by R. N. Morris
5
The house at the eleventh verst
It was not really a house, more a low sprawl of buildings, partially concealed from the road by a stand of ragged birch and a decaying fence topped with rusted nails. Glimpsed from a distance it gave the impression, gleaming pale in the new day, of having no substance. Its presence on the ground seemed accidental, owing nothing to the operation of gravity. It might almost have been tethered there, such was its weightless, dreamlike quality. Seeing the turquoise roofs and the walls of ochre and white over the fence, Porfiry was reminded of the time that Virginsky had pointed the building out to him the morning they had taken the train to Petergof. He acknowledged a sense of resentment as he approached it now, for it felt like an idea that had been forced upon him. He found himself startled by a detail of the architecture: the windows and doors were arched, as were the passageways through to the courtyards. The motif brought back the memory of the flooded basement and of the arch through which he and Virginsky had carried Nadezhda Gorshkova. The correspondence irritated him. He refused to see anything portentous in the fact that by stepping through another arch he would encounter the dead woman’s husband.
The gatekeeper was dressed in a grubby kosovorotka. He had deep-set eyes that turned with torpid cunning towards Porfiry and Virginsky. His face maintained a deliberate blankness at their approach, though the abrupt shift in his posture, from indolence to wariness, suggested visitors were rare and unwelcome. He sat on a high stool in a three-sided hut behind a chained gate. Weeds grew all around him; in amongst them could be seen items of discardedrubbish: a rusted bedstead, broken bottles, bundles of clothes and an odd shoe. The gatekeeper’s face seemed to absorb all this ugliness and reflect it back at them. His expression was a strange mixture of shame and defiance.
‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, investigating magistrate from the Department of the Investigation of Criminal Causes.’ Porfiry did not look directly at the man as he made this announcement, almost as if he could not bear to. ‘You will please let us in.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said the gatekeeper with a sly smile. ‘I don’t have the key.’
‘Then kindly fetch the key.’
‘Do you think they will trust me with it?’ The man leered. ‘Look!’ He lifted his shirt, revealing a striped uniform, equally grubby, underneath. ‘They think it looks better if they dress me in a kosovorotka.’
‘I see. Is there someone you can notify of our presence who would be authorised to admit us?’
‘That would be Dr Zverkov.’
‘Very well. Please inform Dr Zverkov that magistrates from St Petersburg are here to see him.’
It was a moment before the gatekeeper descended from his stool, a moment in which he kept his eyes fixed firmly on Porfiry. Only with reluctance did he finally turn away from the magistrate. Then, unexpectedly, he broke into a run which carried him across the burdock-infested grounds towards the main house, a central two-storey block winged by long single-storey extensions.
‘Is this a hospital or a prison?’ said Virginsky.
‘Something of both,’ answered Porfiry. He looked at the long weeds growing through the wires of the old bedstead. ‘A place of abandonment,’ he added.
‘And they have set one of the inmates to guard it,’ said Virginsky.
Now a plump and florid-faced man was striding towards them, at the same time fastening on a black frock coat. He wore his beard neatly trimmed and they could see where the stiff collar of his shirt had rubbed his neck raw. His face wrinkled distastefully as he passed the strewn rubbish, as if it had long been on his mind to do something about it. The gatekeeper followed at some distance, his head averted in a kind of flinch.
The plump man took a key from his pocket and unlocked the chain that bound the gate. ‘Gentlemen, welcome to the Ulyanka Asylum. I am Dr Zverkov. How may I assist you?’ His voice was a feeble, high tenor, at odds with his bulk.
Porfiry saw that Dr Zverkov’s face was bathed in sweat as he pushed the creaking gate open.
‘You admitted an inmate yesterday, one Gorshkov, a factory worker.’
‘Ah yes, there was an admission yesterday. That is correct.’
‘We wish to speak to him.’
