The Greatest Russian Stories of Crime and Suspense (41 page)

“When the will was opened and read, my father had left half of a fortune of several millions to my brother. But he obstinately refused to take his share of the inheritance. ‘You and mother keep it, or build schools with it.’ He accepted only a very small part of the fortune, and left for Petersburg.

“He passed his medical examinations not only brilliantly, but with exceptional distinction. People began to speak of him as a future scientist. He specialized in infectious diseases. He spent several years with Metchnikoff in Paris, then returned to Petersburg, where he was besieged by the ill and suffering.

“We scarcely ever heard from him; about three times a year. They were short, strange notes, in which he often spoke of our dead father, such as:‘Yesterday, while I was alone in my room, I thought of our father. Do you remember his well-known dear smile?’

“One day we heard that he had forsaken his work and his patients to fight an epidemic of eruptive typhus. Then he enlisted in the Russo-Japanese war, where he fought another epidemic.

“It was here that he distinguished himself, was wounded, and fell a victim to typhus. He recovered from this and came home for a period of rest.

“He had become more taciturn than ever, but also more thoughtful towards my wife and our old mother.

“He enjoyed talking to our priest, a learned man who led a very Christian life.

“At this time there began to be rumors of a revolution in Russia, but my brother refused to have anything to do with it: not because he was hostile to the cause, or a reactionary, but because he was indifferent to politics.

“Sometimes he liked to speak of human vanity, and tried to convince our priest that the lives of the saints were not free from it.

“People clamored for him at Petersburg, where he had been offered an important position. But my brother announced his intention of going to South America, much to our surprise and sorrow. ‘What funny people you are,’ said he to my mother with a smile which I still remember well. ‘Must we not, each one of us, live our own lives, and find out where its harmony lies for us? Well, then, I must get away from the humdrum of daily existence. I must get away from hereditary influences.’

“These were literally his words. ‘I must get away from hereditary influences.’

“From America we received one letter; but such a curious one. ‘For hundreds of miles around me, it would be impossible to find one soul caught in the snares of daily routine. Here is another world, a people whose language is simple and primitive, who live only in the present hour. I have found peace of mind. This peace of mind and of soul I owe to my friends here. I am living life. I have attained the height of my desires. I have forgotten the meanness of trivialities.’

“We understood nothing in this letter.

“Suddenly, after spending six years in the forests of Brazil he returned to us unexpectedly. This was six years ago.

“He entertained us with tales of his life in South America, speaking enthusiastically in a language all his own. He told us of the morals and the customs of these primitive people among whom he had lived. But he never breathed a word about himself.

“Several weeks after his return, he accepted the position of chief physician to the leper colony.

“My mother and I were horrified. From this time on we heard no more from him.

“Through his associates, we heard of his marriage, of his devotion to his wife, and of a series of important discoveries which had made him famous in the scientific world.

“Then, suddenly, I learned of this tragedy through the newspapers. I hastened here immediately.

“My brother refused to see me.

“This is all I have to say.”

The testimony of Peter Garine, which presented the murderer as a good, noble man, threw the court room into confusion, almost into anger.

Peter Garine’s unquestionable sincerity left no room for doubt.

The prisoner himself listened indifferently to his brother’s testimony, with half-closed eyes, but with clenched hands.

—“Pardon me, sir,” said the foreman of the jury, “can you recall in the prisoner’s past life any sudden burst of anger, any loss of self-control, or any acts of unusual cruelty?”

“Two occasions, gentlemen, remain firmly fixed in my mind. I have twice seen my brother, whose behavior was usually so faultlessly correct, beside himself with anger.

“The first time we were passing a tavern. I remember it was on a Saturday, when our attention was attracted by the yelping of a very young, half-blind dog, which had lost its mother. Two intoxicated young men came out of the tavern. They were in a very hilarious mood. One of them, seeing the poor beast, crushed its head with a savage kick, and uttering a frightful oath said:

“‘That for you, you dirty little beast! Get out of my way!’

