R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

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?’