The Greatest Russian Stories of Crime and Suspense (36 page)

Miller was really an exact and trustworthy officer; the duty of the guard at the Palace was without any danger; the time was most uneventful and tranquil; the Palace sentries were only required to stand accurately at their posts. Nevertheless, just when Captain Miller was in command, a most extraordinary and very alarming event took place, which is probably scarcely remembered even by the few of his contemporaries who are now ending their days upon earth.

At first everything went well with the guard. The sentries were placed, the men were all at their posts and all was in the most perfect order. The Emperor Nikolai Pavlovich was well, he had been for a drive in the evening, returned home, and had gone to bed. The Palace slept, too. The night was most quiet. There was tranquility in the guard-room. Captain Miller had pinned his white pocket handkerchief to the back of the officer’s chair, with its traditionally greasy morocco high back and had settled down to while away the time by reading.

Captain Miller had always been a passionate reader, and therefore was never dull; he read and did not notice how the night passed away. When suddenly at about three o’clock he was alarmed by a terrible anxiety. The sergeant on duty, pale and trembling with fear, stood before him, and stammered hurriedly:

“A calamity, your honor, a calamity!”

“What has happened?”

“A terrible misfortune has occurred.”

Captain Miller jumped up in indescribable agitation and with difficulty was able to ascertain what really was the nature of the “calamity” and the “terrible misfortune.”

The case was as follows: The sentry, a private of the Ismailovsky regiment named Postnikov, who was standing on guard at the outer door of the Palace, now called the “Jordan” entrance, heard that a man was drowning in the open spaces which had appeared in the ice just opposite the Palace, and was calling for help in his despair.

Private Postnikov, a domestic serf of some great family, was a very nervous and sensitive man. For a long time he listened to the distant cries and groans of the drowning man, and they seemed to benumb him with horror. He looked on all sides, but on the whole visible expanse of the quays and the Neva, as if on purpose, not a living soul could he see.

There was nobody who could give help to the drowning man, and he was sure to sink …

All this time the man struggled long and terribly.

It seemed as if there was but one thing left for him—to sink to the bottom without further struggle, but no! His cries of exhaustion were now broken and ceased, then were heard again, always nearer and nearer to the Palace quay. It was evident that the man had not lost his direction, but was making straight for the lights of the street lamps, but doubtless would perish because just in his path, he would fall into the “Jordan” (a hole made in the ice of the river for the consecration of the water on the 6th of January). There he would be drawn under the ice and it would be the end. Again he was quiet, but a minute later he began to splash through the water, and moan: “Save me, save me!” He was now so near that the splashing of the water could actually be heard as he waded along.

Private Postnikov began to realise that it would be quite easy to save this man. It was only necessary to run on to the ice, as the drowning man was sure to be there, throw him a rope, or stretch a pole or a gun towards him, and he could be saved. He was so near that he could take hold of it with his hand and save himself. But Postnikov remembered his service and his oath; he knew he was the sentry, and that the sentry dare not leave his sentry-box on any pretext, or for any reason whatever.

On the other hand, Postnikov’s heart was not at all submissive; it gnawed, it throbbed, it sank. He would have been glad to tear it out and throw it at his feet—he had become so uneasy at the sound of these groans and sobs. It was terrible to hear another man perishing and not to stretch out a hand and save him, when really it was quite possible to do so, because the sentry-box would not run away, and no other harm could happen. “Shall I run down? Will anybody see it? Oh, Lord, if it could only end! He’s groaning again!”

For a whole half hour, while this was going on, Private Postnikov’s heart tormented him so much that he began to feel doubts of his own reason. He was a clever and conscientious soldier with a clear judgment, and he knew perfectly well that for a sentry to leave his post was a crime that would have to be tried by a court-martial, and he would afterwards have to run the gauntlet between two lines of cat-o’-nine-tails and then have penal servitude, or perhaps even be shot—but from the direction of the swollen river again there rose, always nearer and nearer, groans, mumblings and desperate struggles.

