by Otto Penzler
This, of course, was not so quickly done as by telegraph or telephone, but lent considerable animation to the town and proved that the authorities were indefatigably vigilant.
Before the breathless inspector, the life-saving officer, and the man rescued him from drowning had time to come from the Admiralty police station, the nervous and energetic Kokoshkin had time to have a snooze and refresh himself. This was seen in the expression of his face and by the revival of his mental faculties.
Kokoshkin ordered all who had arrived to come to his study and with them Svinin, too.
“The official report?” the General demanded of the inspector.
The latter silently handed a folded paper to the General and then whispered in a low voice:
“I must beg to permission to communicate a few words to your Excellency in private.”
“Very well.”
Kokoshkin went towards the bay-window, followed by the inspector.
“What is it?”
The inspector’s indistinct whispers could be heard and the General’s loud interjections.
“H’m, yes! Well, what then?… It is possible … They take care to come out dry … Anything more?”
“Nothing, sir.”
The General came out of the bay-window, sat down at his desk, and began to read. He read the report in silence without showing any signs of uneasiness or suspicion, and then turning to the man who had been saved, asked in a loud voice:
“How comes it, my friend, that you got into the open places before the Palace?”
“Forgive me!”
“So! You were drunk?”
“Excuse me, I was not drunk, only tipsy.”
“Why did you get into the water?”
“I wanted to cut across the ice, lost my way, and got into the water.”
“That means it was dark before your eyes.”
“It was dark; it was dark all around, your Excellency.”
“And you were not able to notice who pulled you out?”
“Pardon me, I could not notice anything. I think it was he”—he pointed to the officer and added: “I could not distinguish anything. I was so scared.”
“That’s what it comes to. You were loafing about when you ought to have been asleep. Now look at him well and remember who was your benefactor. An honourable man risked his life to save you.”
“I shall never forget it.”
“Your name, sir?”
The officer mentioned his name.
“Do you hear?”
“I hear, your Excellency.”
“You are Orthodox?”
“I am Orthodox, your Excellency.”
“In your prayers for health, remember this man’s name.”
“I will write it down, your Excellency.”
“Pray to God for him, and go away. You are no longer wanted.”
He bowed to the ground and cleared off, immeasurably pleased that he was released.
Svinin stood there and could not understand how, by God’s grace, things were taking such a turn.
Kokoshkin turned to the officer of the Invalid Corps.
“You saved this man, at the risk of your own life?”
“Yes, your Excellency.”
“There were no witnesses to this occurrence, and owing to the late hour there could not have been any?”
“Yes, your Excellency, it was dark and on the quay there was nobody, except for the sentry.”
“There is no need to mention the sentry; the sentry has to stand at his post and has no right to occupy himself with anything else. I believe what is written in this report. Was it not taken down from your own words?”
These words Kokoshkin pronounced with special emphasis, as if he were threatening or shouting.
The officer did not falter, but with staring eyes and expanded chest, standing at attention, answered:
“From my own words and quite correctly, your Excellency.”
“Your action deserves a reward.”
The officer bowed gracefully.
“There is nothing to thank for,” continued Kokoshkin, “I shall report your self-sacrificing act to His Majesty the Emperor and your breast may be decorated with a medal even to-day. Now you may go home, have a warm drink, and don’t leave the house, as perhaps you may be wanted.”
The officer of the Invalid Corps beamed all over, bowed and retired.
Kokoshkin, looking after him, said:
“It is possible that the Emperor may wish to see him.”
“I understand,” answered the inspector, with apprehension.
“I do not require you any more.”
The inspector left the room, closed the door, and in accordance with his religious habit, crossed himself.
The officer of the Invalids was waiting for the inspector below and they went away together, much better friends than when they had come.
Only Svinin remained in the study of the Chief of Police. Kokoshkin looked at him long and attentively and then asked:
“You have not been to the Grand Duke?”
At that time when the Grand Duke was mentioned everybody knew that it referred to the Grand Duke Michael.
“I came straight to you,” answered Svinin.
“Who was the officer on guard?”
“Captain Miller.”
Kokoshkin looked again at Svinin and said:
“I think you told me something different before.”
Svinin did not understand to what this could refer and remained silent, and Kokoshkin added:
“Well, it’s all the same; good night.”
The audience was over.
About one o’clock the officer of the Invalids, was really sent for by Kokoshkin, who informed him most amiably the Emperor was most pleased that among the officers of the Invalids corps of his palace there were to be found such vigilant and self-sacrificing men, and had honoured him with the medal for saving life. Then Kokoshkin decorated the hero with his own hands and the officer went away to swagger about town with the medal on his breast.
The affair could therefore be considered as quite finished, but Lieutenant-Colonel Svinin felt that it was not concluded, and regarded himself as called upon to put the dots on the “i’s.”
He had been so much alarmed that he was ill for three days, and on the fourth, drove to the Peter House, had a service of Thanksgiving said for him before the icon of the Saviour, and returning home, sent to ask Captain Miller to come to him.
