Debra Dean - The Mirrored World

It may be that they were indeed trying to save Xenia from herself. Still, the word itself was shocking. For all her strangeness, I could not reconcile Xenia with that word. If she behaved rashly, well, had she not always been passionate and a bit wild? It was only her profound sorrow that made her like a foreigner amongst us now. Even stripping to her skin on the steps of the church might be deemed an excess of grief. True, I had never seen grief like this, but neither had I known anyone so completely possessed by love of her husband. One could not expect such passion, when ripped from its source, to fade gently. Given time, I thought, the wound might yet heal.

Xenia received the news of the summons with no visible concern. She wished only to return to her room, and when I expressed surprise that she could be so indifferent to her own fate, she asked if there was something else I would have her do.

It being common for persons to attempt to seize the property of their relations by falsely declaring them mad, all such cases bypassed the lower courts and were brought directly before the Senate. Thus, on the appointed day, we appeared at the long expanse of red and white buildings that make up the Twelve Colleges and were directed to a vast anteroom. It was teeming with persons, many more than the benches lining the walls would accommodate.

All who had business with the crown were gathered here like waters behind a dike and trickled through a single set of doors. Amongst these were foreign ambassadors hoping to influence the Senate to favor a trade agreement, nobles awaiting civilian appointments or promotions in rank, and merchants seeking military contracts or the rights to sell vodka. Those appealing the ruling of a lower court or seeking criminal review were also funneled here. And one must presume there were other persons in the room like Xenia, who might or might not be ruled mad.

Those petitioners without influence or means to bribe their way through these doors might well linger in the shallows for ten or even twenty years without their suits being heard, and this prospect was reflected in their behaviors. Like the denizens of Hades, they sat or stood in attitudes suggesting they had taken up residence here long ago and had since forgotten the manners of the other world. They scratched themselves freely, yawned, and even slept with their chins on their chests and their mouths gaping. Some had withdrawn so far into themselves that they resembled Xenia; others, more social, played at games of dice or cards and made such a noise that clerks who appeared at intervals to call forward the next case could not be heard above the din. The residents, apparently having lost hope of hearing their own names called, paid them no mind. Looking about, I wondered how a judge might sort the mad from the rest.

Kuzma Zakharovich found us in the midst of this crowd. He wished me good morning and then greeted Xenia in a louder tone as if she might be deaf. She gave him in return a penetrating look, which discomfited him.

“Does she not speak?” he asked me.

“If she is so inclined, but she cannot be depended upon for courtesy.”

He gave her another wary glance. “My wife and Galina Stepanovna are anxious of her whereabouts,” he said, and bid us join them.

Aunt Galya had not seen Xenia since Andrei’s death. “So thin and bleak,” she exclaimed, kissing her. “The Lord gave you such prettiness and only to take it away like this. My poor daughter.”

A hardly noticeable twitch unsettled Xenia’s features, as if her mother’s kiss were a fly lighting on her cheek.

“When we are through here,” Aunt Galya went on, “we shall take you home with us and see that you are properly tended to.”

“You see how she is,” Nadya said. “Your affection is wasted on her. It would be just as well to send her to a monastery.”

“You want feeling, Nadya, to say such things now.”

All of Kuzma Zakharovich’s remaining influence must have been wielded to turn the wheels of Justice, for Xenia’s case was called that same afternoon, and we were ushered past the residents and through the doors, and to a smaller chamber. A judge and a scribe sat behind a long table raised on a dais. The judge wore the robe and long, curled wig befitting his office, and the gray complexion of one who has not seen daylight for many years.

The clerk announced the case to His Excellency, who bid the former hunt-master to approach the bench and lay out the matter. This Kuzma Zakharovich did with meticulousness, listing each instance of Xenia’s supposed mad behavior as though he were recounting a season of hunts.

“Have you witnessed these things yourself, Gospodin Sudakov, or only heard them reported?” the judge asked.

“I am but the messenger, Your Excellency, but you may see with your own eyes how the woman behaves, in what manner she answers, and judge in your wisdom whether she conforms to the pictures I have painted for you.”

“Is this she?” The judge indicated Xenia, and when it was confirmed, he bid her step forward. “Do you understand the charge laid against you?”

She did not speak straightaway. I was anxious lest her silence prove the charge better than all of Kuzma Zakharovich’s words, but at last she seemed to find her answer on the floor.

“They say I am mad.”

“And how do you answer to this?”

“It would be a comfort.”

“Answer in a respectful manner. Are you mad or no?”

She looked up at him. “My reason tells me that my husband and child are dead. I long for less reason.”

The judge nodded slowly as she spoke, but it was impossible to read in his face the meaning of these nods.

“Do you understand that should this court find against you, you will not be permitted to marry again? Further, that you shall be remanded to the custody of your nearest relations, and to them shall also go whatever property you may own?”

“It’s no matter.” She turned and looked directly at her mother and Nadya. “They may have whatever they ask. I do not want it.”

“So it seems. Gospodin Sudakov here claims that you have already given the bulk of your property to beggars.”

She nodded.

“And are you aware that there is a law against almsgiving?”

She nodded again.

“How do you explain yourself, then?”

There was another long silence.

“You will answer the court.”

Xenia looked on him wearily. “I did it that I might give my husband’s soul rest. And mine also. But God will not bargain for so little.”

“The law is in place to protect Her Imperial Majesty’s subjects from charlatans who would prey on their sympathies.”

“That your son died was not her fault,” Xenia answered. “Her prayers for his soul were well worth thirty kopeks.”

The judge was surprised from his dignity. He looked her up and down with undisguised confusion, and an emotion burbling beneath his features threatened to unseat him. He waved the clerk to him. There was a whispered exchange between them that somehow also concerned the person of Kuzma Zakharovich.

At last having satisfied himself, the judge put on again his formal demeanor. He did not look again at Xenia.

“The court cannot condone the breaking of its laws. But if it were to declare mad all those who breached this law, the monasteries should overflow with half of Russia.

“Her speech shows reason, and I can find no cause to declare her sumasbrodnaya. ”

With that, we were dismissed from his presence and other petitioners ushered in behind us.

As we made our way through the anteroom, Kuzma Zakharovich was philosophical. “It is true what they say. Tell God the truth, but give the judge money.”

“You might have thought of this before,” Nadya said.