“I am drowning! Save me, I am drowning!”

Soon he would come to the Jordan cutting and then—the end.

Postnikov looked round once or twice on all sides. Not a soul was to be seen, only the lamps rattled, shook, and flickered in the wind, and on the wind were borne broken cries, perhaps the last cries …

There was another splash, a single sob and a gurgling in the water.

The sentry could bear it no longer, and left his post.

Postnikov rushed to the steps, with his heart beating violently, ran on to the ice, then into the water that had risen above it. He soon saw where the drowning man was struggling for life and held out the stock of his gun to him. The drowning man caught hold of the butt-end and Postnikov holding on to the bayonet, drew him to the bank.

Both the man who had been saved, and his rescuer were completely wet; the man who had been saved was in a state of great exhaustion, shivered and fell; his rescuer, Private Postnikov, could not make up his mind to abandon him on the ice, but led him to the quay, and began looking about for somebody to whom he could confide him. While all this was happening, a sledge in which an officer was sitting had appeared on the quay. He was an officer of the Palace Invalid Corps, a company which existed then, but has since been abolished.

This gentlemen who arrived at such an inopportune moment for Postnikov, was evidently a man of very heedless character, and besides a very muddle-headed and impudent person. He jumped out of his sledge and inquired:

“What man is this? Who are these people?”

“He was nearly drowned—he was sinking,” began Postnikov.

“How was he drowning? Who was drowning? Was it you? Why is he here?”

But he only spluttered and panted, and Postnikov was no longer there; he had shouldered his gun and gone back to his sentry-box.

Possibly the officer understood what had happened, for he made no further inquiries, but at once took the man who had been rescued into his sledge and drove with him to the Admiralty Police Station in the Morskaia Street.

Here the officer made a statement to the inspector, that the dripping man he had brought had nearly drowned in one of the holes in the ice in front of the Palace, and that he, the officer, had saved him at the risk of his own life.

The man who had been saved was still quite wet, shivering and exhausted. From fright and owing to his terrific efforts he fell into a sort of unconsciousness, and it was quite indifferent to him who had saved him.

The sleepy police orderly hustled around him, while in the office a statement was drawn up from the officer’s verbal deposition and, with the suspicion natural to members of the police, they were perplexed to understand how he had managed to come out of the water quite dry. The officer who was anxious to receive his life saving medal, tried to explain this happy concurrence of circumstance, but his explanation was incoherent and improbable. They went to wake the police inspector, and sent to make inquiries.

Meantime in the Palace this occurrence was the cause of another rapid series of events.

In the Palace guard-room all that had occurred since the officer took the half-drowned man into his sledge was unknown. There the Ismailovsky officer and the soldiers only knew that Postnikov, a private of their regiment, had left his sentry-box, and had hurried to save a man and, this being a great breach of military duty, Private Postnikov would certainly be tried by court-martial and have to undergo a thrashing, and all his superior officers, beginning from the commander of the company, would have to face terrible unpleasantness, to avert which they would have nothing to say, nor would they be able to defend themselves.

The wet and shivering soldier, Postnikov, was of course at once relieved from his post, and when he was brought to the guard-room frankly related to Captain Miller all that we already know, with all details to the moment when the officer of the Invalid Corps put the half-drowned man into his sledge, and ordered the coachman to drive to the Admiralty Police Station.

The danger grew greater and more unavoidable. It was certain the officer of the Invalid Corps would relate everything to the police inspector and the inspector would at once state all the facts to the chief of police, Kokoshkin, who in the morning would make his report to the Emperor, and then the trouble would begin.

There was no time for reflection; the advice of the superior officer must be obtained. Nicolai Ivanovich Miller forthwith sent an alarming note to his immediate superior, the commander of his battalion, Lieutenant Colonel Svinin, in which he begged him to come to the guardroom as soon as he could to take every possible measure to help him out of the terrible misfortune that had occurred.

