A Vengeful Longing

by R. N. Morris

  ‘I wouldn’t touch that,’ said Virginsky. ‘It may be highly poisonous. ’ Ptitsyn put the bottle back hurriedly. Virginsky took the box off him. He looked inside. As well as the bottle, there was a single sheet of white notepaper and a dead woodlouse. He took out the sheet and read what was written on it. When he had finished, he said to Ptitsyn: ‘But that was just luck. You thought the board was loose. It wasn’t. The board had nothing to do with it. There was no reason why the board should have led you to it.’

  ‘I found it then, did I?’ said Ptitsyn, unable to keep the grin from his face.

  ‘Well?’ asked Virginsky impatiently.

  Porfiry’s mouth twitched into something that could have been a smile. ‘The regularity of the script is striking,’ he said at last. ‘It is as if it were written by someone who couldn’t help but take pride in his writing, whatever the content.’

  ‘It reminds me of the passages copied by Grigory,’ commented Virginsky. And this, it seemed, was the source of the impatience in his voice: a desire to have this observation stated.

  Porfiry pursed his lips sceptically. He brushed aside a small fly that had settled on the paper, as if it were interested in analysing the letter too. The fly buzzed away and joined two or three others that were frantically circling the ceiling of Porfiry’s chambers. ‘This is a more mature hand, I would say. For me, it brings to mind more the work of an official copyist. It is a slightly relaxed version of the copperplate calligraphy that we are used to seeing on department communiqués. What is striking to me is that the person who wrote this has made no effort to conceal his - or indeed her - skill. There are many people who can write badly, but fewer who could produce a script of this quality. And while it is possible for a good copyist to conceal their ability, a bad one cannot pretend to a greater level of competence than they possess. Is it arrogance or negligence that has prevented our letter-writer from taking pains to disguise his skill, I wonder?’ Porfiry folded the letter along its crease. He rose sharply and regarded Virginsky across his desk with a look of keen excitement. ‘I think it’s time we had another chat with Dr Meyer.’

  Meyer was brought to the same interview room at the Shestaya Street Police Bureau in which Porfiry and Virginsky had seen him two days ago. His physical and mental deterioration was marked. Sweat plastered his hair to his scalp and showed in patches of dampness through his jacket. His face was as pale as a ghost’s, apart from the dark sunken rings around his eyes. There was hardly anything to him, and if it hadn’t been for the two politseisky holding on to him, it seemed that he would have floated away. They planted him firmly in the seat, releasing him reluctantly, almost fearfully.

  When he saw the magistrates across the table, a flicker of energy came to his eyes. He licked his teeth to ask: ‘Well? Have you arrested him?’

  Porfiry frowned as he lit a cigarette.

  ‘Bezmygin! Did you arrest Bezmygin?’ insisted Meyer shrilly.

  ‘We spoke to him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He mentioned a letter. An anonymous letter. We searched your study and found this.’ Porfiry produced the letter from a pocket and threw it down on the table. Meyer did not need to pick it up to know its significance: a look of surly resentment showed on his face. ‘I wonder,’ began Porfiry hesitantly, almost apologetically, ‘why you did not mention this letter before?’

  ‘I forgot about it. Perhaps I had made a conscious effort to put it out of my mind.’

  ‘Understandable, of course, although I imagine that it would be difficult to forget a letter like this. Shall I read it to you?’

  ‘There is no need. I am aware of its contents.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Porfiry, ‘I would like to read it to you, if it would not inconvenience you. Just so that we are sure that we are talking about the same letter.’

  ‘ “My dear friend Dr Meyer,”’ began Meyer, his eyes closed, his voice harsh and mechanical.’ “I feel compelled to inform you that your wife, Raisa Ivanovna, is a whore, and in fact fourteen years ago worked as a common prostitute at a licensed brothel on Sadovaya Street, where I, and many other gentlemen of my acquaintance, had the pleasure of her. If you do not believe me, ask her about her time with Madam Josephine. That was the name of the proprietress of the establishment, who, I believe, has since died from a disease associated with her profession, which if your wife has escaped it is a miracle. She was one of the filthiest whores I have ever known. Yours respectfully, a well-wisher.”’

  ‘That is the same letter,’ said Porfiry. ‘It seems you were not entirely successful in casting it from your mind.’

  Dr Meyer gave a rueful snort.

  ‘Have you any idea who sent it?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘It is a horrible letter. I am sorry to bring it up. I am sure there is no truth in what it alleges. I dare say you did not deign to discuss it with your wife.’

  Dr Meyer turned his head deliberately from Porfiry.

  ‘You confronted her with it?’ Porfiry gave the impression of being thoroughly astonished.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She did not deny it.’

  ‘I see. It must have come as a terrible shock to you.’

  Meyer said nothing.

  Porfiry considered the letter in his hands, shaking his head over it woefully. ‘The period to which it alludes,’ he began delicately, ‘I take it that was before you met Raisa Ivanovna?’

