Life is as frantic, dissolute and as restless as that lake on an August night. Many victims have vanished beneath its dark waves for ever… A thick sediment lies at the bottom. But why are there times when I love life? Why do I forgive it and rush towards it with all my heart, like a loving son, like a bird released from its cage?
The life that I see now through the window of my hotel room reminds me of a grey circle – totally grey, with no shades, no glimmer of light.
But if I close my eyes and recall the past I see a rainbow formed by the sun’s spectrum. Yes, it’s stormy there – yet there it’s brighter…
S. Zinovyev.
Conclusion
Under the manuscript is written:
Dear Mr Editor,
I would request you to print the novel (or novella if you prefer) that I am offering without any abridgements, cuts or additions – as far as possible. However, any changes can be made with the author’s agreement. In the event of this novel being unsuitable I request you to return the manuscript safely. My temporary Moscow address is the England Rooms in Tversky Street c/o Ivan Petrovich Kamyshev.
PS Fees: at the editors’ discretion.
Year and date
And now that I have acquainted the reader with Kamyshev’s novel, I shall continue my interrupted conversation with him. Above all, I must warn the reader that the promise I gave him at the beginning of the story has not been kept: Kamyshev’s novel has not been printed without omissions, not in toto, as I had promised, but with substantial cuts. The fact is, The Shooting Party could not be printed in the newspaper mentioned in the first chapter of this story: that newspaper had ceased to exist when the manuscript went to press. The present editorial board, having taken Kamyshev’s novel under their wing, have found it impossible to print without cuts. Throughout the printing they kept sending me proofs of individual chapters, with requests for amendments. As I did not wish to be guilty of the sin of tampering with someone else’s work, I found it more expedient and prudent to omit entire passages rather than amend unsuitable ones. With my agreement, the editors omitted many passages that were striking in their cynicism, longueurs and slovenly style. These omissions and cuts called for care and time, which is the reason why many chapters were late. Among other things we have omitted two descriptions of nocturnal orgies. One of these took place in the Count’s house, the other on the lake. The description of Polikarp’s library and his original manner of reading have also been omitted. This passage was found to be far too drawn out and exaggerated.
The chapter that I defended above all others – and which the editorial office disliked most – was that which described the desperate card games that used to rage among the Count’s servants. The most fanatical players were Franz the gardener and the old crone called Owlet. They played mainly stukolka and three leaves.55 At the time of the investigation, when Kamyshev happened to be walking past one of the summer-houses and took a look inside, he saw a crazy game of cards in progress – the players were Owlet and Pshekhotsky. They were playing blind stukolka, with stakes of ninety copecks and forfeits of as much as thirty roubles. Kamyshev joined them and ‘plucked them clean’, like partridges. Having lost all his money, Franz wanted to carry on and went to the lake where his money was hidden. Kamyshev followed his tracks, took note of the hiding place and cleaned him out, not leaving him with one copeck. He gave the stolen money to Mikhey the fisherman. This peculiar benevolence provides an excellent character sketch of that harebrained investigator, but it is described so carelessly and the card players’ conversation glitters with such pearls of obscenity that the editors would not even agree to changes.
Several descriptions of Olga’s meetings with Kamyshev have been omitted. One of his intimate conversations with Nadenka Kalinin has also been left out, and so on… But I think that what has been printed sums up my hero pretty well. Sapienti sat.56
Exactly three months later the janitor at the editorial offices announced the arrival of the ‘gentleman with the badge’.
‘Ask him to come in,’ I said.
In came Kamyshev, just as rosy-cheeked, healthy and handsome as three months before. His footsteps were just as silent.
He placed his hat so carefully on the windowsill that you might have thought he was depositing something very weighty. As before, there shone something childlike and infinitely good-natured in his blue eyes.
‘I’m disturbing you again!’ he began, smiling and gingerly sitting down. ‘For heaven’s sake, forgive me! Well? What’s the verdict on my manuscript?’
‘Guilty, but recommended for mercy,’ I said.