It was already about three o’clock, and Kokoshkin had to present his report to the Emperor fairly early in the morning, so that but little time remained for reflection and action.

Lieutenant Colonel Svinin did not possess that compassion and tenderness of heart for which Nicolai Ivanovich Miller had always been distinguished. Svinin was known for his severity and he even liked to boast of his exacting discipline. He had no taste for evil, and never tried to cause anybody useless suffering, but when a man had violated any of the duties of the service, Svinin was inexorable. In the present case he considered it out of place to enter into the consideration of the causes that had guided the actions of the culprit, and held to the rule that every deviation from discipline was guilt. Therefore, in the company on guard, all knew that Private Postnikov would have to suffer what he deserved, for having left his post, and that Svinin would remain absolutely indifferent.

Such was the character by which the staff officer was known to his superiors, and also to his comrades, amongst whom there were men who did not sympathise with Svinin, because at that time “humaneness”, and other similar delusions, had not entirely died out. Svinin was indifferent to whether he would be blamed or praised by the “humanitarians.” To beg or entreat Svinin, or even try to move him to pity was quite useless. To all this he was hardened with the well-tempered armour of the people of those times, who wanted to make their way in the world, but even he, like Achilles, had a weak spot.

Svinin’s career in the service had commenced well, and he of course greatly valued it and was very careful that on it, as on a full dress uniform, not a grain of dust should settle, and now this unfortunate action of one of the men of the battalion entrusted to him would certainly throw a shadow on the discipline of the whole company. Those on whom Svinin’s well-started and carefully maintained military career depended, would not stop to inquire if the commander of the battalion was guilty or not guilty of what one of his men had one, while moved by the most honourable feelings of sympathy, and many would gladly have put a spoke in the wheel, so as to make way for their relations or to push forward some fine young fellow with high patronage. If the Emperor, who would certainly be angry, said to the commander of the regiment that he had feeble officers, that their men were undisciplined; who was the cause of it? Svinin. So it would be repeated that Svinin was feeble, and the reproach of feebleness would remain a stain on his reputation that could not be washed out. Then he would never be in any way remarkable among his comtemporaries, and he would not leave his portrait in the gallery of historical personages of the Russian Empire.

Although at that time but few cultivated the study of history, nevertheless they believed in it, and aspired, with special pleasure, to take part in its making.

At about three o’clock in the morning, as soon as Svinin received Captain Miller’s disquieting letter, he at once jumped out of bed, put on his uniform and, swayed by fear and anger, arrived at the guard-room of the Winter Palace. Here he forthwith examined Private Postnikov, and assured himself that the extraordinary event had really taken place. Private Postnikov again frankly confirmed to the commander of his battalion all that had occurred while he was on guard duty, and what he (Postnikov) had already related to the commander of his company, Captain Miller. The soldier said that he was guilty before God and the Emperor, and could not expect mercy; that he, standing on guard, hearing the groans of a man who was drowning in the open places of ice, had suffered long, had struggled long between his sense of military duty and his feelings of compassion and at last he had yielded to temptation and not being able to stand the struggle, had left his sentry-box, jumped on the ice and had drawn the drowning man to the bank, and there to his misfortune, he had met an officer of the Palace Invalid Corps.

Lieutenant-Colonel Svinin was in despair; he gave himself the only possible satisfaction by wreaking his anger on Postnikov, whom he at once sent under arrest to the regimental prison, and then said some biting words to Miller, reproaching him with “humanitarianism,” which was of no use at all in military service; but all this was of no avail, nor would it improve the matter. It was impossible to find any excuse, still less justification, for a sentry who had left his post, and there remained only one way of getting out of the difficulty—to conceal the whole affair from the Emperor …

But was it possible to conceal such an occurrence?

It was evident that this appeared to be impossible, as the rescue of the drowning man was known, not only to the whole rest of the guard, but also to that hateful officer of the Invalid Corps, who by now had certainly had time to report the whole matter to General Kokoshkin.