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POSTSCRIPT

At the bottom of the manuscript there is written:

To THE EDITOR

Dear Sir, — I beg you to publish the novel (or story, if you prefer it) which I submit to you herewith, as far as possible, in its entirety, without abridgment, cuts or additions. However, changes can be made with the consent of the author. In case you find it unsuitable I beg you to keep the MSS. to be returned. My address (temporary) in Moscow is the Anglia Chambers, on the Tverskoy.

IVAN PETROVICH KAMYSHEV.

P.S. - The fee is at the discretion of the Editor. Year and date.

Now that the reader has become acquainted with Kamyshev’s novel I will continue my interrupted talk with him. First of all, I must inform the reader that the promise I made to him at the start of this novel has not been kept: Kamyshev’s novel has not been printed without omissions, not in toto, as I promised, but considerably shortened. The fact is, that ‘The Shooting Party’ could not be printed in the newspaper which was mentioned in the first chapter of this work, because the newspaper ceased to exist just when the manuscript was sent to press. The present editorial board, in accepting Kamyshev’s novel, found it impossible to publish it without cuts. During the time it was appearing, every chapter that was sent to me in proof was accompanied by an editorial request to ‘make changes’. However, not wishing to take on my soul the sin of changing another man’s work, I found it better and more profitable to leave out whole passages rather than make possibly unsuitable changes. With my assent the editor left out many passages that shocked by their cynicism, or were too long, or were abominably careless in style. These omissions and cuts demanded both care and time, which is the cause that many chapters were late. Among other passages we left out two descriptions of nocturnal orgies. One of these orgies took place in the Count’s house, the other on the lake. We also left out a description of Poly carp’s library and of the original manner in which he read; this passage was found over-extended and exaggerated.

The chapter I was most anxious to retain and which the editor chiefly disliked, was one in which the desperate card gambling that was the rage among the Count’s servants was minutely described. The most passionate gamblers were the gardener Franz and the old woman nicknamed the Scops-Owl. While Kamyshev was conducting the investigations he passed by one of the summer-houses, and looking in he saw mad play going on; the players were the Scops-Owl, Franz and - Pshekhotsky. They were playing ‘Stukolka’, at twenty kopeck points and with a fine that reached thirty roubles. Kamyshev joined the players and ‘cleared them out’ as if they had been partridges. Franz, who had lost everything but wished to continue, went to the island where he had hidden his money. Kamyshev followed him, marked where he had concealed his money, and afterwards robbed the gardener, not leaving a kopeck in his hoard. The money he had taken he gave to the fisherman Mikhey. Such strange charity admirably characterizes this hare-brained magistrate, but the chapter was written so carelessly and the conversation of the gamblers glittered with such pearls of obscenity that the editor would not consent to its inclusion even after alterations had been made.

The description of certain meetings of Olga and Kamyshev are omitted; an explanation between him and Nadenka Kalinin, etc., etc., are also left out. But I think what is printed is sufficient to characterize my hero. Sapienti sat….

Exactly three months later the doorkeeper Andrey announced the arrival of the gentleman ‘with the cockade’.

‘Ask him in!’ I said.

Kamyshev entered, the same rosy-cheeked, handsome and healthy man he had been three months before. His steps, as formerly, were noiseless… He put down his hat on the window with so much care that one might have imagined that he had deposited something heavy… Out of his eyes there shone, as before, something childlike and infinitely goodnatured.

‘I am troubling you again!’ he began smiling, and he sat down carefully. ‘I beg you, forgive me! Well, what? What sentence has been passed on my manuscript?’

‘Guilty, but deserving of indulgence,’ I replied.

Kamyshev laughed and blew his nose in a scented handkerchief.

‘Consequently, banishment into the flames of the fireplace?’ he asked.

‘No, why be so savage? It does not merit punitive measures; we will employ a corrective treatment.’

‘Must it be corrected?’

‘Yes, certain things must be omitted… By mutual consent…

We were silent for a quarter of a minute. I had terrible palpitations of the heart and my temples throbbed, but showed no outward sign of agitation.

‘By mutual consent,’ I repeated. ‘Last time you told me that you had taken the subject of your novel from real life.’

‘Yes, and I am ready to confirm it now. If you have read my novel, may I have the honour of introducing myself as Zinov’ev.’

‘So it was you who were best man at Olga Nikolaevna’s wedding.’

