THE RUSSIAN DETECTIVE.
A TRUE STORY.
[BY OUR VIENNA CORRESPONDENT.]
Kaffsky was a born genius, destined in time
to soar to the dizzy heights of a professional
chair. So at least said his professors at the
University of St. Petersburg; and considering
that they had seen so much of him during his
four years' student-life, they ought to know.
We, students, likewise held him in awe, and
hedged him round with reverential ostracism.
That was our way of dealing with the few men
who went in for "hard work," as they called it
— we kept them at respectful distance and
tabooed them. The fact is we heartily despised
the mean wretches who thus sacrificed the
glorious cause of humanity to crass egotism, and
sat down quietly to work for themselves at a
time when society was going to pieces. That
same Kaffsky, for instance, used to squander his
days and nights over mathematics and chemistry
and half a dozen kindred sciences, as if life
were to last for eternity. We did not believe in
a man having so many irons in the fire, and
limited our own efforts to the accomplishment
of one single task — the regeneration of
mankind, as a preliminary step to the remodelling
of Russian society. But for this we grudged
no sacrifice, not even that of our ardent desire
for self-reformation.
Kaffsky never fell in with these views, and
you had only to look in his face to see that he
had little sympathy with them. He was a
low-sized, squarely-built man of sallow complexion,
whose flowing beard, had it been grey instead
jet black, would have given him the appearance
of a venerable sage, a Russian Zoroaster; for
even as it was, he seemed quite old enough to
be his own father. Still, for all his exterior
coldness, you might detect in his black, melancholy
eyes unmistakable signs of latent lightnings,
which on occasion would flash forth with
effect. Long before this we had weighed Kaffsky
in the political balance — the only one in vogue at
Russian universities ten years ago — and had
found him sadly wanting. He was a member of
none of the three churches outside which
there is no salvation — that of the sworn
conspirators, who edited a forbidden political
journal, "Land and Liberty," hatched plots
against the State, and sometimes helped to
carry them out; that of unsworn conspirators,
from whom the former were usually recruited;
and the bulk of students who sympathized with
everything and everybody who embarrassed the
Government. Kaffsky held aloof from all;
never took part in our skhodky (illegal meetings),
attended lectures with exasperating
regularity, talked with his professors a footing of
equality, and was now within four weeks of
obtaining his decree and receiving a post at the
university which would enable him to qualify
for a chair. And to crown all, we had just
heard of his impending marriage. "A nice
time to be thinking of marrying and feathering
his nest!" we remarked to each other, "just
when the pillars of the social edifice are giving
away, and we are doing our best pull them down,
in order to build up something better." But
Kaffsky always was a selfish, cold, conceited dog.
When the name of his future bride was
mentioned, those among us who knew her were
staggered a bit. Anna Pavlovna Smirnova was not
a Venus. But if she had much leas beauty than
her photograph — which is a common failing of
women — she had good deal more wit, which
is not by any means so common. Although
apparently young enough to be his daughter,
Anna Pavlovna was Kaffsky's senior by five or
six years, and, to make matters still more
mixed, she was a red Radical at heart.
Formerly, her democratic views had got her into
hot water with the authorities, and it was not
without considerable difficulty that she had
obtained her present position as teacher in a girls'
Gymnasy, which enabled her to live in modest
competency with her widowed mother. What
bewitched Kaffsky in her, or what attracted her
to him, was a dark mystery to us who knew
them both. Nor was it the only mystery about
the man. The police, we knew, had twice or
thrice made elaborate inquiries about him; had
noted his comings in and goings out, and had
set a watch upon his actions. Platoff, when
arrested a week ago, chanced to have Kaffsky's
card his pocket, and was subjected to a long
secret cross-examination about his dealings with
him. We burst out laughing when told of this.
"The Secret Police people must off their
heads altogether," said Alexeieff. "As well
suspect the stone Sphinxes at the Nikolai Bridge,
as the piece of stuck-up selfishness called
Kaffsky," exclaimed Lavroff; "but I confess I
should enjoy seeing him nabbed and doubled-up
in a 'secret' in the fortress. It would teach
him to think a little of those who suffer there."