Kamyshev burst out laughing and blew his nose on a scented handkerchief. ‘So that means banishment to the flames of the fireplace?’ he asked.
‘No, why so severe? It does not deserve any punitive measures – we shall employ corrective ones.’
‘So, it needs correcting?’ he asked.
‘Yes, there’s one or two things… by mutual consent.’
We said nothing for a quarter of an hour. My heart was pounding and my temples throbbed. But it wasn’t part of my strategy to show alarm.
‘By mutual consent,’ I repeated. ‘Last time you told me that you took a real event for the plot of your novel.’
‘Yes – and now I’m ready to say it again. If you had read my novel… then… I have the honour to introduce myself: Zinovyev.’
‘So, you were best man at Olga Nikolayevna’s wedding?’
‘Best man and friend of the family. Don’t I appear in a good light in this novel?’ Kamyshev laughed, stroking his knee and blushing. ‘A really nice chap, eh? I should have been flogged, but there was no one to do it.’
‘Exactly… Well, I like your story. It’s better and more interesting than the vast majority of crime novels these days. However, you and I, by mutual consent, will need to make some substantial changes in it.’
‘That’s possible. What do you think needs changing, for example?’
‘The very habitus57 of the novel, its physiognomy. In common with most crime novels it has everything: a crime, evidence, investigations – even fifteen years’ hard labour as a titbit. But the most essential thing’s missing.’
‘And what precisely is that?’
‘There’s no real villain in it.’
Kamyshev opened his eyes wide and stood up.
‘Frankly, I don’t understand you,’ he said after a brief pause. ‘If you don’t consider the man who did the stabbing and strangling the true culprit then… I really don’t know who should be considered guilty. Of course, criminals are products of society – and society is guilty. But if you take a more elevated point of view, one should give up writing novels and compile reports.’
‘What have “elevated points of view” to do with it? It wasn’t Urbenin who committed the murder!!’
‘What did you say?’ Kamyshev asked, moving closer to me.
‘It wasn’t Urbenin!’
‘That may well be… humanum est errare58 – and investigators aren’t perfect. Judicial errors are quite common under the moon. So, you think I was mistaken?’
‘No, you were not mistaken, but you wanted to be.’
‘I’m sorry, but again I don’t follow,’ Kamyshev laughed. ‘If you find that the investigation led to an error and even an intentional mistake – if I understand you right – it would be interesting to have your views on the matter. In your opinion, who was the murderer?’
‘You!!’
Kamyshev looked at me in astonishment, almost in terror, flushed and took a step backwards. Then he turned away, went to the window and started laughing.
‘Now, here’s a pretty kettle of fish!’ he muttered, breathing on the window pane and nervously tracing patterns on it.
I watched his hand as he drew and I seemed to recognize in it that same iron, muscular hand that alone could have throttled the sleeping Kuzma or lacerated Olga’s frail body at one attempt. The thought that I was looking at the murderer filled me with a
n unusual feeling of horror and dread – not for myself – no! but for him, for that handsome and graceful giant… for mankind in general.
‘You were the murderer!’ I repeated.
‘If this isn’t a joke, then I congratulate you on the discovery!’
laughed Kamyshev, still not looking at me. ‘However, judging from your trembling voice and your pale face, it’s difficult to conclude that you’re joking. Heavens, you’re so jumpy!’
Kamyshev turned his burning face to me and tried to force a smile.
‘I’m curious to know,’ he continued, ‘how such ideas could have entered your head. Did I write anything of the sort in my novel? By God, this is really interesting! Please tell me! Once in a lifetime it’s worth experiencing the sensation of being looked upon as a murderer…’
‘You’re the murderer,’ I said, ‘and you can’t even conceal the fact. In your novel you gave yourself away and now you’re putting on a pathetic act.’
‘That’s really quite fascinating – I’d be interested to hear – word of honour!’
‘If it’s interesting, then listen!’
I jumped up and walked excitedly around the room. Kamyshev looked behind the door and made sure it was properly shut. By this precaution he gave himself away.
‘What are you afraid of?’ I asked.
