Eerie Volkov and the Astrakhan Felt-Mill Drying-Room Where His Contour Buckled

A subdued heaviness occupies Volkov House, deepest in the drying-room where Nikolai Petrovich Volkov, born 1873 near Astrakhan, once pressed felt for traders, fishermen, and regional merchants. The buckled contour on his final panel holds a hesitation like a breath caught mid-shaping. His implements remain arranged with habitual neatness—yet no hand returns to rework what he abandoned.

A Contour Defining the Felt-Maker’s Patient Routine

Nikolai learned steadiness from his mother Anfisa Volkov, a wool-carder whose bent-handled comb still rests beneath a shuttered bench. Each dawn he boiled fleece, spread fibers across reed mats, and rolled them under weighted boards to unify the contour. Signs of these rhythms linger: boards sorted by heft, mats bound with twine, faint chalk outlines on the table showing where he traced each curve’s intended path. A worn strip in the floorboards recalls where he braced both feet before lifting heavy, water-laden sheets.

A Quiet Pressure That Pushed His Craft Off Its Intended Form

murmurs trickled through nearby stalls when a merchant returned a batch of winter caps, claiming their brims warped under mild damp—an uncharacteristic lapse from Nikolai’s dependable firmness. In the interior corridor, Anfisa’s comb pouch hangs torn at the hem. A contour diagram slumps against the wainscot, its penciled curve overwritten in trembling strokes. Beneath a narrow birch shelf rests a fractured pressing board, though no splinters lie nearby. A faint trail of fiber dust marks a single stair tread—evidence of wool handled with an increasingly uncertain grip. None of this confirms error outright, yet each fragment bends toward a private strain he never acknowledged.

Only the buckled contour on his unfinished panel remains—an intention caught between precision and fatigue. Whatever unsettled Nikolai’s practiced certainty lingers without answer.

Volkov House remains abandoned still.