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 seemed 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.
Porfiry 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.’
‘Have you seen him? Did you set eyes on his cold corpse?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did he die?’
‘He was murdered. Stabbed through the heart.’
‘Miracle!’
‘It is known that you argued with Ferfichkin, over the money for your daughter’s funeral.’
‘Nastya!’ The sorrow crashed over him like a wave.
‘You were heard to threaten his life.’
‘Yes!’
‘Did you kill him, Filya? You need not be afraid to tell me.’
‘Kill him?’ Gorshkov held out his hands in front of him and seemed to tighten them around an invisible neck. ‘Of course I killed him. I strangled the life out of him with my own hands.’
‘But as I have already said, Ferfichkin was stabbed to death.’
‘Yes!’ Gorshkov’s eyes widened gleefully. ‘After I had strangled him, I stabbed him. I took the kitchen knife and stuck it through his neck. I twisted the knife till the blade snapped off.’ He mimed this action too.
‘He was stabbed in the heart, Filya. I have told you that already too.’
‘In the heart, yes! That’s what I said!’
‘You said the neck.’
‘Are you trying to trick me? Perhaps you’ll tell me now that Ferfichkin isn’t dead at all, when I killed him with my own hands.’
‘Ferfichkin is dead. He was stabbed through the heart with a poniard. If you really killed him, you should be able to describe the weapon to me.’
‘A poniard, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a short dagger with a flat blade. The handle was made . . . of ivory . . . carved in the shape of entwined serpents.’
‘You didn’t kill Ferfichkin, did you, Filya?’
A weight of disappointment seemed to settle on him. ‘I would have done, had someone else not beaten me to it.’ His mood changed again, to one of intense excitement. ‘What a man! I would like to shake him by the hand! Was it you?’
‘No, it wasn’t me.’
‘Of course not. You are a magistrate. Magistrates do not commit murder.’
‘It is hoped not.’ Porfiry smiled. His tone then became serious. ‘Filya, do you remember receiving a letter, an anonymous letter about Ferfichkin?’
‘A letter, you say?’
Porfiry nodded.
‘What does it say?’
‘No, Filya. I want to know if you ever received such a letter.’