Kamyshev gave an embarrassed cough and waved his arm.
‘I’m not afraid of anything, I was just looking around the door. What do you want from me now? Come on, tell me.’
‘Allow me to question you.’
‘As much as you like.’
‘I’m warning you that I’m no investigating magistrate and no expert in cross-examination. Don’t expect any method or system, but please don’t try and confuse and muddle me. Firstly, please tell me where you disappeared to after you left the edge of the forest, where you were boozing after the shoot.’
‘It says in the story – I went home.’
‘In the story the description of the path you took is carefully crossed out. Didn’t you go through the forest?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Therefore you could have met Olga there?’
‘Yes, I could,’ Kamyshev laughed.
‘And you did meet her.’
‘No, I didn’t meet her.’
‘At the inquiry you forgot to mention one very important witness, namely yourself. Did you hear the victim’s shrieks?’
‘No… now look here, old chap, you haven’t a clue about cross-examining.’
This overfamiliar ‘old chap’ really jarred on me. It was quite out of keeping with the apologies and embarrassment with which the conversation had begun. I soon noticed that Kamyshev was looking at me condescendingly, arrogantly and was almost revelling in my inability to disentangle myself from the mass of questions that were plaguing me.
‘Let’s assume that you didn’t meet Olga in the forest,’ I continued, ‘although in fact it was harder for Urbenin to meet Olga than for you, since Urbenin didn’t know she was in the forest. Therefore he wasn’t looking for her. But since you were drunk and in a mad frenzy, you couldn’t fail to look for her. And look for her you certainly did, otherwise why did you have to go home through the forest and not along the main road? But let’s suppose you didn’t see her. In that case how can one explain your grim, almost demented state of mind on the evening of that fateful day? What prompted you to kill the parrot that kept squawking about the husband who murdered his wife? I think that it reminded you of your evil deed. That night you were summoned to the Count’s house and instead of getting down to business right away, you delayed things until the police arrived almost a whole twenty-four hours later and you probably weren’t even aware of it. Only investigators who already know the identity of the criminal delay like that. He was known to you… Further, Olga didn’t reveal the murderer’s name because he was dear to her. If her husband had been the murderer she would have named him. Had she been in a position to denounce him to her lover-Count, then she would have lost nothing by accusing him of murder. She did not love him and he wasn’t in the least dear to her. She loved you, it was you who were dear to her. Also, permit me to ask why you took your time asking her questions that were to the point when she momentarily regained consciousness? Why did you ask her completely irrelevant questions? Let’s suppose that you did all this as a delaying tactic, to prevent her from naming you. Meanwhile Olga was dying. In your novel you haven’t written one word about the effect of her death on you. There I can detect caution: you don’t forget to mention the number of glasses you managed to empty, but an important event such as the death of the “girl in red” vanishes without trace in the novel. Why?’
‘Go on, go on.’
‘And you conducted the investigation in the most disgracefully slapdash way. It’s difficult to accept the fact that a clever and extremely cunning person like yourself didn’t do this on purpose. Your entire investigation reminds one of a letter written with deliberate grammatical mistakes… all this exaggeration gives you away. Why didn’t you inspect the scene of the crime? It wasn’t because you forgot to or considered it unimportant, but because you waited for the rain to wash away your tracks. You say little about the servants’ cross-examination. Therefore Kuzma wasn’t cross-examined by you until you caught him washing that coat. Obviously there was no need for you to involve him. Why didn’t you question the guests who had been carousing with you on the forest’s edge? They had seen the bloodstained Urbenin and heard Olga’s shrieks – so you should have questioned them. But this you did not do, in case one of them remembered during the inquiry that shortly before the murder you had disappeared into the forest. They were probably questioned later, but by then this circumstance had already been forgotten by them.’
‘Very clever!’ Kamyshev said, rubbing his hands. ‘Please do go on!’
