Dmitri and the Milk-Drinkers Read online

‘The one that got me exiled to Siberia.’

  Thinking? He certainly was. About Marfa Shumin, for a start, who had clearly escaped exactly as he had supposed and who seemed at once to have resumed her political activity; and if demonstrating outside Lev Petrovich’s tannery was a sample of it, then good luck to her! But also about Anna Semeonova, who seemed in some strange way to have become a surrogate for her.

  An act of selection had clearly occurred at the Tiumen gate and the most likely basis for it was that she had been taken to be, like her alter ego, a ‘political’. But if that was so, why had he not seen her in the cells where the other politicals had been put? True, in the dark he could have missed her. But then, why hadn’t she spoken up? That was the question that kept troubling him. Why, if she had been deported by mistake, hadn’t she simply declared herself? The only answer he could find was that she had been too frightened to. And that, he was beginning to feel, he could understand.

  7

  ‘But what are facts?’ asked his learned friend, the prisoner from Kazan. Dmitri had not really meant to reopen discussions, but, seeing him sitting alone in the yard reading a book – a different book this time – he had been unable to resist.

  Dmitri frowned. The facts of a case were what Examining Magistrates were called on to establish. Afterwards, the prosecution might proceed. The Magistrate, in the lower Courts like Kursk, that was, would lay the facts before the Court and the judges would make up their mind. On the basis of the facts laid before them. The defence might challenge here and there, especially the evidence of witnesses, but the case was based essentially on what the Examining Magistrate had been able to discover.

  Take the present case, for instance: so far, the facts he had been able to discover about Anna Semeonova’s disappearance were:

  One, that Anna Semeonova was a remarkably pretty young woman. No, no, that was not a fact but a judgement. Leave that to the judges. The judges? Desiccated old sods like Peter Ivanovich? Certainly not! Dmitri was quite capable of judging for himself. Especially about pretty girls. Where was he?

  One, then: a girl from one of the best families in Kursk had disappeared. That definitely was a fact.

  Two, from the Court House in Kursk. Also a fact? Less definitely. That was where she had been last seen and Dmitri was the one who had seen her, so there was no doubt about that as a fact. But had she gone out of the building and then disappeared, or had she disappeared from the Court House itself? A terminological quibble, Dmitri decided. No, she had disappeared from the Court House, and –

  Three, Dmitri reckoned to know how it had been done: she had taken the place of Marfa Shumin. Why or how, he was not quite sure. Especially why – if why there was and it was not all just a complete balls-up on the part of the Convoy Administration. Anyway, Shumin had walked free and Anna Semeonova had been transported to Siberia.

  That was Fact Four. She had definitely arrived at Tiumen Prison. Definitely? Well, pretty definitely. Her name – or rather, Shumin’s name – had been ticked off on the list and she had been seen by reliable witnesses.

  But what the hell had happened then? That fact was missing.

  ‘Somehow the facts are hard to ascertain,’ he said.

  ‘Well, of course,’ said his learned friend from the University of Kazan, ‘and that is because of their very nature.’

  ‘Nature?’ said Dmitri suspiciously, and looked again at the title of the book that his acquaintance was reading: Metaphenomenology and the Law: a Hegelian Approach.

  ‘Yes. You think of facts as something out there that you can discover. The truth for you is objective.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Dmitri.

  ‘But suppose it is not? And the only thing that exists are different versions of the truth? What then are facts?’

  ‘Just because people speak about them in different ways, that doesn’t mean there aren’t facts.’

  ‘I know,’ said his new acquaintance, running his hand through his hair. ‘That is, of course, the Rationalist position. It is one that I share myself. But it seems to me the issue may have important legal implications. If you take the view that the facts are there and that people – Examining Magistrates, for instance – can discover them, you might take the view that a judge has only to be presented with them for him to be able to reach a verdict. Whereas if you take the view that there are no facts as such but only different versions of them, what the judge has to do is weigh one version against another. The facts are something that is openly decided in court.’

