R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“Not just of him. It is for their souls, for the souls of them all, that you do it.”

“You’re talking nonsense. Why should I care about anyone’s soul but mine? I might have said such things in the past. But it was just a ruse. A technique. To get the confession. The confession is everything.”

“That’s my point!”

“But not for the reason you think. They can all go to hell for all I care. I can have no compassion for a cold-blooded murderer.”

“But you can, Porfiry. And you do. And that is what separates you from our esteemed prokuror. ”

The tension flashed in Porfiry’s eyes. His expression oscillated between wounded and angry. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong about everything. It’s for the glory that I do it. I am as ambitious as the prokuror. ” Still he would not look at Nikodim Fomich, as if he were afraid he would find confirmation in the other man’s gaze.

The clerk Zamyotov was waiting for Porfiry at the door of his chambers. Porfiry was in no mood to confront Zamyotov’s sly insubordination. However, he sensed something unwonted in the other man’s expression. Zamyotov seemed distracted, almost rattled, and this caused him to abandon any pretense. The angry impatience with which he greeted Porfiry was openly impertinent.

“Porfiry Petrovich! Where on earth have you been? How am I expected to fulfill my duties if you do not inform me of your whereabouts and movements? This gentleman-”

Porfiry frowned at a slightly built young man seated on one of the chairs reserved for witnesses and suspects waiting to see the investigating magistrate. The fellow’s eyes locked onto Porfiry’s desperately and beseechingly. His tie was fastened in a large looping bow. An overcoat trimmed with silver fox was draped over his shoulders. Beneath it he wore a mustard-colored suit and emerald waistcoat. A beaverskin top hat perched on his lap, kid gloves folded neatly on top of it. His hair lay in tight curls around his collar. He was clean shaven; in fact, Porfiry suspected his cheeks had not yet felt the razor. In the angle of his head and the needful intensity of his gaze, Porfiry saw some connection with Zamyotov’s flustered mood.

“-a personage of indisputable rank and influence.”

The young man smiled appealingly as Zamyotov spoke.

“Indeed,” said Porfiry drily. “It is not like you to be impressed by rank and influence, Alexander Grigorevich.”

Zamyotov pursed his lips as he weighed up his response. “I don’t know quite what you are implying. I know only that he will not go away until he has seen an investigating magistrate. It concerns a matter requiring the utmost sensitivity. Having acquainted myself somewhat with the essentials of the case, I felt that you, Porfiry Petrovich, would be the person best-”

“Please, Alexander Grigorevich, your flattery is making me anxious.”

Porfiry smiled as he caught the look of confusion on the clerk’s face. He felt him close on his heels as he entered his chambers.

“But what am I to tell him?” demanded Zamyotov.

Porfiry looked up from behind his government-issue desk and calmly assessed the clerk’s angry insolence.

“A matter requiring-what was it? Sensitivity? But is it a criminal matter, Alexander Grigorevich? If it is not a criminal matter, I don’t see how I may be of service.”

“I believe it is a complicated case,” said Zamyotov, frowning distractedly. It seemed that Porfiry’s tone escaped him. “Obviously, not being an investigating magistrate, I am myself not qualified to judge legal issues.”

“My goodness! Such humility, Alexander Grigorevich!”

Zamyotov’s frown sharpened into annoyance. “It is your job to decide whether a crime has been committed, not mine.”

“Quite so.”

“Will you see him or not?”

“I feel, almost, that it is my duty to see him. Please, show the gentleman in, Alexander Grigorevich.”

The young man entered with a tentative step. Hat and gloves in hand, he had something of the air of a supplicant.

“You may go now,” Porfiry said to Zamyotov, who was lingering expectantly. The clerk challenged the peremptory dismissal with a glare. He slammed the door as he left. Porfiry turned to the young man, indicating a chair. “Please.” The young man moved with deliberation, almost gingerly, as if he were afraid the seat would not support him. And yet, as Porfiry judged, there was hardly anything to him. “You are?”

The young man seemed surprised by the question. He hesitated, as though he were unsure about the wisdom or necessity of supplying his name. At last he said, “Makar Alexeyevich Bykov.” His voice was high and strained. As the name seemed to make no impression on Porfiry, the young man added in a whisper, “I am Prince Bykov.”

“ Prince Bykov.” Porfiry’s emphasis was satirical.

“You have heard of me?”

Porfiry allowed a beat before admitting, “No.”

“It’s just that I have written some plays.”

“You are a playwright?”

“They have caused quite a stir in certain circles. Perhaps they have come to your attention in an…uh…official capacity?”