"There must be some reason for the suspicion,"
cried Brodsky, the cleverest and most respected
student among the Radical set; "there's
always fire where there's smoke, and as we know
there's fire here, then there cannot possibly
be any real smoke. It's a matter of smoked-glass
spectacles." This remark struck us
all the acme of cleverness. It was warmly
applauded. "Well, but who can have smoked
the Governments spectacles?" somebody asked.
"Ah, that's a question which each one must
solve for himself," was the reply. "Boorman,
Boorman; he alone has a grudge against Kaffsky!"
cried half dozen voices. Boorman entered
the room shortly afterwards, and silence fell
upon us all.
Now, none of us had a doubt that he was the
Judas Iscariot. Our very eyes told us that
Nature intended him for nothing else. His
hang-dog expression, his slouching gait, his
furtive glance, and stammering delivery,
proclaimed the nature of the spirit that lived and
worked within him. We had reasons as plentiful
as blackberries for suspecting Boorman, but
conclusive proof we had none. Still, we regarded
him as a marked man, the discovery of whose
body in a ditch or a well would have provoked
neither sorrow nor surprise, for he was, or had
been, in the counsels of the Terrorists, and
they never forgave or forgot. The present case
strengthened our suspicion, for Boorman and
Kaffsky had quarrelled years before at the
Gymnasy, and although they were on speaking
terms at the University there was no doubt
that their hatred was us strong ever.
The days glided rapidly by; the warm, sunny
days, followed the lightsome nights, which
make St. Petersburg a paradise during the latter
end of May. Summer vacations were at hand.
The last of the examinations would take place in
ten days, and then should disperse over the
length and breadth of the empire, many of us
never to return again. Suddenly we were
stunned and stupefied by a bolt from the blue
in the shape of a rumour that Kaffsky had been
arrested. "Kaffsky?" "Rubbish!" "Where?"
"When?" "For what?" were our first exclamations.
At first the answers were contradictory.
Then they gradually converged in this brief
account of the matter. He and Alexeieff had
gone to the theatre the night before. They had
walked home together and made an appointment
for the morrow at the University; but at
about 2 a.m. Kalfsky had been spirited
away, and was now in the secret wing of the
Lithuanian fortress. "Incredible!" "Private
vengeance!" "The Secret Police are mad!" were
some of our commentaries the narrative.
A written inquest was presented by some of
the professors, who were beside themselves with
indignation, that Kaffsky should released on
bail, just to finish his examinations and take his
degree; for they knew very well it was all a
misunderstanding, or else a base plot, hatched by
a private enemy. "It will be all ground up
fine and come out as flour in the end," they
remarked, in the words of the Russian proverb.
But, to our utter astonishment, their request
was refused, and Kaffsky was removed from
the Lithuanian fortress, only to be immured
in the more terrible Fortress of Peter and
Paul. The rector was next asked intercede
for him; but in spite of his proverbial
readiness to shield his subjects, he counselled
patience, and therefore angered the whole body
of the students.
For the excitement caused the arrest was
assuming dangerous proportions. Nobody had
cared a rap for Kaffsky a week before, and he
was already a most popular hero now. People
who had never previously seen or heard of him
went about preaching vengeance. None of us
could have accounted for this rapid change if we
had been calm enough to notice it. It was not
because of the man's loss of liberty, nor of the
loss of his degree, although that was much
more serious, nor yet by reason of the hindered
marriage. Perhaps it was hatred for the heartless
informer — who had also been arrested, no doubt
to save him from being lynched — and sympathy
for Anna Pavlovna, whose womanly feelings had
got the better of all her philosophy, She had
completely broken down. One of the professors
had been to see her, and the story he told us
would have melted the soul of the stoniest
stoic. She had taken to her bed, had refused
all food, had forwarded petition after petition to
the Minister of the Interior, and when it became
clear that she might just as well be sowing salt on
the sea shore, her mind gave way. The doctors
sent her mother and herself in post haste to the
Crimea, while there was still some faint glimmer
of hope that she might be rescued from the
mad house and the grave. It was at this
conjuncture that set out on our long vacations.