‘Both best man and friend of the house. Do I not come out of this story well?’ Kamyshev laughed, stroked his knees and got very red. ‘A fine fellow, eh? I ought to have been flogged, but there was nobody to do it.’

‘So, sir… I liked your story: it is better and more interesting than most crime novels. Only you and I must agree together on certain radical changes to be made.’

‘That’s possible. What do you want to change?’

‘The very habitus of the novel, its character. It has, as in all novels treating of crimes, everything: crime, evidence, an inquest, even fifteen years’ penal servitude as a climax, but the most essential thing is lacking.’

‘What is that?’

‘The real culprit does not appear….’

Kamyshev opened his eyes wide and rose.

‘To be frank, I don’t understand you,’ he said after a short pause. ‘If you do not consider the man who commits murder and strangles to be a real culprit, then I don’t know who can be considered so. Criminals are, of course, the product of society, and society is guilty, but… if one is to devote oneself to the higher considerations one must cease writing novels and write reports.’

‘Ach, what sort of higher considerations are there here! It was not Urbenin who committed the murder!’

‘How so?’ Kamyshev asked, approaching nearer to me.

‘Not Urbenin!’

‘Perhaps. Errare humanum est - and magistrates are not perfect: there are often errors of justice under the moon. You consider that we were mistaken?’

‘No, you did not make a mistake; you wished to make a mistake.’

‘Forgive me, I again do not understand,’ and Kamyshev smiled. ‘If you find that the inquest led to a mistake, and even, if I understand you right, to a premeditated mistake, it would be interesting to know your point of view. Who was the murderer in your opinion?’

‘You!’

Kamyshev looked at me with astonishment, almost with terror, grew very red and stepped back. Then turning away, he went to the window and began to laugh.

‘Here’s a nice go!’ he muttered, breathing on the glass and nervously drawing figures on it.

I watched his hand as he drew, and it appeared to me that I recognized in it the iron, muscular hand that, with a single effort, would have been able to strangle the sleeping Kuz’ma, or mangle Olga’s frail body. The thought that I saw before me a murderer filled my soul with unwonted feelings of horror and fear… not for myself — no! - but for him, for this handsome and graceful giant… and for mankind in general….

‘You murdered them!’ I repeated.

‘If you are not joking, allow me to congratulate you on the discovery,’ Kamyshev said laughing, but still not looking at me.

‘However, judging by your trembling voice, and your pallor, it is difficult to suppose that you are joking. What a nervous man you are!’

Kamyshev turned his flushed face towards me and, forcing himself to smile, he continued:

‘I should like to know how such an idea could have come into your head! Have I written something like that in my novel? By God, that’s interesting… Tell me, please! I should like, just once in a lifetime, to know what it feels like to be looked upon as a murderer.’

‘You are a murderer,’ I said, ‘and you are not able to hide it. In the novel you lied, and now you are proving yourself a poor actor.’

‘This is really quite interesting; upon my word, it would be curious to hear….’

‘If you are curious, then listen.’

I jumped up and began walking about the room in great agitation. Kamyshev looked out of the door and closed it tight. By this precaution he gave himself away.

‘What are you afraid of?’ I asked.

Kamyshev became confused, coughed and shrugged his shoulders.

‘I’m not afraid of anything, I only… only looked - looked out of the door. Well, now tell me!’

‘May I ask you some questions?’

‘As many as you like.’

‘I warn you that I am no magistrate, and no master in cross-examination; do not expect order or system, and so don’t try to disconcert or puzzle me. First tell me where you disappeared after you had left the clearing in which the shooting party was feasting?’

‘In the novel it is mentioned: I went home.’

‘In the novel the description of the way you went is carefully effaced. Did you not go through the forest?’

‘Yes.’

‘Consequently, you could have met Olga?’

‘Yes, I could,’ Kamyshev said smiling.

‘And you met her.’

‘No, I did not meet her.’

‘In your investigations you forgot to question one very important witness, and that was yourself… Did you hear the shriek of the victim?’

‘No… Well, baten’ka, you don’t know how to cross-examine at all.’

This familiar ‘baten’ka’ jarred on me; it accorded ill with the apologies and the embarrassment Kamyshev had shown when conversation began. Soon I noticed that he looked upon me with condescension, and almost with admiration of the determination I showed in questioning him.