  ‘And this is Hegel’s view?’ asked Dmitri, looking at the book again.

  ‘Well, no,’ confessed the man shyly. ‘It is my own. I was going to develop it in my article.’

  ‘Which article was this?’

  ‘The one I was about to write when they sent me to Siberia.’

  But did not this mean, thought Dmitri, as he walked away, that the role of the Examining Magistrate was diminished? Dmitri was against anything that diminished the role of Examining Magistrates. True, it enhanced the role of the advocate in Court, and Dmitri was for anything that did that, even though at the moment he was in a subordinate position and had to play second fiddle there to a lot of dopes.

  Still, it was an interesting idea. This fellow was a lot more stimulating than his friends in Kursk. Igor Stepanovich, for instance, with his de facto law. De facto indeed! It still rankled. But did the idea have important legal implications, as the chap had said? Surely not. It was merely a question of another way of looking at things. He would put that point the next time they had a discussion.

  But just a minute! He wasn’t here to have discussions. He was here to find out the facts about Anna Semeonova’s disappearance. And the facts were not at all subjective, they were pretty real, at least as far as Anna Semeonova was concerned.

  The facts were – he really must get his mind back to it – that Anna Semeonova had arrived at Tiumen Prison and then disappeared. Almost certainly she had been put, because of her official identification as Marfa Shumin, in one of the cells upstairs reserved for political prisoners. He had missed her before when he had gone through them with the prison official, but he would just have to go through them again.

  But how was he going to do that? Even the resourceful Methodosius had been unable to come up with a suggestion. The yard, it appeared, could be of no help this time. The prisoners were up there and the yard was down here.

  But hold on! Dmitri stopped in his tracks. The prisoners weren’t up there, at least, not all of them. His friend from Kazan, the man he had just been talking to, was a political prisoner and he was down here.

  Dmitri hurried back to him.

  ‘You are, of course, a political?’

  ‘Of course!’ said the man, surprised.

  ‘Then what are you doing down here? I thought you were kept up in the cells?’

  ‘We’re allowed down for exercise.’

  ‘All of you?’

  The man looked round.

  ‘Most of us. Of course, some prefer – ’

  ‘Women? What happens to the women?’

  ‘They stay up. It’s not very nice. Alexandra has complained – ’

  ‘So the women are kept up there all the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How could I get to see them?’

  A look of discomfort crossed the man’s face.

  ‘My dear fellow, I must tell you we treat the women with respect. Great respect. It’s an absolute law among us. Unwritten, of course.’

  ‘No, no, my intentions are quite – The fact is, I’m looking for a particular woman, Shumin, her name is – ’

  ‘Shumin? Someone was asking about her the other day.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Shumin? Wait, I’ll certainly ask the others if they know her. But, look, why don’t you just come up?’

  ‘Come up?’ said Dmitri, flabbergasted.

  ‘Yes. At the end of exercise. They never count. Anyway, if we leave it late, it will be too dar
k for them to see.’

  ‘But – ’

  ‘You can come down the next morning. Of course, you’ll have to stay the night.’

  ‘But – ’

  ‘You did want to come up?’

  ‘Yes, but – ’

  When the time came, a small group of men gathered outside one of the doors. They were in ordinary, rather well-to-do clothing, not convict grey, and did not wear chains. They were all chatting happily when Dmitri and his friend arrived. From the tone of the conversation, and its substance, they were all educated men; not very different, in fact, from Dmitri’s younger associates at Kursk.

  ‘Can I introduce my friend – incidentally, what is your name, my dear fellow? Somehow I seem to have mislaid it.’

  ‘Dmitri.’

  ‘Dmitri. My friend, Dmitri.’

  They all shook hands.

  ‘And yours?’ muttered Dmitri, as the door opened.

  ‘Grigori. Grigori Pavlinsky.’