‘You won’t get much sense out of him,’ said Dr Zverkov, squaring up to Porfiry as if to block his way, despite the fact that he had gone to the trouble of opening the gate for him. He manufactured a thin smile, but his eyes were hostile, the set of his body pugnacious. ‘He was raving when we admitted him and he’s raving now.’
‘Of course,’ said Porfiry. ‘Nevertheless.’
‘What has he done?’ asked the gatekeeper from behind Dr Zverkov.
‘Be quiet, Nikita,’ snapped the doctor. However, he narrowed his eyes as he looked at Porfiry, as if waiting for an answer to the question.
Porfiry said nothing.
Dr Zverkov at last stepped aside and waved in the two magistrates. He then closed and re-chained the gate.
‘Follow me, please.’ He led the way briskly towards the right-hand wing. Porfiry could see that the fabric of the building was by no means as pristine as it had seemed from a distance, when the sun had coated it with a sheen that evened out all imperfections. The cracks and stains in the stucco were visible now. He could also see that the windows were barred. ‘Back to your post, Nikita,’ Dr Zverkov commanded irritably, as if seeking to distract from the shabbiness. He too, it seemed, could not bear to look at the man when he addressed him. ‘As magistrates, you will be used to dealingwith the criminally insane.’ He angled his head back towards Porfiry and Virginsky, who were in step behind him. ‘It will not surprise you that we have had to restrain him.’
‘Why do you say that he is criminally insane?’ asked Virginsky sharply. ‘What crime has he committed?’
‘He menaced his cohabitants, including his wife, with a knife. And then attempted to murder himself. Suicide is a crime, I believe, as well as being against the laws of God and nature. Anyone attempting suicide is by definition insane.’
‘You are aware of the background to his case? The loss of his children?’ Virginsky insisted.
‘Of course. However, such suffering is by no means unique. Many people suffer far worse and do not become violent. We must find a way to overcome our sufferings, not be overcome by them. That is the rational way. When you consider the age of the earth, and the many ages of man, what really do the sorrows of one lifetime amount to? The Romans, I think, had the right attitude.’
‘You are talking of the Stoics? It is hard for a parent who has lost six children to be stoical, I think.’ Virginsky cast a glance towards Porfiry, soliciting his support.
‘Is this how you treat your patients, by reasoning with them?’ said Porfiry with a smile.
‘Of course not. One cannot reason with the mad.’ Dr Zverkov turned sharply into an arched passageway that led through the wing of the building into an inner courtyard. The same long weeds grew unchallenged here. The air thickened with that summer courtyard stench, which here, somehow, made Porfiry think of captive beasts. They crossed the courtyard and followed Dr Zverkov through a door, inevitably arched, into an utterly dilapidated annexe. A man in striped uniform, the same as Nikita had worn beneath his kosovorotka, was sitting on a chair smoking a pipe. Behind him, an open doorway led to a ward.
Dr Zverkov turned to Porfiry and Virginsky. ‘Gorshkov is in there.’
The animal smell intensified as they entered the ward. There were six or so men, of different ages and physical types. Most seemed to be of the artisan class and all wore grubby dressing gowns, but no trousers or shoes.
A number of men shuffled about the ward. All seemed melancholic rather than raving. They did not meet each other’s eyes, or acknowledge anyone else’s existence in any way. A couple of them mouthed, or muttered, their grievances to themselves.