“My brother became livid when he saw this. His face assumed a terrible expression which I had never seen before; he threw himself upon the brute, sent him to earth with a terrific blow, and began to wring his neck in frenzied rage. He was fourteen years old at this time.

“The second time we were at Moscow.

“A policeman from the vice squad was beating a woman of the streets, who was greatly intoxicated. Covered with blood, unable to walk, she was trying to escape. Another terrible blow in the back sent the poor, muttering creature to the pavement.

“My brother, then a physician, seemed petrified. Suddenly he hurled himself upon the policeman, and after having knocked him down, began to stamp on him and kick him, uttering savage cries as he did so. We hushed up the affair with difficulty, and when I reproached him for his summary procedure in administering justice, he replied with an enigmatic smile: ‘It is the rebellion of the soul.’”

Then followed passages from the murdered woman’s diary. These only confirmed the great, deep harmony which had existed between husband and wife. There was no word, no hint of any misunderstanding between them, not even in the last lines, which had been written on the day of her death.

Mrs. Garine, who had been married once before, had met Dr. Garine about two years previous to our story, under circumstances which had made a deep impression upon the young woman. She had been the spoiled, pleasure-loving wife of a captain of the Guards, and had been very prominent socially.

June 6th, 1910
.

Last night I had an experience from which I have not yet recovered. Coming home rather late from a visit at the V—— home, I was walking along a narrow street when I heard steps behind me. I hastened my steps; my pursuers did the same. I could hear them whisper. I had almost reached the boulevards when two men attacked me from behind. I must have cried out in terror. The next thing I remember, my two aggressors were lying on the ground with battered faces, and my unexpected protector was putting on his silk hat and his overcoat.

I cannot forget how very calm he seemed. He bowed very formally to me and was about to go on his way. I begged him: “For Heaven’s sake, take me to my door; it isn’t very far.”

He took my hand which I had held out to him, pressed it slightly as though it bored him to do so, and said: “I am Dr. Garine.” Then something happened, the thought of which I had always ridiculed up to this time. Although I could not distinguish his features clearly, I felt that we were not strangers. He walked along beside me without speaking and was going to leave me without a word. “Thanks, thanks very much,” I stammered. He raised his hat and said to me coldly and indifferently: “I am afraid you are losing your head. Don’t do it. Good night, Madame.”

June 17th
.

I have told my husband everything.

I also asked him about Dr. Garine. It seems that he is a rather well-known scientist who lives alone and who seldom attends social functions. I asked my husband to go and thank him for having come to my aid.

June 23rd
.

Tania and I went to see the fireworks in honor of the feast of St. John. We were bored, although there was a large crowd in the public gardens, and were just about to leave the place when we ran into Dr. Garine.

“Oh, Doctor!”

He hesitated, then bowed silently as though he had no desire to enter upon a conversation. I insisted, however, on his going to a café with us, where we spent the whole evening with him. He proved to be a brilliant conversationalist, and joked about the battle the other evening, in which I was the martyr and he the hero. He has an expressive face, an energetic mouth, and rather a heavy chin. I am glad he is smooth shaven. He scarcely looked at me, but he was very attentive to Tania. My cousin is very pretty.

July 10th
.

We meet Dr. Garine occasionally. His attitude towards me is always discreetly correct. It is hard to believe that he really made that peculiar statement to me the first time we met. He is a man of great culture and is wonderfully intelligent. At times he is charmingly good-natured; at others, he is indifferent and taciturn and it is almost impossible to drag a word out of him. He pays absolutely no attention to me. I do not exist for him. I will admit that he troubles me and interests me very much, and that things seem wrong if I do not see him regularly.

July 25th
.

My husband does not like Dr. Garine and tries to be most disagreeable to him. Dr. Garine is perfectly indifferent to this. I have never, in all my life, met a man so completely master of himself.

August 1st
.

