‘They appear to be related to him.’ Zamyotov gave the most minimal of glances in Virginsky’s direction.
Virginsky’s apprehension solidified into a sickening weight above his stomach. It appalled him to see Porfiry’s chipper step as he turned in welcome. ‘Of course! Show them in. We are expecting them.’
Natalya Ivanovna came into the room first. Her step was brisk and possessing; her face lit up with a simple — Virginsky might even have said natural — eagerness. There was no hint from her of the tensions that had arisen during the last family meeting. And yet it was certainly significant that she led the way while Virginsky’s father hung back as if hiding behind her beauty, or rather sending it before him as a peace offering. Virginsky had no eye for, or understanding of, fashion. Even so, he judged her dress to be startlingly advanced in style, as well as exquisitely cut from emerald-green shot silk. Its curves were fuller and more indicative of the body beneath than he was used to seeing; the white muslin underskirt, more revealed. The hoops of the crinoline, if indeed it could be called a crinoline, projected only at the back. As agitatingly novel as all this struck him, there was also an undeniable rightness to it, a perfect, unbrookable inevitability. It was a dress designed to set everything right, and it very nearly did. She brought with her too a freshness which alleviated the day.
Virginsky had to acknowledge that his father’s reticence was mirrored by his own: although he had by now risen from his desk, he positioned himself behind Porfiry, using him as shield and proxy in the same way that his father used his young wife.
We are more alike than we know. Virginsky dismissed the thought immediately and refused to look directly at his father. He felt a kind of anticipatory disgust at the idea of his father’s face. Knowing the man, knowing what he was capable of, it amazed him that he could walk into a room with his head held high, without any trace of contrition or shame on his features. Brazenly, in other words, for that was how Virginsky felt sure his father would choose to present himself now. Then it occurred to him that the true reason for the bitterness of his feelings lay in the similarity of those features to his own. Just as he resembled his father physically, he was inevitably drawn to the conclusion that he must take after him in other respects, morally for example. How could he be any better than his father? Did he really have the right to set himself above the man? He had in the past pinned his hopes on the admixture of qualities from his mother. But now he was not so sure that he had received anything from her other than a fatal weakness of character, which merely compounded the vicious tendencies he must have inherited from his other parent. All at once, his cherished ideals struck him as alien to his true nature, as much a posture as his father’s self-righteous assumption of integrity. All this was, of course, more reason to hate the man.
At last his fascination became too much for him. He sought his father’s eye and found its glance at once more complicated and more human than he had allowed for. He saw that his father was seeking him out, and seeking something from him too. But whether it was forgiveness or complicity, he could not tell. His only option was to shake his head and look away.
Porfiry’s greetings carried them over the moment: ‘Ah, welcome to you, madam. . sir. I am Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘Pavel Pavlovich the elder,’ said Virginsky’s father with a dignified bow. ‘Allow me to introduce my wife, Natalya Ivanovna.’
‘It is a pleasure to be able to extend the hand of friendship to the parents of my own dear Pavel Pavlovich the younger.’
Virginsky wanted to correct the misunderstanding, or misrepresentation, in this. ‘She is not my parent,’ he said, but his father spoke at the same time and it was his words that were attended to.
‘I am delighted to receive it. The hand of friendship, that is. I had been led to believe by my son that it would be the finger of suspicion that you would be extending towards us.’
This, Virginsky thought, was typical of his father: to defuse the issue by making a joke of it, as if he could extricate himself from any difficulty by the exercise of affability. How could such a charming fellow be guilty of involvement in a crime? The very idea was ridiculous, it seemed.
Porfiry smiled. ‘Yes, your son has informed me of your acquaintance with Colonel Setochkin.’
‘A terrible business,’ said Virginsky’s father, suddenly solemn, as if his earlier witticism had been about something entirely different.
‘Indeed. Was he a good friend of yours?’
‘More of a business associate.’ Virginsky’s father nodded, as if this helped to make his meaning clearer.
‘So I understand,’ said Porfiry, unconsciously mirroring the nodding motion.
‘Still, it is a shock,’ said Virginsky’s father. His eyes widened emphatically, as if he were experiencing the shock at that moment.
‘Had you known him long?’ Porfiry’s tone was casual.
‘Not long, really,’ answered Virginsky’s father vaguely. He assumed a carefully judged expression of mild sadness. There was a moment of respectful quiet, which left nowhere else for Porfiry’s enquiries to go, without belying the pretence of conversation.
‘Shall we have some tea?’ said Porfiry, to everyone’s relief, it seemed, even Virginsky’s. He discovered that he had little appetite for his father’s cross-examination and potential incrimination after all.
Natalya Ivanovna and Virginsky’s father bowed and smiled their assent. Porfiry opened the door that led to his private apartment and called out for Zakhar. He turned and smiled reassuringly to the room as they waited for the servant to appear. A kind of embarrassment descended on them. They seemed suspended, unable to move or speak until the business of the tea had been settled. Even Natalya Ivanovna’s smile appeared strained.
At last Zakhar appeared at the door. It was the first time Virginsky had seen Porfiry’s manservant in person, although he had known of his existence through the services he performed for Porfiry. The man’s advanced age shocked him and provoked a quickening of indignation. Zakhar had that habit, which Virginsky had often observed in older people, of continually wincing and grimacing, apparently for no reason, though undoubtedly at the private agonies of longevity.
‘Zakhar, would you be so good as to bring out some tea?’ Dressed in politeness, disguised as a question, this was nevertheless a command from Porfiry.
The old man’s eyes were barely open, as though he had just been roused from a nap, as well he might have been. To dispel any impression that he was too old for his duties, he gave a rather overdone spring to his step as he set off on his return. He had to grab the doorframe to steady himself.
They watched him go in some trepidation.
‘Should someone not — ?’ began Natalya Ivanovna anxiously.
‘No. He would take it as an insult.’ Porfiry smiled tensely. ‘Please, do sit down.’
Virginsky’s father and stepmother took the brown sofa. Virginsky, taking his cue from Porfiry, remained standing.
‘So tell me,’ began Porfiry, the tension in his smile easing. ‘How much longer are you staying in St Petersburg?’
‘Well, my son tells me I mustn’t consider leaving,’ said Virginsky’s father quickly, again with pointed humour. ‘Which is all very well, although he does not also tell me how I am to meet the continued expense of the hotel.’
‘Perhaps if you had chosen a less expensive hotel in the first place,’ muttered Virginsky.
‘What was that?’
Natalya Ivanovna reached out a hand to soothe her husband.
‘I am sure there will be no need to detain you longer than is necessary. It is unfortunate that you have been tangled in this messy business. If you wish, we could clear up a few things now?’ Porfiry’s face registered surprise, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.
‘I would be glad to.’