  They filed inside and began to go up some steps. There were two guards, but they were talking and paid little attention. At the top of the stairs they were met by another guard who led them along the corridor, unlocking each door in turn. At every door some prisoners went in.

  ‘Here we are!’ said Grigori.

  ‘Home again, Mr Pavlinksy,’ said the guard indulgently, as to a child.

  Grigori pushed Dmitri in at the door and crowded in after him. Several others followed. The door swung shut behind them.

  ‘And what’, said the bespectacled man opposite him, ‘is your view of the Polish Question?’

  ‘Polish Question?’

  ‘Do you believe the Komskyites should be suppressed or supported?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘You pose the antithesis too sharply, Stepan,’ another man cut in. ‘It is possible to tolerate the Komskyites without either supporting or suppressing them.’

  ‘But isn’t that to evade the issue? What do you think?’ turning to Dmitri.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘And are you right to lump the Komskyites together, anyway?’ said a third man, joining in enthusiastically. ‘What do you think?’ he appealed to Dmitri.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Well?’ They all listened eagerly.

  ‘Who are the Komskyites?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ They seemed very disappointed.

  ‘I expect it’s all happened since he came in,’ said the bespectacled man to the others. ‘Have you been in long?’ he said to Dmitri.

  ‘Well, er, no. Not very long.’

  ‘And you didn’t see it in the papers?’

  ‘Komskyites? No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t in the papers,’ said one of the men dejectedly.

  ‘Oh, surely, it would have been. A mass movement – ’

  ‘Not very mass. About fifty. And in Poland, too. They always discriminate against Poland.’

  ‘You didn’t see anything at all? No mention of the Komskyite revolt?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, of course, the censorship is quite efficient.’

  ‘Are you Poles?’ asked Dmitri.

  ‘No, no. Just sympathizers.’

  ‘Actually,’ said the bespectacled man, ‘it doesn’t affect the issue. Is it possible ever to treat a dissident group neutrally? That is the question.’

  The question being posed in the abstract, Dmitri felt unhindered by his lack of factual knowledge from joining in. The discussion continued vigorously and it was quite some time before Dmitri could detach himself sufficiently to glance round at his surroundings.

  The cell contained some twenty people, both men and women, although mostly men. There was no sleeping platform down the middle, as there had been in the larger barracks he had seen, but there appeared to be some low bunks around the walls. There was one small window, glassed in and kept shut because even so late in the spring the temperature at nights could fall below zero. With all the people in the cell, the air was thick and heavy.

  It was also very dark. Dmitri could hardly see the faces of the people he was talking to. Over in one corner, though, there were a couple of candles, beneath an ikon, and by their light Grigori was reading.

  A woman came up to Dmitri.

  ‘You’re Dmitri, aren’t you? Hello, I’m Alexandra.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘I’m the librarian.’

  ‘Librarian?’

  ‘We’ve pooled our books and formed a co-operative library. We can cater for most interests. What are yours?’

  ‘Well, er, well – law!’ said Dmitri.

  ‘Law? Oh, that is fortunate! We have quite a good stock in that area. Grigori brought a number of his books with him and there are several lawyers in the other cells. You yourself didn’t by any chance bring …’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I, er, left in rather a hurry.’

  ‘Never mind. I’m sure you’ll get some sent. We are building our collection up. Would you like to see it?’

  She took Dmitri over to where a surprising number of books were arranged on the floor, spine upwards, beside one of the bunks.

  ‘This is the law section.’

  ‘I was looking’, said Dmitri, mindful of his conversations with Grigori, ‘for something on the development of Russian law.’

  ‘Legal history?’

  ‘Yes. But understood quite widely. Perhaps even constitutional history?’

  ‘We’ve certainly got something on that,’ said Alexandra, searching. ‘But – ’ with the eternal voice of the librarian – ‘it’s out.’

