R. Morris: The Gentle Axe

“Do you want me to read it to you?” said Zamyotov, referring to the statement he was now holding.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I’m perfectly willing to.”

“I appreciate your willingness. However, I will read it myself.”

Porfiry took the statement:

I am guilty. We are all guilty. But I am the most guilty of all. We are all guilty of every crime. There is no crime we are not capable of. There is no crime that we have not dreamed of committing. Only she was innocent. Only she was without sin. The sin was not hers. It was mine. I am guilty. I, Yekaterina Romanovna Lebedyeva, am guilty of her sin. I am guilty of it all. I am guilty of everything…

The statement continued in this vein for several more lines.

“I see,” said Porfiry, when he had finished reading it. “Madam, will you come with me?” And with that he led her into his chambers.

SO THEN,what shall we do with you?” began Porfiry, his tone kindly and indulgent. “Shall we lock you up, Yekaterina Romanovna?”

The woman nodded briskly. Tears streamed from her eyes, transparent trails from her snuffling nose. There was no doubting her sincerity. Porfiry opened a drawer in his desk and took out a clean handkerchief; he kept a supply on hand for such occasions. He held it out to her. She repaid him with a look that suggested he was the one who was raving. Eventually she took it, though she could not be encouraged to wipe her face. Ignoring Porfiry’s mime to that effect, she held the handkerchief tightly balled in her palm.

“But on what charge, Yekaterina Romanovna? We must have a charge to enter in the great recording book.”

The woman let out a half-articulate moan, just recognizable as “Guilty!”

“Yes, but of what? You understand my predicament?” Porfiry held his arms open across the desk as if petitioning her for help. “I have an idea,” he said suddenly. “I shall suggest some crimes to you, and all you have to do is nod when I get to yours. We shall make a game of it. Can you do that, Yekaterina Romanovna?”

Porfiry smiled uncertainly at her answering nod. He could not be sure she understood him.

“Let’s start at the top, I think,” said Porfiry brightly. “Oh, and please don’t take this the wrong way. I am not myself accusing you of anything, you understand. I am merely trying to help you make your statement a little more-how shall we say- precise ? This is very strange, I will admit. Not the usual procedure at all but…there is nothing else for it, I think. So this crime, the crime of which you are guilty, is it, madam, perhaps”-and his eyes twinkled with pleasure as if he really were playing a parlor game-“murder?”

Yekaterina Romanovna let out a gasp of confirmation: “Yessss!” For the first time there was a change in the manifestation of her behavior. “Yes, yes, that’s it, murder.” She sobbed, her head quivering as if on a spring.

“Murder, I see. Very good. Or rather, it is not very good. But it is good in the sense that we are getting somewhere. And at least I am saved from the labor of having to go through a whole catalog of crimes and misdemeanors. Murder, you say. May I ask you-this is the form these inquiries take, you understand-may I ask you, whom did you murder?”

Again there was a development in her behavior. Her head stopped shaking, and she held his gaze steadily. “My daughter.”

Porfiry sat up. The excitement he felt was no longer that of a game. “This is a very serious charge to make against yourself, madam. You do understand that, don’t you? How did you kill her?”

The woman shook her head in violent denial. Her teeth were clenched, as if something inside her was determined to prevent her from saying more. Through those clenched teeth she hissed: “I refused to believe her.” The effort of making this admission evidently exhausted her. She fell back into her chair.

“I meant rather, by what means, with what weapon shall we say, did you kill her? That is usually the way with murder. It is essentially a violent crime. There is usually some sort of attack. I would include poison as a weapon here. Perhaps you poisoned her?”

From her sunken position in the seat, she let out a high-pitched, cracking groan. “I accused her.”

“Of what did you accuse her?”

The woman stirred and sat up a little. “I refused to believe in her innocence. But I knew. I knew !”

“You’re doing very well, Yekaterina Romanovna. But I need to understand more. If you could take me through what actually happened, the circumstances of your daughter’s death.”

“Oh, she is not dead!” cried Yekaterina Romanovna pleadingly. Her eyes beseeched him.

“Then I do not see how you can have murdered her if she is not dead,” answered Porfiry. He said the words slowly, trying to fathom the truth behind the woman’s contradictory statements.

“I murdered her.” She said this flatly, giving it an irrefutable force.

“Please help me. I need to understand.” A new idea came to Porfiry. “What is your daughter’s name?”

“We have no daughter.” She spoke imperiously, as if announcing a sentence. Her face was set in a grim mask.

“You once had a daughter but no longer. Something you have done has brought about this circumstance.”

“He cast her out.”

“He?”

“Lebedyev.”

“Your husband?”

She closed her eyes and nodded once.

“And you?” pressed Porfiry.

Yekaterina Romanovna opened her eyes and stared straight through Porfiry. Her face became agitated. It was as if she were watching a scene of intense and painful interest to her. “I said nothing,” she said at last, in a whisper. She closed her eyes again.

“And it is because you said nothing, because you didn’t intervene-it is because of this you are plagued by feelings of guilt.”

“She was blameless.”

“Do you know what has become of your daughter?”

Yekaterina Romanovna shook her head, still with her eyes closed.

“Would you like me to help you find out?”

She opened her eyes, this time looking directly at Porfiry. Anguish twisted her face into ugliness. A look of hatred, Porfiry felt, though who the object of her hatred was, he could not say. “I have no daughter!” she shrieked.

“Madam, I think it is a priest and not a policeman that you need.”

There was suddenly a knock at the door. Zamyotov peered in.

“I beg your pardon, Porfiry Petrovich,” began the chief clerk. Porfiry nodded for him to continue. “A gentleman ”-Zamyotov broke off, giving the word ironic emphasis-“who professes to be this lady’s husband wishes to be admitted.” He concluded the message with his customary smirk.

“Please show him in,” said Porfiry, glancing at Yekaterina Romanovna, who had just resumed her plaintive wailing. It suddenly occurred to him that her tears, and the noises that accompanied them, were a source of comfort to her, perhaps her only one.

Zamyotov bowed and backed out. The man who strode into the room now possessed the labored dignity that is common to a certain category of drunks. He drew himself upright and even beyond upright, leaning slightly backward. His movements were stilted, made with great effort and deliberation. An aroma of vodka preceded him. His florid face and the slight tremble that was perceptible in his features suggested that he was a habitual drunk. Stiff wisps of gray hair stood up from his balding head, which he held proudly erect. His eyelids fluttered gracefully, and he smiled in a show of politesse, revealing a gap where his upper incisors should have been. Porfiry was aware of the strain all this affected honor placed on the man.

The newcomer was wearing an old black frock coat with gaping seams and missing buttons. He bowed vaguely in Porfiry’s direction, though his moist eyes were evasive.