One man seemed to hold himself apart. He was sitting on his bed reading. He looked up when Porfiry and Virginsky came into the ward. He seem
ed to make a decision in that instant and rose from his bed, approaching Virginsky without hesitation. He spoke in a soft, educated voice and looked Virginsky in the eye naturally and easily, without either condescension or insolence; as an equal, in other words. ‘I should not be here, you know,’ he began calmly. ‘I’m not mad at all. There has been a terrible mistake. It was my mistake, I admit that. I was in error. I have said as much. I have begged forgiveness. I have placed myself at the mercy of the Tsar. I wrote a letter, you see, in which were stated certain opinions. It was not meant for public circulation. However, it fell into the hands of a certain journalist. “Dynamite”, he described it as. And I suppose I was flattered by the importance he attached to it. I am a weak, vain man, but I am not mad. He urged me to publish it. He promised me help in doing so. He said that my friends would protect me. I have friends in the very highest circles. That was why he believed the letter was so explosive. My social standing, my background, my position - I was a professor at the university. He said - the journalist, and I believed him - that the Tsar would read my words in the spirit in which they were intended; that he would understand my patriotic intentions. I am a noble, I will make no bones about that. I am not like the other men here. These men are all factory workers or former serfs. I do not belong here at all.’ The professor looked into Virginsky’s eyes, searching for hope. His face suddenly clouded. ‘However, he was wrong. I was wrong. I made a mistake. I misjudged the mood at court. I went too far. Of course, I confined myself to generalities. I made no specific criticisms. However, I made the mistake, the terrible mistake, of suggesting that Russia, our Russia, is a backward country. That there are further improvements the Tsar could make, in the name of humanity. Yes, to that extent, in as much as it is true that I did write such things, it is true - it can only be true - that they are evidence of a temporary insanity. But I have recanted. I have admitted I was in error. Therefore, the insanity has passed - it can fairly be said to have passed. You see that, don’t you? You are an intelligent young man. Surely you can see that?’
‘But you were not in error. What you said is true,’ answered Virginsky with a sympathetic passion.
The other man backed away from him in sudden terror. ‘No! No! You are the devil! You have come to tempt me! Either that, or you are one of the Tsar’s spies. You will not trick me. You must tell the Tsar that I stand by my recantation. He must see that I am sincere in that. You must communicate this to him.’
‘Now now, Prince,’ said Dr Zverkov, menacingly. ‘You must not shout at our guests. Is it time for your bromide? I will get Dima to bring it for you.’
‘No - I will be good. I will be quiet. There is no need. I will behave. Only tell the Tsar I have recanted.’ His eyes beseeched Virginsky as he backed away, in the moment before turning.
Another man, gaunt-faced and skeletally thin, was standing next to his bed, to which he was manacled by a chain to one ankle. The top of his head was bald; the hair at the sides was long and greasy and stuck out wildly. His throat was dressed with a patch of blood-soaked gauze. The beard around it appeared damp and matted together, presumably from blood. There was a pool of dark urine at his feet. His eyes stared starkly and he barked out strange noises as he tested the chain that held him. The bed appeared to be fixed to the floor.
‘There he is,’ said Dr Zverkov.
‘Cannot someone clean up his mess?’ said Porfiry, holding back, repelled.
‘Of course.’ It was as if Dr Zverkov had not noticed the filth on the floor. He seemed startled by it, or perhaps by Porfiry’s request. ‘Dima!’
The pipe-smoking man in the striped uniform appeared, walking with a stoop as if from a severe backache.
‘Get the bucket and mop and clean up Gorshkov,’ commanded Dr Zverkov.
Dima nodded and hurried away, reappearing a moment later with the requested items. He scuttled over to Gorshkov and immediately began beating the other man with the handle of the mop. Gorshkov doubled over and pulled up his arms to protect his face and Dima laid into his back. ‘You filthy beast! Look what you’ve done! We won’t have that here, you know!’
Both Porfiry and Virginsky flashed outrage towards Dr Zverkov, who said nothing, and indeed looked on with equanimity.
‘Will you not stop him? This is monstrous!’ protested Virginsky.
Zverkov regarded Virginsky with surprise. ‘That will do, Dima,’ he said slowly, after a moment’s consideration. To Virginsky, he added: ‘But he will beat him when we are not here, so what difference does it make to stop him now?’
‘Why do you allow it at all? Why do you put him in a position whereby he can terrorise the others?’