“Well, thank God, Nicolai Ivanovich,” he said to Miller, “the storm that was hanging over us has been quite settled. I think we can now breathe freely. All this we owe without doubt, first to the mercy of God, and secondly to General Kokoshkin. Let people say he is not kind and heartless, but I am full of gratitude for his magnanimity and respect for his resourcefulness and tact. In what a masterly way he took advantage of that vainglorious Invalid swindler who, in truth, for his impudence ought to have received not a medal, but a good thrashing in the stable. There was nothing else for him to do; he had to take advantage of this to save many, and Kokoshkin manoeuvred the whole affair so cleverly that nobody had the slightest unpleasantness; on the contrary, all are very happy and contented. Between ourselves, I can tell you, I have been informed by a reliable person that Kokoshkin is very satisfied with me. He was pleased I had not gone anywhere else, but came straight to him, and that I did not argue with this swindler, who received a medal. In a word, nobody has suffered, and all has been done with so much tact that there can be no fear for the future; but there is one thing wanting on our side. We must follow Kokoshkin’s example and finish the affair with tact on our side, so as to guarantee ourselves from any future occurrences. There is still one person whose position is not regulated. I speak of Private Postnikov. He is still lying in prison under arrest, no doubt troubled with thoughts of what will be done to him. We must put an end to his torments.”
“Yes, it is time,” said Miller, delighted.
“Well, certainly, and you are th
e best man to do it. Please go at once to the barracks, call your company together, lead Private Postnikov out of prison, and let him be punished with two hundred lashes before the whole company.”
Miller was astonished, and made an attempt to persuade Svinin to complete the general happiness by showing mercy to Private Postnikov, and to pardon him as he had already suffered so much while lying in prison waiting his fate, but Svinin only got angry and did not allow Miller to continue.
“No,” he broke in, “none of that! I have only just talked to you about tact and you at once are tactless! None of that!”
Svinin changed his tone to a dryer, more official one, and added sternly:
“An as in this affair you too are not quite in the right, but really much to blame because your softness of heart is quite unsuitable for a military man, and this deficiency of your character is reflected in your subordinates, therefore you are to be present personally at the execution of my orders and to see that the flogging is done seriously—as severely as possible. For this purpose have the goodness to give orders that the young soldiers who have just arrived from the army, shall do the whipping, because our old soldiers are all infected with the liberalism of the guards. They won’t whip a comrade properly, but would only frighten the fleas away from his back. I myself will look in to see that they have done the guilty man properly.”
To evade in any way instructions given by a superior officer was of course impossible, and kind-hearted Captain Miller was obliged to execute with exactitude the orders received from the commander of his battalion.
The company was drawn up in the courtyard of the Ismailovsky barracks; the rods were fetched in sufficient quantities from the stores, and Private Postnikov was brought out of his prison and “done properly” at the hands of the zealous comrades, who had just arrived from the army. These men, who had not yet been as tainted by the liberalism of the guards, put all the dots on the i’s to the full, as ordered by the commander of the battalion. Then Postnikov, having received his punishment, was lifted up on the overcoat on which he had been whipped and carried to the hospital of the regiment.
The commander of the battalion, Svinin, as soon as he heard that the punishment had been inflicted, went away at once to visit Postnikov in the hospital in a most fatherly way, and to satisfy himself by a personal examination that his orders had been properly executed. Heartsore and nervous, Postnikov had been “done properly.” Svinin was satisfied and ordered that Postnikov should receive, on his behalf, a pound of sugar and a quarter of a pound of tea with which to regale himself while he was recovering. Postnikov, from his bed, heard this order about tea and said:
“I am very contented, your honour. Thank you for your fatherly kindness.”
And really he was contented, because while lying three days in prison he had expected something much worse. Two hundred lashes, according to the strict ideas of those days, was of very little consequence in comparison with the punishments that people suffered by order of the military courts; and that is the sort of punishment he would have awarded him if, by good luck, all the bold and tactful evolutions, which are related above, had not taken place.
But the number of persons who were pleased at the events just described was not limited to these.
The story of the exploit of Private Postnikov was secretly whispered in various circles of society in the capital, which in those days, when the public Press had no voice, lived in a world of endless gossip. In these verbal transmissions the name of the real hero, Private Postnikov, was lost, but instead of that the episode became embellished and received a very interesting and romantic character.
It was related that an extraordinary swimmer had swum from the side of the Peter and Paul Fortress, and had been fired at and wounded by one of the sentries stationed before the Winter Palace and an officer of the Invalid Guard, who was passing at the time, threw himself into the water and saved him from drowning, for which the one who had received the merited reward, and the other the punishment he deserved. These absurd reports even reached the Conventual House, inhabited at that time by His Eminence, a high ecclesiastic, who was cautious but not indifferent to worldly matters, and who was benevolently disposed towards, and a well-wisher of, the pious Moscow family, Svinin.