‘Surely all that’s been said is enough for you? To establish beyond all doubt that Olga was murdered by you, I must again remind you that you were her lover, a lover who was replaced by a man you detested! A husband can kill from jealousy and I assume a lover can do likewise. Now, let’s turn to Kuzma. Judging from the last cross-examination that took place on the eve of his death, he had you in mind. You wiped your hands on his coat and called him “drunken swine”. If it wasn’t you, then why did you conclude the interrogation at the most interesting point? Why didn’t you inquire about the colour of the murderer’s tie when Kuzma told you that he remembered what colour it was? Why did you give Urbenin his freedom at the precise moment when Kuzma remembered the name of the murderer? Why not earlier? Why not later? It was obvious you needed a scapegoat, someone to wander down the corridor at night. Therefore you murdered Kuzma because you were afraid he might testify against you.’
‘That’s enough!’ laughed Kamyshev. ‘Enough! You’ve got yourself so worked up and you’ve turned so pale, you look as if you’re about to faint any minute. Please stop now. In fact you’re right. I was the murderer.’
There was silence. I paced from corner to corner. Kamyshev did the same.
‘I committed the murders,’ Kamyshev went on. ‘You’ve scored a bull’s eye! Congratulations! Not many people could manage that – more than half your readers will be damning old Urbenin and be dazzled by my investigatory brilliance!’
Just then one of my colleagues came into the office and interrupted our conversation. Noticing that I was very preoccupied and excited, he hovered around my table, looked quizzically at Kamyshev and went out. After he had gone Kamyshev stepped over to the window and started breathing on the glass.
‘Eight years have passed since then,’ he resumed after a brief silence, ‘and for eight years I’ve been carrying this secret around with me. But secrets and living blood cannot coexist in the same organism. One cannot know what the rest of humanity does not know without suffering for it. Throughout these eight years I’ve felt like a martyr. It was not my conscience that tormented me – no! Conscience is something apart and I don’t t
ake any notice of it. It can be easily stifled by arguing how accommodating it can be. When reason doesn’t function I deaden my conscience with wine and women. With women I am as successful as ever, but that’s by the by. However, something else was tormenting me: all that time I thought it strange that people should look upon me as an ordinary individual. Throughout those entire eight years not once has a single soul ever given me a questioning look. I thought it strange that I didn’t need to hide away. There was a terrible secret lurking within me – and suddenly there I was, walking down the street, attending dinners, parties, flirting with women! For one guilty of a crime such a situation is unnatural and distressing. I wouldn’t have suffered so much if I’d simply had to hide and dissemble. Mine is a psychosis, old man! Finally, I was gripped by a kind of passion… I suddenly wanted to unburden myself somehow – to sneeze on everyone’s head, to blurt out my secret to everyone, to do something of that sort, something special. And so I wrote this story, a document in which only a fool would have difficulty in seeing that I’m a man with a secret. There isn’t one page that doesn’t give a clue to the solution. Isn’t that so? I dare say you realized that at once. When I was writing it I took the average reader’s level of intelligence into consideration.’
Once again we were interrupted. Andrey entered with two glasses of tea on a tray. I hastily sent him away.
‘And now everything seems easier,’ Kamyshev laughed. ‘You look at me now as if I’m someone out of the ordinary, as if I’m a man with a secret – and I feel my situation is perfectly normal! But it’s already three o’clock and they’re waiting for me in the cab.’
‘Stop… put your hat down… You told me what prompted you to become an author. Now tell me how you came to commit the murder.’
‘Would you like to know that, as a supplement to what you’ve read? All right… I murdered in a mad fit of passion. Nowadays people smoke and drink tea under the influence of fits of passion. Just now you got so worked up you picked up my glass instead of yours – and you’re smoking more than you did before. Life is one continuous aberration – that’s how it strikes me. When I went into the forest thoughts of murder were far from my mind. I was going there with only one purpose: to find Olga and carry on hurting her. When I’m drunk I always feel the need to hurt people. I met her about two hundred paces from the forest edge. She was standing under a tree, gazing pensively at the sky. I called out to her… when she saw me she smiled and stretched her arms out. “Don’t be hard on me,” she said. “I’m so unhappy.”
The Shooting Party Page 24