‘Let us admit that you did not meet Olga in the forest,’ I continued, ‘though it was more difficult for Urbenin to meet her than for you, as Urbenin did not know she was in the forest, and therefore did not look for her, while you, being flushed with drink, would have been more likely to do so. You certainly did look for her, otherwise what would be your object in going home through the forest instead of by the road?… But let us admit that you did not meet her… How is your gloomy, your almost mad frame of mind, in the evening of the fatal day, to be explained? What induced you to kill the parrot as it cried out about the husband who killed his wife? I think he reminded you of your own evil deed. That night you were summoned to the Count’s house, and instead of beginning your investigations at once, you delayed until the police arrived almost twenty-four hours later. Perhaps you yourself did not notice this… But only a magistrate who already knew the criminal’s identity would have delayed… Further, Olga did not mention the name of the murderer because he was dear to her… If her husband had been the murderer she would have named him. Since she was capable of informing against him to her lover the Count, it would not have cost her anything to accuse him of murder: she did not love him, and he was not dear to her… She loved you, and you were the only person dear to her… she wanted to spare you… Allow me to ask, why did you delay asking her a straight question when she regained consciousness for a moment? Why did you ask her all sorts of questions that had nothing to do with the matter? I suggest that you did this only to mark time, in order to prevent her from naming you. Then Olga dies… In your novel you do not say a word about the impression that her death made on you… In this I see caution: you do not forget to write about the number of glasses you emptied, but such an important event as the death of “the girl in red” is passed over in the novel without the slightest mention… Why?’

‘Go on, go on….’

‘You made all your investigations in a most slovenly way… It is hard to believe that you, a clever and very cunning man, did not do so purposely. All your investigations remind one of a letter purposely written with grammatical errors. Why did you not examine the scene of the crime? Not because you forgot to do so, or considered it unimportant, but because you waited for the rain to wash away your traces. You write little about the examination of the servants. Thus Kuz’ma was not examined by you until he was caught washing his poddevka… You evidently had no reason to involve him in the affair. Why did you not question any of the guests, who had been feasting with you in the clearing? They had seen the blood stains on Urbenin, and had heard Olga’s shriek, - they ought to have been examined. But you did not do it, because one of them might have remembered at his examination that shortly before the murder you had suddenly gone into the forest and been lost. Afterwards they probably were questioned, but this circumstance had already been forgotten by them….’

‘Very clever!’ Kamyshev said, rubbing his hands; ‘go on, go on!’

‘Is it possible that what has already been said is not enough for you?… To prove conclusively that Olga was murdered by you, and nobody else, I must remind you that you were her lover, whom she had jilted for a man you despised! A husband can kill from jealousy. I presume a lover can do so, too… Now let us return to Kuz’ma… To judge by his last interrogation, that took place on the eve of his death, he had you in mind; you had wiped your hands on his poddevka, and you had called him a swine… If it had not been you, why did you interrupt your examination at the most interesting point? Why did you not ask about the colour of the murderer’s necktie, when Kuz’ma had informed you he had remembered what the colour was? Why did you relax the guard on Urbenin just when Kuz’ma remembered the name of the murderer? Why not before or after? It was evident you required a man who might walk about the corridors at night… And so you killed Kuz’ma, fearing that he would denounce you.’

‘Well, enough!’ Kamyshev said laughing. ‘That will do! You are in such a passion, and have grown so pale that it seems as if at any moment you might faint. Do not continue. You are right. I really did kill them.’

This was followed by a silence. I paced the room from corner to corner. Kamyshev did the same.

‘I killed them!’ Kamyshev continued. ‘You’ve found out - good luck to you. Not many will have that success. Most of your readers will accuse Urbenin, and be amazed at my magisterial cleverness and acumen.’

At that moment my assistant came into the office and interrupted our conversation. Noticing that I was occupied and excited he hovered for a moment around my writing-table, looked at Kamyshev, and left the room. When he had gone Kamyshev went to the window and began to breathe on the glass.

