A Razor Wrapped in Silk by R. N. Morris Read Free Book Online

played, the painted screen covering the stage was raised upon an arrangement of real drapes identical to those depicted on the rising screen. Maria felt that perhaps the mood was turning and the evening might be salvaged. When the piece was over, the applause was slow in coming, as if the audience needed a moment to absorb what they had heard, but when it came it was enthusiastic, excessively so.
    They are like children , thought Maria. They go from one extreme to another .
    The house lights were extinguished. A flurry in the curtains culminated in the appearance of Apollon Mikhailovich. He was not a tall man, a little under average height in fact, but on that tiny stage he attained the stature of a giant. His eyes twinkled with a benign but compelling light. Maria began to relax, sensing the confidence and control in his presence.
    His bass voice boomed out, filling the auditorium effortlessly: ‘My friends – and I hope I will not be accused of presumption in addressing you all thus –’ he cast a sly, mischievous glance up towards the imperial box. ‘But by your presence here tonight, you all – each and every one of you – declare yourselves friends of education. And may I say that any friend of education is a friend of mine!’ The quip was well judged. It found favour with the democratically-inclined members of the audience, without causing offence to the conservatives. Even the Tsarevich, known to be the most unthinking of reactionaries, could not fail to be disarmed by the crinkles of good humour in Apollon Mikhailovich’s face.
    Now that face became suffused with feeling. ‘My name is Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin. I stand before you as a humble teacher. No – more than that – as a humbled teacher. And what I have been humbled by is nothing other than …’ He broke off, with a natural storyteller’s sense of the dramatic. His glittering eyes cast their gaze this way and that over the audience, drinking in their expectation. ‘ … my pupils. Yes, that’s right – children! For what could be more humbling than a child … who, of his own volition, without enforcement or encouragement, overcomes every obstacle, risks even punishment and abuse, to come before a teacher and demand, “Teach me!” What could be more inspiring?’
    The audience responded to the rhetorical question with murmurs of approval.
    ‘I am proud and honoured to stand before you now as the teacher of such children. My friends, now it is your turn to be proud, your turn to be honoured. Yes! Be proud!’ His eyes widened as he encouraged them to open themselves up to that emotion. ‘Be honoured!’ he insisted. There was some embarrassed laughter now. Apollon Mikhailovich smiled and nodded, acknowledging it. Then the smile snapped from his face. A sudden intensity burned in his eyes. ‘By your presence here tonight …’ The words came in a forceful staccato. He stabbed the air on each syllable with two fingers of his right hand. He had transformed himself into a demagogue, holding the pause beyond the dramatic, stretching it into a breathtaking chasm. ‘ … You have shown yourselves to be the friend of these children. And I know you are not the men and women to turn your back on your friends. You are, after all – we all are – Russians!’
    The diverse political strands of the audience were united by this appeal to nationalism. They roared their enthusiasm and stamped their feet in approval. Apollon Mikhailovich bowed humbly, then turned to push his way through the barrier of velvet.
    The stage was clear for the first of the literary gentlemen.
    This was Karmazinov, an established and once celebrated author who had fallen out of favour with the younger generation for his negative portrayal of a ‘new man’. Tall and broad-shouldered, he cut an impressive figure, physically at least. The whiteness of his hair and beard glowed, giving him a distinguished if prematurely-aged appearance. But there was a diffidence to his