“No. I have not heard of you or your plays.” Porfiry smiled in a way that he hoped was reassuring.

The young man seemed dubious. “Of course, I do not believe there is anything seditious in them myself. My works are inspired by a profound patriotism.”

“That’s all right then,” said Porfiry.

“Were they ever to be performed, however, there is a danger that they might be misunderstood. Willfully misunderstood, I mean. The meaning of the plays is clear enough.”

“I would hope so.”

“Alexander Grigorevich led me to believe that you would be able to help me.”

“I can’t help you with your plays. I am a magistrate, not an impresario.”

“It is not to do with my plays that I have come to see you.”

“Ah-I misunderstood.”

Prince Bykov was overcome by a sudden turmoil of emotion. It was as if he could hold himself together no longer. His voice was breaking as he blurted out, “Ratazyayev is missing.”

“Ratazyayev?”

“Yes.” The prince nodded violently, knuckling away his sudden tears.

“Who is Ratazyayev?”

“He is”-Prince Bykov closed his eyes, steeling himself-“a very dear friend of mine.” Prince Bykov opened his eyes again to see how Porfiry had taken this declaration. His look was raw and exposed but not timid and had about it no pretense. Whatever else he was, Prince Makar Alexeyevich Bykov was an honest man and a brave man too, Porfiry decided.

“I see,” said Porfiry. At that moment he decided also that it was time to take Prince Bykov seriously. “Please,” continued Porfiry, taking and lighting a cigarette. “Please tell me how it came about that Ratazyayev went missing.”

“I blame myself. It was all my fault. We quarreled, you see.”

“What was the quarrel over?”

Prince Bykov’s expression became pained. “Ratazyayev came suddenly into some money. I was suspicious. I accused him of certain things. He said he had an engagement. An acting engagement. Ratazyayev is an actor, you see, although he has not performed on a public stage for many years. I’m afraid I didn’t believe him. I accused him of many things. The engagement was supposed to be in Tosno. It was for a week, apparently. Precisely one week. But what theater is there in Tosno, tell me that? And what kind of a run lasts for just one week? One week! What can you do in one week? Was he not required for rehearsals? But then, no, it’s not a week, it’s two weeks. It was a private acting engagement. There was to be only one performance. The two weeks included the rehearsal time. It was in honor of Prince Stroganov-Golitsyn. You know the Stroganov-Golitsyns have their estate near Tosno. It was to be held on the prince’s birthday. A special performance, arranged by his friends. Very well. What play? Well, first it was to be A Feast During the Plague. A very appropriate play for a birthday celebration, would you not say? So then, no, it’s not A Feast During the Plague, it’s Little Snowdrop. My goodness, Pushkin must give way to Ostrovsky? So no, it’s not Little Snowdrop, it’s Boris Godunov. The whole thing? You can have a passable production of Boris Godunov ready in two weeks? No, no, no. Not the whole thing. Scenes from Boris Godunov. Scenes, only scenes. And what part is he to play? Why, he will take the title role! But if you know Ratazyayev, you will know he would be hopelessly miscast as Boris Godunov. The whole thing was a pack of lies from beginning to end, it was obvious. But when I challenged him, he became angry. He packed his case. He was going to Tosno. I could not go with him. He would not let me carry the case out to the carriage. Would not let me even touch it. So I was not required. That is all very well. I will accept that. I will accept that Ratazyayev is a free man. If he wishes to go to Tosno, I will not stand in his way. But to lie to me! That I will not stand for! And it is a lie! What he doesn’t realize, you see, is that I was in the Cadet Corps with a cousin of Prince Stroganov-Golitsyn’s. Whom I happened to meet at the English Club. And whom I happened to ask about this marvelous theatrical birthday celebration. At which point I discover that the prince’s birthday is in the summer-in August. Surely there must be some mistake. But no. The cousin is quite certain. He went to the party for the prince’s last birthday. And there was not a theatrical performance. There were open-air tableaux. The cousin himself took part in one. A scene from the Trojan War. He was Patroclus, I believe. I decide not to confront Ratazyayev with this. I can’t bear to. I can’t bear to hear more lies. I can’t bear to see the man I-” Prince Bykov broke off. He looked at Porfiry queasily. “A man I greatly admire…humiliate himself with lies.” Prince Bykov regarded Porfiry with a genuinely tortured look. “Perhaps I should have done. Perhaps if I had confronted him, Ratazyayev would be with me today. Instead I chose, to my shame, to employ subterfuge. I spied on him. I disguised myself and followed him to the Nikolaevsky Station, where he was to take the train to Tosno.”