  ‘No. That is not entirely a correct assumption. I have known her almost all my life. We grew up together.’

  ‘Oh? And where was this?’

  ‘In Pskov. Her father was a well-to-do shopkeeper. He owned the town’s main store. My father was a prominent doctor. Mind you, it is easy to be prominent in a small town. Raisa and I were friends from childhood. But we grew apart. Her beauty was the barrier between us. A beauty beyond my aspiration. I was content to admire her from afar. And besides, I had my studies. When the time came for me to come to Petersburg to follow my calling, I allowed myself the indulgence of writing her a letter. A declaration of sorts. I took myself off, without waiting for a reply, knowing what the reply would be, of course. I was not the sort to win the heart of the town beauty, not with my studious ways, and reserved manner. I did not have any further contact with her, though I heard about her through my parents’ letters. I heard that she quarrelled with her father. He kept her on a tight rein, you see, not trusting to her goodness. My mother seemed to think there was a cavalry officer involved, but my mother could not always be relied upon in these matters. At any rate, I refused to believe it. And when she ran away from home, I persuaded myself that she was fleeing the injustice of gossip and calumny. And then, some time later, when I was working on my PhD -’

  ‘The one on toxicology?’

  ‘That is correct. I ran into her again, in Petersburg. She was in a bad way. I could tell something was wrong from her eyes, the way they latched on to me. Such desperate hope, and it would have been inconceivable, once, for her to look at me with anything akin to hope. To look at me at all, even, is what I mean. I think I also saw some kind of calculation take place within her. She looked at me and calculated, then hoped. However, it goes without saying that I did not consciously register that at the time. I was overcome. Perhaps it was pity. Whatever it was, a tremendous emotion swept over me at the sight of her. I immediately, and rather insanely, blurted out a marriage proposal. I think I sensed that she was at the weakest and most vulnerable moment of her life. And if I ever stood a chance of winning her, it was then. And indeed, she accepted me, with tears. Tears I chose to believe were of joy. But really they were tears of gratitude, or so I now believe. I did not ask her any questions about how she had spent her time since leaving Pskov. She declared herself unworthy of me. I forgave her unconditionally for whatever was on her conscience. I could not imagine - how could I imagine? - what her life had been. I knew she was poor. It was obvious from the state of her clothes. I knew she was afraid and on the run -
from someone, or something. The cavalry officer, I assumed. I was willing to forgive her the cavalry officer. I did not want to know the details. She wanted to say things to me, and I forbade her. And so we were married, quickly, and settled down to a life together. I abandoned purely academic pursuits and took up a medical practice. I had a wife to support now, and a baby on the way. It seemed we had wasted no time. I was . . . I knew happiness. And then Grisha was born. At first, everything seemed normal. He was only a baby, after all. And then, as he grew up, it became clear that all was not right.’

  ‘And you blamed Raisa Ivanovna for his condition?’

  ‘I certainly could not blame myself.’

  ‘No.’ Porfiry’s agreement was automatic. After a moment’s pause, his face clouded in puzzlement: ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I’m feeling rather dull-witted this morning. How do you mean?’

  ‘At first, I pretended I couldn’t count. And it was close enough for there to be a possibility. I proposed to her on the day I met her in St Petersburg. It was the first time I’d seen her in five years. He was born seven months and six days after that. I could not have been the father, even though we consummated our marriage in advance on that first day. I took her eagerness as a sign of love, or trust, or some such romantic nonsense. In addition, I was a young man, eager for a particular kind of sensation.’

  ‘You know of course that some babies are born before full term.’

  ‘That’s what I told myself for thirteen years. I thought that might explain his simple-mindedness.’

  ‘But when the letter arrived . . .’

  ‘Yes. Besides, he was seven funts and nine lots at birth. Physically he did not seem to be in the least premature. However, in time everything became clear. It was her degeneracy - or the degeneracy of the father, which ultimately amounts to the same thing - it was their degeneracy that was to blame.’

  ‘Just to clarify - these things are sometimes important - when did you receive the letter?’

  ‘Does it really matter?’

  ‘It might do.’

  ‘The strange thing is that when it came, it was as if I had been expecting it. It did not surprise me, somehow. And now I feel as though I have had it in my possession all my life.’

  ‘According to Bezmygin, you received it about two months ago.’

  ‘Why do you ask a question to which you already know the answer?’

  ‘That is the way of investigators.’ Porfiry smiled apologetically. ‘It is rather distasteful, I know, but it is a habit we fall into. Sometimes I am quite ashamed of myself. Of course, with a man of your intelligence such crude methods will not work. I do apologise. From now on I will conduct myself in a more straightforward manner. So - where were we? I believe that talking to that fellow Bezmygin has rather confused me. I have to say, I found him an unsympathetic type. Rather unsavoury, in many ways. I can understand how uncomfortable it must have been for you to witness his friendship with your wife. I find that such people have a habit of making vulgar insinuations that - regrettably - one cannot get out of one’s mind. According to Bezmygin, the letter provides you with a motive. Your sense of betrayal. You stewed on it for a couple of months. All the time, the poison of this spiteful missive was festering away in your mind. And then you could bear it no longer. You killed her.’