‘Dima is one of our trusted inmates. He has responded well to treatment. We find that to give men like him responsibilities is beneficial. It is therapeutic for them, and it helps us in the smooth running of the hospital. You see?’ Zverkov gestured towards Dima as he mopped the floor.
‘But surely he cannot be allowed to abuse the other patients?’
Dr Zverkov sighed deeply. ‘But really, in the grand scheme of things, so to speak, is it so terrible? A few blows with a mop handle. There will always be men who bully other men. Outside an establishment such as this, as well as inside it. Besides, how else do you get through to such a man? If it stops him fouling himself where he stands, then perhaps it will be worthwhile.’
Dima carried away the bucket and mop with a self-satisfied nod to Dr Zverkov. The floor around Gorshkov was no cleaner, but the mess had at least been spread more evenly. Gorshkov himself stood up straight once again and bellowed after his persecutor. The sound more closely resembled the cry of a tormented ox than a man.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Dr Zverkov with a mocking smile. ‘The man you came to talk to awaits your questions.’
For a moment Porfiry blinked in agitation as he studied the emaciated figure before him. Then it was as if an enchantment was broken. He strode towards Gorshkov with his hand extended: ‘Filya. My name is Porfiry Petrovich.’ He sensed Dr Zverkov bristle behind him, as though disapproving of this irregular approach on professional grounds. Gorshkov himself seemed overwhelmed, almost terrified, by the gesture. He would not take the hand, but merely gazed at it in wonder. Then tears broke from his eyes and he began to sob.
‘There there, my friend,’ said Porfiry, now offering his open cigarette case.
‘No!’ came sharply from Zverkov. ‘We do not allow the inmates to smoke.’
‘That villain at the door was smoking a pipe.’
‘Dima has earnt his privileges through good behaviour. This one has given us nothing but trouble from the moment he arrived. We have our rules for a reason, you know. You cannot come here interfering with the management of things about which you understand nothing.’
Porfiry gazed steadily into Gorshkov’s frightened eyes. That’s all it is, he thought, his madness - fear. ‘Take one,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’ Porfiry lit the cigarette as it quivered between the other man’s lips. ‘My dear fellow, let us sit down.’
Gorshkov sat down first and the bed hardly seemed to dip under his weight. His dressing gown fell open, revealing damp and grubby linen. Porfiry mimed for him to close it. In some confusion, he obeyed.
‘Who are you?’ asked Gorshkov in wonder, as Porfiry sat on the bed next to him. His voice had startling depth.
‘I am a magistrate. I have come to ask you some questions.’
‘They have asked me questions. “What day is it? What year is it? What is the Tsar’s name? What is your name?” And I told them, “I care nothing for such questions.” The Tsar? Who is the Tsar to me? As for the day, let it be any day you like, so long as it is the day I die. That’s all I ask.’ Gorshkov drew on his cigarette hungrily, as if it renewed the energy he had lost through speaking.
‘Do you know of a man called Ferfichkin?’
‘Ferfichkin! Ferfichkin sent you?’ Gorshkov drew away from Porfiry in fear. The chain at his ankle rattled angrily.
Porfi
ry reached out a hand to calm Gorshkov. ‘Ferfichkin did not send me. Ferfichkin is dead.’
Gorshkov put a hand to his mouth, covering something like a smile that had broken out in his face. ‘What’s that you say? The miser is dead?’
‘Yes.’
Sounds like laughter, tentative, bewildered blasts, came from Gorshkov. His body began to convulse, setting the bed rattling. But the laughter was so hard-won and wrenched from so deep within him that it did not remain laughter for long. The tears streamed his face. His mouth was stretched in an anguished gape. ‘I curse him. I curse his mean miserable soul. May he rot in Hell! I pray to God that he will know the pain that he has inflicted on others. I implore God to show him no mercy in death as he showed no mercy in life. Dead! Can it really be true? Dead, you say?’
‘It is true.’