I passed last evening tête-à-tête with Dr. Garine. Contrary to his customary attitude, he surprised me by his unusual gentleness and thought-fulness. He told me of his life in Paraguay. I am entering one of his statements in my diary. “Europeans pride themselves on their intelligence. A great deal of good it does them! True, they may be more developed than the primitive races, but the latter are unquestionably more vividly alive. They have made me understand the meaning of love, which is life!”

I did not ask him to explain what he meant.

August 20th
.

An unbelievable thing happened to-day, which has completely upset me.

I have locked myself in my room, a prey to an awful presentiment.

We had Dr. Garine to dinner with us. The conversation turned to medicine, and my husband, as usual, tried to pick a quarrel with the doctor, saying: “Medicine is a fraud, and doctors are impostors.” The doctor listened calmly to my husband’s impertinences and continued peeling his apple. Finally, still intent upon his apple, he asked: “Dimitri Nikolaevitch, are you a brave man?” My husband was disconcerted for a moment, then replied angrily: “Certainly. I wear the Cross of St. George.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I can’t understand you; why this subterfuge? Do you fear the truth?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Just a moment. You will know what I am talking about. You try to anger me in many different ways. Why? Naturally you are jealous. But you anticipate. No word of love has ever passed between your wife and myself. But, if you insist”—he smiled and put a piece of apple in his mouth—“there is only one thing left for you to do: that is to yield. I love Nina Petrovna.”

“And she?” demanded my husband in a thick voice.

“And she,” he replied calmly, “loves me. It cannot be otherwise.”

“Nina, is this true?” My husband grasped my wrists. I was almost unconscious, could not say a word. My husband grabbed his revolver and rushed upon Garine. “Get out, you dog, or I’ll kill you,” he screamed savagely. Garine, as though trying to exasperate my husband, took another apple and started to cut it into pieces.

“Evidently, Dimitri Nikolaevitch, we are going to have a duel. It is rather a primitive way of settling an argument, but I am an advocate of primitive life. Only, I warn you, I will kill you. I see death written upon your face.”

My husband, beside himself with rage, seized the doctor’s shoulder, and I covered my face, expecting to hear a shot. But the doctor had seized Dimitri’s arm and held it with such force as to cause him to drop the revolver. Then, slowly, authoritatively, he forced him into a chair, and left the house without a word.

September 10th
.

I have not touched my diary for three weeks. Life is so strangely changed for me during this time that I sometimes believe that I am in a dream.

My husband and Garine have fought the duel. The doctor’s assistant told me about it.

Garine exacted the most difficult conditions. Thirteen paces, and the mortal injury of one of the adversaries. Garine fired the first shot. An excellent shot, he wounded my husband’s right arm, which forced Dimitri to fire with his left hand. This was a great disadvantage.

I know Dimitri did not want to kill Garine, as he said to me the evening before, as he left me, “If only I don’t kill him!” Firing with his left hand, the shot was almost fatal. The ball had grazed the heart.

Garine fell.

“Dress the wound and give me a hypodermic. The duel will continue.”

The assistant gave him an injection of morphine and ergotine.

“Even if my heart has been touched, I will live.”

He was livid. His hand trembled with weakness.

“My whole being rebels at this butchery, but it must be done,” said Dimitri.

“Fire more quickly!” said one of my husband’s seconds.

“It is ended. I can’t see,” exclaimed Garine.

The assistant gave him an intravenous injection. He arose and fired, almost without aiming, then sank into unconsciousness.

For three weeks he hovered between life and death. I did not leave him for an instant, not even to go to my husband’s funeral. Nothing matters now. I could not do otherwise. I am his.

The bullet is lodged dangerously near the heart. The doctors say he is very near death’s door. But he lives. He must live. He is mine, my joy, my love, my all.

He talked to me in his delirium. He said peculiar things which made me love him all the more. I now partially understand this strange, distant being. Sometimes his words seem to be the only thing that matters.

“Do you hear the rolling of the wheels? Do you see the cable, the glowing water? I am heart-sick; I know what the wheels are saying. She laughs at them and at life.