‘Eight years have already passed since then,’ he began again, after a short silence, ‘and for eight years I have borne this secret within me. But it is impossible for a human being to keep such a secret; it is impossible to know without torment what the rest of mankind does not know. For all these eight years I have felt myself a martyr. It was not my conscience that tormented me, no! Conscience is a thing apart… and I don’t pay much attention to it. It can easily be stifled by rationalizing about its flexibility. When reason does not work, I smother it with wine and women. With women I have my former success - this I only mention by the way. But I was tormented by something else. The whole time I thought it strange that people should look upon me as an ordinary man. During all these eight years not a single living soul has looked at me searchingly; it seemed strange to me that there was no need for me to hide. A terrible secret is concealed in me, and still I walk about the streets. I go to dinner-parties. I flirt with women! For a man who is a criminal such a position is unnatural and painful. I would not be tormented if I had to hide and dissemble. Psychosis, baten’ka! At last I was seized by a kind of passion… I suddenly wanted to pour out my feelings in some way on everybody, to shout my secret aloud, though I care nothing for what people think… to do something extraordinary. And so I wrote this novel — an indictment, which only the witless will have any difficulty in recognizing me as a man with a secret… There is not a page that does not give the key to the puzzle. Is that not true? You doubtless understood it at once. When I wrote it I took into consideration the intelligence of the average reader….’

We were again disturbed. Andrey entered the room bringing two glasses of tea on a tray… I hastened to send him away.

‘Now it is easier for me,’ Kamyshev said smiling, ‘now you look upon me not as an ordinary man, but as a man with a secret… But… It is already three o’clock, and somebody is waiting for me in the cab….’

‘Stay, put down your hat… You have told me what made you take up authorship, now tell me how you murdered.’

‘Do you want to know that in addition to what you have read? Very well. I killed in a state of momentary aberration. Nowadays people even smoke and drink tea under the influence of aberration. In your excitement you have taken up my glass instead of your own, and you are smoking more than usual… Life is all aberration… so it appears to me… When I went into the wood my thoughts were far away from murder; I went there with only one object: to find Olga and continue to torment and scold her… When I am drunk I always feel the necessity to quarrel… I met her about two hundred paces from the clearing… She was standing under a tree and looking pensively at the sky… I called to her… When she saw me she smiled and stretched out her arms to me….

‘ “Don’t scold me, I’m so unhappy!” she said.

‘That night she looked so beautiful, that I, drunk as I was, forgot everything in the world and pressed her in my arms… She swore to me that she had never loved anybody but me… and that was true… she really loved me… and in the very midst of her assurances she suddenly took it into her head to say something terrible: “How unhappy I am! If I had not got married to Urbenin, I might now have married the Count!” All that was boiling in my breast bubbled over. I seized the vile little creature by the shoulder and threw her to the ground as you throw a ball. My rage reached its peak… Well… I finished her… I just finished her… You understand about Kuz’ma….’

I glanced at Kamyshev. On his face I could neither read repentance nor regret. ‘I just finished her’ was said as easily as ‘I just had a smoke.’ In my turn I also experienced a feeling of wrath and loathing… I turned away.

‘And Urbenin is in penal servitude?’ I asked quietly.

‘Yes… I heard he had died on the way, but that is not certain… What then?’

‘What then? An innocent man is suffering and you ask “What then?’

‘But what am I to do? Go and confess?’

‘I should think so.’

‘Well, let us suppose it! I have nothing against taking Urbenin’s place, but I won’t do it voluntarily… Let them take me if they want, but I won’t give myself up. Why did they not take me when I was in their hands? At Olga’s funeral I wept so long, and had such hysterics that even a blind man should have known the truth… It’s not my fault that they are stupid.’

‘You are odious to me.’

‘That is natural… I am odious to myself….’

There was silence again… I opened the cash-book and began mechanically to count the figures… Kamyshev took up his hat.

‘I see you feel stifled by my presence,’ he said. ‘By-the-by, don’t you want to see Count Karnéev. There he is sitting in the cab!’

I went up to the window and glanced at him… Sitting in the cab with his back towards us sat a small stooping figure, in a shabby hat and a faded collar. It was difficult to recognize in him one of the actors of the drama!

‘I heard that Urbenin’s son is living here in Moscow in the Andréev Chambers,’ Kamyshev said. ‘Do you know what I want, what I am going to do? I’ll ruin the Count, I’ll bring him to such a pass that he’ll be asking Urbenin’s son for money. That will be his punishment. But I must say goodbye….’

Kamyshev nodded and left the room. I sat down at the table and gave myself up to bitter thoughts.

I felt stifled.

‘Its peak… Well… I finished her… I just finished her… You understand about Kuz’ma….’