  Several of the books were in English. Because of his Scottish background, Dmitri read English quite well. His knowledge of English history, however, was distinctly shaky. Russia had always been closer intellectually to France and Germany. Its aristocracy habitually spoke French, its administrative class, German. This by itself was enough to predispose Dmitri in England’s favour, and English history was one of the things he had always meant to read up about.

  He was, however, slightly confused about the difference between Scotland and England. Family tradition was clear that they were two different countries and that the English were the enemy. It was because Ancestor Cameron had not been able to accept their rule, so family tradition claimed, that he had left Scotland to take service under the Tsar. On the other hand, family tradition also made it plain that Ancestor Cameron had been an avaricious old bastard and the migration might be explained less nobly but more simply as an attempt to get a better job.

  Family tradition was not, then, an altogether clear guide on the subject, and reading might be a better one. But here, too, there were problems. If the Scottish were the oppressed, how was it that they kept turning up in positions of prominence in English society, in law, business, politics and letters? The explanation, and one which Dmitri could identify with, was obviously superior merit. All the same, it was puzzling.

  He picked up a book on English constitutional history by Sir Henry Maine. His mind kept going back to the conversation he had had with Grigori about the difference between the constitutional position of law in Russia and that in Western Europe. England, like Russia, was a monarchy. Might not there be some interesting comparisons?

  ‘May I take this one?’ he said.

  ‘Please do.’

  Alexandra wrote it down in a little pocket book.

  ‘Please bring it back in a fortnight,’ she said. ‘Or earlier, of course, if you’re posted.’

  Like the others, she took it for granted that he was a prisoner.

  Dmitri bore his book off, pleased. Then his heart smote him. He wasn’t here to have a good read! He had come here to find Anna Semeonova.

  ‘Actually, I’m looking for a girl,’ he said to Alexandra.

  ‘You are?’

  Alexandra brightened.

  ‘Her name is Shumin.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Or possibly something else. Her real name is Semeonova, Anna Semeonova.�
�

  ‘Really?’ said Alexandra distantly.

  ‘I’m pretty sure she’s in one of these cells.’

  ‘What did you say her name was?’ said Alexandra, relenting slightly. ‘I don’t remember anyone of that name. What does she look like?’

  ‘Very fair. Almost silvery. A real Russian beauty, as they say.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s no one like that. However, I’ll have a look the next time I go round.’

  ‘You go round?’ said Dmitri incredulously.

  ‘Of course. How else can I be librarian?’

  ‘But —’

  ‘We pay the guards, naturally. They’re not very bothered. They don’t think books are important,’ said Alexandra sniffily.

  ‘Very fair, did you say?’ said a man sitting on a bunk nearby. He, too, was reading a book. ‘Almost silvery? I saw a girl like that.’

  ‘You did?’ said Dmitri delightedly.

  ‘Yes. The other day. Not in the cells, though. In the infirmary.’

  ‘The infirmary?’

  ‘Yes. It’s over the road. Next to the women’s prison but in a separate building. They isolate the patients. It makes sense, since there’s such a risk of epidemics here. It’s about the only thing they do’, said the man disgustedly, ‘for health reasons.’

  He stood up and shook hands.

  ‘Konstantin. I’m a doctor. Not that it makes much difference here, but that’s how I came to be in the infirmary. They were short of a doctor. Ordinarily they wouldn’t have bothered, but with the numbers – ’

  ‘Numbers?’ said Dmitri. ‘Why?’

  ‘Typhoid.’ The doctor shrugged. ‘Typhoid fever is endemic here. It’s the conditions. And the fact that there’s always a population here. The number of cases has increased sharply of late. I would call it an epidemic. They don’t.’

  ‘The girl you saw …?’

  ‘Not a patient, no.’ The doctor frowned. ‘I think she was a kind of orderly. Not one of the regular ones, I got to know them. But an orderly of some kind. I only saw her the once.’

  ‘But — very silvery, you said? Age?’

  ‘About twenty. Very competent, I thought. She looked as if she knew her stuff.’

  ‘You didn’t catch her name?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’