore the hostess’s foresight in providing a table of hors d’oeuvres in the drawing room was much appreciated.

Almost the first to arrive were Stepan Trofimovich Shiryaev and Pyotr Georgievich Telianov, which conclusively refuted speculation concerning a quarrel between Arkadii Sergeevich and the inhabitants of Drozdovka. Shiryaev was pale and tense, as though he foresaw some unpleasant consequences for himself arising from the exhibition, but his young companion was in a lighthearted mood, joking a great deal and repeatedly attempting to poke his nose into the locked salon when no one was looking, so that Olympiada Savelievna was obliged to keep a close eye on the mischievous prankster.

Also invited, from the artist’s side, were Donat Abramovich Sytnikov and Kirill Nifontovich Krasnov. General Tatishchev’s widow had recovered from her illness, but she was not yet traveling beyond the bounds of her estate, and if she was to have ventured out she would hardly have honored with her presence an exhibition by her much-disliked “nutcracker” (that was the name on which she had finally settled for Arkadii Sergeevich, apparently having in mind the clicking sound that his photographic apparatus produced when taking a picture).

A greater number of guests had been invited by the hostess: Vladimir Lvovich and his inseparable secretary, the provincial marshal of the nobility, Count Gavriil Alexandrovich (on this occasion with his wife), several of her most tried-and-true liberal friends, and also a newcomer from Moscow—a certain Polina Andreevna Lisitsyna, who, despite having arrived in Zavolzhsk only recently, was already on friendly terms with all the pillars of Zavolzhsk society. Olympiada Savelievna’s husband had not been allowed to attend the soirée due to his lack of sensitivity to art and in general because it was obviously inappropriate if Bubentsov was to attend.

Everyone had arrived, and from one moment to the next they were anticipating the arrival of the most important guest—Vladimir Lvovich, who had been delayed somewhat by state business, but had promised that he would definitely be there. The guests had already bolstered their spirits substantially with champagne and were casting glances of mounting curiosity at the hero of the evening. Poggio moved from one group to the next, joking a lot and anxiously wiping his hands with his handkerchief, occasionally looking in the direction of the door—no doubt he was tormented by impatience and mentally urging the tardy Bubentsov to make haste.

And so Arkadii Sergeevich reached the spot where one of the local progressives was circling around the young woman from Moscow, and exclaimed with exaggerated gusto: “Yes, indeed, Polina Andreevna, you absolutely must permit me to make your portrait! The longer I observe your charming face, the more interesting it seems to me. And it would be even more wonderful if you were to persuade your sister to pose for me with you. It is simply astounding how great a difference there can be between faces that display all the features of a family likeness!”