In October a few us met together in St.
Petersburg once more — but only a few. The
police had made a tremendous haul among the
students the day the University had closed last session,
and many were now in their distant native
villages, expelled from the University; others in
prison, others again on the road to Siberia.
Kaffsky, we learned, was among the latter —
condemned to the Mines as a dangerous conspirator,
in spite of the intercession of professors;
Anna Pavlovna was dead, according to some
accounts; mad, according to others; but it came
pretty much the same thing in the end.
I had heard of many evil things done by
diabolical informers, but this was the most crying
injustice I had ever actually witnessed; and
when talking with a friend who was a relative
of one the Ministers, I told him so. He was
astounded at what I told him, and asked me to
draw up an account of Kaffsky's case in writing.
He would see, he said, that justice should be done.
I had no difficulty in obtaining precise particulars;
I discovered, even, the name of the
forwarding prison, over a thousand miles away,
in which Kaffsky was at that moment interned,
and, having made out a very strong case, I gave
my friend the paper, and he presented it to his
relative the Minister.
A week passed, then a fortnight, and still
there was no answer. "There are no return
tickets to Siberia, and it takes long time to
print one," said a sympathising friend of mine.
I fancied that the first tidings I should hear of
the matter would be Kaffsky's apparition in the
coffee-room of the university. But it wasn't.
One day my philanthropic friend shook his
head, said my data were all wrong, that Kaffsky
was the most dangerous conspirator that had
ever been tripped up in the very nick of time,
and that he would advise me to keep aloof from
political reformers in future, as it was evident
they could make black appear white without an
effort. I replied that the authorities were
evidently past masters in the self-same art, if I
might judge by their new convictions. He was
silent, and I went mournfully away.
Six years later I heard that Kaffsky was no
more. He had died of disease, or was shot in a
tumult, or disposed of in some such way. The
particulars were not very precise; but he was
really dead, that was certain. "Nothing else
but death is certain in Russia," I remarked to
an ex-Minister to whom I had been telling the
whole story after dinner. "So you are going to
write about it, you say," he asked me, "to ease
your feelings?" "I am," I replied. "Very
well, then, if you come here in two or three
days I will supply you with a most
interesting postscript." And he did. His statement
was based on official documents, and this
is the gist of it. "When the Terrorist movement
was at its height the leaders were invisible
and ubiquitous. We suspected that they
were in the university, but that was only a
guess." Once or twice Kaffsky appeared to be
in the movement, but we had no proof and
could get none. It then occurred to General O.,
of the Secret Department, to employ a spy
who had never played the part of a
detective before. "I know. You mean the
scoundrelly informer, Boorman," I broke in.
"Boorman? Boorman? Was he? Oh, of
course he was. Yes. No; Boorman was not the
detective; Boorman, I see, was nearly, as
dangerous as Kaffsky; he was Kaffsky's hand
man, and he got the same punishment." This
announcement took my breath away, but it only
deepened the mystery. "Two thousand three hundred
roubles was what it all cost, and dirt cheap,
too," he went on. "You mean the detective's
reward?" I asked. "Yes; that of course was
over and above her regular salary, which was
fifty roubles a month. It was the only clever
stroke business she ever did." "She?" I
repeated; "was it a woman then?" "Oh, yes;
didn't I tell you? — and a woman with the
makings of a saint in her, too. Ha, ha, ha!
She is now a God-fearing sectarian — a pietist of
some kind." "Well," I remarked, "she would
need a good long course of penance, were
it only to atone for the fate of poor
Anna Pavlovna, whose life she snuffed out."
"Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed till the big tears
rolled down his furrowed cheeks. "Why, hang
it, man, Anna Pavlovna was herself the detective.
She played Delilah to Kaffsky's Samson,
and delivered him into the hands of the
Philistines. But, as I was saying, that was the only
clever thing she ever did. She soon after left
the service, found salvation, as they term it, in
some obscure sect, and is a pious bigot now."
