tone to Virginsky’s question, possibly occasioned by the concluding remarks of the article that Porfiry had just shown him.
It had taken a further three red banknotes, as well as completion of a yellow chit, to secure the removal of the relevant edition of The Russian Word from the library. Strictly speaking, a restricted publication could not be removed from the library under any circumstances. However, the fact that Porfiry had been allowed to view the journal created an anomaly, which was most simply resolved by temporarily removing it from the restricted list. (This was achieved by referring to an earlier version of the restricted list, which did not contain The Russian Word , and which by a bureaucratic oversight had remained in force.) If The Russian Word was not restricted, it followed that he was free to take it out, on completion of a standard yellow chit. The younger librarian had shown remarkable ingenuity in devising these strategies, which together with his willingness to accept bribes, boded well for his future in the service. There was every possibility that he would escape the fate that his aged doppelgänger seemed to represent. He would go far, in other words.
Porfiry did not answer Virginsky’s question. ‘You will notice this, from Kozodavlev’s article: “It may surprise the reader to know that we are talking of the very man who hounded Rodion Romanovich into confessing.” He is referring to me, of course. But note the phrase, “It may surprise the reader.” Now, if we go back to the anonymous letter I received, we will find the following: “It might have surprised you to have read such an account in such a journal.” What are we to make of this?’ Porfiry did not wait for an answer: ‘Here is a man who likes to surprise his readers! I feel sure it is the same writer. Now, all we have to do is track down Mr Kozodavlev. That shouldn’t be so hard to do. The Russian Word was suppressed by the government in 1866. If my knowledge of radical journals is correct, the editor Blagosvetlov founded a new journal, Affair , which I believe is still in circulation, is it not, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘I believe so.’
‘We need only to make enquiries at the Censorship Office to locate its address. Perhaps you would oblige me by drafting the necessary request, on the correct official chit, please.’ Porfiry smiled and batted his eyelids in an attempt to be winning. It was an attempt laden with irony. ‘I suggest we begin our enquiries there. Indeed, if we are fortunate, we may even find our Mr Kozodavlev in attendance. I imagine that all the contributors to The Russian Word transferred their allegiance to Affair .’
For some reason he could not explain, Porfiry felt his spirits revive. He felt the renewal of energy that he had hoped for at the onset of spring, and that the fairground had temporarily provided. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he had found himself favourably referred to in a defunct radical journal, though why he should take delight from this baffled him. Porfiry preferred to believe that it was simply the invigorating effect of a genuine lead in the case they were investigating. He was, he realised with pleasure, a hound with a fresh scent in his snout. His energy was the bound of exultation against the leash.
‘Stenka Razin’
The following day, Thursday, 20 April, they received a reply to their enquiries made to the Censorship Office. The editorial offices of Affair were registered at an apartment in 16, Dmitrovsky Lane, under the name of the editor, G. E. Blagosvetlov.
The fine spring weather was strengthening its brief hold on the city and Porfiry was minded to make the most of it while it lasted. He invited Virginsky to accompany him. ‘I expect you would like to pay your respects to these radical gentlemen. And besides, with you in tow, they may disclose more than they might otherwise.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Simply that they will
It had taken a further three red banknotes, as well as completion of a yellow chit, to secure the removal of the relevant edition of The Russian Word from the library. Strictly speaking, a restricted publication could not be removed from the library under any circumstances. However, the fact that Porfiry had been allowed to view the journal created an anomaly, which was most simply resolved by temporarily removing it from the restricted list. (This was achieved by referring to an earlier version of the restricted list, which did not contain The Russian Word , and which by a bureaucratic oversight had remained in force.) If The Russian Word was not restricted, it followed that he was free to take it out, on completion of a standard yellow chit. The younger librarian had shown remarkable ingenuity in devising these strategies, which together with his willingness to accept bribes, boded well for his future in the service. There was every possibility that he would escape the fate that his aged doppelgänger seemed to represent. He would go far, in other words.
Porfiry did not answer Virginsky’s question. ‘You will notice this, from Kozodavlev’s article: “It may surprise the reader to know that we are talking of the very man who hounded Rodion Romanovich into confessing.” He is referring to me, of course. But note the phrase, “It may surprise the reader.” Now, if we go back to the anonymous letter I received, we will find the following: “It might have surprised you to have read such an account in such a journal.” What are we to make of this?’ Porfiry did not wait for an answer: ‘Here is a man who likes to surprise his readers! I feel sure it is the same writer. Now, all we have to do is track down Mr Kozodavlev. That shouldn’t be so hard to do. The Russian Word was suppressed by the government in 1866. If my knowledge of radical journals is correct, the editor Blagosvetlov founded a new journal, Affair , which I believe is still in circulation, is it not, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘I believe so.’
‘We need only to make enquiries at the Censorship Office to locate its address. Perhaps you would oblige me by drafting the necessary request, on the correct official chit, please.’ Porfiry smiled and batted his eyelids in an attempt to be winning. It was an attempt laden with irony. ‘I suggest we begin our enquiries there. Indeed, if we are fortunate, we may even find our Mr Kozodavlev in attendance. I imagine that all the contributors to The Russian Word transferred their allegiance to Affair .’
For some reason he could not explain, Porfiry felt his spirits revive. He felt the renewal of energy that he had hoped for at the onset of spring, and that the fairground had temporarily provided. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he had found himself favourably referred to in a defunct radical journal, though why he should take delight from this baffled him. Porfiry preferred to believe that it was simply the invigorating effect of a genuine lead in the case they were investigating. He was, he realised with pleasure, a hound with a fresh scent in his snout. His energy was the bound of exultation against the leash.
‘Stenka Razin’
The following day, Thursday, 20 April, they received a reply to their enquiries made to the Censorship Office. The editorial offices of Affair were registered at an apartment in 16, Dmitrovsky Lane, under the name of the editor, G. E. Blagosvetlov.
The fine spring weather was strengthening its brief hold on the city and Porfiry was minded to make the most of it while it lasted. He invited Virginsky to accompany him. ‘I expect you would like to pay your respects to these radical gentlemen. And besides, with you in tow, they may disclose more than they might otherwise.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Simply that they will
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