The story of the shot seemed improbable to the astute ecclesiastic. What nocturnal swimmer could it be? If he was an escaped prisoner, why was the sentry punished, for he had only done his duty in shooting at him, when he saw him swimming across the Neva from the Fortress. If he was not a prisoner, but another mysterious man, who had to be saved from the waves of the Neva, how could the sentry know anything about him? And then again, it could not have happened as it was whispered in frivolous society. In society much is accepted in a light-hearted and frivolous manner, but those who live in monasteries and conventual houses look upon all this much more seriously and are quite conversant with the real things of this world.
Once when Svinin happened to be at His Eminence’s to receive his blessing, the distinguished dignitary began: “By the by, what about that shot?” Svinin related the whole truth, in which there was nothing whatever “about that shot.”
The high ecclesiastic listened to the real story in silence, gently touching his white rosary and never taking his eyes off the narrator. When Svinin had finished, His Eminence quietly murmured in rippling speech:
“From all this one is obliged to conclude that in this matter the statements made were neither wholly nor on every occasion strictly true.”
Svinin stammered and then answered with the excuse that it was not he but General Kokoshkin who had made the report.
His Eminence passed the rosary through his waxen fingers in silence, and then murmured:
“One must make a distinction between a lie and what is not wholly true.”
Again the rosary, then silence, and at last a soft ripple of speech:
“A half truth is not a lie, but the less said about it the better.”
Svinin was encouraged and said:
“That is certainly true. What troubles me most is that I had to inflict a punishment upon a soldier, who, although he had neglected his duty …”
The rosary and a soft rippling interruption:
“The duties of service must never be neglected.”
“Yes, but it was done by him through magnanimity, through sympathy after such a struggle, and with danger. He understood that in saving the life of another man he was destroying himself. This is a high, holy feeling.…”
“Holiness is known to God; corporal punishment is not destruction for a common man, nor is it contrary to the customs of the nations, nor to the spirit of the Scriptures. The rod is easier borne by the coarse body than delicate suffering by the soul. In this case your justice has not suffered in the slightest degree.”
“But he was deprived of the reward for saving one who was perishing.”
“To save those who are perishing is not a merit, but rather a duty. He who could save but did not save is liable to the punishment of the laws; but he who saves does his duty.”
A pause, the rosary, and soft rippling speech:
“For a warrior to suffer degradation and wounds for his action is perhaps more profitable than marks of distinction. But what is most important is to be careful in this case, and never to mention anywhere or on any occasion what anybody said about it.”
It was evident His Eminence was also satisfied.
If I had the temerity of the happy chosen of Heaven, who through their great faith are enabled to penetrate into the secrets of the Will of God, then I would perhaps dare to permit myself the supposition that probably God Himself was satisfied with the conduct of Postnikov’s humble soul, which He had created. But my faith is small; it does not permit my mind to penetrate so high. I am of the earth, earthy. I think of those mortals who love goodness, simply because it is goodness and do not expect any reward for it, wherever it may be. I think these true and faithful people will also be entirely satisfied with th
is holy impulse of love, and not less holy endurance of the humble hero of my true and artless story.
MAXIM GORKY
A STRANGE MURDERER
Aleksey Maksimovich Peshkov (1868–1936) took the pseudonym Maxim Gorky because it means “the bitter one,” a condemnation of the way he was treated after running away from an abusive home when he was twelve. He worked as a baker, dishwasher, dockworker, night watchman and other low level jobs, often starving and being beaten. When he was 21, he tried to commit suicide, shooting himself in the chest where the bullet punctured his lung. He recovered but suffered numerous bouts of tuberculosis in ensuing years. He then traveled extensively, mainly associating with the lowest members of society: thieves, derelicts and prostitutes. His experiences provided background material when he turned to journalism and short story writing at the age of 24, becoming the first Russian author to write sympathetically of this stratum of society. Although he was in frequent trouble and jailed by the police for his outspoken, revolutionary political views, he became a folk hero to the Russian people who sympathized with his advocacy of workers and ordinary citizens against the overwhelming power of the Czarist government. He was opposed to the Bolshevik takeover in 1917 and soon moved to Italy, but great public pressure forced his return to Russia in 1930. He died a few years later, almost certainly at the hands of a police chief who confessed to having ordered his murder, which was suspected (though not proven) to have been ordered by Josef Stalin himself.
“A Strange Murderer” was first published in America in the October 1924 issue of The Dial Magazine.
“I can kill you very gently, very softly—
allow you to say a prayer first, then kill you.”
About two months before his death Judge L. N. Sviatoukhine said to me one day:
“Of all the murderers that have come before me during the last thirteen years, one only, the packhorse-driver Merkouloff, ever awoke a feeling of terror before man and for man. The ordinary murderer is a hopelessly dull and obtuse creature, half man, half beast, incapable of realising the significance of his crime; or else a sly little dirty fellow, a squealing fox caught in a trap; or else again an unsuccessful, hysterical mono-maniac, desperate and bitter. But when Merkouloff stood in front of me in the dock I instantly scented something weird and unusual about him.”