  ‘It is rather a weak motive, is it not? What did I stand to gain from it?’

  ‘Of course, one really shouldn’t pay any attention to what that type of man says, but according to Bezmygin - how I hate to say those words - you wanted her out of the way so that you could continue your affair with Polina.’

  Meyer narrowed his eyes, then shook his head slowly, without surprise or vehemence. ‘No,’ was all he said. He spoke the denial calmly, almost questioningly, with a strange detachment, as though he were examining the contents of his heart through a microscope before deciding.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s how it will look to a jury.’

  ‘That’s how you will make it look.’

  Porfiry stubbed out his cigarette. ‘So, there is nothing in it? This fairy tale of Bezmygin’s, about you and the girl? That will teach me. Really I should have known better than to listen to such an obviously self-seeking individual.’ Porfiry paused for a moment before continuing: ‘However, unfortunately, once something has been said, no matter how unreliable the person saying it, it is difficult to discount it utterly. Do you not find? One has to follow these things up. And so, we will have to talk to Polina, I’m afraid. It is just a formality, you understand, merely to confirm that which we know already. It is always better, when countering these slurs, if one can point to a number of consistent rebuttals.’

  ‘There is some . . .’ The sentence trailed off. Meyer looked down. ‘Truth,’ he said abruptly, as if it was something he had just spotted on the table. He looked up forlornly at Porfiry. ‘I did make advances to Polina.’

  ‘I . . . see.’

  ‘A kind of temporary insanity came over me. It was absurd. I could do nothing. Her beauty. I was possessed.’

  ‘And how did Polina react to your advances?’

  Meyer’s wan face crimsoned.

  ‘They can be very cruel, these girls,’ said Porfiry sympathetically.

  ‘It is humiliating sometimes to be a man. Is there really any need to talk to her though? It is a tawdry and quite ordinary story. Nothing came of it. Except . . . she used her power over me in ways you can probably imagine. Promise me you won’t bother her with this.’

  ‘Let us talk of it no more,’ said Porfiry. ‘I think you loved Raisa Ivanovna very much, once. In the same way. You must have done. You were prepared to overlook her condition when you met her. You must have known she was not a virgin. You are a doctor, after all.’

  ‘Yes, I knew. And I overlooked it. To do so was consistent with my ideas at the time. And, yes, you’re right. I did love her. At least I deluded myself into believing so. That is to say, I fell victim to the insanity of romantic longings and was fool enough to find happiness in their fulfilment. It is a sickness, nothing more, this whole business of love. A mental disorder. And the act. The truth of it is quite disgusting. A question of physical needs, to which the male and the female are both subject. But because we cannot bear to confront the truth of our animal natures, we cover it in the trappings of romance. Or we reduce it to a commercial transaction. No doubt we are very civilised in doing this.’

  ‘I take it from your tone that you do not think much of being civilised.’

  ‘It is all hypocrisy. And I am the greatest hypocrite of them all.’

  ‘You are perhaps too hard on yourself.’

  Meyer laughed thinly. ‘Please! I am only accusing myself of hypocrisy. You are accusing me of murder.’ The laughter went from his eyes. A slight tremor flickered across his face and a mantle of loneliness seemed to settle on him.

  PART TWO

  Pistol

  1

  ‘Gunshot!’

  ‘What is it now?’ muttered Yegor as he shuffled along the hallway of Colonel Setochkin’s apartment towards the relentless pounding that threatened the integrity of their door. It had been a morning of interruptions. That busybody from the department of whatever it was, with his constant comings and goings, had driven him almost to distraction. So the drains stank - didn’t the drains stink every summer? What did the fellow hope to achieve going in and out of people’s homes and sniffing the air? If this was him again, come to fill up more of his bottles with their water, the water Yegor himself had drawn from the Neva - if so, he’d get more than he bargained for this time.

  ‘All right! All right!’ Yegor shouted. ‘I’ve heard you. Give me a chance. I’m not as young as I used to be.’ This overlooked the fact that even in his youth Yegor had not been one to hurry in the fulfilment of his duties. In those days he had been Colonel Setochkin’s batman, when they had served together in the Izmailovsky regiment. What a fool the colonel had been to resign his commission. There wasn’t a day went by when Yegor
didn’t have cause to bemoan the change in their fortunes. Look at them now, stuck in this stifling apartment over the summer when the cream of society had long since left for the country. But the invitations ceased to come soon after Setochkin left the regiment. At the time there had been some suggestion of the old dog having no choice in the matter, scandalous rumours about missing regimental funds, a gambling debt, and the major’s daughter. There was always somebody’s daughter - or even wife - mixed up in things. But the master had always managed to worm his way out of such predicaments in the past. Ah well, there was never a dull moment with Setochkin. He had to give the rascal that.